Bridge

It's the first rule you learn as a child, even before "no hitting" and "say please and thank you".

Don't go near the ravine.

The ravine has been there for as long as anyone can remember. Some people believe it's a result of the Great War, while others insist it's a natural formation. The only thing we know for sure is that no one from Cliffton has ever crossed it and returned to tell the tale.

Our knowledge of the days before the war is extremely limited, our understanding of the Before People sparser still. They kept their records with "machines" and on paper. Some of both survived for a time, but no one knew how to preserve either one. Long ago, the former ceased to function and the latter fell to dust.

Though their records are gone, we do have a few things the Before People left behind. Over the ages, we've found scads of gaudy beads in wild colors, cups, plates and jugs, all made of a material that was apparently known as "plastic". It seems to be everlasting; perhaps they should have used it instead of paper to keep their records.

We've found lightweight metal cylinders by the hundreds, painted in colors that must have once been bright and bearing writing none of us can read. Their purpose has been the subject of much speculation. Many of them are crushed, but a few have been found intact. Once the diggers even found one that was still sealed. The scientists were unsure what to make of the hardened brown paste they found inside, but theorized that it was some sort of medicine.

Then there are the machines, by far the most fascinating of all the artifacts we've discovered. The only ones we've laid eyes upon ourselves are the ones in the abandoned plastics factory just outside town. Though they haven't run in nearly two centuries, they are still a sight to behold.

All children of school age in Cliffton are taken to tour the factory. These are the production machines, we tell them. This is where the workers ate their lunch. And this room right here, we say, is a storage room. It is here that we found thousands upon thousands of drinking straws, perfectly preserved in their plastic wrappers. The children always become very excited at that last bit - the straws are a special treat, hoarded carefully in paper boxes and given out only on holidays.

We know of the other machines only through the oral tradition. There were helper machines that assisted with cooking and washing and all manner of other household chores. There were great devices made of metal that rolled across the earth - it is said that their rusted hulks still litter the paths they once traversed. And then there were the thinking machines, called "computers".

By far the most ubiquitous of the Before People's devices, computers were required for every aspect of life. Adults used them for work and children used them for their schooling. The healers used them, as did the teachers and the record-keepers. Even some of the other machines required tiny computers in order to perform their tasks.

All that we know of these machines, we have learned from the Old Songs. Written by the First Elders, the survivors of the Great War who built Cliffton, the songs are taught to every child old enough to speak. It is the Old Songs that tell us the tale of the "tanks" that thundered over the land, the "jets" that screamed through the sky, and the "bombs" that blackened it as they rained destruction.

It is the Old Songs, too, that tell us to stay away from the ravine.

No one is sure why. Some people say that its depths are haunted by evil spirits, perhaps the ghosts of all who died during the Great War. Others claim that it's simple common sense - the ravine extends deeper than the eye can see, and crossing it would undoubtedly be treacherous. Still others insist that the danger lies not in the ravine itself but in what's on the other side.

Exactly what, or who, is on the other side has been the subject of much debate. Some of us believe that there are more people like us living over there. Now and then, smoke rises from behind the trees on the opposite side of the chasm; even the naysayers will admit that much. We "Lifers", as the others call us, are sure that the smoke is a sign of intelligent life.

The smoke isn't the only argument for our cause. The Old Songs say that before the Great War, there were billions of people living on the Earth. A billion doesn't have much meaning here, where the population numbers only four hundred and thirty-two. We're no more capable of understanding the magnitude of such a number than we are of building our own computers or even making our own plastic straws.

Still, on a planet that once supported so many lives, could there really be fewer than five hundred left?

No one knows, but we Lifers are determined to find out. Unfortunately, we are in the minority; most everyone else seems to think that we're delusional. After all, they say, the Old Songs teach that the people of Cliffton are the only survivors of the Great War. The smoke, they say, is probably coming from some sort of tar pit created by the bombs. If there were people on the other side, they ask, wouldn't they have tried to contact us by now?

For some reason, the fact that we exist and have not tried to contact them never seems to make an impression.

The Lifers have been petitioning the Council for decades now, since long before I was old enough to be part of their number. They want to build a bridge from one side of the ravine to the other and answer the question once and for all. Every year, they ask again to build a bridge. Every year, their request is again denied.

The last Council meeting was three weeks ago. Since then, I've been trying to work up the courage to come here. This morning, I woke before dawn, my body trembling from a dream I couldn't remember. I knew it was time.

Shivering with both chill and anticipation, I ate a small breakfast and dressed in a loose-fitting linen shirt and trousers. I packed my satchel with some provisions and pulled on my work boots. Grabbing my gloves and heaviest leather raincoat, well-oiled to protect me from the elements, I left my cottage for what may be the last time.

Now I stand at the edge of the precipice, gazing down into the snarl of branches below. Apart from my satchel, I have only as much rope as I can carry. I pray that it's enough. I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't afraid, but though the cliff is steep, it looks to have plenty of handholds. Others will call me a fool, but I think I might just make it to the bottom.

As the first light touches the sky, I tie my rope. The fear is still with me, drying my mouth and slicking my palms. My heart is pounding so hard that my chest aches and I can scarcely catch my breath. In an attempt to calm myself, I begin to sing one of the Old Songs. I focus on the words and the melody and the galloping of my heart begins to slow. Stealing one last look toward home, I begin to make my way into the ravine.

I may never make it back alive, but if I do, I will return a wiser man.



This story was originally written for LJ Idol intersection week. Its companion piece, by the wonderful and talented mstrobel, is here.

Bridge

It's the first rule you learn as a child, even before "no hitting" and "say please and thank you".

Don't go near the ravine.

The ravine has been there for as long as anyone can remember. Some people believe it's a result of the Great War, while others insist it's a natural formation. The only thing we know for sure is that no one from Cliffton has ever crossed it and returned to tell the tale.

Our knowledge of the days before the war is extremely limited, our understanding of the Before People sparser still. They kept their records with "machines" and on paper. Some of both survived for a time, but no one knew how to preserve either one. Long ago, the former ceased to function and the latter fell to dust.

Though their records are gone, we do have a few things the Before People left behind. Over the ages, we've found scads of gaudy beads in wild colors, cups, plates and jugs, all made of a material that was apparently known as "plastic". It seems to be everlasting; perhaps they should have used it instead of paper to keep their records.

We've found lightweight metal cylinders by the hundreds, painted in colors that must have once been bright and bearing writing none of us can read. Their purpose has been the subject of much speculation. Many of them are crushed, but a few have been found intact. Once the diggers even found one that was still sealed. The scientists were unsure what to make of the hardened brown paste they found inside, but theorized that it was some sort of medicine.

Then there are the machines, by far the most fascinating of all the artifacts we've discovered. The only ones we've laid eyes upon ourselves are the ones in the abandoned plastics factory just outside town. Though they haven't run in nearly two centuries, they are still a sight to behold.

All children of school age in Cliffton are taken to tour the factory. These are the production machines, we tell them. This is where the workers ate their lunch. And this room right here, we say, is a storage room. It is here that we found thousands upon thousands of drinking straws, perfectly preserved in their plastic wrappers. The children always become very excited at that last bit - the straws are a special treat, hoarded carefully in paper boxes and given out only on holidays.

We know of the other machines only through the oral tradition. There were helper machines that assisted with cooking and washing and all manner of other household chores. There were great devices made of metal that rolled across the earth - it is said that their rusted hulks still litter the paths they once traversed. And then there were the thinking machines, called "computers".

By far the most ubiquitous of the Before People's devices, computers were required for every aspect of life. Adults used them for work and children used them for their schooling. The healers used them, as did the teachers and the record-keepers. Even some of the other machines required tiny computers in order to perform their tasks.

All that we know of these machines, we have learned from the Old Songs. Written by the First Elders, the survivors of the Great War who built Cliffton, the songs are taught to every child old enough to speak. It is the Old Songs that tell us the tale of the "tanks" that thundered over the land, the "jets" that screamed through the sky, and the "bombs" that blackened it as they rained destruction.

It is the Old Songs, too, that tell us to stay away from the ravine.

No one is sure why. Some people say that its depths are haunted by evil spirits, perhaps the ghosts of all who died during the Great War. Others claim that it's simple common sense - the ravine extends deeper than the eye can see, and crossing it would undoubtedly be treacherous. Still others insist that the danger lies not in the ravine itself but in what's on the other side.

Exactly what, or who, is on the other side has been the subject of much debate. Some of us believe that there are more people like us living over there. Now and then, smoke rises from behind the trees on the opposite side of the chasm; even the naysayers will admit that much. We "Lifers", as the others call us, are sure that the smoke is a sign of intelligent life.

The smoke isn't the only argument for our cause. The Old Songs say that before the Great War, there were billions of people living on the Earth. A billion doesn't have much meaning here, where the population numbers only four hundred and thirty-two. We're no more capable of understanding the magnitude of such a number than we are of building our own computers or even making our own plastic straws.

Still, on a planet that once supported so many lives, could there really be fewer than five hundred left?

No one knows, but we Lifers are determined to find out. Unfortunately, we are in the minority; most everyone else seems to think that we're delusional. After all, they say, the Old Songs teach that the people of Cliffton are the only survivors of the Great War. The smoke, they say, is probably coming from some sort of tar pit created by the bombs. If there were people on the other side, they ask, wouldn't they have tried to contact us by now?

For some reason, the fact that we exist and have not tried to contact them never seems to make an impression.

The Lifers have been petitioning the Council for decades now, since long before I was old enough to be part of their number. They want to build a bridge from one side of the ravine to the other and answer the question once and for all. Every year, they ask again to build a bridge. Every year, their request is again denied.

The last Council meeting was three weeks ago. Since then, I've been trying to work up the courage to come here. This morning, I woke before dawn, my body trembling from a dream I couldn't remember. I knew it was time.

Shivering with both chill and anticipation, I ate a small breakfast and dressed in a loose-fitting linen shirt and trousers. I packed my satchel with some provisions and pulled on my work boots. Grabbing my gloves and heaviest leather raincoat, well-oiled to protect me from the elements, I left my cottage for what may be the last time.

Now I stand at the edge of the precipice, gazing down into the snarl of branches below. Apart from my satchel, I have only as much rope as I can carry. I pray that it's enough. I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't afraid, but though the cliff is steep, it looks to have plenty of handholds. Others will call me a fool, but I think I might just make it to the bottom.

As the first light touches the sky, I tie my rope. The fear is still with me, drying my mouth and slicking my palms. My heart is pounding so hard that my chest aches and I can scarcely catch my breath. In an attempt to calm myself, I begin to sing one of the Old Songs. I focus on the words and the melody and the galloping of my heart begins to slow. Stealing one last look toward home, I begin to make my way into the ravine.

I may never make it back alive, but if I do, I will return a wiser man.



This story was originally written for LJ Idol intersection week. Its companion piece, by the wonderful and talented mstrobel, is here.

Polemic

No one remembers what started the war anymore.

All we know is that there's a barbed wire fence between us and the Other Side and every house has a bomb shelter out back. Most people don't cross the fence, but sometimes rockets do. We huddle in our shelters until the threat is gone. Afterward, each side claims the other started it and life goes on as usual until the next strike.

Some would call us crazy to keep on living in a place like this, but this land is our home. We'd no sooner leave it than cut off our arms. When the rockets aren't flying, we're all normal people. Like anyone else, we go to school and work and live and play. The grown-ups work in the factory or become Teachers or Healers or Machinists.

I wonder if it's the same on the Other Side. To hear the Teachers talk, the people there are nothing like us. Savages, every last one of them, they say. From the time they can walk, they're taught to fight and kill, and even the smallest are to be feared. They're not to be trusted.

Though I have no real reason to doubt the Teachers, sometimes I do anyway. Can the people on the Other Side really all be killers? Or are they people with thoughts and dreams and feelings just like us?

* * * * *
Sweat trickles down my cheek as I crash through the underbrush. Summer has just begun, and already it's so hot that even breathing feels difficult. Running should be out of the question, but I'm doing it anyway.

I'm making too much noise, but I don't care. All I want is to get to the hollow tree. Since I found it a year ago, it's become the place I go whenever I need to get away. Pushing aside branches and wiping at my face, I press onward. Thorns tear at my clothes, but I barely notice.

It's not fair. The refrain repeats inside my head, punctuated by my footfalls.

Finally, I'm there. Parting the ferns that surround the tree, I crawl inside its trunk. Leaning against the ancient wood, I close my eyes and sigh loudly.

"Hello?"

The male voice practically makes me jump out of my skin. My eyes fly open and I let out a startled shriek. Disoriented, I look around, trying to find the owner of the voice.

"Where the hell are you?" I yell.

A grinning face appears just outside the opening I crawled through moments ago. Its owner looks to be about my age. Though his skin is brown like mine, he has yellow hair and ice blue eyes. I look at his broad smile and my face burns with righteous indignation.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I shout. "This is my spot!"

"Your spot, eh?" I can hear the laughter in his voice. "Who are you, anyway?"

"I'm Calla," I tell him, pushing a clump of sweaty hair out of my face.

"Pleased to meet you," he says, sticking out his hand. "I'm Kalen. Care to tell you what you're doing in my hiding place?"

I'm about to protest. Then I see the twinkle in his arresting blue eyes and realize he's teasing me.

What the hell, I think. Might as well have someone to talk to.

"I'm hiding," I tell him.

"Hiding from what?"

"My future," I reply. "The City Council voted today."

Kalen looks confused. For a moment, I'm as bewildered as he is. He must be nearly of age too, I think. How can he not know of the City Council's vote? Then, it all clicks into place.

He's from the Other Side - must have climbed the fence. Strange, he doesn't seem barbaric.

"Where I live," I explain, "The City Council meets at the beginning of the summer. During the meeting, it votes to determine the future careers of all graduating students."

"And... you graduate this year?"

Tears spring to my eyes and I blink them away. Since I can't trust my voice not to break, I only nod. The Council has tapped me to become a Teacher. I'd much sooner draw or paint or sing for a living, but none of those are approved professions. According to the Council, it is my calling to indoctrinate the next generation. When summer ends, I will begin teaching them of the evils of the Other Side.

And I'm not even sure I believe they're evil, I think. Kalen seems like any other kid my age.

In fact, Kalen seems pretty nice. Part of me wants to confide in him, but the rest of me can't stomach the idea of blubbering in front of a complete stranger. With forced cheer, I change the subject.

"Now, how about you tell me why you're in my spot?"

Once again, Kalen adopts a teasing, almost sing-song tone. "Pretty sure I found it first. I've been coming here since I was just a boy."

"Yeah," I scoff, rolling my eyes, "because now you're sooooooo old and adult."

"I'll have you know I'm old enough to work," he replies, eyes alight and voice full of mirth. Then the laughter drains away and he says quietly, "and I'm old enough to fight."

* * * * *
Sweat runs down my back as I lean against the wood of the hideout I now share with Kalen. It's midsummer and the air is thick and heavy. The shade provides some relief, but it's not enough.

"Summer is halfway over already," Kalen groans, cracking his knuckles. "I can't believe it."

"Ugh, don't remind me. I'm not looking forward to shaping young minds." I punctuate the words with air quotes.

"At least you don't have to go out and kill people, Calla." All of a sudden, the humor is gone and Kalen looks morose. I can't say I blame him.

"Are you sure there's nothing you can do to get out of that?"

"Short of permanently maiming myself, not really," Kalen sighs. Why talk about something we can't change anyway? Instead, I change the subject.

"So, when are you going to tell me what's in the box?"

At the mention of the box, his eyes light up. It's more like a trunk, and he's sitting on it like it's a bench.

"You really don't recognize it?" Kalen asks. "Where I come from, everyone has this game."

A game? I wonder. What kind of game comes in a giant trunk? The people on the Other Side really are a bit odd.

"Here, see for yourself," he says, jumping off of the box and opening its lid. For the first time, I notice the words "ROBOT SCRABBLE" stamped on its side in red block letters.

"Robot... Scrabble?" I ask, wondering if this is some kind of joke.

"Yup," Kalen says. "It's just like regular Scrabble, only better. Every time you play a word, you get to build part of your robot. And then at the end, your robots fight to the death."

For a moment, I'm dumbstruck. Leave it to the Other Side to turn a completely innocuous word game into an act of war.

"Um, don't take this the wrong way," I say, "but is there anything your people do that doesn't involve fighting?"

"War is kind of a way of life for us," he admits.

"Well, I guess it is for my people too," I say. "Too bad we don't even know what it is we're fighting about."

"Hey, that reminds me!" Kalen says, "I was browsing the Splinternet the other day and I came across an old message board. The government was supposed to have shut them all down, but I guess they missed this one somehow."

I nod as if I have a clue what he's talking about. Kalen is a computer person, but in my City computers are rarely used outside of school. I barely even know what the Splinternet is, let alone a "message board".

"Anyway," he continues, "Someone on the board posted an old map of our region."

"Yeah, so?" Maps and history remind me too much of school, something I'd prefer not to think about right now.

"My people used to keep these archive-buildings back in the day," he says, "called them 'libraries'. The map shows one not far from here."

"A library?" This could actually be interesting. "Do you think it's still there?"

"Who knows?" Kalen says. "Maybe the ruins are. You want to go look for it sometime?"

"Sure, why the hell not?" I say. "But first, my robot is gonna kick your robot's ass at some Scrabble!"

* * * * *
Sweat beads on my forehead as I watch Kalen working. Summer is nearly over, but the heat shows no sign of breaking. Right now, though, it could be a cold winter's night and I'd still be perspiring.

"You sure you want to do this?" he asks for the hundredth time. "I won't hold it against you if you back out."

"I told you, I'm in it 'til the end." My palms are clammy, but I'll die before I admit how terrified I am.

"Just making sure." His eyes are mischievous. "I don't want to turn you into a savage - you know, like my people."

"Yeah, it's totally your people's fault," I say. "We're all a bunch of idiots."

We've been working out the details of this plan since the day we found the library. Before then, we never would have dreamed of doing something like this. I would have meekly gone to my destiny as a Teacher, and Kalen to his as a soldier.

Now we've got no choice but to fight this with all we have.

Kalen's forehead scrunches in concentration as he fiddles with the wires. I glance up at the sky, hoping to God or whatever is up there that he knows what he's doing.

"Finished!" he announces a moment later.

"All right, then. Let's do it." I raise the bullhorn to my lips. An eardrum-rending squeal issues from it and I jump. I hold it farther from my face and try again.

"Attention, all citizens. Please gather at the border. Attention. Please gather at the border." A tremble tries to creep into my voice, but I hold it steady.

It takes a couple minutes, but faces begin to appear on both sides of the fence. Voices buzz, first with curiosity and then with puzzlement. One of the braver ones speaks out.

"Why have you called us here, child?"

"Don't call me a child. I am of age, as is my friend. We are old enough to read and learn and question. And we are old enough to demand that this war end now."

I pause. The droning voices grow louder, angrier. As the people press closer to the fence, I imagine torches and pitchforks in their hands.

No way are we getting out of this alive.

Before I can say another word, I hear the sound of marching feet. The crowd on the Other Side parts, and a group of armed soldiers emerges. Their faces are hard and grim; their eyes, blue like Kalen's, are cold.

"You're under arrest in accordance with code 666781-2222 of martial law - tampering with the border."

That's when Kalen grabs the bullhorn from my hands. He holds up the detonator, his finger on the button. The voices rise in panic. Raising their weapons, the soldiers step forward as one.

"Everyone remain calm," the leader says. "Let the boy speak."

"Do you even know what you're fighting for?" Kalen's words ring out across the sea of faces, silent and terrified.

"Once upon a time, our peoples were friends. They traded goods - we churned the butter and they baked the bread. They made the straws and we made the drinks. But wouldn't you know it, we couldn't leave well enough alone."

Shock registers on the faces I can see. I hear murmurs but can't make out the words.

"One day, they decided our prices were unfair. 'This drink isn't worth what you're charging,' they said, 'We'll just make our own!' It took them years to get the recipe right, and during that time everyone grew more and more angry. The trade agreement fell apart and the feud began. Before long, our peoples were bitter enemies who barely spoke. The physical fighting came later, but in our hearts, the war had already begun."

The crowd is buzzing again, like a hive of angry bees. People don't believe what they're hearing.

"That's right," Kalen says. "This war began because they drink from red cans and we drink from blue. That's it. Now step away from the fence before we blow you to bits."





Author's Note:
This story is set in the same universe as this one, although it's intended to stand on its own. For those who have read the original story, this one is set in the past, just before the final stage of the Great War referenced in the first piece.

Polemic

No one remembers what started the war anymore.

All we know is that there's a barbed wire fence between us and the Other Side and every house has a bomb shelter out back. Most people don't cross the fence, but sometimes rockets do. We huddle in our shelters until the threat is gone. Afterward, each side claims the other started it and life goes on as usual until the next strike.

Some would call us crazy to keep on living in a place like this, but this land is our home. We'd no sooner leave it than cut off our arms. When the rockets aren't flying, we're all normal people. Like anyone else, we go to school and work and live and play. The grown-ups work in the factory or become Teachers or Healers or Machinists.

I wonder if it's the same on the Other Side. To hear the Teachers talk, the people there are nothing like us. Savages, every last one of them, they say. From the time they can walk, they're taught to fight and kill, and even the smallest are to be feared. They're not to be trusted.

Though I have no real reason to doubt the Teachers, sometimes I do anyway. Can the people on the Other Side really all be killers? Or are they people with thoughts and dreams and feelings just like us?

* * * * *
Sweat trickles down my cheek as I crash through the underbrush. Summer has just begun, and already it's so hot that even breathing feels difficult. Running should be out of the question, but I'm doing it anyway.

I'm making too much noise, but I don't care. All I want is to get to the hollow tree. Since I found it a year ago, it's become the place I go whenever I need to get away. Pushing aside branches and wiping at my face, I press onward. Thorns tear at my clothes, but I barely notice.

It's not fair. The refrain repeats inside my head, punctuated by my footfalls.

Finally, I'm there. Parting the ferns that surround the tree, I crawl inside its trunk. Leaning against the ancient wood, I close my eyes and sigh loudly.

"Hello?"

The male voice practically makes me jump out of my skin. My eyes fly open and I let out a startled shriek. Disoriented, I look around, trying to find the owner of the voice.

"Where the hell are you?" I yell.

A grinning face appears just outside the opening I crawled through moments ago. Its owner looks to be about my age. Though his skin is brown like mine, he has yellow hair and ice blue eyes. I look at his broad smile and my face burns with righteous indignation.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I shout. "This is my spot!"

"Your spot, eh?" I can hear the laughter in his voice. "Who are you, anyway?"

"I'm Calla," I tell him, pushing a clump of sweaty hair out of my face.

"Pleased to meet you," he says, sticking out his hand. "I'm Kalen. Care to tell you what you're doing in my hiding place?"

I'm about to protest. Then I see the twinkle in his arresting blue eyes and realize he's teasing me.

What the hell, I think. Might as well have someone to talk to.

"I'm hiding," I tell him.

"Hiding from what?"

"My future," I reply. "The City Council voted today."

Kalen looks confused. For a moment, I'm as bewildered as he is. He must be nearly of age too, I think. How can he not know of the City Council's vote? Then, it all clicks into place.

He's from the Other Side - must have climbed the fence. Strange, he doesn't seem barbaric.

"Where I live," I explain, "The City Council meets at the beginning of the summer. During the meeting, it votes to determine the future careers of all graduating students."

"And... you graduate this year?"

Tears spring to my eyes and I blink them away. Since I can't trust my voice not to break, I only nod. The Council has tapped me to become a Teacher. I'd much sooner draw or paint or sing for a living, but none of those are approved professions. According to the Council, it is my calling to indoctrinate the next generation. When summer ends, I will begin teaching them of the evils of the Other Side.

And I'm not even sure I believe they're evil, I think. Kalen seems like any other kid my age.

In fact, Kalen seems pretty nice. Part of me wants to confide in him, but the rest of me can't stomach the idea of blubbering in front of a complete stranger. With forced cheer, I change the subject.

"Now, how about you tell me why you're in my spot?"

Once again, Kalen adopts a teasing, almost sing-song tone. "Pretty sure I found it first. I've been coming here since I was just a boy."

"Yeah," I scoff, rolling my eyes, "because now you're sooooooo old and adult."

"I'll have you know I'm old enough to work," he replies, eyes alight and voice full of mirth. Then the laughter drains away and he says quietly, "and I'm old enough to fight."

* * * * *
Sweat runs down my back as I lean against the wood of the hideout I now share with Kalen. It's midsummer and the air is thick and heavy. The shade provides some relief, but it's not enough.

"Summer is halfway over already," Kalen groans, cracking his knuckles. "I can't believe it."

"Ugh, don't remind me. I'm not looking forward to shaping young minds." I punctuate the words with air quotes.

"At least you don't have to go out and kill people, Calla." All of a sudden, the humor is gone and Kalen looks morose. I can't say I blame him.

"Are you sure there's nothing you can do to get out of that?"

"Short of permanently maiming myself, not really," Kalen sighs. Why talk about something we can't change anyway? Instead, I change the subject.

"So, when are you going to tell me what's in the box?"

At the mention of the box, his eyes light up. It's more like a trunk, and he's sitting on it like it's a bench.

"You really don't recognize it?" Kalen asks. "Where I come from, everyone has this game."

A game? I wonder. What kind of game comes in a giant trunk? The people on the Other Side really are a bit odd.

"Here, see for yourself," he says, jumping off of the box and opening its lid. For the first time, I notice the words "ROBOT SCRABBLE" stamped on its side in red block letters.

"Robot... Scrabble?" I ask, wondering if this is some kind of joke.

"Yup," Kalen says. "It's just like regular Scrabble, only better. Every time you play a word, you get to build part of your robot. And then at the end, your robots fight to the death."

For a moment, I'm dumbstruck. Leave it to the Other Side to turn a completely innocuous word game into an act of war.

"Um, don't take this the wrong way," I say, "but is there anything your people do that doesn't involve fighting?"

"War is kind of a way of life for us," he admits.

"Well, I guess it is for my people too," I say. "Too bad we don't even know what it is we're fighting about."

"Hey, that reminds me!" Kalen says, "I was browsing the Splinternet the other day and I came across an old message board. The government was supposed to have shut them all down, but I guess they missed this one somehow."

I nod as if I have a clue what he's talking about. Kalen is a computer person, but in my City computers are rarely used outside of school. I barely even know what the Splinternet is, let alone a "message board".

"Anyway," he continues, "Someone on the board posted an old map of our region."

"Yeah, so?" Maps and history remind me too much of school, something I'd prefer not to think about right now.

"My people used to keep these archive-buildings back in the day," he says, "called them 'libraries'. The map shows one not far from here."

"A library?" This could actually be interesting. "Do you think it's still there?"

"Who knows?" Kalen says. "Maybe the ruins are. You want to go look for it sometime?"

"Sure, why the hell not?" I say. "But first, my robot is gonna kick your robot's ass at some Scrabble!"

* * * * *
Sweat beads on my forehead as I watch Kalen working. Summer is nearly over, but the heat shows no sign of breaking. Right now, though, it could be a cold winter's night and I'd still be perspiring.

"You sure you want to do this?" he asks for the hundredth time. "I won't hold it against you if you back out."

"I told you, I'm in it 'til the end." My palms are clammy, but I'll die before I admit how terrified I am.

"Just making sure." His eyes are mischievous. "I don't want to turn you into a savage - you know, like my people."

"Yeah, it's totally your people's fault," I say. "We're all a bunch of idiots."

We've been working out the details of this plan since the day we found the library. Before then, we never would have dreamed of doing something like this. I would have meekly gone to my destiny as a Teacher, and Kalen to his as a soldier.

Now we've got no choice but to fight this with all we have.

Kalen's forehead scrunches in concentration as he fiddles with the wires. I glance up at the sky, hoping to God or whatever is up there that he knows what he's doing.

"Finished!" he announces a moment later.

"All right, then. Let's do it." I raise the bullhorn to my lips. An eardrum-rending squeal issues from it and I jump. I hold it farther from my face and try again.

"Attention, all citizens. Please gather at the border. Attention. Please gather at the border." A tremble tries to creep into my voice, but I hold it steady.

It takes a couple minutes, but faces begin to appear on both sides of the fence. Voices buzz, first with curiosity and then with puzzlement. One of the braver ones speaks out.

"Why have you called us here, child?"

"Don't call me a child. I am of age, as is my friend. We are old enough to read and learn and question. And we are old enough to demand that this war end now."

I pause. The droning voices grow louder, angrier. As the people press closer to the fence, I imagine torches and pitchforks in their hands.

No way are we getting out of this alive.

Before I can say another word, I hear the sound of marching feet. The crowd on the Other Side parts, and a group of armed soldiers emerges. Their faces are hard and grim; their eyes, blue like Kalen's, are cold.

"You're under arrest in accordance with code 666781-2222 of martial law - tampering with the border."

That's when Kalen grabs the bullhorn from my hands. He holds up the detonator, his finger on the button. The voices rise in panic. Raising their weapons, the soldiers step forward as one.

"Everyone remain calm," the leader says. "Let the boy speak."

"Do you even know what you're fighting for?" Kalen's words ring out across the sea of faces, silent and terrified.

"Once upon a time, our peoples were friends. They traded goods - we churned the butter and they baked the bread. They made the straws and we made the drinks. But wouldn't you know it, we couldn't leave well enough alone."

Shock registers on the faces I can see. I hear murmurs but can't make out the words.

"One day, they decided our prices were unfair. 'This drink isn't worth what you're charging,' they said, 'We'll just make our own!' It took them years to get the recipe right, and during that time everyone grew more and more angry. The trade agreement fell apart and the feud began. Before long, our peoples were bitter enemies who barely spoke. The physical fighting came later, but in our hearts, the war had already begun."

The crowd is buzzing again, like a hive of angry bees. People don't believe what they're hearing.

"That's right," Kalen says. "This war began because they drink from red cans and we drink from blue. That's it. Now step away from the fence before we blow you to bits."





Author's Note:
This story is set in the same universe as this one, although it's intended to stand on its own. For those who have read the original story, this one is set in the past, just before the final stage of the Great War referenced in the first piece.

The Call That Never Came

A terrorist? That's impossible!

They've got my brother all wrong. Sure, I saw the explosion just like everyone else, and I saw him with his finger on that damn button. There's no way he meant to die, though, or to take that girl with him.

You should have seen him mooning around here all summer. With a low draft number like his, any normal kid would've been celebrating. A spot on a fighting squad is hard to come by, after all. We train for war all our lives and celebrate the day we're of age to enlist. Even then, most of us are waitlisted for a year or two. Hell, I'm still waiting.

Not Kalen, though. He was special.

He could run faster and farther than any of the other boys his age. Not only that, but he was smart to boot. Before he was even old enough to start his lessons, he had already taught himself to read and write. When he did reach schooling age, the Bookmasters moved him a year ahead, to the second-year class with me.

They didn't want to separate you, Mother said. Even then, I knew it wasn't the whole truth.

We were close back then, though, almost like twins. On days when the weather was fine, we played soliders, tromping through the woods to the fort we built in a hollow tree. Rainy days meant sprawling on the rug in our room, playing Robot Scrabble and Tank Yahtzee. At night, we huddled together under our blankets, whispering about the future we would share.

You'll be history's most decorated fighter! he breathed. I'll build the most fearsome robots the world has ever seen.

School was hard that first year. The older boys in our class didn't much care for Kalen, the small blonde interloper who outshone them at every lesson. In a fair fight, he could have bested any of them. Problem was, the fights were never fair.

I'll never forget the day Teacher made me stay inside at recess, writing on the electroboard 100 times "I will not make farting noises in class." When I finished and came out to the playground, Kalen was covered in mud. Tears cut tracks down his dirty face; he was crying too hard to tell me what happened. All he could do was snuffle and point.

Teacher sent three boys home that day. Braddock Kingston left sniveling through a broken nose. Mother came to fetch Kalen and me; when we got home, I bloodied his nose too.

That's for not fighting back, I told him. I have to give him credit; he didn't cry that time.

Mother shook her head, but didn't say a word to Father when he came home. He would've whipped my hide clean off, no doubt. Teacher wouldn't have me back for a week, but I never regretted what I did. No one picks on my brother except for me.

By the end of the year, Kalen was giving as good as he got. There was the time he put Itching Nanites in Farren Allston's lunch. The class was in an uproar as Farren scratched so hard he fell out of his chair. After he reprogrammed Jensen Brady's Science Robot to sass Teacher, the other boys quit tormenting him. As far as they were concerned, he was one of us.

Underneath, though, Kalen's always been different. When the other kids were skirmishing or practicing their gun skills, he'd have his nose in a book. He was always tinkering with those robots, but did he ever make them shoot anything? Not even once. There's something not quite right about that.

Somehow, though, no one seemed to notice. Kalen always got the best grades in everything, be it fighting or fractions. And when we reached sixth year and started to notice girls, he always scored high marks with them, too. I have Father's build, broad and stocky, but Kalen grew tall and lithe. He had Father's eyes, though, a shocking ice blue that made people stop and look. Worst part was, he barely noticed the female attention.

That was when we started to grow apart, but Kalen didn't notice that either.

Ninth year was when our formal combat training began. Our grades were kept in our permanent files, to be assessed by the Military Committee during year twelve. The simplest triumph or mistake could lower or raise the magic number doled out in the draft. As always, Kalen brought home exceptional marks.

Kalen always gives it his all, Mother said, shaking her head. Why can't you be more like him?

Meanwhile, I studied late into the night while he made friends on the Splinternet. He started sneaking out to meet them, but I never told. They put the strangest ideas into his head. He'd come home raving about the Other Side, how maybe they weren't such a bad lot after all.

They're people just like us, he said. Have you ever wondered what we're fighting for?

All the while, no one knew. He knew his role and played it well. Twelfth year, they crowned him King of the Reaping and covered him in flowers. He smiled and waved from the hoverfloat, some vapid golden-haired girl at his side. Afterward, I asked him if he'd kissed her, but he shook his head, blue eyes laughing at the very thought.

Funny how he never had a care for girls until he met her. Twelfth year had just ended and he was in a funk. With a draft number so low, he'd be sent for before the cool breezes came. As boys, we'd made a fort in a hollow tree, but we'd abandoned it years before. He started going back there, calling it his thinking spot.

I followed him to the tree one day. My face grew hotter than his as she batted those lashes and flipped that long black hair. When I confronted him later, he came clean. Her name was Calla, and she was from the Other Side. You should have seen the way his face lit up when he said her name. After that, I was his confidant, his partner in crime. Every conversation, he had to bring her up.

It's hot, I'd say. I think I want some ice cream.

Oh, Calla likes ice cream, too, he'd chime in. Idiot! Who doesn't like ice cream?

Still, I didn't see the signs. Lord knows I should have. One night he came home, flushed as if with fever, eyes burning bright.

Listen to me, Brendan, he pleaded. It's just not worth it - all this death. I have to stop it and I know how.

Shut up, Kalen, I said. That's crazy talk. The War is what brings us life. It's treason to speak against it.

Kalen's always been a dreamer, though. Even then, I didn't take it seriously. How I wish I had. If I couldn't talk sense into him, I could have reported him at the very least. Either way, I could have saved him. I could have saved myself.

Only two days later, I stood at the fence. Bodies pressed into bodies as Kalen stood before us, that girl at his side. He should have been packing his bags, getting ready to fight for his people. Instead, his eyes froze us all in place and his voice sang out words that none should ever speak.

His finger was on the button I never thought he'd press. The explosion was deafening, and the world went up in flames. I never saw him again.

A week later, I sat in my hard metal chair, palms sweating and back straight as a board. Proud young men in uniform grinned at me from posters on the shiny metal walls. The lights were hot against my neck as the recruiter smiled and opened my file. He flipped through the pages and the smile froze on his face.

Is there any chance I can take his place? I'm still on the waiting list.

He looked up, eyes hard and icy like Kalen's on the day he died. My heart sank.

Family members of terrorists are ineligible to serve. Both your draft numbers will be reassigned to new candidates.

Before the words had finished leaving his lips, the Security Robots were at my side. I screamed and thrashed as their cold pincers bit into my flesh. As they turned their metal backs and left me on the pavement, inspiration struck.

Kalen, you bastard. You got me into this mess, and you'll get me out of it too.

It wasn't hard to find the information I needed on the Splinternet. Kalen never bothered to cover his tracks. He knew that no one else would ever suspect, and I'd never tell. I'll never be the genius he was, but he left me all I needed. It didn't take much tinkering to turn his robots into killing machines.

If they won't let me fight, I'll just make my own war.

The Call That Never Came

A terrorist? That's impossible!

They've got my brother all wrong. Sure, I saw the explosion just like everyone else, and I saw him with his finger on that damn button. There's no way he meant to die, though, or to take that girl with him.

You should have seen him mooning around here all summer. With a low draft number like his, any normal kid would've been celebrating. A spot on a fighting squad is hard to come by, after all. We train for war all our lives and celebrate the day we're of age to enlist. Even then, most of us are waitlisted for a year or two. Hell, I'm still waiting.

Not Kalen, though. He was special.

He could run faster and farther than any of the other boys his age. Not only that, but he was smart to boot. Before he was even old enough to start his lessons, he had already taught himself to read and write. When he did reach schooling age, the Bookmasters moved him a year ahead, to the second-year class with me.

They didn't want to separate you, Mother said. Even then, I knew it wasn't the whole truth.

We were close back then, though, almost like twins. On days when the weather was fine, we played soliders, tromping through the woods to the fort we built in a hollow tree. Rainy days meant sprawling on the rug in our room, playing Robot Scrabble and Tank Yahtzee. At night, we huddled together under our blankets, whispering about the future we would share.

You'll be history's most decorated fighter! he breathed. I'll build the most fearsome robots the world has ever seen.

School was hard that first year. The older boys in our class didn't much care for Kalen, the small blonde interloper who outshone them at every lesson. In a fair fight, he could have bested any of them. Problem was, the fights were never fair.

I'll never forget the day Teacher made me stay inside at recess, writing on the electroboard 100 times "I will not make farting noises in class." When I finished and came out to the playground, Kalen was covered in mud. Tears cut tracks down his dirty face; he was crying too hard to tell me what happened. All he could do was snuffle and point.

Teacher sent three boys home that day. Braddock Kingston left sniveling through a broken nose. Mother came to fetch Kalen and me; when we got home, I bloodied his nose too.

That's for not fighting back, I told him. I have to give him credit; he didn't cry that time.

Mother shook her head, but didn't say a word to Father when he came home. He would've whipped my hide clean off, no doubt. Teacher wouldn't have me back for a week, but I never regretted what I did. No one picks on my brother except for me.

By the end of the year, Kalen was giving as good as he got. There was the time he put Itching Nanites in Farren Allston's lunch. The class was in an uproar as Farren scratched so hard he fell out of his chair. After he reprogrammed Jensen Brady's Science Robot to sass Teacher, the other boys quit tormenting him. As far as they were concerned, he was one of us.

Underneath, though, Kalen's always been different. When the other kids were skirmishing or practicing their gun skills, he'd have his nose in a book. He was always tinkering with those robots, but did he ever make them shoot anything? Not even once. There's something not quite right about that.

Somehow, though, no one seemed to notice. Kalen always got the best grades in everything, be it fighting or fractions. And when we reached sixth year and started to notice girls, he always scored high marks with them, too. I have Father's build, broad and stocky, but Kalen grew tall and lithe. He had Father's eyes, though, a shocking ice blue that made people stop and look. Worst part was, he barely noticed the female attention.

That was when we started to grow apart, but Kalen didn't notice that either.

Ninth year was when our formal combat training began. Our grades were kept in our permanent files, to be assessed by the Military Committee during year twelve. The simplest triumph or mistake could lower or raise the magic number doled out in the draft. As always, Kalen brought home exceptional marks.

Kalen always gives it his all, Mother said, shaking her head. Why can't you be more like him?

Meanwhile, I studied late into the night while he made friends on the Splinternet. He started sneaking out to meet them, but I never told. They put the strangest ideas into his head. He'd come home raving about the Other Side, how maybe they weren't such a bad lot after all.

They're people just like us, he said. Have you ever wondered what we're fighting for?

All the while, no one knew. He knew his role and played it well. Twelfth year, they crowned him King of the Reaping and covered him in flowers. He smiled and waved from the hoverfloat, some vapid golden-haired girl at his side. Afterward, I asked him if he'd kissed her, but he shook his head, blue eyes laughing at the very thought.

Funny how he never had a care for girls until he met her. Twelfth year had just ended and he was in a funk. With a draft number so low, he'd be sent for before the cool breezes came. As boys, we'd made a fort in a hollow tree, but we'd abandoned it years before. He started going back there, calling it his thinking spot.

I followed him to the tree one day. My face grew hotter than his as she batted those lashes and flipped that long black hair. When I confronted him later, he came clean. Her name was Calla, and she was from the Other Side. You should have seen the way his face lit up when he said her name. After that, I was his confidant, his partner in crime. Every conversation, he had to bring her up.

It's hot, I'd say. I think I want some ice cream.

Oh, Calla likes ice cream, too, he'd chime in. Idiot! Who doesn't like ice cream?

Still, I didn't see the signs. Lord knows I should have. One night he came home, flushed as if with fever, eyes burning bright.

Listen to me, Brendan, he pleaded. It's just not worth it - all this death. I have to stop it and I know how.

Shut up, Kalen, I said. That's crazy talk. The War is what brings us life. It's treason to speak against it.

Kalen's always been a dreamer, though. Even then, I didn't take it seriously. How I wish I had. If I couldn't talk sense into him, I could have reported him at the very least. Either way, I could have saved him. I could have saved myself.

Only two days later, I stood at the fence. Bodies pressed into bodies as Kalen stood before us, that girl at his side. He should have been packing his bags, getting ready to fight for his people. Instead, his eyes froze us all in place and his voice sang out words that none should ever speak.

His finger was on the button I never thought he'd press. The explosion was deafening, and the world went up in flames. I never saw him again.

A week later, I sat in my hard metal chair, palms sweating and back straight as a board. Proud young men in uniform grinned at me from posters on the shiny metal walls. The lights were hot against my neck as the recruiter smiled and opened my file. He flipped through the pages and the smile froze on his face.

Is there any chance I can take his place? I'm still on the waiting list.

He looked up, eyes hard and icy like Kalen's on the day he died. My heart sank.

Family members of terrorists are ineligible to serve. Both your draft numbers will be reassigned to new candidates.

Before the words had finished leaving his lips, the Security Robots were at my side. I screamed and thrashed as their cold pincers bit into my flesh. As they turned their metal backs and left me on the pavement, inspiration struck.

Kalen, you bastard. You got me into this mess, and you'll get me out of it too.

It wasn't hard to find the information I needed on the Splinternet. Kalen never bothered to cover his tracks. He knew that no one else would ever suspect, and I'd never tell. I'll never be the genius he was, but he left me all I needed. It didn't take much tinkering to turn his robots into killing machines.

If they won't let me fight, I'll just make my own war.

Barefoot, Uphill, Both Ways

I'm so fucking stupid, I think to myself. What have I done?

Ears ringing, I dash through the trees. Branches scratch at my face and arms. My heart hammers in my ears and my breath comes in gasps. It's hotter than blazes and the air is so humid it's more like breathing soup. Still, I force myself to keep going. For once, I'm grateful for my years of mind-numbing physical training.

I'm too busy trying to get away to even think about where I'm going. So when I find myself in front of the house where my friends Wes and Devin live, I'm a little surprised. Still, it's as good a place as any to hide out. My hand is poised to knock when the door flies open. I jump backward so far I nearly tumble off the front steps.

"Holy crap, dude!" Wes exclaims, grinning from ear to ear. "You're a living legend! I can't believe you did that."

"Uhhhh, yeah," I shuffle my feet uncomfortably. "About that - "

"No, seriously," he cuts me off. "That shit is all over the Splinternet."

"Hey, um, do you think we could go inside? I'm pretty sure there are troops looking for me."

Moving aside, Wes lets me in and triple-bolts the door.

"Don't worry, dude," he says. "We've got a top-notch security system here. If anyone's coming, we'll know in plenty of time to take care of business. That's how I knew you were coming."

"Yeah, you scared the shit out of me."

"Awfully jumpy for such a big damn hero," calls another voice. A moment later, Devin appears, rubbing his eyes. He's still in his pajamas and he's holding a steaming mug the size of his head. Yawning, he rakes a hand through rumpled dark hair.

"Late night?" I ask.

"Yeah, I was up gaming. Wasn't really expecting all this excitement." He looks at me pointedly. "You've been holding out on us, buddy. Why didn't you tell us you were planning to stage an attack on the border?"

"The funny thing is - " I begin, but Wes cuts me off again. While Devin is clearly on his first cup of SynthBrew, Wes looks like he's drunk a whole pot already. He's all but crackling with excitement, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

"So, what's next on the agenda, partner?" Wes asks. "We could hit an armory or something."'

"Uh, well..." Suddenly, the realization hits me. In my hurry to save myself, I've forgotten one very important detail. Big damn hero, my ass. "Shit, you guys! I was supposed to meet Calla at the tree. I've got to go back and find her."

* * * * *
Stomach churning with anxiety, I survey the scene before me. Border patrols are stationed every few feet along the fence, armed with laser cannons and probably nanoblasters as well. The gap in the barbed wire where the explosion occurred is especially well-guarded. There's no way to get past them to return to the hollow tree. If my partner in crime made it out alive, she'll be waiting for me there - unless she panicked like I did.

"Maybe we can create some kind of diversion?" Devin ventures.

"How are we going to do that?" I demand. "We're completely unarmed."

"Hmmmm," Wes strokes his bleached-blonde goatee for a minute, thinking. "I know! I'll limp over to those guards and pretend to be hurt. Meanwhile, you and Devin can jump 'em from behind. We'll take their uniforms so we can pass as patrolmen."

"Um, Wes?" Devin's voice is filled with scorn. "You've been watching too much neurovision. Stuff like that only works on NebulaQuest."

"Oh yeah?" Wes shoots back. "How would you know? You dropped out of Multiversity before you even finished Strategy 101."

Maybe bringing these guys along wasn't such a great idea, I think, massaging my temples. Between the brutal heat and their bickering, my head feels like it's going to explode. Though I'm not the best at thinking on my feet, at least I have combat training. Wes and Devin are smart guys, but they grew up on the Other Side, so most of their battle experience comes from SimFighting.

"Kalen, you're the military expert here," Devin says. "What do you think we should do?"

"With the way they've beefed up security, there's no way we can get through without reinforcements. Maybe we can go back to my parents' house and pick up my robots."

It's an hour's walk to my parents' house. By the time we're close enough to see the security gates of their neighborhood, I'm drenched in sweat. Summer should be turning into fall by now, but it doesn't seem to have gotten the memo. At the moment, though, that's the least of our worries.

"Shit!" Wes yells. "This place is crawling with troops!"

"Can you keep it down, Captain Obvious?" Devin hisses. "They'll hear us!"

Repressing the urge to deck them both, I ponder what to do next. If I can't get my robots, I'll just have to build new ones and hope Calla can survive on her own until I'm finished. Wes and Devin might lack common sense, but they've got plenty of connections.

"Guys," I say, fighting to keep the irritation from my voice. "I'm starving. Let's go back to your place and eat something while we plot our next move. Do you know where we can find some spare parts?"

* * * * *
Pressing the "Uncloak" button on my InvisiSuit, I breathe a sigh of relief. Security seems to have slackened a bit in the three weeks since I was last at the border. My robots had no trouble subduing the patrolmen who were still there, and climbing over the fence was a cakewalk.

Gathering my robot troops, I begin moving toward the hollow tree where Calla and I often meet. We've only been underway for a short time when I notice the sun glinting oddly off of something metallic up ahead. While I'm puzzling over what it could be, a loud voice barks out an order.

"HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, INTRUDER! IDENTIFY YOURSELF!"

For a moment, I think it's more troops. But the voice sounds distorted, like it's coming from someone in an InvisiSuit like mine. I've never known patrolmen to utilize that technology. Pressing the "Talk" button on my own Suit, I respond.

"Perhaps you should identify yourself first, my friend. I've got enough firepower to blow you into next Reaping."

"Oh, really?" comes the disbelieving response. "We'll just see about that." A purple laser scorches the air only inches from my face.

"YOU DIMWIT!" shouts an oddly feminine robotic voice. "Haven't you done enough damage with your substandard weapons? Besides, your aim sucks."

By this time, I'm close enough to see that my adversary has a robot army of his own. It's unusual to encounter someone besides me with mechanical minions, and what's more, these robots look strangely familiar. One of them even has a custom paint job with glowing blue flames that looks just like something I'd do. In fact, all of the robots look strikingly similar to the ones I left at home. They can't be my creations, though, because they're fitted with awkward off-brand weaponry I'd sooner die than use.

Wait a minute, I think. Unless... Before I can finish my thought, the feminine robot speaks again.

"KALEN?!"

"How do you know my name?" I reply. Before the fembot can respond, another purple laser streaks past me.

"KALEN, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" Suddenly, it all makes sense - the robots that look like mine, the familiar anger, and even the shoddy weapons.

"Brendan?"

"I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! YOU RUINED MY LIFE, AND YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE THE DECENCY TO DIE!"

Blue spheres hurtle toward me - nanoblaster fire. A loud "Bzzzzzzt!" sound issues from Brendan's general vicinity.

"OW!" Brendan screams.

"Where did you get these weapons - RoboWalMart?" the fembot snickers. Her body - an insectile thing with lots of segmented legs and vicious pincers - doesn't match her voice at all.

That's odd, I think. I don't remember making that robot female.

"SHUT UP, CALLA!" Brendan yells.

"Um... Brendan?" I ask, dodging yet another purple laser, "Why did you name that robot Calla?"

"He didn't name me Calla," the fembot snorts.

Robots can snort? I didn't program my robots to do that.

"I am Calla," she continues. "Your numbnuts of a brother turned me into a robot!"

"YOU TURNED MY BEST FRIEND INTO A ROBOT?" I shriek, "I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!" Pulling a remote control from the pocket of my InvisiSuit, I press the button that says "Robot Troops Attack". I watch with grim satisfaction as my metal soldiers fall upon Brendan like a pack of hungry wolves.

* * * * *
"Well, this is a fine mess you've gotten us into, Kalen," Brendan says, staring at the smoking rubble that surrounds us. Scattered about are the melted remains of our faithful mechanical allies, gone from this world too soon. Both Brendan and I are covered in soot and grime. Our InvisiSuits are destroyed, the clothes we had on underneath are in tatters, and I've lost both my shoes somewhere along the way.

"Me? You shot first," I retort.

"Yeah, and then you told your entire robot army to attack me!"

"You turned my best friend into a robot!"

"It's not my fault your robot malfunctioned and shot her," Brendan says.

"It malfunctioned because you modified it... badly!"

"ARE YOU CALLING ME INCOMPETENT?" Brendan screeches, running at me with his fists, the only weapon he has left now that our robot armies have blasted each other to bits. I grab him by the hair and elbow him in the gut. He doubles over, making an oof sound.

"Are you dipshits still fighting down there?" The CallaBot's voice asks from above. I look up, expecting to see her atop the lower side of the ravine created by our hours-long robot confrontation. She's not there, but I do see a line of troops marching by like ants as they investigate the source of the commotion. The CallaBot must be on the higher side of the ravine, using her using her built-in vocal amplifier so we can hear her.

"Calla!" I shout, overjoyed, "You came back!" She may look like an enormous metallic insect, but she's still my best friend.

"Yeah, but I'm leaving again if you two don't stop pummeling each other."

"But he ruined my life with his terrorist attack!" Brendan shouts.

"Hey, that reminds me," Calla says, as she climbs swiftly down the side of the ravine. "Why did you set off the explosion? I thought the plan was not to push the button unless we were in mortal danger."

"Yeah, um," I say, feeling my ears start to burn. "That was... it was kind of an accident."

"What?" both Brendan and Calla say with simultaneous incredulity.

"I was backing away from the fence, keeping an eye on the Enforcers to make sure they weren't going to open fire. Just as I was getting ready to give you the signal to run, I-"

I pause, too embarrassed to continue.

"You what?" Calla asks.

"Um, I sneezed," I say, my face hot with shame. "I sneezed, and I squeezed the button by accident."

For a moment, Calla's mechanical eyes glow as if lasers are about to come out of them. Then she laughs.

"Worst. Terrorist. Ever."


This story is part of an informal intersection with the always-amazing alien_infinity. Please read her post, which can be found here, to see Calla(Bot)'s version of this story.

Barefoot, Uphill, Both Ways

I'm so fucking stupid. What have I done? I wanted to stop the War, but I've only made things worse.

Ears ringing, I dash through the trees. Branches scratch at my face and arms. My heart hammers in my ears and my breath comes in gasps. It's hotter than blazes and the air is so humid it's more like breathing soup. Still, I force myself to keep going. For once, I'm grateful for my years of mind-numbing physical training.

I'm too busy trying to get away to even think about where I'm going. So when I find myself in front of the house where my friends Wes and Devin live, I'm a little surprised. Still, it's as good a place as any to hide out. My hand is poised to knock when the door flies open. I jump backward so far I nearly tumble off the front steps.

"Kalen, dude!" Wes exclaims, grinning from ear to ear. "You're a living legend! I can't believe you did that."

"Uhhhh, yeah," I hedge. "About that - "

"No, seriously," he cuts me off. "You're a hero! Your name's all over the Splinternet."

"Hey, um, do you think we could go inside? I'm pretty sure there are troops looking for me."

Moving aside, Wes lets me in and triple-bolts the door. "Don't worry, dude," he says. "We've got a top-notch security system here. If anyone's coming, we'll know in plenty of time to take care of business. That's how I knew you were coming."

"Yeah, you scared the shit out of me."

"Pretty jumpy for such a big damn hero," calls a raspy voice from another room. A moment later, Devin appears, rubbing his eyes. He's still in his pajamas and he's holding a steaming mug the size of his head. Yawning, he rakes a hand through his rumpled dark hair.

"Late night, Devin?" I ask.

"Yeah, I stayed up gaming. Wasn't really expecting all this fucking excitement." He looks at me pointedly. "You've been holding out on us, buddy. Why didn't you tell us you were planning to stage an attack on the border?"

"The funny thing is - " I begin, but Wes cuts me off again. While Devin is clearly on his first cup of SynthBrew, Wes looks like he's drunk a whole pot already. He's practically crackling with excitement, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

"So, what's next on the agenda, partner?" Wes asks. "We could hit an armory or something."'

"Uh, well..." Suddenly, the realization hits me. In my hurry to save myself, I've forgotten one very important detail. Big damn hero, my ass. "Shit, you guys! I was supposed to meet Calla at the tree. I've got to go back and find her."

* * * * *

Stomach churning with anxiety, I survey the scene before me. Border patrols are stationed every few feet along the fence, armed with laser cannons and probably nanoblasters as well. The gap in the barbed wire where the explosion occurred is especially well-guarded. There's no way to get past them to return to the hollow tree. If my partner in crime made it out alive, she'll be waiting for me there - unless she panicked like I did.

"Maybe we can create some kind of diversion?" Devin ventures.

"How are we going to do that?" I demand. "We're completely unarmed."

"Hmmmm," Wes strokes his bleached-blonde goatee for a minute, thinking. "I know! I'll limp over to those guards and pretend to be hurt. Meanwhile, you and Devin can jump 'em from behind. We'll take their uniforms so we can pass as patrolmen."

"Um, Wes?" Devin's voice is filled with scorn. "You've been watching too much neurovision. This isn't a fucking episode of NebulaQuest. Shit like that doesn't work in real life."

"Oh yeah?" Wes looks hurt. "How would you know? You dropped out of Multiversity before you even finished Strategy 101."

Maybe bringing these guys along wasn't such a great idea. Between the brutal heat and their bickering, my head feels like it's going to explode. Though I'm not the best at thinking on my feet, at least I have combat training. Wes and Devin are smart guys, but they grew up on the Other Side, and the only "battle experience" they have is from playing SimFighting.

"Well, Kalen," Devin says. "You're the fucking military expert. What do you think we should do?"

"With the way they've beefed up security, there's no way we can get through without reinforcements. Maybe we can go back to my parents' house and pick up my robots."

It's an hour's walk to my parents' house. By the time we're close enough to see the security gates of their neighborhood, I'm drenched in sweat. It's Reaping, the beginning of fall, but the weather doesn't seem to have gotten the memo. At the moment, though, that's the least of our worries.

"What'll we do now?" Wes yells, clutching Devin's arm. "This place is crawling with troops!"

"Wes. Keep your fucking voice down." Devin hisses. "They'll hear us!"

Repressing the urge to deck them both, I ponder what to do next. If I can't get my robots, I'll just have to build new ones and hope Calla can survive on her own until I'm finished. Wes and Devin might lack common sense, but they've got more than enough connections to find me the supplies I need.

"Guys," I say, fighting to keep the irritation from my voice. "I'm starving. Let's go back to your place and eat something while we plot our next move. Do you know where we can find some spare parts?"

* * * * *

Taking a deep breath, I climb the fence. Once I'm on the opposite side, I breathe a sigh of relief. Security seems to have slackened a bit in the three weeks since I was last at the border, and my robots had no trouble subduing the few patrolmen we encountered. Still, I'm keeping my InvisiSuit cloaked as long as I can - I'm pretty sure being caught here would mean certain death.

Gathering my robot troops, I begin moving toward the hollow tree where Calla and I were supposed to meet. I've only been underway for a short time when I notice the sun glinting oddly off of something metallic up ahead. While I'm puzzling over what it could be, a loud voice barks out an order.

"HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, INTRUDER! IDENTIFY YOURSELF!"

For a moment, I think it's more troops. But the voice sounds distorted, like it's coming from inside an InvisiSuit like mine. Why would border patrolmen need to be invisible? Pressing the "Talk" button on my own Suit, I respond. "Uh... why don't you identify yourself first?"

How come my words sound so quiet? The "Talk" function on my Suit should have amplified my voice. A purple laser scorches the air, inches from my face, and I shout in surprise. Shouldn't I still be invisible? Either my Suit's malfunctioning, or I pressed "Uncloak" instead of "Talk". Great.

"YOU DIMWIT!" shouts an oddly feminine robotic voice - how's she know I made a mistake operating my InvisiSuit? It takes a minute before I realize she's not talking to me. "Haven't you done enough damage with your substandard weapons? Besides, your aim sucks."

By this time, I'm close enough to see that my adversary has a robot army of his own. It's unusual to encounter someone besides me with mechanical minions, and what's more, these robots look strangely familiar. One of them even has a custom paint job with glowing blue flames that looks just like something I'd do. In fact, all of the robots look strikingly similar to the ones I left at home. They can't be my creations, though, because they're fitted with awkward off-brand weaponry I'd sooner die than use.

Wait a minute. Those can't be my robots, unless...

Before I can finish my thought, the feminine robot speaks again. "KALEN?!"

"H- how do you know my name?" I stammer.

Before the fembot can respond, another purple laser streaks past me.

"KALEN, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" Suddenly, it all makes sense - the robots that look like mine, the familiar anger, and even the shoddy weapons.

"Brendan?"

"I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! YOU RUINED MY LIFE, AND YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE THE DECENCY TO DIE!"

Blue spheres hurtle toward me - nanoblaster fire. A loud "Bzzzzzzt!" sound issues from Brendan's general vicinity. "OW!" Brendan screams, dropping the laser pistol on the sand. It's only after the danger's passed that I realize - blue nanoblaster fire means he had his weapon set to kill, not stun.

"Where did you get these weapons - Discount RoboMart?" the fembot snickers. Her body - an insectile thing with lots of segmented legs and vicious pincers - doesn't match her voice at all. I remember building that robot, but I definitely don't recall making it female.

"SHUT UP, CALLA!" Brendan yells.

What in the world is going on here? Why in the world would Brendan modify my bugbot to have a female voice? Why would he name after my best friend? And most important of all, why would my own brother try to kill me? "Um... Brendan?" I ask, dodging yet another purple laser from one of "his" robots, "Why did you name that robot Calla?"

"He didn't name me Calla," the fembot snorts.

Robots can snort? I definitely didn't program my robots to do that.

"I am Calla," she continues. "Your idiot brother turned me into a robot!"

"YOU TURNED MY BEST FRIEND INTO A ROBOT?" I shriek, "I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!" Pulling a remote control from the pocket of my InvisiSuit, I press the button that says "Robot Troops Attack". I watch with grim satisfaction as my metal soldiers fall upon Brendan like a pack of hungry wolves.

* * * * *

"Well, this is a fine mess you've gotten us into, Kalen," Brendan says, staring at the smoking rubble that surrounds us. Scattered about are the melted remains of our faithful mechanical allies, gone from this world too soon. Both Brendan and I are covered in soot and grime. Our InvisiSuits are destroyed, and the clothes we had on underneath are in tatters. The CallaBot is nowhere to be seen - she must have left at some point during the fracas.

"Me? You shot first," I retort.

"Yeah, and then you told your entire robot army to attack me!" Brendan's voice is indignant.

"You turned my best friend into a robot!" I can't believe Brendan's trying to blame this on me.

"It's not my fault your robot malfunctioned and shot her," Brendan grumbles.

"It malfunctioned because you modified it... badly!"

"ARE YOU CALLING ME INCOMPETENT?" Brendan screeches, running at me with his fists, the only weapon he has left now that our robot armies have blasted each other to bits. I grab him by the hair and elbow him in the gut. He doubles over, making an oof sound.

"Are you fools still fighting down there?" The CallaBot's voice asks from behind me. I jump and turn around to see her climbing down the side of the ravine created by our hours-long robot confrontation.

"CallaBot!" I shout, overjoyed, "You came back!" She may look like an enormous metallic insect, but she's still my best friend.

"Yeah, but I'm leaving again if you two don't stop pummeling each other." Her voice drips with contempt.

"But he ruined my life with his terrorist attack!" Brendan shouts.

"Speaking of ruined lives," Calla says, sounding none too pleased. "Why did you set off the explosion? I thought the plan was not to push the button unless we were in mortal danger."

"Yeah, um," I say, feeling my ears start to burn. "That was... it was kind of an accident."

"What?" both Brendan and Calla say with simultaneous incredulity.

"I was backing away from the fence, keeping an eye on the Enforcers to make sure they weren't going to open fire. Just as I was getting ready to give you the signal to run, I-" I pause, too embarrassed to continue.

"You what?" Calla demands.

"Um, I sneezed," I say, my face hot with shame. "I sneezed, and I squeezed the button by accident."

For a moment, Calla's mechanical eyes glow as if lasers are about to come out of them. Then she laughs.

"Worst. Terrorist. Ever."

Group Think

This piece is back story for Wes and Devin. It takes place 3 or 4 years before Polemic.



Why do they even have a class this early? I wonder. 6:30 am is inhumane.

Holding my breath, I take a swallow from my institutional paper cup. The SynthBrew here is terrible, but I need it this morning. Even the aftertaste is enough to induce a full-body shudder; it's all I can do to keep it down. To my left, someone bursts out laughing.

"Dude, that's my reaction to the Brew here, too."

Looking up, I see a guy about my age with spiky dark hair and a bleached-blonde goatee. He looks far more awake than I am. Flashing me a cheery smile, he takes the seat to my left.

"Hey. I'm Wes." My new classmate offers his hand. I shake it, stifling a yawn.

"Devin." I mumble, gulping down another mouthful of foul brown liquid.

"Nice to meet you! Devin's a cool name. I like your ponytail." Wes has obviously had his SynthBrew already.

Hoping it will shut him up, I grunt in response.

"Do you like SimFighting?" he continues. "What's your favorite weapon? Mine's the rocket launcher. Only you have to be careful not to use it inside a small room. Did that once and exploded myself and my whole team. Oops."

I groan out loud. Is this guy gonna yap at me for the whole hour and a half?

"Hey, Wes?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sure you're a really great guy and all," I say, "but I'm pretty much the polar fucking opposite of a morning person. So do you think I could at least choke down the rest of this swill before we make with the friendly chatter?"

"Sure, dude." Wes looks a little hurt. "Whatever you say."

I finish my repulsive cup of SynthBrew in blessed silence. By the time it's gone, the professor has entered the room and begun lecturing. Sociology 101 sounds interesting in theory, but I can already tell the actual curriculum will be a total waste of time.

"Unlike our City," the instructor drones, "the Other Side has no social structure. The lives of its people are pure anarchy. Lack of proper regulation has led them to develop dangerous and violent natures."

Yeah, glad I got up at the ass-crack of dawn for this. Never heard that before.

By "proper regulation," the professor means "constant monitoring of all neurovision implants". Thanks to my contacts on the Splinternet, my own implant is free of such impediments. I can use it whenever I want and even pick up signals from the Other Side. Turning it on, I tune out for the rest of the class with an episode of NebulaQuest. It's not brain food by any means, but it'll keep me awake.

After the lecture ends, Wes gets up to leave with a tentative wave. I start to feel guilty about the way I've treated him. After all, he seems like a nice enough guy.

"Hey, buddy," I say. "Sorry for being such an ogre earlier. Like I said, I'm really not a morning person."

"It's all good, dude." Wes's expression brightens. "So, do you like SimFighting?"

* * * * *
"Brace yourself," I tell Wes. "You're gonna feel a little pinch."

Adjusting my laser-imaging goggles, I squint at the neurovision implant still inside his brain. I take a moment to steady my hands and then begin making the modifications. When he feels the pressure of the laser screwdriver, Wes flinches. It's a good thing I have exceptional reflexes. I correct for his movement and keep working.

"Hold still, buddy," I tell him, "or the only profession you'll be fit for is cooking VitaFries."

"Dude," Wes moans, "Being a fry cook couldn't be much worse than the profession I've already been assigned."

"Hmmmm?" I murmur absently.

It's not that I'm uninterested in Wes's plight. I'm just too focused on the task at hand to respond in any meaningful fashion. The last thing I want is to turn my friend into a drooling myrmidon. Fortunately, Wes doesn't require much input to carry on a conversation.

"Yeah, dude," he continues in a sad voice. "I'm supposed to be a Floral Arranger."

"What's wrong with flowers?" I muse. "They're cheerful."

"They're boring," Wes corrects me. Then he laughs. "Now that I know you like them, though, I'll be sure to bring you the samples from my classes. You can put 'em in your pretty, pretty hair."

"I've told you before not to call me 'pretty'," I growl. "It's especially inadvisable when my screwdriver's inside your brain."

It's nice that he's feeling better, though, even if it's at my expense. Biting my lip in concentration, I disable the restriction circuits on his implant. After that, I make the final tweaks and pull off my goggles.

"Okay, I'm all finished. Now sit back, relax and enjoy 9999 channels of neurovision goodness."

"Are you serious, dude?" Wes looks like a kid in a candy store. "Where do I even start?"

"Channel 4242 airs NebulaQuest nonstop," I say. "It's a pretty cool space exploration show."

"Space exploration?" Wes yells, clapping his hands in glee. "How awesome would that be?"

He's such an excitable guy; sometimes just talking to him makes me tired. Still, he's pretty much the only person I've met in this City who doesn't make me want to claw my own eyeballs out.

"The plots aren't exactly believable, but if you can get past that it's a lot of fun."

Wes doesn't answer. He's already staring off into nowhere, completely entranced.

* * * * *
Fidgeting in my hard plastic chair, I wait for the Examiner to arrive so my Professional Placement Interview can begin. My appointment time was 7 am; I've been sitting here since 5 minutes before that and it's now 7:30. The Testing Room is just large enough to hold a tiny table and two chairs. Above me hangs a single bare bulb. Dressed in a suit and tie, I'm beginning to sweat under its harsh light.

The door opens and a small, thin balding man walks in and sits down across from me.

"Good day," he says. "I am Examiner Farlan, and I will administer your Placement Interview today. And you are?"

"Devin Renton." I offer my hand; he ignores it. Right off the bat, I can tell I'm going to love this guy.

"If you're ready, let's begin." Clearing his throat, Farlan continues. "What is your greatest strength?"

"Well, I'm fucking brilliant - "

I'm kicking myself the moment the words are out of my mouth. Exactly what evidence am I supposed to provide for my self-professed genius? Somehow, I doubt my ability to hack CompuPanels or my expertise at illegal neurosurgery are going to impress him. More likely, they'll just get me thrown into a Reprogramming Facility.

Farlan's eyes drill into me, awaiting elaboration. For the first time I can remember, I'm at a loss for words. A painful amount of time elapses. Finally, Farlan clears his throat.

"Duly noted," he says. "Perhaps we should go on to the next question. What is your greatest weakness?"

"Well, obviously, it's my big fucking mouth," I laugh.

Farlan gives me a wilting look.

"Um, I'm good under pressure?" This would be hysterical if it weren't so tragic.

"Clearly," Farlan says.

* * * * *
Standing outside Wes's quarters in Multiversity Housing, I pound on the door. It's barely 9 am on a Saturday but hey, he's a morning person. I'm starting to wonder if he's still asleep after all when he throws the door open, looking chipper as ever.

"Dude! What are you doing here?" He pauses, noticing my formal attire. "Oh yeah, your Placement Exam..."

"Yeah, that," I scoff. "No big."

"So you rocked it, right?" Wes says.

"If by 'rocked it', you mean a promising career in waste-processing technology maintenance, then yes."

Wes's face falls.

"Dude, I'm sorry," he says. "I know how you feel."

"At least you don't have to touch raw sewage?" I offer.

"But I hate my assigned profession," Wes sighs.

"You know," I tell him. "I know some people on the Other Side. Kinda thinking about moving there."

"The Other Side? Aren't they all maniacal killers over there?"

"From what I've heard, a lot of them kinda are," I say. "But not all. At least over there, we'd be allowed to do what we wanted for a living."

"Yeah!" Wes perks up in a flash. "We could be like those people on that one NebulaQuest episode who survive by stealing technology and modifying it to suit their needs."

"Dammit, Wes!" I say. "I'm already sorry I introduced you to that show. That'd never fucking work in real life. Now are you coming with me or not?"

"'Course I am, dude," he replies. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Group Think

This piece is back story for Wes and Devin. It takes place 3 or 4 years before Polemic.



Why do they even have a class this early? I wonder. 6:30 am is inhumane.

Holding my breath, I take a swallow from my institutional paper cup. The SynthBrew here is terrible, but I need it this morning. Even the aftertaste is enough to induce a full-body shudder; it's all I can do to keep it down. To my left, someone bursts out laughing.

"Dude, that's my reaction to the Brew here, too."

Looking up, I see a guy about my age with spiky dark hair and a bleached-blonde goatee. He looks far more awake than I am. Flashing me a cheery smile, he takes the seat to my left.

"Hey. I'm Wes." My new classmate offers his hand. I shake it, stifling a yawn.

"Devin." I mumble, gulping down another mouthful of foul brown liquid.

"Nice to meet you! Devin's a cool name. I like your ponytail." Wes has obviously had his SynthBrew already.

Hoping it will shut him up, I grunt in response.

"Do you like SimFighting?" he continues. "What's your favorite weapon? Mine's the rocket launcher. Only you have to be careful not to use it inside a small room. Did that once and exploded myself and my whole team. Oops."

I groan out loud. Is this guy gonna yap at me for the whole hour and a half?

"Hey, Wes?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sure you're a really great guy and all," I say, "but I'm pretty much the polar fucking opposite of a morning person. So do you think I could at least choke down the rest of this swill before we make with the friendly chatter?"

"Sure, dude." Wes looks a little hurt. "Whatever you say."

I finish my repulsive cup of SynthBrew in blessed silence. By the time it's gone, the professor has entered the room and begun lecturing. Sociology 101 sounds interesting in theory, but I can already tell the actual curriculum will be a total waste of time.

"Unlike our City," the instructor drones, "the Other Side has no social structure. The lives of its people are pure anarchy. Lack of proper regulation has led them to develop dangerous and violent natures."

Yeah, glad I got up at the ass-crack of dawn for this. Never heard that before.

By "proper regulation," the professor means "constant monitoring of all neurovision implants". Thanks to my contacts on the Splinternet, my own implant is free of such impediments. I can use it whenever I want and even pick up signals from the Other Side. Turning it on, I tune out for the rest of the class with an episode of NebulaQuest. It's not brain food by any means, but it'll keep me awake.

After the lecture ends, Wes gets up to leave with a tentative wave. I start to feel guilty about the way I've treated him. After all, he seems like a nice enough guy.

"Hey, buddy," I say. "Sorry for being such an ogre earlier. Like I said, I'm really not a morning person."

"It's all good, dude." Wes's expression brightens. "So, do you like SimFighting?"

* * * * *
"Brace yourself," I tell Wes. "You're gonna feel a little pinch."

Adjusting my laser-imaging goggles, I squint at the neurovision implant still inside his brain. I take a moment to steady my hands and then begin making the modifications. When he feels the pressure of the laser screwdriver, Wes flinches. It's a good thing I have exceptional reflexes. I correct for his movement and keep working.

"Hold still, buddy," I tell him, "or the only profession you'll be fit for is cooking VitaFries."

"Dude," Wes moans, "Being a fry cook couldn't be much worse than the profession I've already been assigned."

"Hmmmm?" I murmur absently.

It's not that I'm uninterested in Wes's plight. I'm just too focused on the task at hand to respond in any meaningful fashion. The last thing I want is to turn my friend into a drooling myrmidon. Fortunately, Wes doesn't require much input to carry on a conversation.

"Yeah, dude," he continues in a sad voice. "I'm supposed to be a Floral Arranger."

"What's wrong with flowers?" I muse. "They're cheerful."

"They're boring," Wes corrects me. Then he laughs. "Now that I know you like them, though, I'll be sure to bring you the samples from my classes. You can put 'em in your pretty, pretty hair."

"I've told you before not to call me 'pretty'," I growl. "It's especially inadvisable when my screwdriver's inside your brain."

It's nice that he's feeling better, though, even if it's at my expense. Biting my lip in concentration, I disable the restriction circuits on his implant. After that, I make the final tweaks and pull off my goggles.

"Okay, I'm all finished. Now sit back, relax and enjoy 9999 channels of neurovision goodness."

"Are you serious, dude?" Wes looks like a kid in a candy store. "Where do I even start?"

"Channel 4242 airs NebulaQuest nonstop," I say. "It's a pretty cool space exploration show."

"Space exploration?" Wes yells, clapping his hands in glee. "How awesome would that be?"

He's such an excitable guy; sometimes just talking to him makes me tired. Still, he's pretty much the only person I've met in this City who doesn't make me want to claw my own eyeballs out.

"The plots aren't exactly believable, but if you can get past that it's a lot of fun."

Wes doesn't answer. He's already staring off into nowhere, completely entranced.

* * * * *
Fidgeting in my hard plastic chair, I wait for the Examiner to arrive so my Professional Placement Interview can begin. My appointment time was 7 am; I've been sitting here since 5 minutes before that and it's now 7:30. The Testing Room is just large enough to hold a tiny table and two chairs. Above me hangs a single bare bulb. Dressed in a suit and tie, I'm beginning to sweat under its harsh light.

The door opens and a small, thin balding man walks in and sits down across from me.

"Good day," he says. "I am Examiner Farlan, and I will administer your Placement Interview today. And you are?"

"Devin Renton." I offer my hand; he ignores it. Right off the bat, I can tell I'm going to love this guy.

"If you're ready, let's begin." Clearing his throat, Farlan continues. "What is your greatest strength?"

"Well, I'm fucking brilliant - "

I'm kicking myself the moment the words are out of my mouth. Exactly what evidence am I supposed to provide for my self-professed genius? Somehow, I doubt my ability to hack CompuPanels or my expertise at illegal neurosurgery are going to impress him. More likely, they'll just get me thrown into a Reprogramming Facility.

Farlan's eyes drill into me, awaiting elaboration. For the first time I can remember, I'm at a loss for words. A painful amount of time elapses. Finally, Farlan clears his throat.

"Duly noted," he says. "Perhaps we should go on to the next question. What is your greatest weakness?"

"Well, obviously, it's my big fucking mouth," I laugh.

Farlan gives me a wilting look.

"Um, I'm good under pressure?" This would be hysterical if it weren't so tragic.

"Clearly," Farlan says.

* * * * *
Standing outside Wes's quarters in Multiversity Housing, I pound on the door. It's barely 9 am on a Saturday but hey, he's a morning person. I'm starting to wonder if he's still asleep after all when he throws the door open, looking chipper as ever.

"Dude! What are you doing here?" He pauses, noticing my formal attire. "Oh yeah, your Placement Exam..."

"Yeah, that," I scoff. "No big."

"So you rocked it, right?" Wes says.

"If by 'rocked it', you mean a promising career in waste-processing technology maintenance, then yes."

Wes's face falls.

"Dude, I'm sorry," he says. "I know how you feel."

"At least you don't have to touch raw sewage?" I offer.

"But I hate my assigned profession," Wes sighs.

"You know," I tell him. "I know some people on the Other Side. Kinda thinking about moving there."

"The Other Side? Aren't they all maniacal killers over there?"

"From what I've heard, a lot of them kinda are," I say. "But not all. At least over there, we'd be allowed to do what we wanted for a living."

"Yeah!" Wes perks up in a flash. "We could be like those people on that one NebulaQuest episode who survive by stealing technology and modifying it to suit their needs."

"Dammit, Wes!" I say. "I'm already sorry I introduced you to that show. That'd never fucking work in real life. Now are you coming with me or not?"

"'Course I am, dude," he replies. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Visiting Hours

"Fucking Brendan!" Devin bursts into the room where I'm napping, startling me awake.

"What did he do this time?" I ask with a weary sigh. These days, it feels like half my time is spent breaking up fights between these two.

"It's what he didn't do that's the problem," Devin replies. "Remember how he wanted to raid that weapons stockpile, and you told him to wait?"

"Yeah," I say. "I wanted to rebuild our robot army first. That way, he'd have reinforcements."

"Apparently, he had his own ideas," Devin says, "He went ahead on his own, and now he's in jail."

Guess I'll have to catch up on my sleep some other time. Rubbing my eyes, I follow Devin into the living room where our other roommates are already sitting.

"Can't we just leave him in there?" he asks. "It's his own fault for being stupid."

"I second the motion. It's quieter here without him anyway," CallaBot laughs, raising her hand.

"He's my brother," I tell them. "We have to break him out."

"Yeah, and anyway," Wes says, "What if they torture him and he spills all our secrets?"

"Helloooooo, this still isn't an episode of NebulaQuest," Devin rolls his eyes at Wes.

"For once," I say, "Wes is actually making sense. In school, we had classes about interrogation techniques and how to resist them. So that must be a real thing. Although knowing Brendan, he's too stubborn to give anything up."

"And how exactly do you propose to free him?" CallaBot's voice drips with condescension.

I really need to adjust her attitude chip, I think.

"Maybe he could have another sneezing attack," Devin says.

"Laugh it up, pretty princess," I say. "I don't see you coming up with any ideas."

"Hey!" Wes objects. "I'm the only one who's allowed to call him that."

"No one is allowed to call me that," Devin snarls. "What's so wrong with being serious about personal hygiene? Man, catch a guy deep-conditioning one time..."

"Dude!" Wes shouts, interrupting his diatribe. "I know how we can bust Brendan out of jail. We can sneak in subdermal implants and use them to make lasers, like they did on this one episode of NebulaQuest!"

"Are you freaking kidding me?" CallaBot looks like she's about to fry Wes with her own lasers. "That is the worst idea I've ever heard. Well, except for all the other ideas you've ever had."

"That plan could work, in theory." I've never seen Devin look so reluctant. "There are subdermal transponders that use a crystalline energy source that shouldn't trip your standard weapons sensors. Exposing the crystals to light would create a primitive laser. Using that, we should be able to subdue a guard, allowing Brendan to escape."

"See? I do have good ideas!" Wes yells in triumph. "I can easily score us some of those transponders!"

"I'm with CallaBot," I say. "That sounds like a terrible idea."

Wes's face falls.

"But since we don't really have any other tricks up our sleeves, we might as well try it anyway."

* * * * *
"Kalen, cut it out! Your pacing is making me anxious," CallaBot says.

"I'm sorry," I say, sitting down on the couch. "It's just that Wes and Devin should have been back by now. I wish we could have gone with them to spring Brendan from jail."

"Yeah, but you know that's not possible. As the best-known terrorist in the land, you can't exactly just show up for visiting hours at a public prison."

"Maybe I could have worn a disguise or something - "

"Riiiiight, that's you. Master of subterfuge," CallaBot says, cutting me off.

I'm about to start pacing again when the door flies open. Wes and Devin stomp inside, looking sweaty and irritated. Cruising along behind them is a large, squat security robot. The robot is carrying my brother, unconscious and trussed up like a pig.

"What the hell happened, you guys?" I ask them.

"Everything was going fine at first," Wes says. "Brendan was out of his cell in no time. Then on the way out, he got in a fight with another inmate and almost got us thrown in the brig!"

"It's not called a 'brig' in real life, you tool," Devin hisses.

"Anyway," Wes continues, "Devin sneaked up behind Brendan and conked him on the head."

"Yeah, but since this mental deficient must weigh a ton and a half," Devin says, gesturing at my brother, "then we had to reprogram this SecurityBot to carry him home. It was a real clusterfuck."

"But dude, on the bright side?" Wes says. "My plan totally worked!"




Author's Note: For those you of you who are not giant NebulaQuest Star Trek geeks like I am, the escape plot in this story is based on this episode of Star Trek, the original series.

Visiting Hours

"Fucking Brendan!" Devin bursts into the room where I'm napping, startling me awake.

"What did he do this time?" I ask with a weary sigh. These days, it feels like half my time is spent breaking up fights between these two.

"It's what he didn't do that's the problem," Devin replies. "Remember how he wanted to raid that weapons stockpile, and you told him to wait?"

"Yeah," I say. "I wanted to rebuild our robot army first. That way, he'd have reinforcements."

"Apparently, he had his own ideas," Devin says, "He went ahead on his own, and now he's in jail."

Guess I'll have to catch up on my sleep some other time. Rubbing my eyes, I follow Devin into the living room where our other roommates are already sitting.

"Can't we just leave him in there?" he asks. "It's his own fault for being stupid."

"I second the motion. It's quieter here without him anyway," CallaBot laughs, raising her hand.

"He's my brother," I tell them. "We have to break him out."

"Yeah, and anyway," Wes says, "What if they torture him and he spills all our secrets?"

"Helloooooo, this still isn't an episode of NebulaQuest," Devin rolls his eyes at Wes.

"For once," I say, "Wes is actually making sense. In school, we had classes about interrogation techniques and how to resist them. So that must be a real thing. Although knowing Brendan, he's too stubborn to give anything up."

"And how exactly do you propose to free him?" CallaBot's voice drips with condescension.

I really need to adjust her attitude chip, I think.

"Maybe he could have another sneezing attack," Devin says.

"Laugh it up, pretty princess," I say. "I don't see you coming up with any ideas."

"Hey!" Wes objects. "I'm the only one who's allowed to call him that."

"No one is allowed to call me that," Devin snarls. "What's so wrong with being serious about personal hygiene? Man, catch a guy deep-conditioning one time..."

"Dude!" Wes shouts, interrupting his diatribe. "I know how we can bust Brendan out of jail. We can sneak in subdermal implants and use them to make lasers, like they did on this one episode of NebulaQuest!"

"Are you freaking kidding me?" CallaBot looks like she's about to fry Wes with her own lasers. "That is the worst idea I've ever heard. Well, except for all the other ideas you've ever had."

"That plan could work, in theory." I've never seen Devin look so reluctant. "There are subdermal transponders that use a crystalline energy source that shouldn't trip your standard weapons sensors. Exposing the crystals to light would create a primitive laser. Using that, we should be able to subdue a guard, allowing Brendan to escape."

"See? I do have good ideas!" Wes yells in triumph. "I can easily score us some of those transponders!"

"I'm with CallaBot," I say. "That sounds like a terrible idea."

Wes's face falls.

"But since we don't really have any other tricks up our sleeves, we might as well try it anyway."

* * * * *
"Kalen, cut it out! Your pacing is making me anxious," CallaBot says.

"I'm sorry," I say, sitting down on the couch. "It's just that Wes and Devin should have been back by now. I wish we could have gone with them to spring Brendan from jail."

"Yeah, but you know that's not possible. As the best-known terrorist in the land, you can't exactly just show up for visiting hours at a public prison."

"Maybe I could have worn a disguise or something - "

"Riiiiight, that's you. Master of subterfuge," CallaBot says, cutting me off.

I'm about to start pacing again when the door flies open. Wes and Devin stomp inside, looking sweaty and irritated. Cruising along behind them is a large, squat security robot. The robot is carrying my brother, unconscious and trussed up like a pig.

"What the hell happened, you guys?" I ask them.

"Everything was going fine at first," Wes says. "Brendan was out of his cell in no time. Then on the way out, he got in a fight with another inmate and almost got us thrown in the brig!"

"It's not called a 'brig' in real life, you tool," Devin hisses.

"Anyway," Wes continues, "Devin sneaked up behind Brendan and conked him on the head."

"Yeah, but since this mental deficient must weigh a ton and a half," Devin says, gesturing at my brother, "then we had to reprogram this SecurityBot to carry him home. It was a real clusterfuck."

"But dude, on the bright side?" Wes says. "My plan totally worked!"




Author's Note: For those you of you who are not giant NebulaQuest Star Trek geeks like I am, the escape plot in this story is based on this episode of Star Trek, the original series.

Tumbler

"This is gonna be fucking epic!" Devin yells, bursting into the room.

"It better be, dickcheese," Wes grumbles, pulling off his SimFighting headset with a glare. "You just made me die."

"Riiiiight," I snicker, "What's your excuse for the other six times I beat you today, then?"

Devin clears his throat and we both turn to look at him.

"Don't you two losers want to know what I found?" he asks, holding out his cupped palm to reveal a silvery nanochip.

"Looks like an IdentiChip," I say after squinting at it for a moment, "but whose?"

"Mine," Devin replies. "Met a guy from the Splinternet who makes them - impossible to distinguish from the real thing. With this baby installed, not only am I officially born in this City, I also have security clearance."

Wes lets out a loud sneeze that sounds suspiciously like the word "bullshit".

"Ought to get that cold checked out, buddy," Devin says, cocking an eyebrow in Wes's direction. "Anyway, once I install the IdentiChip, the possibilities are endless. I can get a job anywhere. We can fight the system from the inside!"

"Well, Kalen, what do you think?" Wes asks, still dubious.

For whatever reason, both Wes and Devin treat me as their leader. Although I find this ridiculous, given the fact that my famous act of heroism was a complete accident, I do the best I can. Now I consider Devin's words. While he isn't known for his street smarts, he's a genius with circuitry. With the proper identification, he'd be an asset to any military research team.

"It's kind of insane," I finally say, "but it just might work."

* * * * *
Wes is helping me put the finishing touches on a new, more humanoid body for CallaBot when the front door slams so hard we both jump. Devin walks into the living room, anger clouding his features. Pulling off his white lab coat, he tosses it on the floor and collapses on the couch.

"Who pissed in your VitaFlakes, dude?" Wes asks him.

Shooting me a sour look, Devin undoes his dark hair from its "professional" braid. He rakes a comb through it while staring moodily at the wall. Dress code at WeaponsDev isn't even supposed to allow long hair. However, after his performance on their technical tests, I wouldn't be surprised if they let him show up to work stark naked.

"Hey, pretty princess," Wes says, "What's wrong?" Devin grunts and points at his lab coat, still lying in the doorway.

"Oh, so now I'm the maid? You'd better buy me a pretty dress, then!" Wes begins strutting around the living room with an exaggerated swing of his hips. Devin sighs, and I retrieve the garment myself. I'm heading toward the coat closet to hang it up when Devin finally speaks.

"Inside pocket," he says.

The large pocket feels empty at first, but I feel around inside it anyway. Finally, my fingers close around a tiny capsule. Holding it up to the light, I examine it. It appears to be some kind of medication - one half is pink and the other is white, printed with numerals I can't quite make out.

"Ohhhhhh, I get it," Wes says, "You forgot to take your meds today. No wonder you're in such a funk." That, at least, gets a laugh. It's dripping with bitterness, though. I've never seen Devin in a mood like this and it worries me.

"Squeeze the top and bottom."

I comply with Devin's directions, and the pill's two halves separate, revealing some sort of mechanical device inside. A tiny pink laser shoots from its center and I nearly drop it in surprise. Devin laughs; it almost sounds genuine. He points across the room.

Projected on our living room wall in stunning detail are several sets of clothing. There's a formal dress, a men's suit, and several male and female outfits of the more casual variety.

"They've got you designing fashion?" Wes screeches with glee. "Dude, I knew you should've cut that ponytail."

"I'm assigned to work on the neural interface for it," Devin's voice is bleak and he's still looking at the wall. "This is the point where you should ask yourselves why a cocktail dress needs a neural interface."

"Don't look at me," I say, "I'm clueless about fashion."

"It's not about fashion, Kalen," Devin's eyes are hard. "Well, actually, it sort of is. They're explosive outfits for suicide bombers, undetectable by any existing security devices."

"So... they're for undercover agents, then?" I ask. I'm still not sure why he's so upset.

"Not exactly," Devin sighs again. "They're going to be marketed to the general public."

"What?" Wes and I shout in simultaneous disbelief.

"They wouldn't," I say, my heart sinking as I realize I don't even believe myself.

"Come on, Kalen," Devin says, "You know better than that. Fighting squads have waiting lists of a year or more, and the qualifications for soldiers are pretty stringent. Your own brother was disqualified from the military; he's by far not the only one. And he's not the only one who'd risk death to fight anyway."

"If our government is willing to go this far in the name of the War," I say, "we'll never be able to stop it."

"Exactly," Devin replies.

"Are you sure this is really what they're planning?" My stomach is churning.

"They're already putting together the preliminary ad campaigns. Full-page spreads in the neuromags. Marketing team's even come up with a slogan - 'Go Out In Style'."

* * * * *
"Are you guys sure I'm the best person for the job?" I ask my friends for the millionth time as I pull on my InvisiSuit. "I'm not so great under pressure."

"That's like saying Wes isn't so great at SimFighting," CallaBot snorts.

"Hey!" Wes protests, punching CallaBot in the arm with a loud clang. "Ow!" He rubs at his knuckles.

"That's what you get for hitting a lady," CallaBot snickers.

"Come on, guys, let's stay focused, okay? Kalen, it has to be you. You're the only one who's agile enough to get past the security lasers protecting the prototype." Devin hasn't been the same since he found out about Project FashionXplosion. His months of work on the project have taken their toll. Not only has he lost his sense of humor, he looks exhausted. His olive skin is sallow and there are dark circles under his eyes.

"It's just... I'm worried about messing up." After the incident with the bomb, no one can really blame me for that.

"You'll be fine," Devin says, with a smile that's a shadow of its former self. "Just don't sneeze."

"Let me just make sure I have everything straight. The security nanochip you installed in my neural implant should get me into the building. I just walk in through the back, right?"

"Exactly," Devin nods. "I stole that chip from a custodial robot. It'll give you access to any door or EleTube in the building. Once you reach the area where they keep the prototype, my modifications should also allow you to see the security lasers."

"Okay," I say, "I guess this is it. Wish me luck."

Turning on my InvisiSuit, I step out into the night. Its added bulk makes running harder, but I do it anyway. The sooner I make it to the WeaponsDev building, the faster I can steal the prototype and get back home to safety. As I run, my mind churns with questions.

What's the point of any of this? If Devin's right and we'll never stop the War anyway, how will stealing this prototype help? They'll just make something else even worse, won't they?

I know I can't just give up, though, so I keep sprinting. Nearly a year of living with Wes and Devin hasn't been conducive to staying in shape. I have to pause to catch my breath once I reach the back of the WeaponsDev building. Once I'm no longer huffing and puffing, I step toward the rear entrance, half-expecting to hear piercing alarms. Instead, a green laser scans me and the doors slide open.

So far, so good, I think, walking to the first EleTube I see and punching the button for the 69th floor. Turning right out of the tube, I force myself to take slow, measured steps. Invisibility won't help if someone's here working late and hears me crashing about like a wild beast. When I push through the double doors at the end of the hallway, my stomach drops.

Nothing Devin's told me could have prepared me for the sight of the security lasers that surround the prototype. Crisscrossing each other in a glowing network of red, blue, and green, the lasers form a complicated latticework.

No way would any of the others be able to slip through here, I think. I'm not even sure I can.

For a moment, my thoughts whirl as I try to remember the endless hours of floor routines my Combat Gymnastics instructor made me practice. Then I take a deep breath and turn my neurovision implant to the dance music channel. If I'm going to make it through this, I can't think too hard. Bending my knees, I leap into the air and dive through a gap in the lasers. I clear my mind of everything but twisting and flipping and hope for the best.

Tumbler

"This is gonna be fucking epic!" Devin yells, bursting into the room.

"It better be, dickcheese," Wes grumbles, pulling off his SimFighting headset with a glare. "You just made me die."

"Riiiiight," I snicker, "What's your excuse for the other six times I beat you today, then?"

Devin clears his throat and we both turn to look at him.

"Don't you two losers want to know what I found?" he asks, holding out his cupped palm to reveal a silvery nanochip.

"Looks like an IdentiChip," I say after squinting at it for a moment, "but whose?"

"Mine," Devin replies. "Met a guy from the Splinternet who makes them - impossible to distinguish from the real thing. With this baby installed, not only am I officially born in this City, I also have security clearance."

Wes lets out a loud sneeze that sounds suspiciously like the word "bullshit".

"Ought to get that cold checked out, buddy," Devin says, cocking an eyebrow in Wes's direction. "Anyway, once I install the IdentiChip, the possibilities are endless. I can get a job anywhere. We can fight the system from the inside!"

"Well, Kalen, what do you think?" Wes asks, still dubious.

For whatever reason, both Wes and Devin treat me as their leader. Although I find this ridiculous, given the fact that my famous act of heroism was a complete accident, I do the best I can. Now I consider Devin's words. While he isn't known for his street smarts, he's a genius with circuitry. With the proper identification, he'd be an asset to any military research team.

"It's kind of insane," I finally say, "but it just might work."

* * * * *
Wes is helping me put the finishing touches on a new, more humanoid body for CallaBot when the front door slams so hard we both jump. Devin walks into the living room, anger clouding his features. Pulling off his white lab coat, he tosses it on the floor and collapses on the couch.

"Who pissed in your VitaFlakes, dude?" Wes asks him.

Shooting me a sour look, Devin undoes his dark hair from its "professional" braid. He rakes a comb through it while staring moodily at the wall. Dress code at WeaponsDev isn't even supposed to allow long hair. However, after his performance on their technical tests, I wouldn't be surprised if they let him show up to work stark naked.

"Hey, pretty princess," Wes says, "What's wrong?" Devin grunts and points at his lab coat, still lying in the doorway.

"Oh, so now I'm the maid? You'd better buy me a pretty dress, then!" Wes begins strutting around the living room with an exaggerated swing of his hips. Devin sighs, and I retrieve the garment myself. I'm heading toward the coat closet to hang it up when Devin finally speaks.

"Inside pocket," he says.

The large pocket feels empty at first, but I feel around inside it anyway. Finally, my fingers close around a tiny capsule. Holding it up to the light, I examine it. It appears to be some kind of medication - one half is pink and the other is white, printed with numerals I can't quite make out.

"Ohhhhhh, I get it," Wes says, "You forgot to take your meds today. No wonder you're in such a funk." That, at least, gets a laugh. It's dripping with bitterness, though. I've never seen Devin in a mood like this and it worries me.

"Squeeze the top and bottom."

I comply with Devin's directions, and the pill's two halves separate, revealing some sort of mechanical device inside. A tiny pink laser shoots from its center and I nearly drop it in surprise. Devin laughs; it almost sounds genuine. He points across the room.

Projected on our living room wall in stunning detail are several sets of clothing. There's a formal dress, a men's suit, and several male and female outfits of the more casual variety.

"They've got you designing fashion?" Wes screeches with glee. "Dude, I knew you should've cut that ponytail."

"I'm assigned to work on the neural interface for it," Devin's voice is bleak and he's still looking at the wall. "This is the point where you should ask yourselves why a cocktail dress needs a neural interface."

"Don't look at me," I say, "I'm clueless about fashion."

"It's not about fashion, Kalen," Devin's eyes are hard. "Well, actually, it sort of is. They're explosive outfits for suicide bombers, undetectable by any existing security devices."

"So... they're for undercover agents, then?" I ask. I'm still not sure why he's so upset.

"Not exactly," Devin sighs again. "They're going to be marketed to the general public."

"What?" Wes and I shout in simultaneous disbelief.

"They wouldn't," I say, my heart sinking as I realize I don't even believe myself.

"Come on, Kalen," Devin says, "You know better than that. Fighting squads have waiting lists of a year or more, and the qualifications for soldiers are pretty stringent. Your own brother was disqualified from the military; he's by far not the only one. And he's not the only one who'd risk death to fight anyway."

"If our government is willing to go this far in the name of the War," I say, "we'll never be able to stop it."

"Exactly," Devin replies.

"Are you sure this is really what they're planning?" My stomach is churning.

"They're already putting together the preliminary ad campaigns. Full-page spreads in the neuromags. Marketing team's even come up with a slogan - 'Go Out In Style'."

* * * * *
"Are you guys sure I'm the best person for the job?" I ask my friends for the millionth time as I pull on my InvisiSuit. "I'm not so great under pressure."

"That's like saying Wes isn't so great at SimFighting," CallaBot snorts.

"Hey!" Wes protests, punching CallaBot in the arm with a loud clang. "Ow!" He rubs at his knuckles.

"That's what you get for hitting a lady," CallaBot snickers.

"Come on, guys, let's stay focused, okay? Kalen, it has to be you. You're the only one who's agile enough to get past the security lasers protecting the prototype." Devin hasn't been the same since he found out about Project FashionXplosion. His months of work on the project have taken their toll. Not only has he lost his sense of humor, he looks exhausted. His olive skin is sallow and there are dark circles under his eyes.

"It's just... I'm worried about messing up." After the incident with the bomb, no one can really blame me for that.

"You'll be fine," Devin says, with a smile that's a shadow of its former self. "Just don't sneeze."

"Let me just make sure I have everything straight. The security nanochip you installed in my neural implant should get me into the building. I just walk in through the back, right?"

"Exactly," Devin nods. "I stole that chip from a custodial robot. It'll give you access to any door or EleTube in the building. Once you reach the area where they keep the prototype, my modifications should also allow you to see the security lasers."

"Okay," I say, "I guess this is it. Wish me luck."

Turning on my InvisiSuit, I step out into the night. Its added bulk makes running harder, but I do it anyway. The sooner I make it to the WeaponsDev building, the faster I can steal the prototype and get back home to safety. As I run, my mind churns with questions.

What's the point of any of this? If Devin's right and we'll never stop the War anyway, how will stealing this prototype help? They'll just make something else even worse, won't they?

I know I can't just give up, though, so I keep sprinting. Nearly a year of living with Wes and Devin hasn't been conducive to staying in shape. I have to pause to catch my breath once I reach the back of the WeaponsDev building. Once I'm no longer huffing and puffing, I step toward the rear entrance, half-expecting to hear piercing alarms. Instead, a green laser scans me and the doors slide open.

So far, so good, I think, walking to the first EleTube I see and punching the button for the 69th floor. Turning right out of the tube, I force myself to take slow, measured steps. Invisibility won't help if someone's here working late and hears me crashing about like a wild beast. When I push through the double doors at the end of the hallway, my stomach drops.

Nothing Devin's told me could have prepared me for the sight of the security lasers that surround the prototype. Crisscrossing each other in a glowing network of red, blue, and green, the lasers form a complicated latticework.

No way would any of the others be able to slip through here, I think. I'm not even sure I can.

For a moment, my thoughts whirl as I try to remember the endless hours of floor routines my Combat Gymnastics instructor made me practice. Then I take a deep breath and turn my neurovision implant to the dance music channel. If I'm going to make it through this, I can't think too hard. Bending my knees, I leap into the air and dive through a gap in the lasers. I clear my mind of everything but twisting and flipping and hope for the best.

Pain

"Ow!" CallaBot yells. "You're hurting me with that thing! Are you almost done?"

"I warned you it was going to be painful," I tell her, "It's big."

"That's not what Devin's mom told me last night," Wes snickers.

"Yeah, right," Devin mutters, not even looking away from the wall in front of him, where his SimFighting match with Wes is projected. Seconds later, a large explosion appears, engulfing Wes's SimFighter.

"What the hell?" Wes yells. "How did you even do that?"

"The fact that you suck at this game helps a lot." Taking off his SimFighting headset, Devin comes over to watch me work. I make the final adjustments to CallaBot's circuitry and set the laserdrill back in my toolbox.

"That should do it," I tell her. "Your translator nanochip should be up and running now."

"So, how does this thing work?" CallaBot asks.

"Hell if I know," I shrug. "Devin's the one who designed the chip."

"I modified your nanoblaster with a new 'language nanites' setting," Devin says. "When you fire the blaster, it stuns your victim and shoots nanites into his brain. There might be a little sting, but it shouldn't cause any other ill effects. Then the chip Kalen just installed will communicate with the nanites so you can speak and understand the other person's language."

"Well, unless you run into people who speak some sort of really atypical language," Wes cuts in. "You know, like on that one episode of NebulaQuest?"

"My translator nanochip apparently doesn't work for Dweebenese. What the hell are you talking about?" It's amazing how proficient CallaBot has gotten with her death-glares, even with a robotic face.

"Basically," Wes says, "The crew of the Discovery encounters a race that speaks only in metaphors. Their translators don't help much, because the metaphors of that culture mean nothing to them."

"Yeah, except that would never happen in real life," Devin interjects, "because it's fucking stupid."

"Well, if it's so 'fucking stupid', then how come it's consistently named one of the top 10 NebulaQuest episodes of all time?" Wes demands.

"You guys are like an old married couple," I say, shaking my head.

Just then, the door to the basement opens. My older brother Brendan lumbers into the room, dressed in formal attire and looking irritated. His gait is oddly stiff.

"What's going on, bro? You pull a muscle working out?"

Unlike me, Brendan has kept up with his exercise regimen since he moved into Wes and Devin's house. In fact, if anything, he's even bigger and brawnier than before. It's probably because he doesn't have the same interests the rest of us do. Most of the time, he keeps to himself, training for the day he'll get his very own part in the War.

"No, it's this fucking suit," he grumbles. "It's tight as hell. Who'd they design this thing for, a male model?"

"It's a prototype created for marketing purposes," Devin reminds him, "So, probably."

"Couldn't you have had it altered, though?" Brendan demands. "You dorks can stockpile enough weapons to end the world, but you can't find a fucking tailor?"

"Maybe you shouldn't have waited until the last minute to try it on." Devin raises one eyebrow at my brother. "Anyway, if you take it off, I'll run it through the duplicator and modify the specs to generate a larger version."

"Condescending asshole," Brendan mutters under his breath as he strips down to his boxers.

"You might want to stop calling me names, you lunkhead, or I'm going to turn these pants into a tutu."

"You wouldn't," Brendan growls.

"Try me," Devin smirks.

Here we go again, I think, rubbing at my temples. The constant bickering in this house makes my head hurt. If I thought Wes and Devin squabbled a lot, well, that was before Brendan moved in here. Devin and my brother have never gotten along. You'd think they could put that aside for today, since it might be the last time they see each other alive.

You'd think so, but apparently you'd be wrong.

* * * * *
"Okay, Brendan, let's review the plan one more time." My stomach is roiling. I think I'm more nervous than he is.

"We've been over it ten times already. I think I've got it." Brendan says.

"Come on, just one more time, for me?" I'm stalling for time. What if he doesn't make it back?

"Fine, bro, whatever." Brendan's being unusually patient with me. "CallaBot and I will turn on our InvisiSuits and go to the WeaponsDev building."

"You should be able to just walk right in." Devin breaks in. "The security nanochip I've wired to your neurovision interface should command the doors to open. Since the explosive suit technology is so new, the bomb-sniffers shouldn't be able to detect it. If you run into any security robots, CallaBot's universal translator should allow her to communicate with them and convince them you're no threat."

"Then I just head for the center of the building, remove the explosive suit, and run. Right?" Brendan finishes.

"You got it, bro," I tell him.

"Once you're clear of the building, let me know. I'll use the back door I created in the suit's interface to explode it, along with WeaponsDev itself," Devin's eyes are shining with excitement and he seems like himself for the first time in months. "This is gonna be fucking epic!"

I'm glad someone's feeling happy about this. Me, it's all I can do not to vomit on my boots. This is my brother putting his life at risk. If anything happens to him, I'll be in a world of hurt.

"Hey Brendan," I say, clasping him in an awkward man-hug. "I know we don't always see eye to eye, but - " He doesn't let me finish.

"Come on, Kalen. You know I'm no good at this feelings crap. No need for teary goodbyes. I'll be back in an hour, maybe two. Besides, this is what I was born to do." Brendan punches me in the arm so hard I wince.

"Brendan, seriously," Devin says, "If anything goes wrong, run like hell. Don't try to be a hero. Just get out."

"Why, Devin," Brendan simpers in a high-pitched feminine voice, "I didn't know you cared."

"I don't, man. But without you around, there won't be anyone Wes can beat at SimFighting."




Author's Note:
In case you were curious, the comments about NebulaQuest in the opening section were inspired by the "Darmok" episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. If somehow Devin didn't make my thoughts on the episode crystal clear, check out this super-old Green Room Thread, courtesy of the fact that I rarely clean out my comment notifications.

Pain

"Ow!" CallaBot yells. "You're hurting me with that thing! Are you almost done?"

"I warned you it was going to be painful," I tell her, "It's big."

"That's not what Devin's mom told me last night," Wes snickers.

"Yeah, right," Devin mutters, not even looking away from the wall in front of him, where his SimFighting match with Wes is projected. Seconds later, a large explosion appears, engulfing Wes's SimFighter.

"What the hell?" Wes yells. "How did you even do that?"

"The fact that you suck at this game helps a lot." Taking off his SimFighting headset, Devin comes over to watch me work. I make the final adjustments to CallaBot's circuitry and set the laserdrill back in my toolbox.

"That should do it," I tell her. "Your translator nanochip should be up and running now."

"So, how does this thing work?" CallaBot asks.

"Hell if I know," I shrug. "Devin's the one who designed the chip."

"I modified your nanoblaster with a new 'language nanites' setting," Devin says. "When you fire the blaster, it stuns your victim and shoots nanites into his brain. There might be a little sting, but it shouldn't cause any other ill effects. Then the chip Kalen just installed will communicate with the nanites so you can speak and understand the other person's language."

"Well, unless you run into people who speak some sort of really atypical language," Wes cuts in. "You know, like on that one episode of NebulaQuest?"

"My translator nanochip apparently doesn't work for Dweebenese. What the hell are you talking about?" It's amazing how proficient CallaBot has gotten with her death-glares, even with a robotic face.

"Basically," Wes says, "The crew of the Discovery encounters a race that speaks only in metaphors. Their translators don't help much, because the metaphors of that culture mean nothing to them."

"Yeah, except that would never happen in real life," Devin interjects, "because it's fucking stupid."

"Well, if it's so 'fucking stupid', then how come it's consistently named one of the top 10 NebulaQuest episodes of all time?" Wes demands.

"You guys are like an old married couple," I say, shaking my head.

Just then, the door to the basement opens. My older brother Brendan lumbers into the room, dressed in formal attire and looking irritated. His gait is oddly stiff.

"What's going on, bro? You pull a muscle working out?"

Unlike me, Brendan has kept up with his exercise regimen since he moved into Wes and Devin's house. In fact, if anything, he's even bigger and brawnier than before. It's probably because he doesn't have the same interests the rest of us do. Most of the time, he keeps to himself, training for the day he'll get his very own part in the War.

"No, it's this fucking suit," he grumbles. "It's tight as hell. Who'd they design this thing for, a male model?"

"It's a prototype created for marketing purposes," Devin reminds him, "So, probably."

"Couldn't you have had it altered, though?" Brendan demands. "You dorks can stockpile enough weapons to end the world, but you can't find a fucking tailor?"

"Maybe you shouldn't have waited until the last minute to try it on." Devin raises one eyebrow at my brother. "Anyway, if you take it off, I'll run it through the duplicator and modify the specs to generate a larger version."

"Condescending asshole," Brendan mutters under his breath as he strips down to his boxers.

"You might want to stop calling me names, you lunkhead, or I'm going to turn these pants into a tutu."

"You wouldn't," Brendan growls.

"Try me," Devin smirks.

Here we go again, I think, rubbing at my temples. The constant bickering in this house makes my head hurt. If I thought Wes and Devin squabbled a lot, well, that was before Brendan moved in here. Devin and my brother have never gotten along. You'd think they could put that aside for today, since it might be the last time they see each other alive.

You'd think so, but apparently you'd be wrong.

* * * * *
"Okay, Brendan, let's review the plan one more time." My stomach is roiling. I think I'm more nervous than he is.

"We've been over it ten times already. I think I've got it." Brendan says.

"Come on, just one more time, for me?" I'm stalling for time. What if he doesn't make it back?

"Fine, bro, whatever." Brendan's being unusually patient with me. "CallaBot and I will turn on our InvisiSuits and go to the WeaponsDev building."

"You should be able to just walk right in." Devin breaks in. "The security nanochip I've wired to your neurovision interface should command the doors to open. Since the explosive suit technology is so new, the bomb-sniffers shouldn't be able to detect it. If you run into any security robots, CallaBot's universal translator should allow her to communicate with them and convince them you're no threat."

"Then I just head for the center of the building, remove the explosive suit, and run. Right?" Brendan finishes.

"You got it, bro," I tell him.

"Once you're clear of the building, let me know. I'll use the back door I created in the suit's interface to explode it, along with WeaponsDev itself," Devin's eyes are shining with excitement and he seems like himself for the first time in months. "This is gonna be fucking epic!"

I'm glad someone's feeling happy about this. Me, it's all I can do not to vomit on my boots. This is my brother putting his life at risk. If anything happens to him, I'll be in a world of hurt.

"Hey Brendan," I say, clasping him in an awkward man-hug. "I know we don't always see eye to eye, but - " He doesn't let me finish.

"Come on, Kalen. You know I'm no good at this feelings crap. No need for teary goodbyes. I'll be back in an hour, maybe two. Besides, this is what I was born to do." Brendan punches me in the arm so hard I wince.

"Brendan, seriously," Devin says, "If anything goes wrong, run like hell. Don't try to be a hero. Just get out."

"Why, Devin," Brendan simpers in a high-pitched feminine voice, "I didn't know you cared."

"I don't, man. But without you around, there won't be anyone Wes can beat at SimFighting."




Author's Note:
In case you were curious, the comments about NebulaQuest in the opening section were inspired by the "Darmok" episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. If somehow Devin didn't make my thoughts on the episode crystal clear, check out this super-old Green Room Thread, courtesy of the fact that I rarely clean out my comment notifications.

Explode

Goodbyes have been said, and now it's time for action. As Devin always says, this is gonna be fucking epic.

So far, there's been no trouble. Every door has opened on command, just as Devin promised. CallaBot and I creep through the corridors of the WeaponsDev facility in silence, headed for the building's center. It feels like hours before we finally reach our destination, but patience has never really been my strong suit. Pushing open the door to the men's bathroom, I'm about to enter when I notice CallaBot hanging back.

"You coming?" I ask.

"Well, it's a men's bathroom." Her tone is unusually hesitant.

"Oh, give me a fucking break!" I snicker. "We're about to destroy a major government facility, and that's what you're worried about? Anyway, you're a robot now. According to the law, you're neither male nor female."

"Fine, whatever," she says, and follows me inside.

The door has barely swung shut behind us when there's a humming sound from out in the hall. Cracking the door and peering around the jamb, I see robots approaching. My heart leaps into my throat; there must be at least 20 of them.

"Calla!" I hiss. "SecurityBots, heading right for us!"

"You stay here," CallaBot says. "I'll talk to them and convince them we're no threat."

As she disappears into the hall, I shuck off my InvisiSuit. It's fucking hot in this place, and I breathe a grateful sigh once I'm free of the extra layer of insulation. Just as I'm about to remove my wrinkled explosive suit as well, I hear a commotion outside. I open the door a tiny bit, just in time to hear a sizzling noise and then a loud pop.

"CallaBot, you okay out there?"

No answer.

Stepping out into the hall, I cough as I inhale the acrid odor of fried circuitry. Trying not to breathe too deeply, I survey the scene before me. It's one of utter confusion.

More than half of the security robots are disabled. Most appear to have been beaten or shot down. One or two are standing stock still on the edge of the fracas while another slams itself repeatedly into a wall. The remaining seven SecurityBots encircle Calla, who does nothing to defend herself as they pelt her with metal fists and shoot her with blue lasers. Even with the superior shields Kalen's devised for her, I'm sure she can't withstand much more of this.

"Calla, what the hell?" I shout. "Why the fuck aren't you fighting back?"

Her mechanical eyes, staring straight ahead, don't even meet mine.

"Devin," I say, "There's something wrong with CallaBot! How do I fix her?"

Nothing.

Devin's supposed to be able to hear me over his neurovision implant. Maybe whatever's messed up CallaBot has disrupted our communications as well. I guess it doesn't matter; any way you look at it, I'm on my own.

"Fucking hell!" I yell to no one in particular. "Now what am I supposed to do?"

Shoving my way past the SecurityBots, I grab Calla's arm. Searing pains shoot through my arm, the back of my neck, and my lower spine as the robots turn on me. While the explosive suit provides protection against instant death, it's not enough. There's a smell like barbecue; I'm pretty sure it's my own burning flesh.

"Calla," I say, looking into her blank electronic eyes, "if you can hear me, get the fuck out of here now!"

Though her gaze shows no recognition, she says, "Yes, human," and shoots off down the hall. Focused on me, the SecurityBots don't even bother to follow her. My entire body is in agony as their lasers strike me again and again.

"Devin," I try once more. "Can you hear me? I could really use some help in here."

Still no response.

I may not be a genius like my brother Kalen and his dorky pals, but I can think pretty well on my feet. There's no way for me to fight off all these robots on my own. I'm injured pretty badly and way outnumbered. If I can't reach Devin to help me disable them, I'm never getting out of here alive. There's only one good option - hold them off long enough for CallaBot to escape and then detonate my explosive suit.

Even half-dead, I'm no slouch in the fighting department. I manage to take down two of my metal attackers before the other five close in on me. Praying that Calla's made it out by now, I take a deep breath. This is it.

Today is a good day to die, I think.

Closing my eyes, I use the neural interface for the explosive suit to bring it online. My body tingles all over; the strange sensation almost blocks out the pain. Inside my brain, I hear Devin hollering at me through my neurovision chip. Communications must be up and running again.

"Why'd you do it, buddy?" Devin yells. "I could have helped you take down those SecurityBots!"

"BRENDAN!" Kalen screams in the background.

"It's too late now," Devin's voice is distraught. "There's no way to stop the explosion once the suit's warmed up."

I hear my brother sobbing. There's a whoosh, a rush of heat, an enveloping pain. Then everything goes dark.

Explode

Goodbyes have been said, and now it's time for action. As Devin always says, this is gonna be fucking epic.

So far, there's been no trouble. Every door has opened on command, just as Devin promised. CallaBot and I creep through the corridors of the WeaponsDev facility in silence, headed for the building's center. It feels like hours before we finally reach our destination, but patience has never really been my strong suit. Pushing open the door to the men's bathroom, I'm about to enter when I notice CallaBot hanging back.

"You coming?" I ask.

"Well, it's a men's bathroom." Her tone is unusually hesitant.

"Oh, give me a fucking break!" I snicker. "We're about to destroy a major government facility, and that's what you're worried about? Anyway, you're a robot now. According to the law, you're neither male nor female."

"Fine, whatever," she says, and follows me inside.

The door has barely swung shut behind us when there's a humming sound from out in the hall. Cracking the door and peering around the jamb, I see robots approaching. My heart leaps into my throat; there must be at least 20 of them.

"Calla!" I hiss. "SecurityBots, heading right for us!"

"You stay here," CallaBot says. "I'll talk to them and convince them we're no threat."

As she disappears into the hall, I shuck off my InvisiSuit. It's fucking hot in this place, and I breathe a grateful sigh once I'm free of the extra layer of insulation. Just as I'm about to remove my wrinkled explosive suit as well, I hear a commotion outside. I open the door a tiny bit, just in time to hear a sizzling noise and then a loud pop.

"CallaBot, you okay out there?"

No answer.

Stepping out into the hall, I cough as I inhale the acrid odor of fried circuitry. Trying not to breathe too deeply, I survey the scene before me. It's one of utter confusion.

More than half of the security robots are disabled. Most appear to have been beaten or shot down. One or two are standing stock still on the edge of the fracas while another slams itself repeatedly into a wall. The remaining seven SecurityBots encircle Calla, who does nothing to defend herself as they pelt her with metal fists and shoot her with blue lasers. Even with the superior shields Kalen's devised for her, I'm sure she can't withstand much more of this.

"Calla, what the hell?" I shout. "Why the fuck aren't you fighting back?"

Her mechanical eyes, staring straight ahead, don't even meet mine.

"Devin," I say, "There's something wrong with CallaBot! How do I fix her?"

Nothing.

Devin's supposed to be able to hear me over his neurovision implant. Maybe whatever's messed up CallaBot has disrupted our communications as well. I guess it doesn't matter; any way you look at it, I'm on my own.

"Fucking hell!" I yell to no one in particular. "Now what am I supposed to do?"

Shoving my way past the SecurityBots, I grab Calla's arm. Searing pains shoot through my arm, the back of my neck, and my lower spine as the robots turn on me. While the explosive suit provides protection against instant death, it's not enough. There's a smell like barbecue; I'm pretty sure it's my own burning flesh.

"Calla," I say, looking into her blank electronic eyes, "if you can hear me, get the fuck out of here now!"

Though her gaze shows no recognition, she says, "Yes, human," and shoots off down the hall. Focused on me, the SecurityBots don't even bother to follow her. My entire body is in agony as their lasers strike me again and again.

"Devin," I try once more. "Can you hear me? I could really use some help in here."

Still no response.

I may not be a genius like my brother Kalen and his dorky pals, but I can think pretty well on my feet. There's no way for me to fight off all these robots on my own. I'm injured pretty badly and way outnumbered. If I can't reach Devin to help me disable them, I'm never getting out of here alive. There's only one good option - hold them off long enough for CallaBot to escape and then detonate my explosive suit.

Even half-dead, I'm no slouch in the fighting department. I manage to take down two of my metal attackers before the other five close in on me. Praying that Calla's made it out by now, I take a deep breath. This is it.

Today is a good day to die, I think.

Closing my eyes, I use the neural interface for the explosive suit to bring it online. My body tingles all over; the strange sensation almost blocks out the pain. Inside my brain, I hear Devin hollering at me through my neurovision chip. Communications must be up and running again.

"Why'd you do it, buddy?" Devin yells. "I could have helped you take down those SecurityBots!"

"BRENDAN!" Kalen screams in the background.

"It's too late now," Devin's voice is distraught. "There's no way to stop the explosion once the suit's warmed up."

I hear my brother sobbing. There's a whoosh, a rush of heat, an enveloping pain. Then everything goes dark.

Writerverse Challenge #02: Prompt #1 - Cracks in the Ceiling

I've memorized my bedroom ceiling. There's the grease spot near the center. Wes threw a slice of pizza once. Who knows why, except he's Wes. Near the window is a greenish splotch - a spill in Devin's attic lab. I analyze the shapes of those stains like a child watching clouds.

The burn mark by the door, though - my eyes skate away from it every time.

Brendan lost his temper - fired a nanoblaster. That's my brother, so hotheaded, always ready to sacrifice himself for a cause. And he did.

I don't look over there. Looking makes it true.

Writerverse Challenge #02: Prompt #1 - Cracks in the Ceiling

I've memorized my bedroom ceiling. There's the grease spot near the center. Wes threw a slice of pizza once. Who knows why, except he's Wes. Near the window is a greenish splotch - a spill in Devin's attic lab. I analyze the shapes of those stains like a child watching clouds.

The burn mark by the door, though - my eyes skate away from it every time.

Brendan lost his temper - fired a nanoblaster. That's my brother, so hotheaded, always ready to sacrifice himself for a cause. And he did.

I don't look over there. Looking makes it true.

Sins Of Omission

According to the Ancient Scrolls, our world is suspended within a Great Orb. Since we are inside the Orb, no one knows what it looks like. But the Scrolls say it rests in the hands of the One True God.

Through the ages, artists have striven to depict both the Orb and the God. Some imagine the Orb as a crystal ball, while others claim it is a sphere of glowing plasma. The God has been shown as everything from an old man with a white beard to a being of pure light. Of course, we have not seen his face. Still, some say that if you look closely on a clear night, you can see the eye of the God peering inside.

Of course, none of this means a thing if you don't believe in the Scrolls. These days, most people don't.

* * * * *
Dejected, Davey kicked at a Coke can as he walked, scowling as it clattered across the sidewalk. It wasn't fair the way Mom always blamed him for everything. Somehow, his younger brother Andy never got in trouble. Davey's forehead was still sore from the toy car Andy had chucked at him. He rubbed at it absently as he trudged along.

Of course he cried when I pushed him, Davey thought. And just like always, Mom took his side.

"But Mom, he started it!" Davey had protested.

"That's not the point, David, and you know it," his mother had said. "You're old enough to know better."

How come I'm old enough to know better, but always too young to do the things I want? he wondered now.

The strap of Davey's backpack slid off his shoulder and he hiked it back up. He wondered how long it would take his mom to notice that he'd run away, or if she'd even bother to look for him. It didn't matter, really. He had enough peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwiches to last him a while.

All of a sudden, Davey saw something gleaming from beneath a pile of leaves. Hoping for a lucky nickel or quarter, he squatted down and cleared away the leaves. Davey looked at the object for a moment before picking it up, perplexed. It wasn't a coin at all, but a shining sphere about the size of a tennis ball.

"Wow," he breathed, turning it over and over in his hand.

The ball was made of a metal Davey had never seen before. Its oily sheen reminded him of the smooth piece of hematite Dad had sent him once, before the cards and packages stopped coming. It wasn't exactly like the hematite, though, because it seemed to glow with an inner light. Staring into its depths, Davey thought he saw something swirling inside - fog or mist, or maybe clouds.

As he crouched on the sidewalk with his rapt gaze focused on the orb, he watched the mists coalesce into something more. Was it just his imagination, or had they formed a sphere of blue and white? It reminded him of the images he'd seen on TV of Earth viewed from space. In his mind's eye, he watched life begin on the world his dreams had created.

What if there really is a whole world inside there? he thought.

Davey knew his mom would call that "silly talk", but he didn't care. The ball was obviously magical, and now it was his. Unshouldering his backpack, he opened it and nestled his treasure within a small inner pocket. All thoughts of his family forgotten, Davey zipped up his bag and continued walking.

* * * * *
In the beginning (or so the Ancient Scrolls say), the Great Mothers and Hallowed Fathers lived in the sky, in crystal towers that sparkled like diamonds. Children played on clouds and slid down rainbows. No one was ever hurt or ill, fathers never left their children, and dreams always came true. Life was filled with love and light and everyone worshipped the One True God.

Time passed and the people grew complacent. They were too busy with their comings and goings to offer prayers to the God who had created them. No longer content with their lives in the sky, they longed to explore the land below. God, hearing their rumblings, cast them out upon land. Though the people mourned the loss of their home in the heavens, they multiplied and prospered. While they never rebuilt the beautiful glass palaces of old, they erected a City of steel and glass.

The City grew and grew, until it was so large it split in two. At first, the two Cities were different in name only. The one to the North was called Norton and the one to the South was called Sutton. Over time, the two became more and more distinct. The people of the North were excellent hunters and had a passion for inventing. In the South, the residents loved to read and write and work with their hands. The best tools were made in the North, and a university was built in the South.

* * * * *
The door to Dave's room inched open, and he jumped off his bed with a start. Hiding the object in his hands behind his back, he watched as his younger brother Andy peeked inside.

"What are you doing in my room, you jerk?" Dave yelled.

"I... I just wanted to look at your CDs," Andy stammered.

"Well, you can't!" Dave said. "I'm busy right now."

"Busy doing what?" Andy demanded, suddenly noticing that his older brother was hiding something. "What's that behind your back, naked pictures?"

"Shut up, asshole!"

Enraged, Dave charged at Andy, his left hand still concealing the object behind him. With his right hand, he grabbed his younger brother's shoulder and shoved him out of the room. Slamming and locking the door, he leaned against it and breathed a sigh of relief.

"And stay out!" he yelled, hearing Andy's footsteps retreat down the hall.

Flopping back onto his bed, Dave opened his left hand to look at the item he'd been hiding. Even in the dim light of his bedroom, the silvery orb shone. He hadn't held it in quite some time, but it still fit perfectly in his palm. Was it his imagination, or did it seem darker than before?

At 12, almost 13, Dave knew he was too old for such childish fantasies. If the other kids at school knew he still played with silly toys like this, he'd never hear the end of it. Still, as always when he looked at the ball, he imagined he could see beyond its metal surface. Inside, there were people, a world unlike his own, a place where the hurts of this life did not exist.

Those fantasies had gotten him through many lonely years. It was hard to let them go.

* * * * *
For many generations, the cities of Norton and Sutton lived in harmony. The lands to the North lent themselves well to livestock, and the fields in the South bore fruits of all sorts. Trade between the two peoples thrived and life was bountiful. Northern girls and boys were welcome in the schools of the South; the awe-inspiring devices built in the North brought convenience to all.

It was during the Age of Machines that things began to fall apart. Unbeknownst to the majority of its population, Norton was experimenting with genetic engineering. Even the subjects of the experiments, known as Project Xcellence, were unaware of their participation. Embryos were modified in secret during routine prenatal laser scans. Babies began to be born with strange blue eyes and pale hair, an unintended consequence; the scientists dismissed it as a natural mutation. No one questioned them.

The "Blondies" were superior to the rest of the population in both athleticism and intelligence. As they grew to adulthood, they rose within the ranks of every profession. They became the leaders in every field - the best teachers, doctors, and scientists. Even the police force was mostly made up of individuals with pale hair and ice-blue eyes.

Though the scientists didn't realize it at first, the Blondies' talents came with a price - a predisposition to paranoia. Before anyone knew what was happening, Norton had become a police state. Laboratories were commandeered and diverted from inventing to weapons development. What had once been little more than a security detail became a military, almost overnight.

After a few years, Project Xcellence was abandoned. Still, the damage had been done. Life in the North changed forever. And while trade between the two cities continued apace, the seeds of distrust were sown.

* * * * *
Dave surveyed the piles of belongings on his bedroom floor and sighed as he looked at the list again.

"Extra-long sheets... check."
"Can opener... check."
"Hangers... check."
"Laundry bag... check."
"Notebooks... " Dave looked around. "Shit, where did I put those notebooks?"

After a frantic search, Dave located the plastic bag of notebooks and threw it next to the other items he planned to pack.

"Hmmm, what's next?" he mused. "Clothes, I guess."

Pulling each drawer out of his dresser one by one, Dave dumped the contents onto the floor next to his suitcase. When he emptied his sock drawer, he was surprised to hear a muffled clunk.

That's weird, Dave thought. Socks don't clunk.

Dave dug in the pile of clothing until he found the source of the noise. It was the metal ball he'd played with so many times as a child. Even now, its weight felt comfortable in his hand, as if it had been designed for him to hold it. He hadn't seen it in years; hadn't even remembered it was hidden under his socks.

He stared at the orb, transfixed. As a child, he'd pretended it was magical. Looking at it now, Dave could still almost see the clouds he'd once imagined swirling at its center. Then he shook his head and forced his eyes away from the ball.

No time for this silliness now. Dad's taking me to college in the morning and I need to finish packing.

For a moment, Dave wondered what to do with the orb. Andy might enjoy it - he was an avid reader of fantasy novels, after all. His hand was reaching for the doorknob when he stopped.

Nah, Andy's almost 15. Way too old to be messing around with nonsense like this.

Tossing the ball into a half-filled box with the word "Attic" on its side, Dave shook his head again. Packing for college was stressful and he'd be glad when it was over. His thoughts turned to the things he'd do when he finally left this place behind.

I can be anyone I want to be now, Dave told himself. He didn't give the metal ball another thought.

* * * * *
The fighting began over a trivial concern, a business agreement gone sour. That's what it says in the Archives, anyway, but I've come to believe it's not the whole story. The people of Sutton, you see, had grown suspicious of their neighbors to the North. They didn't know about Project Xcellence, but they'd have been fools if they didn't notice the Northerners' changed appearance and aggressive demeanor.

After the trade agreement crumbled, the Southerners began some experiments of their own. While their scientists weren't as skilled with technology as the ones in Norton, they managed to invent some formidable surveillance equipment. Soon they were spying not only on the Other Side but also on their own people. Books were burned, lives were destroyed, and no one trusted anyone.

The records are sparse from that point onward. Though some books were preserved in the Archive, there was no one left to write new ones. In the fabled schools of Sutton, reading and writing were no longer taught. Instead, children learned to fear the Enemy, never knowing the worst Enemy of all was their own fear. By the time my story began, no one even remembered what caused the War. My brother and I were betrothed to it before we were old enough to question why.

I hear the armies pounding at the gates of the Archive where I hide. Their fear is a fire that will rage until it's consumed everything we know. There's no hope for me to escape, but perhaps my robot friend can. After years of friendship and fighting side by side, I bid her goodbye. My writings will go with her - let my legacy be this record of what came before.

If they've found me here, you see, our plan has failed. The last chance to end this War is gone, and the lives of my friends and brother with it. My only hope is for CallaBot to make it out alive. If she succeeds, our story will live on through her, a warning for future generations.

I only hope there will be someone left to heed it.




This story was originally written for Champions Week in LJ Idol. That means we had to find a Champion to write an Idol entry for us. thehobbit was awesome enough to accept this challenge on my behalf. Not only is her entry really cool, she was also the one who came up with the concept that unites our two posts. Please check out her story over here.

Sins Of Omission

According to the Ancient Scrolls, our world is suspended within a Great Orb. Since we are inside the Orb, no one knows what it looks like. But the Scrolls say it rests in the hands of the One True God.

Through the ages, artists have striven to depict both the Orb and the God. Some imagine the Orb as a crystal ball, while others claim it is a sphere of glowing plasma. The God has been shown as everything from an old man with a white beard to a being of pure light. Of course, we have not seen his face. Still, some say that if you look closely on a clear night, you can see the eye of the God peering inside.

Of course, none of this means a thing if you don't believe in the Scrolls. These days, most people don't.

* * * * *
Dejected, Davey kicked at a Coke can as he walked, scowling as it clattered across the sidewalk. It wasn't fair the way Mom always blamed him for everything. Somehow, his younger brother Andy never got in trouble. Davey's forehead was still sore from the toy car Andy had chucked at him. He rubbed at it absently as he trudged along.

Of course he cried when I pushed him, Davey thought. And just like always, Mom took his side.

"But Mom, he started it!" Davey had protested.

"That's not the point, David, and you know it," his mother had said. "You're old enough to know better."

How come I'm old enough to know better, but always too young to do the things I want? he wondered now.

The strap of Davey's backpack slid off his shoulder and he hiked it back up. He wondered how long it would take his mom to notice that he'd run away, or if she'd even bother to look for him. It didn't matter, really. He had enough peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwiches to last him a while.

All of a sudden, Davey saw something gleaming from beneath a pile of leaves. Hoping for a lucky nickel or quarter, he squatted down and cleared away the leaves. Davey looked at the object for a moment before picking it up, perplexed. It wasn't a coin at all, but a shining sphere about the size of a tennis ball.

"Wow," he breathed, turning it over and over in his hand.

The ball was made of a metal Davey had never seen before. Its oily sheen reminded him of the smooth piece of hematite Dad had sent him once, before the cards and packages stopped coming. It wasn't exactly like the hematite, though, because it seemed to glow with an inner light. Staring into its depths, Davey thought he saw something swirling inside - fog or mist, or maybe clouds.

As he crouched on the sidewalk with his rapt gaze focused on the orb, he watched the mists coalesce into something more. Was it just his imagination, or had they formed a sphere of blue and white? It reminded him of the images he'd seen on TV of Earth viewed from space. In his mind's eye, he watched life begin on the world his dreams had created.

What if there really is a whole world inside there? he thought.

Davey knew his mom would call that "silly talk", but he didn't care. The ball was obviously magical, and now it was his. Unshouldering his backpack, he opened it and nestled his treasure within a small inner pocket. All thoughts of his family forgotten, Davey zipped up his bag and continued walking.

* * * * *
In the beginning (or so the Ancient Scrolls say), the Great Mothers and Hallowed Fathers lived in the sky, in crystal towers that sparkled like diamonds. Children played on clouds and slid down rainbows. No one was ever hurt or ill, fathers never left their children, and dreams always came true. Life was filled with love and light and everyone worshipped the One True God.

Time passed and the people grew complacent. They were too busy with their comings and goings to offer prayers to the God who had created them. No longer content with their lives in the sky, they longed to explore the land below. God, hearing their rumblings, cast them out upon land. Though the people mourned the loss of their home in the heavens, they multiplied and prospered. While they never rebuilt the beautiful glass palaces of old, they erected a City of steel and glass.

The City grew and grew, until it was so large it split in two. At first, the two Cities were different in name only. The one to the North was called Norton and the one to the South was called Sutton. Over time, the two became more and more distinct. The people of the North were excellent hunters and had a passion for inventing. In the South, the residents loved to read and write and work with their hands. The best tools were made in the North, and a university was built in the South.

* * * * *
The door to Dave's room inched open, and he jumped off his bed with a start. Hiding the object in his hands behind his back, he watched as his younger brother Andy peeked inside.

"What are you doing in my room, you jerk?" Dave yelled.

"I... I just wanted to look at your CDs," Andy stammered.

"Well, you can't!" Dave said. "I'm busy right now."

"Busy doing what?" Andy demanded, suddenly noticing that his older brother was hiding something. "What's that behind your back, naked pictures?"

"Shut up, asshole!"

Enraged, Dave charged at Andy, his left hand still concealing the object behind him. With his right hand, he grabbed his younger brother's shoulder and shoved him out of the room. Slamming and locking the door, he leaned against it and breathed a sigh of relief.

"And stay out!" he yelled, hearing Andy's footsteps retreat down the hall.

Flopping back onto his bed, Dave opened his left hand to look at the item he'd been hiding. Even in the dim light of his bedroom, the silvery orb shone. He hadn't held it in quite some time, but it still fit perfectly in his palm. Was it his imagination, or did it seem darker than before?

At 12, almost 13, Dave knew he was too old for such childish fantasies. If the other kids at school knew he still played with silly toys like this, he'd never hear the end of it. Still, as always when he looked at the ball, he imagined he could see beyond its metal surface. Inside, there were people, a world unlike his own, a place where the hurts of this life did not exist.

Those fantasies had gotten him through many lonely years. It was hard to let them go.

* * * * *
For many generations, the cities of Norton and Sutton lived in harmony. The lands to the North lent themselves well to livestock, and the fields in the South bore fruits of all sorts. Trade between the two peoples thrived and life was bountiful. Northern girls and boys were welcome in the schools of the South; the awe-inspiring devices built in the North brought convenience to all.

It was during the Age of Machines that things began to fall apart. Unbeknownst to the majority of its population, Norton was experimenting with genetic engineering. Even the subjects of the experiments, known as Project Xcellence, were unaware of their participation. Embryos were modified in secret during routine prenatal laser scans. Babies began to be born with strange blue eyes and pale hair, an unintended consequence; the scientists dismissed it as a natural mutation. No one questioned them.

The "Blondies" were superior to the rest of the population in both athleticism and intelligence. As they grew to adulthood, they rose within the ranks of every profession. They became the leaders in every field - the best teachers, doctors, and scientists. Even the police force was mostly made up of individuals with pale hair and ice-blue eyes.

Though the scientists didn't realize it at first, the Blondies' talents came with a price - a predisposition to paranoia. Before anyone knew what was happening, Norton had become a police state. Laboratories were commandeered and diverted from inventing to weapons development. What had once been little more than a security detail became a military, almost overnight.

After a few years, Project Xcellence was abandoned. Still, the damage had been done. Life in the North changed forever. And while trade between the two cities continued apace, the seeds of distrust were sown.

* * * * *
Dave surveyed the piles of belongings on his bedroom floor and sighed as he looked at the list again.

"Extra-long sheets... check."
"Can opener... check."
"Hangers... check."
"Laundry bag... check."
"Notebooks... " Dave looked around. "Shit, where did I put those notebooks?"

After a frantic search, Dave located the plastic bag of notebooks and threw it next to the other items he planned to pack.

"Hmmm, what's next?" he mused. "Clothes, I guess."

Pulling each drawer out of his dresser one by one, Dave dumped the contents onto the floor next to his suitcase. When he emptied his sock drawer, he was surprised to hear a muffled clunk.

That's weird, Dave thought. Socks don't clunk.

Dave dug in the pile of clothing until he found the source of the noise. It was the metal ball he'd played with so many times as a child. Even now, its weight felt comfortable in his hand, as if it had been designed for him to hold it. He hadn't seen it in years; hadn't even remembered it was hidden under his socks.

He stared at the orb, transfixed. As a child, he'd pretended it was magical. Looking at it now, Dave could still almost see the clouds he'd once imagined swirling at its center. Then he shook his head and forced his eyes away from the ball.

No time for this silliness now. Dad's taking me to college in the morning and I need to finish packing.

For a moment, Dave wondered what to do with the orb. Andy might enjoy it - he was an avid reader of fantasy novels, after all. His hand was reaching for the doorknob when he stopped.

Nah, Andy's almost 15. Way too old to be messing around with nonsense like this.

Tossing the ball into a half-filled box with the word "Attic" on its side, Dave shook his head again. Packing for college was stressful and he'd be glad when it was over. His thoughts turned to the things he'd do when he finally left this place behind.

I can be anyone I want to be now, Dave told himself. He didn't give the metal ball another thought.

* * * * *
The fighting began over a trivial concern, a business agreement gone sour. That's what it says in the Archives, anyway, but I've come to believe it's not the whole story. The people of Sutton, you see, had grown suspicious of their neighbors to the North. They didn't know about Project Xcellence, but they'd have been fools if they didn't notice the Northerners' changed appearance and aggressive demeanor.

After the trade agreement crumbled, the Southerners began some experiments of their own. While their scientists weren't as skilled with technology as the ones in Norton, they managed to invent some formidable surveillance equipment. Soon they were spying not only on the Other Side but also on their own people. Books were burned, lives were destroyed, and no one trusted anyone.

The records are sparse from that point onward. Though some books were preserved in the Archive, there was no one left to write new ones. In the fabled schools of Sutton, reading and writing were no longer taught. Instead, children learned to fear the Enemy, never knowing the worst Enemy of all was their own fear. By the time my story began, no one even remembered what caused the War. My brother and I were betrothed to it before we were old enough to question why.

I hear the armies pounding at the gates of the Archive where I hide. Their fear is a fire that will rage until it's consumed everything we know. There's no hope for me to escape, but perhaps my robot friend can. After years of friendship and fighting side by side, I bid her goodbye. My writings will go with her - let my legacy be this record of what came before.

If they've found me here, you see, our plan has failed. The last chance to end this War is gone, and the lives of my friends and brother with it. My only hope is for CallaBot to make it out alive. If she succeeds, our story will live on through her, a warning for future generations.

I only hope there will be someone left to heed it.




This story was originally written for Champions Week in LJ Idol. That means we had to find a Champion to write an Idol entry for us. thehobbit was awesome enough to accept this challenge on my behalf. Not only is her entry really cool, she was also the one who came up with the concept that unites our two posts. Please check out her story over here.

Writerverse Challenge #02: Prompt #2 - Shining Goddess

"Teach us, O Goddess!" they cry, assigning me the largest hut and best rations. They don't take "no" for an answer. Never saw a robot - can you imagine? Strange pale faces alight, they beg to see my sorcery. "Shoot the blue light again! Make your eyes glow."

I turn on my InvisiSuit; a few of them faint.

To me, their ways are magic. Brains untainted by Neurovision implants, charcoal scrawls on thin sheets of "paper". Curves and softness and freedom. Spices and scents with no purpose other than pleasure.

They've got it wrong - it's I who needs teaching.

Writerverse Challenge #02: Prompt #2 - Shining Goddess

"Teach us, O Goddess!" they cry, assigning me the largest hut and best rations. They don't take "no" for an answer. Never saw a robot - can you imagine? Strange pale faces alight, they beg to see my sorcery. "Shoot the blue light again! Make your eyes glow."

I turn on my InvisiSuit; a few of them faint.

To me, their ways are magic. Brains untainted by Neurovision implants, charcoal scrawls on thin sheets of "paper". Curves and softness and freedom. Spices and scents with no purpose other than pleasure.

They've got it wrong - it's I who needs teaching.

Writerverse Challenge #03: The Vacuum of Time

"Kalen, it's been 3 weeks." CallaBot's voice is tinged with panic. "You have to come out sometime."

Lying on my bed, I stare at the ceiling and say nothing.

"Come on, Kalen - it's anarchy out here." My wooden door shudders as CallaBot pounds it with her metal fists.

For a moment, I consider giving in to my best friend's request. I'm supposed to be the leader of our little group, after all. How can I be responsible for anyone right now, though? I'm coming apart at the seams. I sigh and wait for her to go away.

"Seriously, Kalen," CallaBot says, "Enough is enough." I hear a low humming sound from outside my bedroom and notice my doorknob glowing bright red.

That can't be good, I think. Then there's a zapping sound, a clatter, and a stream of loud cursing from CallaBot.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Devin?" she shrieks.

Devin speaks in hushed tones; I can't make out his response. Under normal circumstances, he isn't the quietest guy, so I'm guessing he doesn't want me to hear what he's saying. Tiptoeing over to the door, I rest my ear against it.

"If he were going to do it on his own, he would have by now," CallaBot says.

"Whatever," Devin snorts. "It's not like he can stay in there forever."

"Well, he wouldn't be able to, Numbnuts," CallaBot's tone is icy. "If somebody didn't keep leaving meals outside his door."

Devin grunts and says nothing.

Huh. I was wondering who was responsible for that. Three quick knocks, a fork and knife shoved under the door, then nothing. By the time I looked out into the hall, there was never anyone there.

How would he disappear that fast? I think. He must have been using an InvisiSuit.

"Why do you insist on coddling him, anyway?"

"For fuck's sake, Calla... he just lost his brother."

"Since when are you Mr. Sensitive?" CallaBot demands.

"Shut the fuck up, okay?" Devin's voice sounds... odd. "And leave him the fuck alone or I'll deactivate you."

CallaBot must be aware that Devin's threat is an empty one. She could take him down in a matter of seconds. Even armed, I wouldn't give him more than a 5 percent chance of overpowering her. She doesn't call him on it, though - doesn't even bother with one of her signature verbal slapdowns.

I'm still wondering why when I hear the metallic clank of her stomping away down the hall.

* * * * *
"Hey dude, you up for some SimFighting?" Wes calls through my door one evening.

Same old Wes, I think wearily. Pathologically cheerful, just like always.

"You don't even have to come out," Wes says, "We can play from separate rooms."

I sigh and continue my thorough examination of the ceiling.

"Please?" Wes sounds almost desperate. "Devin always kicks my ass and I'm tired of it."

Under different circumstances, I'd smile at that. I don't have the heart to tell him I let him win.

"Dude, you know we're all worried about you, right?"

That gets to me a little. It doesn't matter, though. As bad as I feel about freaking out my friends, I'm just not ready to talk. I don't want to see their pitying looks or hear their sympathetic words. There's no way any of them can understand what I'm going through.

"Well, I guess I'll go now," Wes says softly. "I'll leave your headset out here in case you want it."

I wait until the echo of his footfalls dies away before I crack the door and grab the headset. Though I'm not interested in a SimFighting match with Wes, I am getting pretty tired of lying around and doing nothing.

Who knows? I think. A little simulated killing might take my mind off things for a while.

Putting on my headset, I fire up "Splinternet Battle Mode". Random strangers aren't going to try to get me to open up. The mindless action of the fight is a good distraction. Since I'm damn good at this game, there's the added bonus of feeling like I've accomplished something for the first time in over a month. Before I know it, I've been playing for hours.

Reluctantly, I pull off my headset and collapse into bed. That's when the ugly thoughts come.

You don't deserve to have fun - not with Brendan dead.

Shivering, I pull my blanket up to my chin and try to think about something else.

What kind of monster are you? Taking pleasure in blowing people up after what happened to him?

"It's only a game!" I don't realize I've spoken aloud until the sound of my own voice makes me jump.

Was it a game to Brendan?

I close my eyes and will my brain to shut itself off.

It's your fault he's gone. You were the leader. You let him go in there.

Throwing back the covers, I climb out of bed. It's obvious I won't be sleeping anytime soon - might as well play a little longer. Hell, I've got all the time in the world now. Might as well not stop at all.

* * * * *
My eyes don't seem to be focusing very well anymore. The projected image of my SimFighting match doubles and blurs. I blink, hoping to clear my vision, but it doesn't help much.

"Shit!" I mutter as my SimFighter explodes.

My head feels a little funny. For the first time, it occurs to me to wonder how long I've been playing without a break. I remove my headset and stand up, thinking I'll just go to the bathroom and splash some water on my face. A wave of dizziness smacks into me like a fist. Grabbing a chair to steady myself, I wait until it passes.

Stumbling into the bathroom, I wash my face. When I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror I do a double-take. Not only do I need a shave in a major way, my hair is so greasy it almost looks brown instead of blonde.

Nasty, I think. How long has it been since I bathed?

Shaking my head, I punch the "on" button for my washing station. Jets of water shoot out, heated to my personal specifications. The steaming water sluicing over my body makes me feel a bit better. I stand under it for a long time, feeling some of my tension melt away.

I've just finished showering and wrapped a towel around my waist when I hear three short knocks. My stomach rumbles - who knows when my last meal was? I wait for Devin to leave so I can snatch whatever food he's brought.

Only he doesn't go away. There's more knocking, insistent this time.

"Hey buddy, you okay in there?"

Something in Devin's tone makes me want to respond, but I fight the urge. Stepping out of the bathroom, I notice a small pile of forks and knives scattered in front of the door. It really has been a while since I ate.

"Look, Kalen," Devin says through the door. "I get it if you don't want to talk. Really, I do. And that's cool. There's a lot I don't want to talk about, too. It's just..."

My unintentional fast must be getting to me, because I swear Devin's voice breaks a little.

"CallaBot tried to blast her way into your room and I told her to stop," he says.

Irritation bubbles up inside me. All I want is for Devin to stop talking so I can finally eat.

"So, um," he continues, "Do you think you could just tell me you're still fucking alive in there? Because if you're not, it's my fucking fault and I - "

My hand reaches for the doorknob when Devin trails off, but I pull it back.

"I don't want to be responsible for that too, okay?" he finishes.

Before I realize what I'm doing, I've yanked the door open. Devin almost drops the plate of food he's holding. I fumble for words - it's been weeks, maybe months, since I've spoken to another person.

"Up for some SimFighting?" I croak. "Bet I can kick your ass - I've had a lot of practice lately."

It's a really stupid thing to say, but it doesn't matter. In that moment, it's enough.



(using this story to fill the 500themes prompt "The Vacuum of Time" found here and the "nervous breakdown" square on my hc_bingo card)

Writerverse Challenge #03: The Vacuum of Time

"Kalen, it's been 3 weeks." CallaBot's voice is tinged with panic. "You have to come out sometime."

Lying on my bed, I stare at the ceiling and say nothing.

"Come on, Kalen - it's anarchy out here." My wooden door shudders as CallaBot pounds it with her metal fists.

For a moment, I consider giving in to my best friend's request. I'm supposed to be the leader of our little group, after all. How can I be responsible for anyone right now, though? I'm coming apart at the seams. I sigh and wait for her to go away.

"Seriously, Kalen," CallaBot says, "Enough is enough." I hear a low humming sound from outside my bedroom and notice my doorknob glowing bright red.

That can't be good, I think. Then there's a zapping sound, a clatter, and a stream of loud cursing from CallaBot.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Devin?" she shrieks.

Devin speaks in hushed tones; I can't make out his response. Under normal circumstances, he isn't the quietest guy, so I'm guessing he doesn't want me to hear what he's saying. Tiptoeing over to the door, I rest my ear against it.

"If he were going to do it on his own, he would have by now," CallaBot says.

"Whatever," Devin snorts. "It's not like he can stay in there forever."

"Well, he wouldn't be able to, Numbnuts," CallaBot's tone is icy. "If somebody didn't keep leaving meals outside his door."

Devin grunts and says nothing.

Huh. I was wondering who was responsible for that. Three quick knocks, a fork and knife shoved under the door, then nothing. By the time I looked out into the hall, there was never anyone there.

How would he disappear that fast? I think. He must have been using an InvisiSuit.

"Why do you insist on coddling him, anyway?"

"For fuck's sake, Calla... he just lost his brother."

"Since when are you Mr. Sensitive?" CallaBot demands.

"Shut the fuck up, okay?" Devin's voice sounds... odd. "And leave him the fuck alone or I'll deactivate you."

CallaBot must be aware that Devin's threat is an empty one. She could take him down in a matter of seconds. Even armed, I wouldn't give him more than a 5 percent chance of overpowering her. She doesn't call him on it, though - doesn't even bother with one of her signature verbal slapdowns.

I'm still wondering why when I hear the metallic clank of her stomping away down the hall.

* * * * *
"Hey dude, you up for some SimFighting?" Wes calls through my door one evening.

Same old Wes, I think wearily. Pathologically cheerful, just like always.

"You don't even have to come out," Wes says, "We can play from separate rooms."

I sigh and continue my thorough examination of the ceiling.

"Please?" Wes sounds almost desperate. "Devin always kicks my ass and I'm tired of it."

Under different circumstances, I'd smile at that. I don't have the heart to tell him I let him win.

"Dude, you know we're all worried about you, right?"

That gets to me a little. It doesn't matter, though. As bad as I feel about freaking out my friends, I'm just not ready to talk. I don't want to see their pitying looks or hear their sympathetic words. There's no way any of them can understand what I'm going through.

"Well, I guess I'll go now," Wes says softly. "I'll leave your headset out here in case you want it."

I wait until the echo of his footfalls dies away before I crack the door and grab the headset. Though I'm not interested in a SimFighting match with Wes, I am getting pretty tired of lying around and doing nothing.

Who knows? I think. A little simulated killing might take my mind off things for a while.

Putting on my headset, I fire up "Splinternet Battle Mode". Random strangers aren't going to try to get me to open up. The mindless action of the fight is a good distraction. Since I'm damn good at this game, there's the added bonus of feeling like I've accomplished something for the first time in over a month. Before I know it, I've been playing for hours.

Reluctantly, I pull off my headset and collapse into bed. That's when the ugly thoughts come.

You don't deserve to have fun - not with Brendan dead.

Shivering, I pull my blanket up to my chin and try to think about something else.

What kind of monster are you? Taking pleasure in blowing people up after what happened to him?

"It's only a game!" I don't realize I've spoken aloud until the sound of my own voice makes me jump.

Was it a game to Brendan?

I close my eyes and will my brain to shut itself off.

It's your fault he's gone. You were the leader. You let him go in there.

Throwing back the covers, I climb out of bed. It's obvious I won't be sleeping anytime soon - might as well play a little longer. Hell, I've got all the time in the world now. Might as well not stop at all.

* * * * *
My eyes don't seem to be focusing very well anymore. The projected image of my SimFighting match doubles and blurs. I blink, hoping to clear my vision, but it doesn't help much.

"Shit!" I mutter as my SimFighter explodes.

My head feels a little funny. For the first time, it occurs to me to wonder how long I've been playing without a break. I remove my headset and stand up, thinking I'll just go to the bathroom and splash some water on my face. A wave of dizziness smacks into me like a fist. Grabbing a chair to steady myself, I wait until it passes.

Stumbling into the bathroom, I wash my face. When I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror I do a double-take. Not only do I need a shave in a major way, my hair is so greasy it almost looks brown instead of blonde.

Nasty, I think. How long has it been since I bathed?

Shaking my head, I punch the "on" button for my washing station. Jets of water shoot out, heated to my personal specifications. The steaming water sluicing over my body makes me feel a bit better. I stand under it for a long time, feeling some of my tension melt away.

I've just finished showering and wrapped a towel around my waist when I hear three short knocks. My stomach rumbles - who knows when my last meal was? I wait for Devin to leave so I can snatch whatever food he's brought.

Only he doesn't go away. There's more knocking, insistent this time.

"Hey buddy, you okay in there?"

Something in Devin's tone makes me want to respond, but I fight the urge. Stepping out of the bathroom, I notice a small pile of forks and knives scattered in front of the door. It really has been a while since I ate.

"Look, Kalen," Devin says through the door. "I get it if you don't want to talk. Really, I do. And that's cool. There's a lot I don't want to talk about, too. It's just..."

My unintentional fast must be getting to me, because I swear Devin's voice breaks a little.

"CallaBot tried to blast her way into your room and I told her to stop," he says.

Irritation bubbles up inside me. All I want is for Devin to stop talking so I can finally eat.

"So, um," he continues, "Do you think you could just tell me you're still fucking alive in there? Because if you're not, it's my fucking fault and I - "

My hand reaches for the doorknob when Devin trails off, but I pull it back.

"I don't want to be responsible for that too, okay?" he finishes.

Before I realize what I'm doing, I've yanked the door open. Devin almost drops the plate of food he's holding. I fumble for words - it's been weeks, maybe months, since I've spoken to another person.

"Up for some SimFighting?" I croak. "Bet I can kick your ass - I've had a lot of practice lately."

It's a really stupid thing to say, but it doesn't matter. In that moment, it's enough.



(using this story to fill the 500themes prompt "The Vacuum of Time" found here and the "nervous breakdown" square on my hc_bingo card)

AMAZEBALLS CLIFFTON CROSSOVER SMUT OMG

theun4givables wrote like 8k words of amazing smut that has made my entire week.

READ IT YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO BUT ONLY IF BEAUTIFUL MAN SEX DOES NOT OFFEND YOU BUT OMG SO AWESOME <3

*ahem*

Title: Say Please
Rating: NC-17 for graphic consensual m/m sex and mild kink
Pairings: Savin/Devin, implied Wes/Devin and implied Savin/Ravi
Universe: Savin and Ravi are the author's original characters from the Tomorrow Trilogy. Wes and Devin are from my Cliffton universe, although this story is an AU one for them.



Devin scowled, rubbing his temples as he and Wes stepped off of their flight from the colonies to the Capital City. “It’s way too fucking early for this,” he grumbled. Wes laughed at him, striking him on the shoulder.

“Cheer up, will ya? We’re on vacation!” Wes bounded off the ship ahead of him, staring out at the vast skyline of the city. “Have you ever seen shit like this? It’s amazing!”

“Get me some fucking coffee and I might be inclined to agree.” Though Wes’s giant grin, he had to admit, was almost infectious. As he slogged his way through the crowd in order to keep with Wes, he hoped that this would at least be an amusing vacation.

Before he knew it, Wes made his way back to him, coffee in hand. Devin grunted to him as he took it, knowing that Wes knew he meant thank you. Wes wrapped an arm around his shoulders, nearly knocking the coffee out of his hands as he did so. “When we get to the hotel, want to play some SImFighting?” he asked, his mood impervious to Devin’s death glare.

“Only if you want me to kick your ass at it.”

“You’re on!"

fake cut to the rest of this amazingness

AMAZEBALLS CLIFFTON CROSSOVER SMUT OMG

theun4givables wrote like 8k words of amazing smut that has made my entire week.

READ IT YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO BUT ONLY IF BEAUTIFUL MAN SEX DOES NOT OFFEND YOU BUT OMG SO AWESOME <3

*ahem*

Title: Say Please
Rating: NC-17 for graphic consensual m/m sex and mild kink
Pairings: Savin/Devin, implied Wes/Devin and implied Savin/Ravi
Universe: Savin and Ravi are the author's original characters from the Tomorrow Trilogy. Wes and Devin are from my Cliffton universe, although this story is an AU one for them.



Devin scowled, rubbing his temples as he and Wes stepped off of their flight from the colonies to the Capital City. “It’s way too fucking early for this,” he grumbled. Wes laughed at him, striking him on the shoulder.

“Cheer up, will ya? We’re on vacation!” Wes bounded off the ship ahead of him, staring out at the vast skyline of the city. “Have you ever seen shit like this? It’s amazing!”

“Get me some fucking coffee and I might be inclined to agree.” Though Wes’s giant grin, he had to admit, was almost infectious. As he slogged his way through the crowd in order to keep with Wes, he hoped that this would at least be an amusing vacation.

Before he knew it, Wes made his way back to him, coffee in hand. Devin grunted to him as he took it, knowing that Wes knew he meant thank you. Wes wrapped an arm around his shoulders, nearly knocking the coffee out of his hands as he did so. “When we get to the hotel, want to play some SImFighting?” he asked, his mood impervious to Devin’s death glare.

“Only if you want me to kick your ass at it.”

“You’re on!"

fake cut to the rest of this amazingness

Stuff I Write

Hi! I'm n3m3sis43 and sometimes I write stuff. If you're interested in reading some of it, here are some stories I'm proud of and my continuing projects. The bulk of these were written during LJ Idol and some of them need reworking. I'm always open to constructive criticism. Feel free to friend me if you're interested in reading more! I usually don't bite.


( Historical Fiction )

GIANT STORY KATAMARI OF DOOOOOOOOOM (aka continuing projects)

( Cliffton Series )

( Straw Man and Sam and Daisuke stories )

( Peripherally Related )

Once Upon a Time

I wake to the feeling of cold rain against my face.

For a moment, my brain refuses to process what is going on. I roll over and try to clutch my pillow so I can go back to sleep. It's the tickle of slightly damp leaves on my skin that alerts me to the situation at hand. There is no pillow. There is no bed. I shouldn't be sleeping here.

No matter how many times this happens, it still comes as a surprise.

I open my eyes and sit up slowly. I'm in a vacant lot, overgrown with weeds. My head is pounding, my mouth is dry, and my stomach feels like it's eating itself from the inside.

What the hell happened last night?

Something twists deep inside me and I lean forward, retching. I am rocked by wave after wave of dry heaves. When it's over, I collapse onto the wet ground, sweating despite the chill in the air. It's a gray morning, but even the small amount of light that filters through the clouds is too bright. I moan and throw my arm across my eyes to block it out.

Memories hit me like a slap in the face, images that don't make sense.

* * * * *
I'm sitting in a smoke-filled bar with walls paneled in dark wood. The marble-topped tables and leather chairs were probably elegant once, but now the tables are marred by cracks and the chairs are pocked with burn marks. There's a book of matches on the table in front of me. Its cover is green and the words "Sammy's - Est. 1911" are printed upon it. I grab the matchbook and jam it into the pocket of my jeans.

Nearby, four men in jackets and ties argue vociferously over a game of pool. At the table next to me, a man in a tan coat and fedora stares off into the distance with a moody expression. He's chewing a cigar and nursing a glass of brown liquor.

* * * * *
There's a large bump on my head. I rub at it absently as I contemplate whether I should call someone to come and get me. My head is beginning to clear a bit, and I recognize the vacant lot and the street it abuts. In my current physical condition, I'm not sure if I can manage the 30-minute walk from here to my parents' house.

My parents would pick me up, but more likely than not, letting them see me like this would be a ticket straight back to the hospital. LSD-induced schizophrenia, the doctors said, she's not responding well to medication.

There aren't a lot of other people I can call. Most of my school friends have stopped talking to me. Even before I took the medical withdrawal, they avoided me. I may be crazy, but I'm not blind. I saw the furtive glances, heard the way their conversations stopped when I entered a room. It's been months since any of them called or came to visit.

Reluctantly, I dig my phone from my jeans pocket and dial Daisuke's number. He's the only one who bothers with me now, and even he will barely look at me half the time. I can't say that I blame him. Once upon a time, I had a scholarship, a talent, a future. Now I'm in and out of hospitals, disappearing for days only to return ranting about stories no one believes. He blames himself, but it feels like he's angry at me too.

When he showed me the tiny squares of white paper in the plastic bag, I was skeptical.

"Come on, Sam," he urged me, "You're a writer. This could open doors to whole new worlds inside your mind. Can you really resist that kind of opportunity?"

I couldn't.

The trip itself was wonderful. Colors breathed and the world pulsed in time to the electronic music playing on the stereo. We lay on lawn chairs in Daisuke's back yard and stared at the sky, talking about everything and nothing. I expected to feel fear, but mostly I was lost in wonder. There were so many tiny details I had never noticed about the world before.

Time bent and stretched like the blue globules in Daisuke's softly glowing lava lamp. After nearly twenty-four hours, I slipped into sleep on a bean bag in his room. When I woke, the world seemed brighter than usual and reality felt oddly fluid. The feeling faded over the next few days until I was my normal self again.

Life in the real world resumed. Everything was fine... until the episodes started.

* * * * *
A curvy blonde girl in a skintight red dress approaches the man in the fedora. He looks her up and down and smiles appreciatively. The girl speaks to him, gesturing wildly with a look of panic on her face. Though I can't make out what she's saying, it's clear that she's asking the man for help.

Just then, shots ring out. For a moment, my feet are rooted to the floor. A few feet away from me, a waitress shrieks and throws her tray aside as she runs for cover. The tinkle of breaking glass and the matchbooks flying in all directions galvanize me into action and I dive under the table.

There is a flurry of motion in front of me. A pair of legs in charcoal gray pants and black and white wingtip shoes rushes past. I hear more gunshots, this time very close. A woman's voice screams out, "Johnny! NO! JOHNNY!"

"THAT'LL TEACH YA TO MESS WITH MY DAME, YA MEDDLING SONUVABITCH!"

* * * * *
The first episode happened about two weeks after the trip. I was sitting in my dorm room in a nightshirt and some fuzzy slippers. All of a sudden, inspiration struck - an updated version of Hansel and Gretel leaped into my mind, fully formed. I ran to my computer and began typing.

I barely got past "Once upon a time" before the world as I knew it disappeared. My yellow-painted cinder block walls and particle board desk were replaced by a great black forest with a humble woodsman's cottage by its edge. As I watched, two small children crept from the house; the younger, a girl, was crying.

It was over almost before it began, but each episode is longer than the last. Afterward, it takes a little while before all of my memories return. I have no control over where I reappear and at first, I'm a bit confused. That first time, they found me dazed and wandering half-naked near a busy street. Since then, I've learned my lesson and write fully clothed.

If I just stopped writing, I could stop the episodes entirely. I'd be normal again; I could go back to school. I could have a life. Maybe I could even have my best friend back. The problem is that I don't want to stop. Even though no one will believe me, what's happening is more than some drug-induced mental illness. The acid was the trigger, but it gave me a talent I'd be crazy not to use. The things I write become real now.

Of course, no one believes me, not even Daisuke. Unlike the others, he listens to my stories, but he just gives me that sad look and shakes his head.

* * * * *
The woman is crying hysterically and screaming Johnny's name. I think it's the blonde girl in the red dress. There is a pool of blood spreading on the floor in front of me, presumably Johnny's. I start to feel dizzy and realize I've been holding my breath. I let it out with a whoosh.

The shiny black and white wingtip shoes appear in front of me. A moment later, a man's red and angry face comes into view. "What have we here?" he asks.

I jump up, meaning to make a run for it. In my haste, I've forgotten about the marble tabletop above me. My head slams into it hard and my vision begins to fade to gray. I crumple to the floor and the world goes dark.

* * * * *
Daisuke's shiny black Ford pulls up at the curb. By this time, I'm soaking wet and shivering so hard it hurts. I struggle to my feet, waiting for my legs to decide whether or not they're going to hold me. They conclude they'd rather not support me and I sit down hard on the sodden ground.

Daisuke is at my side in an instant, helping me up and gathering me into his arms like some sort of broken doll. I try to push him away, embarrassed.

"I'm fine. I can walk," I say, as if he's not going to notice that I'm swaying like a drunk.

"Really, Sam?" he says, his voice too gentle. "Come on."

He guides me to his car, and I collapse into the front seat. This car is his baby - tinted windows, custom rims, and leather seats. I bet he's going to be mad later when he sees all the mud and grass I'm getting everywhere. For now, he just sighs and cranks the heat up. He digs a blanket out of the backseat and drapes it over me. By the time he gets into the car, my eyelids are already starting to droop.

"Where are we going?" I ask as he pulls the car into the street.

"You're in no shape to go home right now. I'll take you to my place," he says.

I mumble something that's probably unintelligible and drift into sleep.

When I wake again, I'm alone in Daisuke's bed, wearing a clean T-shirt that isn't mine. The door opens slowly, and Daisuke appears with a bowl of soup and a sandwich. My stomach growls and it's all I can do not to lunge at him and grab the food from his hands. Who knows how long it's been since I've eaten?

He sits on the edge of the bed as I attack the food.

"Feeling better?" he asks. His expression is strange, unreadable - not the usual pitying one I'm used to seeing lately when he meets my eyes at all.

"I will be once I finish eating," I say, pretending I don't notice. We're both silent for a few minutes as I continue to shovel food into my mouth.

"How long was I out?" I ask, once the plate and bowl are clean.

"About 8 hours," he replies.

"8 hours? I hope you didn't have plans," I say.

"I had a date," he says.

"Shit, Daisuke, I'm sorry - " I start, but he cuts me off.

"Don't worry about it," he says, "What are friends for?" He smiles, but his eyes look far away.

"Daisuke, I know you think I'm crazy," I say.

More silence.

"Sam, can I ask you a question?" he finally says.

"Sure," I reply.

"Where did you... go... this time?"

"Are you going to believe me if I tell you?" I ask.

"It's just..." His voice trails off. "It's just that I washed your clothes, and I found something in your pants pocket." He holds up a green matchbook. It's a little worse for wear, and on its cover are the words "Sammy's - Est. 1911"

I tell him my story. And for the first time in months, he really listens.

Once Upon a Time

I wake to the feeling of cold rain against my face.

For a moment, my brain refuses to process what is going on. I roll over and try to clutch my pillow so I can go back to sleep. It's the tickle of slightly damp leaves on my skin that alerts me to the situation at hand. There is no pillow. There is no bed. I shouldn't be sleeping here.

No matter how many times this happens, it still comes as a surprise.

I open my eyes and sit up slowly. I'm in a vacant lot, overgrown with weeds. My head is pounding, my mouth is dry, and my stomach feels like it's eating itself from the inside.

What the hell happened last night?

Something twists deep inside me and I lean forward, retching. I am rocked by wave after wave of dry heaves. When it's over, I collapse onto the wet ground, sweating despite the chill in the air. It's a gray morning, but even the small amount of light that filters through the clouds is too bright. I moan and throw my arm across my eyes to block it out.

Memories hit me like a slap in the face, images that don't make sense.

* * * * *
I'm sitting in a smoke-filled bar with walls paneled in dark wood. The marble-topped tables and leather chairs were probably elegant once, but now the tables are marred by cracks and the chairs are pocked with burn marks. There's a book of matches on the table in front of me. Its cover is green and the words "Sammy's - Est. 1911" are printed upon it. I grab the matchbook and jam it into the pocket of my jeans.

Nearby, four men in jackets and ties argue vociferously over a game of pool. At the table next to me, a man in a tan coat and fedora stares off into the distance with a moody expression. He's chewing a cigar and nursing a glass of brown liquor.

* * * * *
There's a large bump on my head. I rub at it absently as I contemplate whether I should call someone to come and get me. My head is beginning to clear a bit, and I recognize the vacant lot and the street it abuts. In my current physical condition, I'm not sure if I can manage the 30-minute walk from here to my parents' house.

My parents would pick me up, but more likely than not, letting them see me like this would be a ticket straight back to the hospital. LSD-induced schizophrenia, the doctors said, she's not responding well to medication.

There aren't a lot of other people I can call. Most of my school friends have stopped talking to me. Even before I took the medical withdrawal, they avoided me. I may be crazy, but I'm not blind. I saw the furtive glances, heard the way their conversations stopped when I entered a room. It's been months since any of them called or came to visit.

Reluctantly, I dig my phone from my jeans pocket and dial Daisuke's number. He's the only one who bothers with me now, and even he will barely look at me half the time. I can't say that I blame him. Once upon a time, I had a scholarship, a talent, a future. Now I'm in and out of hospitals, disappearing for days only to return ranting about stories no one believes. He blames himself, but it feels like he's angry at me too.

When he showed me the tiny squares of white paper in the plastic bag, I was skeptical.

"Come on, Sam," he urged me, "You're a writer. This could open doors to whole new worlds inside your mind. Can you really resist that kind of opportunity?"

I couldn't.

The trip itself was wonderful. Colors breathed and the world pulsed in time to the electronic music playing on the stereo. We lay on lawn chairs in Daisuke's back yard and stared at the sky, talking about everything and nothing. I expected to feel fear, but mostly I was lost in wonder. There were so many tiny details I had never noticed about the world before.

Time bent and stretched like the blue globules in Daisuke's softly glowing lava lamp. After nearly twenty-four hours, I slipped into sleep on a bean bag in his room. When I woke, the world seemed brighter than usual and reality felt oddly fluid. The feeling faded over the next few days until I was my normal self again.

Life in the real world resumed. Everything was fine... until the episodes started.

* * * * *
A curvy blonde girl in a skintight red dress approaches the man in the fedora. He looks her up and down and smiles appreciatively. The girl speaks to him, gesturing wildly with a look of panic on her face. Though I can't make out what she's saying, it's clear that she's asking the man for help.

Just then, shots ring out. For a moment, my feet are rooted to the floor. A few feet away from me, a waitress shrieks and throws her tray aside as she runs for cover. The tinkle of breaking glass and the matchbooks flying in all directions galvanize me into action and I dive under the table.

There is a flurry of motion in front of me. A pair of legs in charcoal gray pants and black and white wingtip shoes rushes past. I hear more gunshots, this time very close. A woman's voice screams out, "Johnny! NO! JOHNNY!"

"THAT'LL TEACH YA TO MESS WITH MY DAME, YA MEDDLING SONUVABITCH!"

* * * * *
The first episode happened about two weeks after the trip. I was sitting in my dorm room in a nightshirt and some fuzzy slippers. All of a sudden, inspiration struck - an updated version of Hansel and Gretel leaped into my mind, fully formed. I ran to my computer and began typing.

I barely got past "Once upon a time" before the world as I knew it disappeared. My yellow-painted cinder block walls and particle board desk were replaced by a great black forest with a humble woodsman's cottage by its edge. As I watched, two small children crept from the house; the younger, a girl, was crying.

It was over almost before it began, but each episode is longer than the last. Afterward, it takes a little while before all of my memories return. I have no control over where I reappear and at first, I'm a bit confused. That first time, they found me dazed and wandering half-naked near a busy street. Since then, I've learned my lesson and write fully clothed.

If I just stopped writing, I could stop the episodes entirely. I'd be normal again; I could go back to school. I could have a life. Maybe I could even have my best friend back. The problem is that I don't want to stop. Even though no one will believe me, what's happening is more than some drug-induced mental illness. The acid was the trigger, but it gave me a talent I'd be crazy not to use. The things I write become real now.

Of course, no one believes me, not even Daisuke. Unlike the others, he listens to my stories, but he just gives me that sad look and shakes his head.

* * * * *
The woman is crying hysterically and screaming Johnny's name. I think it's the blonde girl in the red dress. There is a pool of blood spreading on the floor in front of me, presumably Johnny's. I start to feel dizzy and realize I've been holding my breath. I let it out with a whoosh.

The shiny black and white wingtip shoes appear in front of me. A moment later, a man's red and angry face comes into view. "What have we here?" he asks.

I jump up, meaning to make a run for it. In my haste, I've forgotten about the marble tabletop above me. My head slams into it hard and my vision begins to fade to gray. I crumple to the floor and the world goes dark.

* * * * *
Daisuke's shiny black Ford pulls up at the curb. By this time, I'm soaking wet and shivering so hard it hurts. I struggle to my feet, waiting for my legs to decide whether or not they're going to hold me. They conclude they'd rather not support me and I sit down hard on the sodden ground.

Daisuke is at my side in an instant, helping me up and gathering me into his arms like some sort of broken doll. I try to push him away, embarrassed.

"I'm fine. I can walk," I say, as if he's not going to notice that I'm swaying like a drunk.

"Really, Sam?" he says, his voice too gentle. "Come on."

He guides me to his car, and I collapse into the front seat. This car is his baby - tinted windows, custom rims, and leather seats. I bet he's going to be mad later when he sees all the mud and grass I'm getting everywhere. For now, he just sighs and cranks the heat up. He digs a blanket out of the backseat and drapes it over me. By the time he gets into the car, my eyelids are already starting to droop.

"Where are we going?" I ask as he pulls the car into the street.

"You're in no shape to go home right now. I'll take you to my place," he says.

I mumble something that's probably unintelligible and drift into sleep.

When I wake again, I'm alone in Daisuke's bed, wearing a clean T-shirt that isn't mine. The door opens slowly, and Daisuke appears with a bowl of soup and a sandwich. My stomach growls and it's all I can do not to lunge at him and grab the food from his hands. Who knows how long it's been since I've eaten?

He sits on the edge of the bed as I attack the food.

"Feeling better?" he asks. His expression is strange, unreadable - not the usual pitying one I'm used to seeing lately when he meets my eyes at all.

"I will be once I finish eating," I say, pretending I don't notice. We're both silent for a few minutes as I continue to shovel food into my mouth.

"How long was I out?" I ask, once the plate and bowl are clean.

"About 8 hours," he replies.

"8 hours? I hope you didn't have plans," I say.

"I had a date," he says.

"Shit, Daisuke, I'm sorry - " I start, but he cuts me off.

"Don't worry about it," he says, "What are friends for?" He smiles, but his eyes look far away.

"Daisuke, I know you think I'm crazy," I say.

More silence.

"Sam, can I ask you a question?" he finally says.

"Sure," I reply.

"Where did you... go... this time?"

"Are you going to believe me if I tell you?" I ask.

"It's just..." His voice trails off. "It's just that I washed your clothes, and I found something in your pants pocket." He holds up a green matchbook. It's a little worse for wear, and on its cover are the words "Sammy's - Est. 1911"

I tell him my story. And for the first time in months, he really listens.

Walking on Eggshells

This entry is an unofficial intersection with the awesomely twisted alien_infinity, whose entry can be found here - it may be advisable to read hers first.



I don't know where I am or how I got here. There are bright lights in my face and they're blinding me. Something whooshes by me, so hot and heavy that it almost knocks me down. Horns blare.

Car.

My brain is sluggish, weighted down.

"HEY, LADY! GET OUT OF THE WAY!"

Another enormous whoosh of air follows the shouting voice. I lurch away from the headlights and horns, tripping as my feet hit the curb. I fall onto the sidewalk, scraping my hands and tearing the knees of my jeans.

Oh god, not again.

My head is spinning and I'm sick to my stomach. Sitting on the pavement, I clutch my knees and take huge gulps of the night air. The memories are like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of me.

* * * * *
I'm surrounded by a curtain of heavy gray mist. A great crash rips through the air - I think it's thunder until the fog parts to reveal an enormous black egg. As I watched, figures begin to emerge from it - dark, human-shaped creatures with wings the color of blood. Though I can't make out any features, even their shadows are so terrifying they steal my breath.

* * * * *
A siren is wailing not far away. Blue lights wash over me as a police car pulls up to the curb. The officer steps out; he is tall with white hair and a kind face. "Do you need some help, miss?" he asks.

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. My chest is tight; my heart jackhammers against my ribs. I'm breathing in ragged gasps. My hands are clenched into claws, fingers tingling. I start to wonder if I'm going to die right here on the sidewalk.

"Miss? Do you need medical assistance?"

I'm drowning. The cop's voice is tinny and distant. I nod.

"Try to stay calm. I'm calling an ambulance."

His radio crackles and I hear him speak into it. Then he's sitting beside me on the pavement, telling me to try and take deep breaths.

Riiiight, I think, if it were that simple, I'd have been doing it all along.

He's still speaking, and his voice is low and soothing. My breathing starts to slow and the crushing pressure in my chest begins to ease. All the strength drains out of me; my limbs feel impossibly heavy. I slump forward and rest my head on my knees.

More sirens. Strong hands grasp my shoulders and lift me to my feet. Everything is a blur. There are voices, but I can't make out what they're saying. My eyes are closing; I just want to sleep.

* * * * *
I'm crouched in the corner of an immense room with walls of alabaster. At one end of the cavernous space is a throne with a man perched atop it. The man is draped in a ridiculous furry purple cloak and gold robes and wears a crown dripping with gaudy jewels. On the other side of the chamber, a slender girl with a dark brown ponytail and blue eyes stands, straight as a board. The bejeweled man studies her with almost clinical detachment.

* * * * *
I open my eyes and blink against the glare of harsh fluorescent lights. The world swims into focus - bright white sheets and sterile machines. Everything feels hazy and unreal. A young woman with blue eyes and dark hair pulled into a ponytail smiles at me. Though she doesn't look much older than me, I recognize her as Dr. Weston. She hands me some water in a paper cup.

The questions begin.

Do you know your name?

Yes! An easy question. "Sam. Sam Jenkins."

Do you know why you're here?

This one is harder. I'm not sure what happened to me. The last sane thing I remember is being in my dorm room on a quiet Friday evening. My roommate Kat was out and I was sipping a cup of coffee that was mostly cream and sugar. I sat down at my desk to write. After that, nothing makes sense.

The doctor with the ponytail is watching me, waiting for an answer I don't have. I shake my head.

Is there someone we can call?

Oh! I know this one. Without hesitation, I give her Daisuke's number.

He arrives twenty minutes later, eyes sleepy and hair sticking out at odd angles. I wonder idly what time it is. He leans in and hugs me hard. I'm aching all over, but I don't complain.

"Nice hair," I tease him after he breaks the embrace. He doesn't look amused.

"Are you going to tell me what happened this time, Sam?"

Shit! I haven't given much thought to what exactly I'm going to tell him. He's my best friend, and I should be able to tell him the truth. The only problem is that the truth makes me look delusional.

"The doctor said I had a panic attack," I hedge.

"A panic attack? Was it related to - " He doesn't finish. His eyes are big and scared.

"I still haven't told anyone about that," I say.

"Are you going to?" he asks.

"I don't know what to tell them," I say, choking back tears. "Daisuke, I think I'm losing my mind."

He grabs my hand and squeezes it, and I want to tell him everything.

"They found me wandering in the street," I say. "I don't know how I got there."

My words catch in my throat. In my mind's eye, I see myself telling him about the demons in the mist. I was in another world, I say, and then all of a sudden I was in the middle of the street. I imagine his eyes going hard as he looks away.

"The last thing I remember is being in my room," I lie, and leave it at that.

* * * * *
The girl fixes the man on the throne with a defiant stare. Then her gaze shifts downward to a carpet of iridescent glass eggshells. Lifting her head high, she steps forward onto the shards of glass. Streams of crimson drench the ground beneath her bare feet, but she appears not to notice. In no time, she's reached the other side, crossing a river of her own blood to get there.

* * * * *
Knock knock knock. The rapping of knuckles against my door rouses me from a thick and dreamless sleep.

"Samantha, it's time for your meds!" says a disembodied voice.

"It's Sam," I grumble without even opening my eyes.

The light flicks on, and I lift my eyelids just enough to see a young male nurse who hands me a cup of pills. Without asking for water, I knock them back so he'll leave. When he's gone, I groan and bury my face in my flimsy institutional pillow. Since I've been here, it feels like I've done nothing but sleep - but I'm still exhausted.

Despite what Daisuke says, I know I can't come clean to Dr. Weston. Talk of acid trips and winged creatures that hatch from eggs will only earn me another admission to Rainey Institute. Even though it's probably where I belong, I don't want to go back there. My memories of my last stay at the psychiatric hospital are a blur of pills in paper cups and sleep filled with too-real dreams.

Kat came to see me on my first day at Rainey, armed with a bag of my clothes, a mylar balloon that said "Get Well Soon" and a batch of homemade brownies. Though I did my best to feign interest in her breezy chatter about things back at school, her easy smile soon grew strained. She bit back questions while I chewed my nails, knowing I'd never answer. She left after thirty minutes - there was nothing more to say.

She never visited me again. None of my friends did, except Daisuke.

He showed up for visiting hours every day, despite the fact that I wouldn't tell him the whole story. The first day, he bombarded me with questions, but I stared at my feet and didn't respond. After that, he stopped asking - I think he was afraid of the answers. So am I.

I remember sitting in group therapy while a girl named Mary monopolized the entire session. She told us she was at Rainey to hide from a group of scientists and politicians who were stalking her. "They're out to get me," she said, "because I know The Truth."

Though she couldn't tell us what The Truth was, They had taken control of everything in her life to prevent her from revealing it. Her friends, her family, and even her cat - all were working for Them. She heard Their voices on her radio, saw Their faces on her television, read Their words in her books.

Shuddering, I wonder if this will be my fate as well. I look around the room for something to distract me. My eyes fall on the pencil and paper one of the nurses brought me. Since my laptop is still back in my dorm room, it's the only way I can write.

Writing. That's it. The realization is a devastating blow.

These "episodes" I've been having - both of them happened when I sat down to write. I found myself somewhere I did not remember going, assaulted by vivid memories that couldn't be real. What if I'm traveling to worlds that I've written? It sounds impossible, but if it's true I can prove it. My fingers tremble as I reach for my cell phone.

* * * * *
With steel in her eyes, the girl faces the bejeweled man. He speaks to her, his countenance impassive, and she kneels upon the razor-sharp shards. Though her posture is one of supplication, her face shows no fear. The man appears to listen for a moment, and then his features contort with senseless rage. Armed men appear from the ether and drag the girl away.

Walking on Eggshells

This entry is an unofficial intersection with the awesomely twisted alien_infinity, whose entry can be found here - it may be advisable to read hers first.



I don't know where I am or how I got here. There are bright lights in my face and they're blinding me. Something whooshes by me, so hot and heavy that it almost knocks me down. Horns blare.

Car.

My brain is sluggish, weighted down.

"HEY, LADY! GET OUT OF THE WAY!"

Another enormous whoosh of air follows the shouting voice. I lurch away from the headlights and horns, tripping as my feet hit the curb. I fall onto the sidewalk, scraping my hands and tearing the knees of my jeans.

Oh god, not again.

My head is spinning and I'm sick to my stomach. Sitting on the pavement, I clutch my knees and take huge gulps of the night air. The memories are like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of me.

* * * * *
I'm surrounded by a curtain of heavy gray mist. A great crash rips through the air - I think it's thunder until the fog parts to reveal an enormous black egg. As I watched, figures begin to emerge from it - dark, human-shaped creatures with wings the color of blood. Though I can't make out any features, even their shadows are so terrifying they steal my breath.

* * * * *
A siren is wailing not far away. Blue lights wash over me as a police car pulls up to the curb. The officer steps out; he is tall with white hair and a kind face. "Do you need some help, miss?" he asks.

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. My chest is tight; my heart jackhammers against my ribs. I'm breathing in ragged gasps. My hands are clenched into claws, fingers tingling. I start to wonder if I'm going to die right here on the sidewalk.

"Miss? Do you need medical assistance?"

I'm drowning. The cop's voice is tinny and distant. I nod.

"Try to stay calm. I'm calling an ambulance."

His radio crackles and I hear him speak into it. Then he's sitting beside me on the pavement, telling me to try and take deep breaths.

Riiiight, I think, if it were that simple, I'd have been doing it all along.

He's still speaking, and his voice is low and soothing. My breathing starts to slow and the crushing pressure in my chest begins to ease. All the strength drains out of me; my limbs feel impossibly heavy. I slump forward and rest my head on my knees.

More sirens. Strong hands grasp my shoulders and lift me to my feet. Everything is a blur. There are voices, but I can't make out what they're saying. My eyes are closing; I just want to sleep.

* * * * *
I'm crouched in the corner of an immense room with walls of alabaster. At one end of the cavernous space is a throne with a man perched atop it. The man is draped in a ridiculous furry purple cloak and gold robes and wears a crown dripping with gaudy jewels. On the other side of the chamber, a slender girl with a dark brown ponytail and blue eyes stands, straight as a board. The bejeweled man studies her with almost clinical detachment.

* * * * *
I open my eyes and blink against the glare of harsh fluorescent lights. The world swims into focus - bright white sheets and sterile machines. Everything feels hazy and unreal. A young woman with blue eyes and dark hair pulled into a ponytail smiles at me. Though she doesn't look much older than me, I recognize her as Dr. Weston. She hands me some water in a paper cup.

The questions begin.

Do you know your name?

Yes! An easy question. "Sam. Sam Jenkins."

Do you know why you're here?

This one is harder. I'm not sure what happened to me. The last sane thing I remember is being in my dorm room on a quiet Friday evening. My roommate Kat was out and I was sipping a cup of coffee that was mostly cream and sugar. I sat down at my desk to write. After that, nothing makes sense.

The doctor with the ponytail is watching me, waiting for an answer I don't have. I shake my head.

Is there someone we can call?

Oh! I know this one. Without hesitation, I give her Daisuke's number.

He arrives twenty minutes later, eyes sleepy and hair sticking out at odd angles. I wonder idly what time it is. He leans in and hugs me hard. I'm aching all over, but I don't complain.

"Nice hair," I tease him after he breaks the embrace. He doesn't look amused.

"Are you going to tell me what happened this time, Sam?"

Shit! I haven't given much thought to what exactly I'm going to tell him. He's my best friend, and I should be able to tell him the truth. The only problem is that the truth makes me look delusional.

"The doctor said I had a panic attack," I hedge.

"A panic attack? Was it related to - " He doesn't finish. His eyes are big and scared.

"I still haven't told anyone about that," I say.

"Are you going to?" he asks.

"I don't know what to tell them," I say, choking back tears. "Daisuke, I think I'm losing my mind."

He grabs my hand and squeezes it, and I want to tell him everything.

"They found me wandering in the street," I say. "I don't know how I got there."

My words catch in my throat. In my mind's eye, I see myself telling him about the demons in the mist. I was in another world, I say, and then all of a sudden I was in the middle of the street. I imagine his eyes going hard as he looks away.

"The last thing I remember is being in my room," I lie, and leave it at that.

* * * * *
The girl fixes the man on the throne with a defiant stare. Then her gaze shifts downward to a carpet of iridescent glass eggshells. Lifting her head high, she steps forward onto the shards of glass. Streams of crimson drench the ground beneath her bare feet, but she appears not to notice. In no time, she's reached the other side, crossing a river of her own blood to get there.

* * * * *
Knock knock knock. The rapping of knuckles against my door rouses me from a thick and dreamless sleep.

"Samantha, it's time for your meds!" says a disembodied voice.

"It's Sam," I grumble without even opening my eyes.

The light flicks on, and I lift my eyelids just enough to see a young male nurse who hands me a cup of pills. Without asking for water, I knock them back so he'll leave. When he's gone, I groan and bury my face in my flimsy institutional pillow. Since I've been here, it feels like I've done nothing but sleep - but I'm still exhausted.

Despite what Daisuke says, I know I can't come clean to Dr. Weston. Talk of acid trips and winged creatures that hatch from eggs will only earn me another admission to Rainey Institute. Even though it's probably where I belong, I don't want to go back there. My memories of my last stay at the psychiatric hospital are a blur of pills in paper cups and sleep filled with too-real dreams.

Kat came to see me on my first day at Rainey, armed with a bag of my clothes, a mylar balloon that said "Get Well Soon" and a batch of homemade brownies. Though I did my best to feign interest in her breezy chatter about things back at school, her easy smile soon grew strained. She bit back questions while I chewed my nails, knowing I'd never answer. She left after thirty minutes - there was nothing more to say.

She never visited me again. None of my friends did, except Daisuke.

He showed up for visiting hours every day, despite the fact that I wouldn't tell him the whole story. The first day, he bombarded me with questions, but I stared at my feet and didn't respond. After that, he stopped asking - I think he was afraid of the answers. So am I.

I remember sitting in group therapy while a girl named Mary monopolized the entire session. She told us she was at Rainey to hide from a group of scientists and politicians who were stalking her. "They're out to get me," she said, "because I know The Truth."

Though she couldn't tell us what The Truth was, They had taken control of everything in her life to prevent her from revealing it. Her friends, her family, and even her cat - all were working for Them. She heard Their voices on her radio, saw Their faces on her television, read Their words in her books.

Shuddering, I wonder if this will be my fate as well. I look around the room for something to distract me. My eyes fall on the pencil and paper one of the nurses brought me. Since my laptop is still back in my dorm room, it's the only way I can write.

Writing. That's it. The realization is a devastating blow.

These "episodes" I've been having - both of them happened when I sat down to write. I found myself somewhere I did not remember going, assaulted by vivid memories that couldn't be real. What if I'm traveling to worlds that I've written? It sounds impossible, but if it's true I can prove it. My fingers tremble as I reach for my cell phone.

* * * * *
With steel in her eyes, the girl faces the bejeweled man. He speaks to her, his countenance impassive, and she kneels upon the razor-sharp shards. Though her posture is one of supplication, her face shows no fear. The man appears to listen for a moment, and then his features contort with senseless rage. Armed men appear from the ether and drag the girl away.

Disappear

The sky seems almost too big; it's the deepest blue I've ever seen, dotted with wisps of puffy clouds. I'm standing before a gaping ravine, its bottom obscured by gnarled black branches. On the opposite side of the chasm is a stand of trees - their leaves are a brilliant green.

I stretch and inhale deeply. The air is so clean and pure it stings my lungs.

Other than the canyon and the vivid colors, what I find the most striking is the silence. No birds wheel and call in the sky, and if there are people here, I don't see them. Not even the crash and bang of machines disturbs the quiet.

I'm trying to decide whether it's peaceful or creepy here when it finally hits me.

Daisuke was supposed to be here too.

* * * * *
Daisuke and I are stretched out on lawn chairs in his back yard. There's a nice breeze, and it's like old times - or it would be if he'd just stop nagging me. Ever since he found that matchbook in my pocket, he's been begging me to write him into one of my stories.

"Please, Sam?" he asks, his brown eyes plaintive.

"Daisuke, I already said no," I mutter, looking away.

"Come on, it'd be fun!"

"And by fun you mean incredibly dangerous?"

"You always seem to make it out okay." He's pouting now, as if that will change my mind.

"That's pretty funny, considering how often you have to come to my rescue."

"Well, if I were with you in the first place..." he says, his voice trailing off.

"I'd probably just drag you down with me," I sigh.

This power is a gift, but it's also torn my life apart. Though I wouldn't give it up for anything, I'm not about to let it hurt the one friend I have left.

"I'll be fine, Sam," he insists. "We'll look out for each other, just like we always do."

* * * * *
Though I call Daisuke's name until I'm hoarse, the only response is the hollow echo of my own voice. Suppressing the urge to panic, I sit down on the rocky ledge. Plumes of dust swirl up from the ground beneath me, pale against the too-blue sky. I hug my knees and contemplate what to do next.

Maybe he didn't make it here at all. There's no way for me to find out unless I go home too. Since I can't return from the story world at will, this possibility is out. Besides, what if he's here somewhere? I don't know what would happen if I left without him - the possibilities are enough to make me shudder.

Before I've come up with any answers, I hear rocks falling in the ravine below. I look down to see a person emerging from the knot of branches. For a moment, I'm filled with relief, but as the figure continues to inch upward I can see it's not Daisuke. Instead, it's an older man with dusty brown hair. He's climbing up a rope I didn't notice until now.

My palms are slick with nervous sweat as I watch the strange man's slow ascent. When he heaves himself over the lip of the canyon with a loud groan, I want to pepper him with questions. By the time I've waited for him to catch his breath, it's too late. He's cursing under his breath and muttering about "rude bastards" and "xenophobes".

"Excuse me?" I say.

Startled, the man straightens up and looks at me for the first time. "And who might you be?" he asks with an accent I can't place. Dressed in a long leather coat, gloves, and pants so covered in dust it's hard to determine their original color, he is studying me with great interest.

"I'm Sam," I tell him, offering my hand.

"Not from around here, are you?" he says, taking my hand slowly. He holds it limply, as if he's not sure what to do with it. "Lucky for you, I'm not like the people on the other side. A ruder bunch I've never met in my life!"

"The other side?" I ask. I'm not really interested, but maybe this man can help me find Daisuke.

"My whole life, I've wondered if there were people on the other side of the ravine," he says with a bitter laugh.

"I could hear their whispers the moment I walked into their godforsaken tavern. My hair, my clothes, my accent - hell, even the way I walked - were different, foreign. A deaf man could have heard them snickering behind their hands, but I ignored them until they began openly mocking me. When they started buzzing about the 'vulgar' way I drank from my straw, I'd had enough. I gave them what for and walked out."

"They don't sound very pleasant," I agree, doing my best to feign interest.

"Pleasant? Hell, I've seen warthogs with better manners," he snorts.

Nodding, I look at him with what I hope is a sympathetic gaze. Drawing a deep breath, I steel myself to ask the question before he rambles on for another ten minutes. Before I can say a word, though, he speaks again.

"You know, it's a damn shame I didn't warn that other traveler about them. He looked even more out of place than I."

* * * * *
"How's your research going?" Daisuke asks as we sit at a table in our favorite diner. Though my burger is cooked perfectly, it tastes like sand in my mouth. These days, everything in the real world seems muted somehow.

Since I know he'll never let up until I give in, I've begun testing the limits of my powers. The matchbook proved that I could bring items back from the story world, but I need to know if the reverse holds true. My first experiments were with paper clips and fruit, but now I've moved on to bigger and better things.

"It's looking pretty promising," I say, with more enthusiasm than I feel.

"Really? Tell me more," he says, excited as a kid on Christmas morning.

"I caught a tree frog in my parents' back yard," I tell him. "He's my first live test subject, and he passed with flying colors."

What I don't tell him is that my frog experiment was preceded by weeks of sleepless nights. Tossing and turning, I dreamed of tiny hopping creatures trapped between worlds. On one memorable night, every time I closed my eyes, visions of exploding frogs danced behind my lids. If the idea of hurting a frog scares me this much, how can I put my best friend at risk?

"So... is it time yet?" he asks breathlessly.

My heart sinks. If it were up to me, it would never be time. There are too many things that could go wrong - and if they do, I'll never forgive myself.

"I still think this is a really bad idea," I say, "but I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

* * * * *
My descent into the ravine is so slow it's painful. Sweat pours down my face, stinging my eyes and blurring my vision. My arms tingle and ache with the effort of supporting my weight. The coarse rope tears at my ungloved hands and it's all I can do to keep my grip.

I'm grateful for the traveler's reassuring presence. He's climbing down a few feet ahead of me, ready to catch me if my hands should slip. I ask him why he'd want to go down into the ravine again when he's only just made it back up. He barks his bitter laugh.

"If the people on the other side didn't like me," he says. "I can only imagine what they'll think of your friend."

It feels like we're hanging off of that rock face for an eternity. Finally, we reach the tangled branches that conceal the bottom. They tear at my arms as I push my way through, but I barely notice. All I care about is finding Daisuke.

I'm worried about the climb up the other side, despite the traveler's assurances that it's "easy as a summer's breeze". When we get to the bottom, I see there was no need for concern. While the cliff I've just scaled is steep and perilous, the other side can barely call itself a hill.

My stomach is in knots as I charge up the slope. What if Daisuke isn't here? Worse yet, what if something horrible has happened to him?

As I crest the hill, I see him. He's standing a few yards away, shoulders slumped and hands jammed in his pockets. Though he looks dejected, he seems to be in one piece.

Maybe he had the common sense to stay away from the locals, I think.

"DAISUKE!" I screech, forgetting that my throat is still raw from the hour or so that I spent yelling for him earlier. Then I'm running toward him.

Our eyes meet and his face lights up. Any sign of worry disappears without a trace.

"Sam!" he calls out. "I told you everything would be okay!"

* * * * *
"Tonight's the night, Sam!" Daisuke is all but vibrating with anticipation.

I pace the floor of my parents' basement and wish I could share his excitement. These days, it's hard for me to feel enthusiastic about much of anything that goes on in the real world.

We've been planning this for weeks, but I'm still nervous. If it were up to me, we wouldn't be doing it at all. I try one last time to talk him out of it, knowing before I even begin that it's futile.

"You know I can't really control this, right?" I say for the millionth time. "When it's over, I have no idea where we'll end up."

"I know, Sam," he says patiently, "I've seen what happens after the story ends, remember?" This is true. Daisuke knows better than anyone the toll that these trips take on me.

"There's a chance it won't even work at all," I remind him.

"Your trial runs have been very promising," he says.

"There's a big difference between a frog and a person, Daisuke."

"I have faith in you," he says, grinning. "Relax, Sam. It's going to be fine."

I can tell by his smile that he knows he's already won.

* * * * *
I am surrounded by blue and there is no up or down.

For some reason, I'm holding my breath and my chest is starting to hurt. I exhale, try to suck in air, but there is none. Something thick and cool flows into my lungs, heavy as smoke but smoother as it burns its way in. Around me, bubbles rise.

My body is on fire. I'm sputtering and flailing and gasping for breaths that won't come. The world is spinning. I can't make any sense of it.

Water.

I force my body to go limp. After what feels like forever, my face breaks the surface. Sunlight pierces my eyes. I'm coughing so hard I think I might black out or throw up - it's almost impossible to keep my head above water. My eyes adjust and I see a concrete wall not far away. It's hard to move but I force myself to swim to it. When I finally reach the wall, I cling to the rough concrete like a lifeboat.

My arms are rubber. I can barely find the strength to pull myself out. Another fit of coughing overtakes me and I crumple to the ground. The pavement feels like warm sandpaper on my skin but I have no desire to move. After several minutes, I recover enough to look around. I'm back in the real world and it seems as dull as ever.

When I first began taking these trips, returning to the real world was confusing. It took minutes, sometimes hours, before I remembered where I'd been. The memories would come to me in flashes, fragments that didn't always fit together. Though the physical act of coming back is as painful as it's ever been, I remember everything now.

Every time I return, the "real world" feels a little less solid. It's as if the worlds I write are reality now and this other place is the imaginary one.

I hope this isn't reality, because Daisuke isn't here.

Disappear

The sky seems almost too big; it's the deepest blue I've ever seen, dotted with wisps of puffy clouds. I'm standing before a gaping ravine, its bottom obscured by gnarled black branches. On the opposite side of the chasm is a stand of trees - their leaves are a brilliant green.

I stretch and inhale deeply. The air is so clean and pure it stings my lungs.

Other than the canyon and the vivid colors, what I find the most striking is the silence. No birds wheel and call in the sky, and if there are people here, I don't see them. Not even the crash and bang of machines disturbs the quiet.

I'm trying to decide whether it's peaceful or creepy here when it finally hits me.

Daisuke was supposed to be here too.

* * * * *
Daisuke and I are stretched out on lawn chairs in his back yard. There's a nice breeze, and it's like old times - or it would be if he'd just stop nagging me. Ever since he found that matchbook in my pocket, he's been begging me to write him into one of my stories.

"Please, Sam?" he asks, his brown eyes plaintive.

"Daisuke, I already said no," I mutter, looking away.

"Come on, it'd be fun!"

"And by fun you mean incredibly dangerous?"

"You always seem to make it out okay." He's pouting now, as if that will change my mind.

"That's pretty funny, considering how often you have to come to my rescue."

"Well, if I were with you in the first place..." he says, his voice trailing off.

"I'd probably just drag you down with me," I sigh.

This power is a gift, but it's also torn my life apart. Though I wouldn't give it up for anything, I'm not about to let it hurt the one friend I have left.

"I'll be fine, Sam," he insists. "We'll look out for each other, just like we always do."

* * * * *
Though I call Daisuke's name until I'm hoarse, the only response is the hollow echo of my own voice. Suppressing the urge to panic, I sit down on the rocky ledge. Plumes of dust swirl up from the ground beneath me, pale against the too-blue sky. I hug my knees and contemplate what to do next.

Maybe he didn't make it here at all. There's no way for me to find out unless I go home too. Since I can't return from the story world at will, this possibility is out. Besides, what if he's here somewhere? I don't know what would happen if I left without him - the possibilities are enough to make me shudder.

Before I've come up with any answers, I hear rocks falling in the ravine below. I look down to see a person emerging from the knot of branches. For a moment, I'm filled with relief, but as the figure continues to inch upward I can see it's not Daisuke. Instead, it's an older man with dusty brown hair. He's climbing up a rope I didn't notice until now.

My palms are slick with nervous sweat as I watch the strange man's slow ascent. When he heaves himself over the lip of the canyon with a loud groan, I want to pepper him with questions. By the time I've waited for him to catch his breath, it's too late. He's cursing under his breath and muttering about "rude bastards" and "xenophobes".

"Excuse me?" I say.

Startled, the man straightens up and looks at me for the first time. "And who might you be?" he asks with an accent I can't place. Dressed in a long leather coat, gloves, and pants so covered in dust it's hard to determine their original color, he is studying me with great interest.

"I'm Sam," I tell him, offering my hand.

"Not from around here, are you?" he says, taking my hand slowly. He holds it limply, as if he's not sure what to do with it. "Lucky for you, I'm not like the people on the other side. A ruder bunch I've never met in my life!"

"The other side?" I ask. I'm not really interested, but maybe this man can help me find Daisuke.

"My whole life, I've wondered if there were people on the other side of the ravine," he says with a bitter laugh.

"I could hear their whispers the moment I walked into their godforsaken tavern. My hair, my clothes, my accent - hell, even the way I walked - were different, foreign. A deaf man could have heard them snickering behind their hands, but I ignored them until they began openly mocking me. When they started buzzing about the 'vulgar' way I drank from my straw, I'd had enough. I gave them what for and walked out."

"They don't sound very pleasant," I agree, doing my best to feign interest.

"Pleasant? Hell, I've seen warthogs with better manners," he snorts.

Nodding, I look at him with what I hope is a sympathetic gaze. Drawing a deep breath, I steel myself to ask the question before he rambles on for another ten minutes. Before I can say a word, though, he speaks again.

"You know, it's a damn shame I didn't warn that other traveler about them. He looked even more out of place than I."

* * * * *
"How's your research going?" Daisuke asks as we sit at a table in our favorite diner. Though my burger is cooked perfectly, it tastes like sand in my mouth. These days, everything in the real world seems muted somehow.

Since I know he'll never let up until I give in, I've begun testing the limits of my powers. The matchbook proved that I could bring items back from the story world, but I need to know if the reverse holds true. My first experiments were with paper clips and fruit, but now I've moved on to bigger and better things.

"It's looking pretty promising," I say, with more enthusiasm than I feel.

"Really? Tell me more," he says, excited as a kid on Christmas morning.

"I caught a tree frog in my parents' back yard," I tell him. "He's my first live test subject, and he passed with flying colors."

What I don't tell him is that my frog experiment was preceded by weeks of sleepless nights. Tossing and turning, I dreamed of tiny hopping creatures trapped between worlds. On one memorable night, every time I closed my eyes, visions of exploding frogs danced behind my lids. If the idea of hurting a frog scares me this much, how can I put my best friend at risk?

"So... is it time yet?" he asks breathlessly.

My heart sinks. If it were up to me, it would never be time. There are too many things that could go wrong - and if they do, I'll never forgive myself.

"I still think this is a really bad idea," I say, "but I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

* * * * *
My descent into the ravine is so slow it's painful. Sweat pours down my face, stinging my eyes and blurring my vision. My arms tingle and ache with the effort of supporting my weight. The coarse rope tears at my ungloved hands and it's all I can do to keep my grip.

I'm grateful for the traveler's reassuring presence. He's climbing down a few feet ahead of me, ready to catch me if my hands should slip. I ask him why he'd want to go down into the ravine again when he's only just made it back up. He barks his bitter laugh.

"If the people on the other side didn't like me," he says. "I can only imagine what they'll think of your friend."

It feels like we're hanging off of that rock face for an eternity. Finally, we reach the tangled branches that conceal the bottom. They tear at my arms as I push my way through, but I barely notice. All I care about is finding Daisuke.

I'm worried about the climb up the other side, despite the traveler's assurances that it's "easy as a summer's breeze". When we get to the bottom, I see there was no need for concern. While the cliff I've just scaled is steep and perilous, the other side can barely call itself a hill.

My stomach is in knots as I charge up the slope. What if Daisuke isn't here? Worse yet, what if something horrible has happened to him?

As I crest the hill, I see him. He's standing a few yards away, shoulders slumped and hands jammed in his pockets. Though he looks dejected, he seems to be in one piece.

Maybe he had the common sense to stay away from the locals, I think.

"DAISUKE!" I screech, forgetting that my throat is still raw from the hour or so that I spent yelling for him earlier. Then I'm running toward him.

Our eyes meet and his face lights up. Any sign of worry disappears without a trace.

"Sam!" he calls out. "I told you everything would be okay!"

* * * * *
"Tonight's the night, Sam!" Daisuke is all but vibrating with anticipation.

I pace the floor of my parents' basement and wish I could share his excitement. These days, it's hard for me to feel enthusiastic about much of anything that goes on in the real world.

We've been planning this for weeks, but I'm still nervous. If it were up to me, we wouldn't be doing it at all. I try one last time to talk him out of it, knowing before I even begin that it's futile.

"You know I can't really control this, right?" I say for the millionth time. "When it's over, I have no idea where we'll end up."

"I know, Sam," he says patiently, "I've seen what happens after the story ends, remember?" This is true. Daisuke knows better than anyone the toll that these trips take on me.

"There's a chance it won't even work at all," I remind him.

"Your trial runs have been very promising," he says.

"There's a big difference between a frog and a person, Daisuke."

"I have faith in you," he says, grinning. "Relax, Sam. It's going to be fine."

I can tell by his smile that he knows he's already won.

* * * * *
I am surrounded by blue and there is no up or down.

For some reason, I'm holding my breath and my chest is starting to hurt. I exhale, try to suck in air, but there is none. Something thick and cool flows into my lungs, heavy as smoke but smoother as it burns its way in. Around me, bubbles rise.

My body is on fire. I'm sputtering and flailing and gasping for breaths that won't come. The world is spinning. I can't make any sense of it.

Water.

I force my body to go limp. After what feels like forever, my face breaks the surface. Sunlight pierces my eyes. I'm coughing so hard I think I might black out or throw up - it's almost impossible to keep my head above water. My eyes adjust and I see a concrete wall not far away. It's hard to move but I force myself to swim to it. When I finally reach the wall, I cling to the rough concrete like a lifeboat.

My arms are rubber. I can barely find the strength to pull myself out. Another fit of coughing overtakes me and I crumple to the ground. The pavement feels like warm sandpaper on my skin but I have no desire to move. After several minutes, I recover enough to look around. I'm back in the real world and it seems as dull as ever.

When I first began taking these trips, returning to the real world was confusing. It took minutes, sometimes hours, before I remembered where I'd been. The memories would come to me in flashes, fragments that didn't always fit together. Though the physical act of coming back is as painful as it's ever been, I remember everything now.

Every time I return, the "real world" feels a little less solid. It's as if the worlds I write are reality now and this other place is the imaginary one.

I hope this isn't reality, because Daisuke isn't here.

Appropriation

I'm standing in front of a gaping ravine. It's the same one I climbed down just before I saw Daisuke for the last time. For a moment I'm filled with relief - I've finally made it back. If I can just get back down there, I can bring him home. The descent will be much harder without the traveler to help me, but I'll manage.

As I reach for the coil of rope that's tied to my belt, I notice my hands.

Am I dreaming?

The world begins to dissolve around me; I scream in disappointment.

* * * * *
I open my eyes to sunlight filtering through the blinds. Rolling over, I pull the covers up to block it out. Then I remember, and I tear my hands free. Staring at them, I try to swallow the rising panic.

Not dreaming.

Ever hopeful, I glance at the clock. 8 am. I rub my eyes and look again. The glowing blue numerals are implacable. Still 8 am.

I'm sorry, Daisuke. I've failed you again.

Hot tears sting my eyes and I bury my face in my pillow. Ever since I left him in the story world, I've been trying to get back to that ravine. So far, my failures have been spectacular. Writing myself back into the story hasn't worked - with each botched attempt, I've lost a little more control. The last time was the worst. Even the memory makes me shudder.

I am floating in an immense blackness. Though my throat tenses with ripping screams, no sound reaches my ears. The air is thick and viscous; it fills my lungs and chokes away my voice. My body convulses in silent agony. I'm drowning again, like the swimming pool on the day I lost Daisuke. A calm steals over me and my muscles relax.

That's the last thing I remember. Since then, I've stopped writing. The injuries I've brought back from the story world seem real enough. What would happen if I died there? I want more than anything to save my best friend, but I can't do that if I'm dead.

Waves of dizziness wash over me as I sit up and get out of bed. I'm not sure when I ate last. Food isn't appealing, but it's a necessity if I want to keep going. I'm about to head for the kitchen when the flashing light on my cell phone catches my eye. Some days I forget to charge the damn thing. I don't get many calls since Daisuke's been gone. Today, though, there's a text message waiting. It's from Daisuke's friend Andrew.

Hey Sam, you seen Daisuke lately? He hasn't been returning my calls.

It's like I've been punched in the stomach. Breakfast forgotten, I crawl back under the covers and cry.

* * * * *
The vast blue sky stretches out before me. Below it is the ravine. I'm standing in front of it again, looking down into the tangle of stunted black trees. The climb will be treacherous, but I've done it before. I can do it again.

At least I finally made it back here. I can save Daisuke.

Then I remember. I look down at my hands.

Am I dreaming?

The scenery begins to swim and fade, but I catch myself.

Wait! Stay in the dream.

I rub my hands together, focus on palm meeting palm. The swirling grayness resolves once more into a landscape. The sky brightens to a too-deep blue and the dust swirls in my face. Once more, I'm staring into that damnable ravine.

I did it!

Triumph washes over me, and the color bleeds out of the world. Just like that, it shimmers and disappears.

* * * * *
By now it's automatic; my hands come up in front of my face.

In the dark, I focus on their outlines. Though I already know I've failed, I glance at the clock. 5 am. I look away and then back; the numbers taunt me. Still 5 am. Bitter disappointment creeps up into my throat like bile.

I always dream of the ravine now - ever since I stopped writing.

Stretching, I get out of bed and brew a pot of coffee. My hair hangs lank and greasy in my eyes, and I brush it away. I consider a shower, but decide it's pointless - I never see anyone these days anyway. Instead, I sit down at my computer. Opening my email, I see a message from a member of the dream forum I frequent.

Hey Sam,

I hear your frustration. You want to master lucid dreaming right now, but just remember it takes time. The fact that you're already remembering to look at your hands in the dream is a great sign! Doing those "reality checks" is the best way to tell if you're asleep or awake. Recognizing that you're dreaming is the beginning of lucidity. You've even managed to extend the dream state a bit by focusing on a physical action. Now you just have to keep at it!

Try not to be so hard on yourself. Pushing too hard will just hold you back. Remember, you've got the rest of your life to learn this!

- Dave

The words are meant to be encouraging, but they bring me to tears. Maybe Dave had the rest of his life, but I don't. I have to master these techniques now so I can adapt them for use in the story world. If I do that, I can save Daisuke - and if I can't, it's not worth doing anything else.

* * * * *
I'm standing at the edge of the ravine, just like a million times before. Behind it stretches that great expanse of too-blue sky. Without even thinking, I lift my hands and study them.

Dreaming again.

This time, I catch myself before the realization distracts me. I rub my hands together. Colors remain as brilliant as ever. The landscape does not blur or fade.

Yes!

Joy overtakes me; I'm finally getting the hang of this! A single moment of happiness is all it takes for me to lose my grip. The scenery fades away before I can stop it.

* * * * *
I wake to the quiet of my room once again. It is dim but not black; the sun must be coming up. My hands are in front of my face. I look at them and my heart sinks.

So close, but I failed again.

Choking back tears, I look at the clock. The blue digits flash a silent accusation. 6:13 am. Knowing there's no point, I close my eyes and re-open them. 6:07 am.

What?

I turn away and back again. The clock says 4:18 am now.

Still dreaming.

I'm rubbing my hands together, trying to stave off the rush of emotion. The scene changes. It's that damned ravine again, but I don't even have to check my hands this time to know I'm still in the dream. Taking deep breaths, I concentrate on staying calm.

Try something else now. If it's a dream, you can fly.

I don't give the fear a chance to take over. Instead, I back away from the chasm so I can get a running start. Then without another thought, I charge toward the ravine. When I reach the edge, I spread my arms and leap.

For a moment I'm falling. And then...

I'm airborne. There is no way to describe this feeling. Something is welling up inside me and I don't have words to explain what it is. I'm suffused with joy and light. The air is rushing past me and tears are streaming from my eyes. I've never felt so free.

I am in control.

Daisuke, I'm coming to find you.

Appropriation

I'm standing in front of a gaping ravine. It's the same one I climbed down just before I saw Daisuke for the last time. For a moment I'm filled with relief - I've finally made it back. If I can just get back down there, I can bring him home. The descent will be much harder without the traveler to help me, but I'll manage.

As I reach for the coil of rope that's tied to my belt, I notice my hands.

Am I dreaming?

The world begins to dissolve around me; I scream in disappointment.

* * * * *
I open my eyes to sunlight filtering through the blinds. Rolling over, I pull the covers up to block it out. Then I remember, and I tear my hands free. Staring at them, I try to swallow the rising panic.

Not dreaming.

Ever hopeful, I glance at the clock. 8 am. I rub my eyes and look again. The glowing blue numerals are implacable. Still 8 am.

I'm sorry, Daisuke. I've failed you again.

Hot tears sting my eyes and I bury my face in my pillow. Ever since I left him in the story world, I've been trying to get back to that ravine. So far, my failures have been spectacular. Writing myself back into the story hasn't worked - with each botched attempt, I've lost a little more control. The last time was the worst. Even the memory makes me shudder.

I am floating in an immense blackness. Though my throat tenses with ripping screams, no sound reaches my ears. The air is thick and viscous; it fills my lungs and chokes away my voice. My body convulses in silent agony. I'm drowning again, like the swimming pool on the day I lost Daisuke. A calm steals over me and my muscles relax.

That's the last thing I remember. Since then, I've stopped writing. The injuries I've brought back from the story world seem real enough. What would happen if I died there? I want more than anything to save my best friend, but I can't do that if I'm dead.

Waves of dizziness wash over me as I sit up and get out of bed. I'm not sure when I ate last. Food isn't appealing, but it's a necessity if I want to keep going. I'm about to head for the kitchen when the flashing light on my cell phone catches my eye. Some days I forget to charge the damn thing. I don't get many calls since Daisuke's been gone. Today, though, there's a text message waiting. It's from Daisuke's friend Andrew.

Hey Sam, you seen Daisuke lately? He hasn't been returning my calls.

It's like I've been punched in the stomach. Breakfast forgotten, I crawl back under the covers and cry.

* * * * *
The vast blue sky stretches out before me. Below it is the ravine. I'm standing in front of it again, looking down into the tangle of stunted black trees. The climb will be treacherous, but I've done it before. I can do it again.

At least I finally made it back here. I can save Daisuke.

Then I remember. I look down at my hands.

Am I dreaming?

The scenery begins to swim and fade, but I catch myself.

Wait! Stay in the dream.

I rub my hands together, focus on palm meeting palm. The swirling grayness resolves once more into a landscape. The sky brightens to a too-deep blue and the dust swirls in my face. Once more, I'm staring into that damnable ravine.

I did it!

Triumph washes over me, and the color bleeds out of the world. Just like that, it shimmers and disappears.

* * * * *
By now it's automatic; my hands come up in front of my face.

In the dark, I focus on their outlines. Though I already know I've failed, I glance at the clock. 5 am. I look away and then back; the numbers taunt me. Still 5 am. Bitter disappointment creeps up into my throat like bile.

I always dream of the ravine now - ever since I stopped writing.

Stretching, I get out of bed and brew a pot of coffee. My hair hangs lank and greasy in my eyes, and I brush it away. I consider a shower, but decide it's pointless - I never see anyone these days anyway. Instead, I sit down at my computer. Opening my email, I see a message from a member of the dream forum I frequent.

Hey Sam,

I hear your frustration. You want to master lucid dreaming right now, but just remember it takes time. The fact that you're already remembering to look at your hands in the dream is a great sign! Doing those "reality checks" is the best way to tell if you're asleep or awake. Recognizing that you're dreaming is the beginning of lucidity. You've even managed to extend the dream state a bit by focusing on a physical action. Now you just have to keep at it!

Try not to be so hard on yourself. Pushing too hard will just hold you back. Remember, you've got the rest of your life to learn this!

- Dave

The words are meant to be encouraging, but they bring me to tears. Maybe Dave had the rest of his life, but I don't. I have to master these techniques now so I can adapt them for use in the story world. If I do that, I can save Daisuke - and if I can't, it's not worth doing anything else.

* * * * *
I'm standing at the edge of the ravine, just like a million times before. Behind it stretches that great expanse of too-blue sky. Without even thinking, I lift my hands and study them.

Dreaming again.

This time, I catch myself before the realization distracts me. I rub my hands together. Colors remain as brilliant as ever. The landscape does not blur or fade.

Yes!

Joy overtakes me; I'm finally getting the hang of this! A single moment of happiness is all it takes for me to lose my grip. The scenery fades away before I can stop it.

* * * * *
I wake to the quiet of my room once again. It is dim but not black; the sun must be coming up. My hands are in front of my face. I look at them and my heart sinks.

So close, but I failed again.

Choking back tears, I look at the clock. The blue digits flash a silent accusation. 6:13 am. Knowing there's no point, I close my eyes and re-open them. 6:07 am.

What?

I turn away and back again. The clock says 4:18 am now.

Still dreaming.

I'm rubbing my hands together, trying to stave off the rush of emotion. The scene changes. It's that damned ravine again, but I don't even have to check my hands this time to know I'm still in the dream. Taking deep breaths, I concentrate on staying calm.

Try something else now. If it's a dream, you can fly.

I don't give the fear a chance to take over. Instead, I back away from the chasm so I can get a running start. Then without another thought, I charge toward the ravine. When I reach the edge, I spread my arms and leap.

For a moment I'm falling. And then...

I'm airborne. There is no way to describe this feeling. Something is welling up inside me and I don't have words to explain what it is. I'm suffused with joy and light. The air is rushing past me and tears are streaming from my eyes. I've never felt so free.

I am in control.

Daisuke, I'm coming to find you.

Gobsmacked

I've been walking for over an hour when I reach the village with the wooden sign labeled "Cliffton". My climb down the ravine and back up again has left me filthy and drenched in sweat. The people on the other side offered nothing but jeers and sneers - no news of Daisuke.

Passing the signpost, I enter the village. It's made up of small thatched huts and rutted dirt roads. One of these houses must belong to the traveler who helped me the last time I was here. My gut clenches with nervousness at the thought of knocking on random doors to look for him.

The people here can't be any meaner than the ones on the other side, I think. Besides, there's really no other choice.

Dust is whipping through the air. It settles for a moment and I notice two men standing not far from me. Only one is facing me, but I recognize him in an instant. It's the traveler! He's talking to another man, tall and well-built with long dark hair. His back is to me and I can't help staring at his rear.

"Really, Sam?" I mutter. I'm supposed to be finding Daisuke, not checking out strange men.

At the sound of my voice, the traveler's companion turns and looks my way. Our eyes meet and my stomach does an odd flip. And then I'm too busy screeching with joy and launching myself at him to be embarrassed, because it's Daisuke.

I throw my arms around his neck and he squeezes me so hard I can't breathe. It doesn't matter. Everything about him feels different, but I don't care about that either. He wasn't this muscly before, and he smells wrong, too - I guess they don't have his aftershave in Cliffton. Still, it's him and I don't want to let go.

He breaks the embrace and steps away. I feel self-conscious in his presence for the first time I can remember. No wonder I didn't recognize him at first. When I left him here, he was thin and his hair was short and spiky. Now it's past his shoulders, he's tanned, and he's put on at least 20 pounds of muscle. This place has apparently been good for him - he looks great.

"Um, Daisuke? How long has it been since I left?"

* * * * *
I'm crouching behind some trees in front of a small house. In the distance, I can hear the rush of a river. Apart from Cliffton, this is the first world I've visited more than once. Until today, I didn't know why.

The man with the bright white hair is sitting on the front step, head in his hands. He calls himself the Straw Man, and I've been watching him for weeks. Most days, his step is light and carefree. Today, he looks like the world is on his shoulders.

I'm at his side before he looks up. He's really off his game today. I lay a hand on his shoulder and he jumps. He isn't used to people coming here. Gray eyes wide, he looks at me.

"You're... like me?" he says.

"Not exactly. But I'm sure as hell not normal."

He winces as if he's got a headache. "It doesn't work on you."

"It doesn't have to. I'm just here to talk. You look like you need a friend."

"I just..." He trails off, then tries again. "I don't feel right anymore. Ever since I touched his mind. The broken man." There's no distrust in his gaze. Though he's got to be at least a few years older than I am, his eyes are clear and childlike.

"I haven't felt right in ages," I say, sitting down next to him on the bricks, "You get used to it after a while."

* * * * *
The sun is setting and a late spring breeze is blowing. Daisuke and I are sitting in his backyard the way we have so many times before. It's not the same, though - nothing is anymore. He's barely here even though he's sitting right beside me. I'm pretty sure I know what he's going through but I don't know how to help.

"I think I made a new friend today," I say.

"Really?" he says. He's staring off into space, a million miles away. I don't know why I bother.

"Yeah, in one of my stories. Isn't that weird?" That gets his attention. His dark eyes flash with anger I wasn't expecting.

"Great, another reason for you to be gone all the time."

"It's not like you notice when I am here anyway," I point out.

"I always notice, Sam. I'm just not ready to talk, okay? How long did I wait for you to tell me about your power?"

"That's completely different. You wouldn't have believed me." I look away, and my voice is barely a whisper. "You didn't believe me, Daisuke."

"Am I supposed to apologize for that again?"

"No!" I practically yell. This is not how I wanted this conversation to go at all. "I just... I just want my best friend back, okay?"

Daisuke looks at the ground and says nothing. He hasn't cut his hair since he came home. It falls in front of his face now, a black curtain hiding his eyes. Just one more thing between us.

* * * * *
He calls himself the Straw Man, and we've become friends. Sometimes we sit by the river, and other times we feed ducks at the park. He doesn't talk much, but I don't mind.

It's raining as I knock on his door. He steps back and waves me inside. Something's different - a second overstuffed chair in the living room. He's made a place for me. It's a thing I haven't had in what feels like forever. The simple gesture brings tears to my eyes.

"You didn't have to do that," I say.

"I wanted you to feel welcome. It's been so long since I've had a friend."

Just like that, I'm crying. Friends are a touchy subject for me these days.

"Daisuke?" he asks. I nod.

"He won't talk to me anymore. It's like he's mad and I don't know why."

The Straw Man says nothing for a long time. The silence stretches out before us but it doesn't hurt. He doesn't have to say a word.

"If I could touch your mind, I could help you find an answer," he finally says.

"It's okay," I tell him. "Just talking is enough."

* * * * *
It's almost fall, and the evening is cool and breezy. Daisuke and I are sitting on lawn chairs behind his house like always. The air is clean and crisp. It would be a lovely night, if we weren't having the same tired conversation for the millionth time.

"You haven't been around much lately," he says. I sigh, knowing this isn't going anywhere good.

"Yeah, I've been traveling a lot."

"Traveling?" he snorts. "Is that what you're calling it now? Like it's your job?"

I don't have anything to say to that. It seems he's always angry at me these days.

He breaks the silence. "You're going to see him, aren't you?"

"Why, are you jealous?" I shoot back.

"I just don't get why you're always visiting some guy who barely even talks."

"Like you ever talk to me anymore either," I mumble under my breath.

"What?"

"What's the point in sticking around here anyway? You never talk to me. I hate it here."

"I'm here, Sam."

"Yeah," I can feel the bitterness creeping into my voice. "Only you're not anymore. Not really."

Daisuke doesn't respond. He studies his fingernails intently.

"Come on, Daisuke. How long are you going to punish me for... for whatever I did wrong?"

"You never even considered what I wanted, Sam." He's glaring at me, eyes hard just like the rest of him now. "It's always about you and your power."

"What are you talking about?" I'm genuinely shocked.

"When you came rushing in to 'save' me..." He looks away.

"What was I supposed to do - leave you there?"

"It's just..." His voice trails off and he won't look at me. "Maybe I was happy."

"You're not like me, Daisuke. You have a life here."

"I had a life here, but that was a year and a half ago. I had a best friend, but even before I left, I was losing her," he says quietly. "Why do you think I wanted to go with you so badly?"

"Daisuke, I'll always be your friend." I get up and wrap my arms around him. His body stiffens but I don't let go.

* * * * *
It's a stormy night, and I'm sitting in the Straw Man's living room. Raindrops beat against the roof; it's a soothing sound.

"Daisuke finally talked to me," I say. "But it only made things worse. I don't know what to do."

"Be his friend, Sam."

"I'm trying! He won't let me." For the millionth time, I dissolve into tears. I hate this.

He looks at me with a gentle smile. "Keep trying."

Suddenly, he flinches and goes pale. He looks like he's going to be sick.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

The Straw Man takes a deep breath, nods slowly and holds up one finger. Wait.

He watches me for a while, head cocked, listening to words I can't hear. Emotions flicker across his face, as if he's having an inner debate. It seems like hours before he finally speaks.

"He loves you too - he's just not ready to admit it. Give it time."

Gobsmacked

I've been walking for over an hour when I reach the village with the wooden sign labeled "Cliffton". My climb down the ravine and back up again has left me filthy and drenched in sweat. The people on the other side offered nothing but jeers and sneers - no news of Daisuke.

Passing the signpost, I enter the village. It's made up of small thatched huts and rutted dirt roads. One of these houses must belong to the traveler who helped me the last time I was here. My gut clenches with nervousness at the thought of knocking on random doors to look for him.

The people here can't be any meaner than the ones on the other side, I think. Besides, there's really no other choice.

Dust is whipping through the air. It settles for a moment and I notice two men standing not far from me. Only one is facing me, but I recognize him in an instant. It's the traveler! He's talking to another man, tall and well-built with long dark hair. His back is to me and I can't help staring at his rear.

"Really, Sam?" I mutter. I'm supposed to be finding Daisuke, not checking out strange men.

At the sound of my voice, the traveler's companion turns and looks my way. Our eyes meet and my stomach does an odd flip. And then I'm too busy screeching with joy and launching myself at him to be embarrassed, because it's Daisuke.

I throw my arms around his neck and he squeezes me so hard I can't breathe. It doesn't matter. Everything about him feels different, but I don't care about that either. He wasn't this muscly before, and he smells wrong, too - I guess they don't have his aftershave in Cliffton. Still, it's him and I don't want to let go.

He breaks the embrace and steps away. I feel self-conscious in his presence for the first time I can remember. No wonder I didn't recognize him at first. When I left him here, he was thin and his hair was short and spiky. Now it's past his shoulders, he's tanned, and he's put on at least 20 pounds of muscle. This place has apparently been good for him - he looks great.

"Um, Daisuke? How long has it been since I left?"

* * * * *
I'm crouching behind some trees in front of a small house. In the distance, I can hear the rush of a river. Apart from Cliffton, this is the first world I've visited more than once. Until today, I didn't know why.

The man with the bright white hair is sitting on the front step, head in his hands. He calls himself the Straw Man, and I've been watching him for weeks. Most days, his step is light and carefree. Today, he looks like the world is on his shoulders.

I'm at his side before he looks up. He's really off his game today. I lay a hand on his shoulder and he jumps. He isn't used to people coming here. Gray eyes wide, he looks at me.

"You're... like me?" he says.

"Not exactly. But I'm sure as hell not normal."

He winces as if he's got a headache. "It doesn't work on you."

"It doesn't have to. I'm just here to talk. You look like you need a friend."

"I just..." He trails off, then tries again. "I don't feel right anymore. Ever since I touched his mind. The broken man." There's no distrust in his gaze. Though he's got to be at least a few years older than I am, his eyes are clear and childlike.

"I haven't felt right in ages," I say, sitting down next to him on the bricks, "You get used to it after a while."

* * * * *
The sun is setting and a late spring breeze is blowing. Daisuke and I are sitting in his backyard the way we have so many times before. It's not the same, though - nothing is anymore. He's barely here even though he's sitting right beside me. I'm pretty sure I know what he's going through but I don't know how to help.

"I think I made a new friend today," I say.

"Really?" he says. He's staring off into space, a million miles away. I don't know why I bother.

"Yeah, in one of my stories. Isn't that weird?" That gets his attention. His dark eyes flash with anger I wasn't expecting.

"Great, another reason for you to be gone all the time."

"It's not like you notice when I am here anyway," I point out.

"I always notice, Sam. I'm just not ready to talk, okay? How long did I wait for you to tell me about your power?"

"That's completely different. You wouldn't have believed me." I look away, and my voice is barely a whisper. "You didn't believe me, Daisuke."

"Am I supposed to apologize for that again?"

"No!" I practically yell. This is not how I wanted this conversation to go at all. "I just... I just want my best friend back, okay?"

Daisuke looks at the ground and says nothing. He hasn't cut his hair since he came home. It falls in front of his face now, a black curtain hiding his eyes. Just one more thing between us.

* * * * *
He calls himself the Straw Man, and we've become friends. Sometimes we sit by the river, and other times we feed ducks at the park. He doesn't talk much, but I don't mind.

It's raining as I knock on his door. He steps back and waves me inside. Something's different - a second overstuffed chair in the living room. He's made a place for me. It's a thing I haven't had in what feels like forever. The simple gesture brings tears to my eyes.

"You didn't have to do that," I say.

"I wanted you to feel welcome. It's been so long since I've had a friend."

Just like that, I'm crying. Friends are a touchy subject for me these days.

"Daisuke?" he asks. I nod.

"He won't talk to me anymore. It's like he's mad and I don't know why."

The Straw Man says nothing for a long time. The silence stretches out before us but it doesn't hurt. He doesn't have to say a word.

"If I could touch your mind, I could help you find an answer," he finally says.

"It's okay," I tell him. "Just talking is enough."

* * * * *
It's almost fall, and the evening is cool and breezy. Daisuke and I are sitting on lawn chairs behind his house like always. The air is clean and crisp. It would be a lovely night, if we weren't having the same tired conversation for the millionth time.

"You haven't been around much lately," he says. I sigh, knowing this isn't going anywhere good.

"Yeah, I've been traveling a lot."

"Traveling?" he snorts. "Is that what you're calling it now? Like it's your job?"

I don't have anything to say to that. It seems he's always angry at me these days.

He breaks the silence. "You're going to see him, aren't you?"

"Why, are you jealous?" I shoot back.

"I just don't get why you're always visiting some guy who barely even talks."

"Like you ever talk to me anymore either," I mumble under my breath.

"What?"

"What's the point in sticking around here anyway? You never talk to me. I hate it here."

"I'm here, Sam."

"Yeah," I can feel the bitterness creeping into my voice. "Only you're not anymore. Not really."

Daisuke doesn't respond. He studies his fingernails intently.

"Come on, Daisuke. How long are you going to punish me for... for whatever I did wrong?"

"You never even considered what I wanted, Sam." He's glaring at me, eyes hard just like the rest of him now. "It's always about you and your power."

"What are you talking about?" I'm genuinely shocked.

"When you came rushing in to 'save' me..." He looks away.

"What was I supposed to do - leave you there?"

"It's just..." His voice trails off and he won't look at me. "Maybe I was happy."

"You're not like me, Daisuke. You have a life here."

"I had a life here, but that was a year and a half ago. I had a best friend, but even before I left, I was losing her," he says quietly. "Why do you think I wanted to go with you so badly?"

"Daisuke, I'll always be your friend." I get up and wrap my arms around him. His body stiffens but I don't let go.

* * * * *
It's a stormy night, and I'm sitting in the Straw Man's living room. Raindrops beat against the roof; it's a soothing sound.

"Daisuke finally talked to me," I say. "But it only made things worse. I don't know what to do."

"Be his friend, Sam."

"I'm trying! He won't let me." For the millionth time, I dissolve into tears. I hate this.

He looks at me with a gentle smile. "Keep trying."

Suddenly, he flinches and goes pale. He looks like he's going to be sick.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

The Straw Man takes a deep breath, nods slowly and holds up one finger. Wait.

He watches me for a while, head cocked, listening to words I can't hear. Emotions flicker across his face, as if he's having an inner debate. It seems like hours before he finally speaks.

"He loves you too - he's just not ready to admit it. Give it time."

Artifice

"Did you find a date for Prom?" I ask Daisuke. Digging into my frozen yogurt, I ignore his pained expression.

"I already told you," he says, "I don't want a date for Prom."

"But it's your senior year! Won't you feel like you missed out if you don't go?"

"Not really," Daisuke says. "School dances are pointless anyway."

"You just think it's pointless because you don't have a date," I tell him. Daisuke looks at me funny for a minute, like he's trying to figure something out. Then he laughs.

"Hey, if you're so interested, why don't you go?"

"I don't have a date either. Besides, I'm not the one graduating this year," I say, looking away. All of a sudden, I don't like the direction this conversation is taking. I swirl my plastic spoon through my yogurt, trying not to think about Daisuke going off to college and leaving me here, minus one best friend.

"Is there even any yogurt in there, or is it all Oreos?" I tease, pointing at his paper cup with its mountain of cookie crumbles, gummy worms, and other assorted sugary toppings. Changing the subject is easier.

"What's wrong with Oreos?"

"Nothing," I say, "except this is a frozen yogurt place."

"Hey," Daisuke says. "Do you want to come over after this? We can play Rock Band or whatever."

"Yeah, sure," I reply, breathing an inward sigh of relief. Sure, Prom is in a month and graduation isn't long after. For now, I'd rather not think about that. Why ruin the time we still have together?

* * * * *
Taking my yearbook off my bookshelf, I flip through the pages of photos. This isn't idle nostalgia - I've got a plan. If Daisuke won't ask anyone to Prom, I'm going to do it for him. Now all I have to do is find the right girl.

"Hmmmm," I say to myself, "no cheerbunnies... this girl looks too fake... and her nose is too big."

This is harder than I expected. For one thing, I don't really know that many girls in Daisuke's class. For another, no one seems good enough for my best friend. Maybe I need a new strategy.

Common interests? I wonder, chewing on my nails. He's in band.

Turning to the group photo of last year's band members, I examine every face. My eyes fall upon a petite girl with a halo of orange curls. She's the only one with a real smile, as if she's actually happy instead of just cheesing it up for the camera.

She's the one, I think. Daisuke deserves someone genuine.

I unzip my bookbag and pull out a spiral notebook. Opening it, I tear out a page and begin to write. Phase one of my scheme is complete; I've found a girl for Daisuke. Now all I have to do is make her love him.

* * * * *
Two weeks later, I'm sitting on my bed, listening to music. My phone rings and I grab for it. It's Daisuke's ringtone. Excited, I press the button . Maybe my plan has worked and he has a date!

"Hey, Daisuke," I say, hoping I sound normal. My heart is pounding in my ears.

For a moment, Daisuke doesn't say anything. He's silent for so long that I start to wonder if we've been disconnected. I'm about to hang up and call him back when he finally speaks.

"Um, Sam?" he says. Is it just my imagination or does he sound kind of pissed off?

"Yeah?"

"Do you, by any chance, have some idea why Kathleen Sullivan threw a bunch of notes in my face and called me a 'fucking psycho' in front of everyone in the band room?"

"Um... well... uh..." This isn't good at all. I fumble for words. "She did that?"

Dead silence. My mind races and my heart feels like it's going to jump into my throat.

"Come on, Sam," Daisuke finally says, his voice cold. "Quit playing dumb. The handwriting on those notes was yours."

"I'm not playing dumb! I just don't know what to say."

"How many notes did you send her?" he demands.

"Just one a day," I tell him. "I wanted her to know you were really interested."

"Sam, what the hell?" He's practically yelling now. I have to hold the phone away from my ear.

"I didn't mean to - I mean, um... I just wanted to help you enjoy your senior year and - "

"Sam?"

"Uh, yeah, Daisuke?"

"Could you please not 'help' me anymore? Like, ever again?"

"I'm sorry... I just - " My voice trails off as I realize I'm speaking to no one but empty air.

* * * * *
My stomach does backflips as I climb Daisuke's front steps. He hasn't spoken to me all week and I can't say I blame him. I can't give up, though, so I take a deep breath and ring the bell.

He has to forgive me sometime, right?

When he opens the door, he stares me down and doesn't speak. At least the door is open, though. I stick my foot inside before he can change his mind and slam it shut.

"Daisuke, I... um, here." Digging in my pocket, I pull out a folded piece of notebook paper.

"Another note? Seriously?" His expression is thunderous. It's a good thing I have my foot in the door.

"No, come on, please... just read it."

Daisuke takes the piece of paper and unfolds it with a reluctant sigh.

"Dear Daisuke, I just want you to know that you're my best friend in the whole world and I am so sorry I messed up. All I wanted was for you to find a girl who is real and makes your last months here really special. I know you're mad but I'm going to write you a note every day until you forgive me. Love, Sam."

When he finishes reading, Daisuke just stands there, saying nothing.

Great, I think. I knew this wouldn't work. He's still mad.

Then he grabs me and hugs me so hard I feel dizzy.

"What the hell?" Why is he hugging me like that?

"How am I supposed to stay mad at you, Sam?"

"Uh... I guess you're not?"

I'm never going to understand him, but if he's happy, I am too.

Artifice

"Did you find a date for Prom?" I ask Daisuke. Digging into my frozen yogurt, I ignore his pained expression.

"I already told you," he says, "I don't want a date for Prom."

"But it's your senior year! Won't you feel like you missed out if you don't go?"

"Not really," Daisuke says. "School dances are pointless anyway."

"You just think it's pointless because you don't have a date," I tell him. Daisuke looks at me funny for a minute, like he's trying to figure something out. Then he laughs.

"Hey, if you're so interested, why don't you go?"

"I don't have a date either. Besides, I'm not the one graduating this year," I say, looking away. All of a sudden, I don't like the direction this conversation is taking. I swirl my plastic spoon through my yogurt, trying not to think about Daisuke going off to college and leaving me here, minus one best friend.

"Is there even any yogurt in there, or is it all Oreos?" I tease, pointing at his paper cup with its mountain of cookie crumbles, gummy worms, and other assorted sugary toppings. Changing the subject is easier.

"What's wrong with Oreos?"

"Nothing," I say, "except this is a frozen yogurt place."

"Hey," Daisuke says. "Do you want to come over after this? We can play Rock Band or whatever."

"Yeah, sure," I reply, breathing an inward sigh of relief. Sure, Prom is in a month and graduation isn't long after. For now, I'd rather not think about that. Why ruin the time we still have together?

* * * * *
Taking my yearbook off my bookshelf, I flip through the pages of photos. This isn't idle nostalgia - I've got a plan. If Daisuke won't ask anyone to Prom, I'm going to do it for him. Now all I have to do is find the right girl.

"Hmmmm," I say to myself, "no cheerbunnies... this girl looks too fake... and her nose is too big."

This is harder than I expected. For one thing, I don't really know that many girls in Daisuke's class. For another, no one seems good enough for my best friend. Maybe I need a new strategy.

Common interests? I wonder, chewing on my nails. He's in band.

Turning to the group photo of last year's band members, I examine every face. My eyes fall upon a petite girl with a halo of orange curls. She's the only one with a real smile, as if she's actually happy instead of just cheesing it up for the camera.

She's the one, I think. Daisuke deserves someone genuine.

I unzip my bookbag and pull out a spiral notebook. Opening it, I tear out a page and begin to write. Phase one of my scheme is complete; I've found a girl for Daisuke. Now all I have to do is make her love him.

* * * * *
Two weeks later, I'm sitting on my bed, listening to music. My phone rings and I grab for it. It's Daisuke's ringtone. Excited, I press the button . Maybe my plan has worked and he has a date!

"Hey, Daisuke," I say, hoping I sound normal. My heart is pounding in my ears.

For a moment, Daisuke doesn't say anything. He's silent for so long that I start to wonder if we've been disconnected. I'm about to hang up and call him back when he finally speaks.

"Um, Sam?" he says. Is it just my imagination or does he sound kind of pissed off?

"Yeah?"

"Do you, by any chance, have some idea why Kathleen Sullivan threw a bunch of notes in my face and called me a 'fucking psycho' in front of everyone in the band room?"

"Um... well... uh..." This isn't good at all. I fumble for words. "She did that?"

Dead silence. My mind races and my heart feels like it's going to jump into my throat.

"Come on, Sam," Daisuke finally says, his voice cold. "Quit playing dumb. The handwriting on those notes was yours."

"I'm not playing dumb! I just don't know what to say."

"How many notes did you send her?" he demands.

"Just one a day," I tell him. "I wanted her to know you were really interested."

"Sam, what the hell?" He's practically yelling now. I have to hold the phone away from my ear.

"I didn't mean to - I mean, um... I just wanted to help you enjoy your senior year and - "

"Sam?"

"Uh, yeah, Daisuke?"

"Could you please not 'help' me anymore? Like, ever again?"

"I'm sorry... I just - " My voice trails off as I realize I'm speaking to no one but empty air.

* * * * *
My stomach does backflips as I climb Daisuke's front steps. He hasn't spoken to me all week and I can't say I blame him. I can't give up, though, so I take a deep breath and ring the bell.

He has to forgive me sometime, right?

When he opens the door, he stares me down and doesn't speak. At least the door is open, though. I stick my foot inside before he can change his mind and slam it shut.

"Daisuke, I... um, here." Digging in my pocket, I pull out a folded piece of notebook paper.

"Another note? Seriously?" His expression is thunderous. It's a good thing I have my foot in the door.

"No, come on, please... just read it."

Daisuke takes the piece of paper and unfolds it with a reluctant sigh.

"Dear Daisuke, I just want you to know that you're my best friend in the whole world and I am so sorry I messed up. All I wanted was for you to find a girl who is real and makes your last months here really special. I know you're mad but I'm going to write you a note every day until you forgive me. Love, Sam."

When he finishes reading, Daisuke just stands there, saying nothing.

Great, I think. I knew this wouldn't work. He's still mad.

Then he grabs me and hugs me so hard I feel dizzy.

"What the hell?" Why is he hugging me like that?

"How am I supposed to stay mad at you, Sam?"

"Uh... I guess you're not?"

I'm never going to understand him, but if he's happy, I am too.

Dedication

My heart pounds with excitement as I hang up after the call with my agent. Not even bothering to put the phone down, I dial Daisuke right away. Even after all that's happened, he's still the only one I want to talk to.

Come on... pick up, pick up. His line rings and rings. Just when I'm sure it's going to voice mail, he answers.

"Hey, Daisuke," I say, voice trembling with excitement. Is it my imagination, or is there a long pause?

"Hey, Sam."

More dead air. I remember how we used to be able to talk for hours.

"Whatcha been up to?" I finally ask.

"Well, you know," he says, "I'm graduating from college soon, so I've been filling out job applications. Had a few interviews already, too. Sorry I haven't called. I've just been really busy."

"Yeah, it's okay." I will my voice not to crack.

That old lump rises in my throat. Things have never been the same since the year and a half Daisuke spent away. He's never told me what happened while he was gone. Not that he's the only one holding back - there's so much we've left unsaid. I sigh, forgetting for a moment that I'm still on the phone.

"Sam? You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Hey, I just wanted to tell you. My book comes out next week."

"Sam, that's incredible! I always knew you could do it." It's the first time he sounds like him.

At least he's still in there somewhere, I think.

We make conversation for a few minutes and then hang up with a promise to see each on the weekend. Then I sit down at my computer and browse through old pictures. I wonder if I'll ever truly have my best friend back.

* * * * *
I'm sitting in the coffee shop we always used to go to. Since I got here early, there's too much time to think. Nervous, I swirl the ice cubes in my water glass with a straw. Then I smile, recalling all the times we sat here together in our high school days. Sipping fancy coffee drinks late at night, we felt so grown up.

The smile is still on my face when Daisuke walks through the door.

It's been months since I last saw him; his hair is short now, professional. That makes sense, I guess - he said he's been interviewing. He's kept up with his workouts, but otherwise he looks the way I remember from years ago. I can almost pretend he's the person he was back then.

I stand to greet him and he puts his arms around me. His embrace is awkward, nothing like the bone-crushing hugs he used to give. Then he pulls away and takes his seat across the table, looking as apprehensive as I feel.

"Hey, Daisuke," I say.

"Hey, Sam." He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"How's it going?" I'm so awkward around him now it's painful.

"Had another interview today," he says. "I think it went well."

"What kind of place is it?"

"Small startup, but it looks promising. I'd have to move out of state, though."

My heart sinks. I force my face to arrange itself in a smile anyway.

"If it's what you want..."

"Sam - " His voice trails off.

"What, Daisuke?"

"Never mind," he says. "How's life as a published author?"

"Nerve-wracking," I admit. "What if it doesn't sell?"

"It'll sell, Sam. Your writing is amazing; you know I've always thought so. Who wouldn't want to read it?"

For a just a moment, the door is open. He's the Daisuke I know and love. I speak before he can slam it shut again.

"I brought you a copy," I tell him, sliding the book across the table.

"Is it signed?" His boyish excitement melts my insides. It's been so long since I've seen him like this.

"Better than that," I say. "Read the dedication."

I wait impatiently as he reads. After all the time I spent agonizing over it, I know the words by heart.

To my best friend Daisuke -

Thanks for always believing. You were there for me when no one else was, no matter the circumstances. Our lives are on different paths now but you're forever in my heart. None of this could have happened without you; I'm a better person for knowing you. May your life be filled with love, beauty, and adventure.

Love always, Sam.

Daisuke looks up, dark eyes shining. Then he's at my side, pulling me to my feet. He hugs me so hard I feel faint.

"Thank you," he whispers.

Without a word, I put my arms around him and hold him tight.

Dedication

My heart pounds with excitement as I hang up after the call with my agent. Not even bothering to put the phone down, I dial Daisuke right away. Even after all that's happened, he's still the only one I want to talk to.

Come on... pick up, pick up. His line rings and rings. Just when I'm sure it's going to voice mail, he answers.

"Hey, Daisuke," I say, voice trembling with excitement. Is it my imagination, or is there a long pause?

"Hey, Sam."

More dead air. I remember how we used to be able to talk for hours.

"Whatcha been up to?" I finally ask.

"Well, you know," he says, "I'm graduating from college soon, so I've been filling out job applications. Had a few interviews already, too. Sorry I haven't called. I've just been really busy."

"Yeah, it's okay." I will my voice not to crack.

That old lump rises in my throat. Things have never been the same since the year and a half Daisuke spent away. He's never told me what happened while he was gone. Not that he's the only one holding back - there's so much we've left unsaid. I sigh, forgetting for a moment that I'm still on the phone.

"Sam? You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Hey, I just wanted to tell you. My book comes out next week."

"Sam, that's incredible! I always knew you could do it." It's the first time he sounds like him.

At least he's still in there somewhere, I think.

We make conversation for a few minutes and then hang up with a promise to see each on the weekend. Then I sit down at my computer and browse through old pictures. I wonder if I'll ever truly have my best friend back.

* * * * *
I'm sitting in the coffee shop we always used to go to. Since I got here early, there's too much time to think. Nervous, I swirl the ice cubes in my water glass with a straw. Then I smile, recalling all the times we sat here together in our high school days. Sipping fancy coffee drinks late at night, we felt so grown up.

The smile is still on my face when Daisuke walks through the door.

It's been months since I last saw him; his hair is short now, professional. That makes sense, I guess - he said he's been interviewing. He's kept up with his workouts, but otherwise he looks the way I remember from years ago. I can almost pretend he's the person he was back then.

I stand to greet him and he puts his arms around me. His embrace is awkward, nothing like the bone-crushing hugs he used to give. Then he pulls away and takes his seat across the table, looking as apprehensive as I feel.

"Hey, Daisuke," I say.

"Hey, Sam." He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"How's it going?" I'm so awkward around him now it's painful.

"Had another interview today," he says. "I think it went well."

"What kind of place is it?"

"Small startup, but it looks promising. I'd have to move out of state, though."

My heart sinks. I force my face to arrange itself in a smile anyway.

"If it's what you want..."

"Sam - " His voice trails off.

"What, Daisuke?"

"Never mind," he says. "How's life as a published author?"

"Nerve-wracking," I admit. "What if it doesn't sell?"

"It'll sell, Sam. Your writing is amazing; you know I've always thought so. Who wouldn't want to read it?"

For a just a moment, the door is open. He's the Daisuke I know and love. I speak before he can slam it shut again.

"I brought you a copy," I tell him, sliding the book across the table.

"Is it signed?" His boyish excitement melts my insides. It's been so long since I've seen him like this.

"Better than that," I say. "Read the dedication."

I wait impatiently as he reads. After all the time I spent agonizing over it, I know the words by heart.

To my best friend Daisuke -

Thanks for always believing. You were there for me when no one else was, no matter the circumstances. Our lives are on different paths now but you're forever in my heart. None of this could have happened without you; I'm a better person for knowing you. May your life be filled with love, beauty, and adventure.

Love always, Sam.

Daisuke looks up, dark eyes shining. Then he's at my side, pulling me to my feet. He hugs me so hard I feel faint.

"Thank you," he whispers.

Without a word, I put my arms around him and hold him tight.

The Straw That Stirs the Drink

His life since the accident has been a series of staccato bursts. He's heard people talk about "living in the moment" as if that is hard to do. For him, it's like breathing.

The details of the crash are mostly lost to him now. It's not that he can't remember, exactly. It's just that he doesn't. It doesn't usually occur to him to think backward or forward. Most of the time, he just moves to the music.

What he does know is that the accident turned his hair a brilliant white and put him in the hospital. People call him the Straw Man, even though his hair is much paler than straw. He doesn't mind the nickname - the name he used before belongs to another man, another life.

He owns a little house outside a small town. Nearby are a small university, a park, and a river. Once he was a student at the university, but now he has no patience for long, snaking lines across a page. Now he goes there to sit on the quad, watching the people walk by or the squirrels scampering on the grass.

Inside his house sits an overstuffed chair with fading brown cushions. There is no television; he finds the plots tortuous and the lights and sounds jarring. Instead, he has a tea kettle, a porch with a swing, a bedroom with a soft quilt and a desk. On the desk sits a geode, half a gray rock cracked open to reveal a spill of gleaming jagged amethyst. It's a present from a girl he once knew, though he's all but forgotten her face.

He doesn't have a job. There is a bank account with money in it, money that somehow relates to the accident. The details of that aren't terribly important to him; he only knows it's enough to last him a long time if he doesn't spend a lot. He never spends a lot because he doesn't need much: a roof over his head, food to eat, jeans and sweatshirts and new sneakers when the old ones fall apart.

Since the crash, he is isolated but he never feels lonely. His family and friends don't come around often, but he takes a walk every morning and every evening. Sometimes he meets people along the way. Other times, he has no company but nature. Nature is company enough.

Besides, he's never been truly alone since the accident. He can touch people's minds.

* * * * *
He's watching a snail creeping across the university's quad when he notices the studious girl.

She's bent over a notebook at a wooden picnic table, angular and ambitious. A curtain of coppery hair obscures her face, but he doesn't need to see her features to know that she's upset. He can feel the frustration baking off of her.

A dam bursts and his head is filled with fragments of thoughts that do not belong to him.

All but dissertation.

                       Years of research, and still no results.

                                                                        Might as well give up.

Before he realizes what he's doing, he is standing beside her.

"A garden snail moves at a speed of only 0.03 miles per hour. Yet it is still capable of traveling over 1800 miles over the course of its lifetime."

The moment the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. She'll probably scream for help, telling anyone who will listen about the crazy man who has approached her, spouting nonsense.

Click.

Her amber eyes meet his, and that's when he feels it. He's never picked a lock, but he imagines this is the sensation of the last pin falling into place.

"Oh!" the girl cries out as she jumps to her feet, "I have to get back to the lab!" She's gone a moment later, leaving him to ponder what has just happened.

* * * * *
He's feeding ducks in the park when he spies the awkward boy.

The boy is maybe sixteen, pale and gangly and trying to fold himself into invisibility on a nearby bench. His face is thin almost to the point of gauntness, marred by pimples and misery. He's tossing crumbs halfheartedly in the birds' general direction and looks like he could burst into tears at any moment.

The Straw Man moves to approach him, and the boy's thoughts invade his mind, unbidden as always.

I thought she liked me.

                          Everyone was laughing at me.

                                                      I can never show my face at school again.

Suddenly, the words begin to tumble from his lips.

"A duck looks clumsy when it waddles, but in the water it can glide like a swan," he says.

Click.

The boy looks at him, confused but hopeful.

"Two more years is a really long time," he says doubtfully.

The Straw Man motions toward the duck pond.

His forehead scrunching up in thought, the boy muses, "Are you saying that I have to find my own pond?"

The Straw Man just smiles. His own words aren't important anymore.

"Maybe I could do one of those magnet schools - you know, the ones for smart kids," the boy says, "Even if it's just for a year."

He smiles at the Straw Man, and it transforms his whole face. With the lines of anguish wiped away, it is a pleasing face. It's the face of the man he's going to be. Then he gathers his things, gives a little wave, and leaves without another word.

That's how it usually goes.

* * * * *
He's crossing the bridge when he sees the broken man.

The river is swollen well beyond its usual size and laps hungrily at its banks. A storm has been pummeling the town for the past two days, but all is calm now except for the water. Dawn is breaking, painting the sky and river with brilliant streaks of orange, pink and gold.

He watches the sun rise every morning, but it's especially lovely today. With a sharp intake of breath, he pauses at the edge of the bridge. When he resumes his walk, he's aware of nothing more than those scrawls of blazing color. He's almost at the other end of the bridge before he notices that he is not alone.

The man is standing about three feet away. He looks to be in his thirties and is dressed in a flannel shirt, blue jeans and scuffed work boots. He has the rumpled look of a man who's slept in his clothes. Staring raptly at the horizon, he appears to be admiring the scenery.

Without warning, the Straw Man's thoughts are no longer his. This time, there are no tangled fragments - only a single repeating refrain:

No one would really miss me if I just disappeared.

He waits for the rush of words that will set things right, but it doesn't come. This has never happened before, but he knows he has to do something.

"Breathtaking, isn't it?" he asks.

The other man turns slowly toward him. His eyes are hollow and hopeless, his mouth set with grim determination. He does not speak.

"The sunrise is always so lovely after a storm," the Straw Man says awkwardly. He's not used to having to come up with the words on his own.

The other man isn't helping. He's turned his back and is staring down into the swirling depths of the river.

The Straw Man feels his palms beginning to sweat. He doesn't know why the right words aren't coming. Maybe it's because the broken man doesn't want to be helped. If he can just find the right words, though, everything will change.

He doesn't usually think of the past, but now he remembers a 3D poster that once hung on his wall. Some people can't see the hidden picture in them, but he has always been able to. The trick is to focus your eyes on something in the distance, as if you're looking through the picture.

In his mind's eye, he stares through the broken man. He has just enough time to think this is stupid - it isn't working, and then his consciousness dims. From far away, he hears a voice - he thinks it might be his, still babbling at the broken man.

Then he feels something give way and a river of thoughts that are not his rushes over him. Each one slams into him with punishing force and for a moment, he thinks he's going to black out.

Everything I had is gone.

                                I'm a failure.

                                           They'd all be better off without me.

The words rush from his mouth before he even knows what he's saying.

"...After a storm, you can see so much further, so much more clearly than you could otherwise. Very few people can appreciate that fact. Personally, I think they just don't want to acknowledge it because they don't like change. But change can be beautiful. Don't you agree?"

He knows he's found the right words, but they don't seem to have registered yet. The broken man turns toward him, looking like he's going to punch him in the mouth. He spits out an indignant, "Listen, fella--" and

Click.

It's as if a switch has been flipped. The broken man falls silent and turns to look at the river again. "You might be right," he murmurs, "You just might be right."

Knowing his work is done, the Straw Man turns to go home. He normally walks another mile or two after the bridge, but he's suddenly feeling very tired. No longer concerned with the river, the sunrise, or the world around him, all he wants now is his comfy chair and maybe a nice cup of hot tea.

The other man asks him if any diners nearby are open this early. He directs him to Frank's place in town and starts walking toward home. Though tired, he hits his stride quickly and feels better the more distance he puts between himself and the once-broken man.

All of a sudden, he is once again awash in the stream of the man's thoughts. This time, it comes in images, clear and unbroken.

Steaming eggs and bacon on a clean white plate.

                                A man in a mechanic's coverall shaking his hand.

                                           The open arms of a smiling red-haired girl.

And then, there is a single, reverberating word:

FUTURE.

For a moment, it is more than he can take. He reels as if he's been slapped, and his knees feel as though they are going to give way. The riotous hues of the dawn recede to gray.

Taking a deep breath of the fresh morning air, he exhales slowly. The color seeps back into the world. His limbs are heavy, as if he's narrowly escaped drowning in the river below. He leans against a tree and lets the cool breeze ruffle his hair. By the time his strength begins to return, the sun has climbed in the sky and it's almost fully light.

He doesn't usually think of the future, but now he remembers the geode that sits on his desk at home. A geode is just another rock until water hollows it out, leaving a space where glittering crystals can grow.

After considering this for a moment, he shrugs and begins walking home again. Watered by the storm, the world around him is green and blooming. The music rises within him once more and he marches to its beat.




This was originally written for intersection week in LJ Idol. The talented ellakite wrote a companion piece here.

The Straw That Stirs the Drink

His life since the accident has been a series of staccato bursts. He's heard people talk about "living in the moment" as if that is hard to do. For him, it's like breathing.

The details of the crash are mostly lost to him now. It's not that he can't remember, exactly. It's just that he doesn't. It doesn't usually occur to him to think backward or forward. Most of the time, he just moves to the music.

What he does know is that the accident turned his hair a brilliant white and put him in the hospital. People call him the Straw Man, even though his hair is much paler than straw. He doesn't mind the nickname - the name he used before belongs to another man, another life.

He owns a little house outside a small town. Nearby are a small university, a park, and a river. Once he was a student at the university, but now he has no patience for long, snaking lines across a page. Now he goes there to sit on the quad, watching the people walk by or the squirrels scampering on the grass.

Inside his house sits an overstuffed chair with fading brown cushions. There is no television; he finds the plots tortuous and the lights and sounds jarring. Instead, he has a tea kettle, a porch with a swing, a bedroom with a soft quilt and a desk. On the desk sits a geode, half a gray rock cracked open to reveal a spill of gleaming jagged amethyst. It's a present from a girl he once knew, though he's all but forgotten her face.

He doesn't have a job. There is a bank account with money in it, money that somehow relates to the accident. The details of that aren't terribly important to him; he only knows it's enough to last him a long time if he doesn't spend a lot. He never spends a lot because he doesn't need much: a roof over his head, food to eat, jeans and sweatshirts and new sneakers when the old ones fall apart.

Since the crash, he is isolated but he never feels lonely. His family and friends don't come around often, but he takes a walk every morning and every evening. Sometimes he meets people along the way. Other times, he has no company but nature. Nature is company enough.

Besides, he's never been truly alone since the accident. He can touch people's minds.

* * * * *
He's watching a snail creeping across the university's quad when he notices the studious girl.

She's bent over a notebook at a wooden picnic table, angular and ambitious. A curtain of coppery hair obscures her face, but he doesn't need to see her features to know that she's upset. He can feel the frustration baking off of her.

A dam bursts and his head is filled with fragments of thoughts that do not belong to him.

All but dissertation.

                       Years of research, and still no results.

                                                                        Might as well give up.

Before he realizes what he's doing, he is standing beside her.

"A garden snail moves at a speed of only 0.03 miles per hour. Yet it is still capable of traveling over 1800 miles over the course of its lifetime."

The moment the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. She'll probably scream for help, telling anyone who will listen about the crazy man who has approached her, spouting nonsense.

Click.

Her amber eyes meet his, and that's when he feels it. He's never picked a lock, but he imagines this is the sensation of the last pin falling into place.

"Oh!" the girl cries out as she jumps to her feet, "I have to get back to the lab!" She's gone a moment later, leaving him to ponder what has just happened.

* * * * *
He's feeding ducks in the park when he spies the awkward boy.

The boy is maybe sixteen, pale and gangly and trying to fold himself into invisibility on a nearby bench. His face is thin almost to the point of gauntness, marred by pimples and misery. He's tossing crumbs halfheartedly in the birds' general direction and looks like he could burst into tears at any moment.

The Straw Man moves to approach him, and the boy's thoughts invade his mind, unbidden as always.

I thought she liked me.

                          Everyone was laughing at me.

                                                      I can never show my face at school again.

Suddenly, the words begin to tumble from his lips.

"A duck looks clumsy when it waddles, but in the water it can glide like a swan," he says.

Click.

The boy looks at him, confused but hopeful.

"Two more years is a really long time," he says doubtfully.

The Straw Man motions toward the duck pond.

His forehead scrunching up in thought, the boy muses, "Are you saying that I have to find my own pond?"

The Straw Man just smiles. His own words aren't important anymore.

"Maybe I could do one of those magnet schools - you know, the ones for smart kids," the boy says, "Even if it's just for a year."

He smiles at the Straw Man, and it transforms his whole face. With the lines of anguish wiped away, it is a pleasing face. It's the face of the man he's going to be. Then he gathers his things, gives a little wave, and leaves without another word.

That's how it usually goes.

* * * * *
He's crossing the bridge when he sees the broken man.

The river is swollen well beyond its usual size and laps hungrily at its banks. A storm has been pummeling the town for the past two days, but all is calm now except for the water. Dawn is breaking, painting the sky and river with brilliant streaks of orange, pink and gold.

He watches the sun rise every morning, but it's especially lovely today. With a sharp intake of breath, he pauses at the edge of the bridge. When he resumes his walk, he's aware of nothing more than those scrawls of blazing color. He's almost at the other end of the bridge before he notices that he is not alone.

The man is standing about three feet away. He looks to be in his thirties and is dressed in a flannel shirt, blue jeans and scuffed work boots. He has the rumpled look of a man who's slept in his clothes. Staring raptly at the horizon, he appears to be admiring the scenery.

Without warning, the Straw Man's thoughts are no longer his. This time, there are no tangled fragments - only a single repeating refrain:

No one would really miss me if I just disappeared.

He waits for the rush of words that will set things right, but it doesn't come. This has never happened before, but he knows he has to do something.

"Breathtaking, isn't it?" he asks.

The other man turns slowly toward him. His eyes are hollow and hopeless, his mouth set with grim determination. He does not speak.

"The sunrise is always so lovely after a storm," the Straw Man says awkwardly. He's not used to having to come up with the words on his own.

The other man isn't helping. He's turned his back and is staring down into the swirling depths of the river.

The Straw Man feels his palms beginning to sweat. He doesn't know why the right words aren't coming. Maybe it's because the broken man doesn't want to be helped. If he can just find the right words, though, everything will change.

He doesn't usually think of the past, but now he remembers a 3D poster that once hung on his wall. Some people can't see the hidden picture in them, but he has always been able to. The trick is to focus your eyes on something in the distance, as if you're looking through the picture.

In his mind's eye, he stares through the broken man. He has just enough time to think this is stupid - it isn't working, and then his consciousness dims. From far away, he hears a voice - he thinks it might be his, still babbling at the broken man.

Then he feels something give way and a river of thoughts that are not his rushes over him. Each one slams into him with punishing force and for a moment, he thinks he's going to black out.

Everything I had is gone.

                                I'm a failure.

                                           They'd all be better off without me.

The words rush from his mouth before he even knows what he's saying.

"...After a storm, you can see so much further, so much more clearly than you could otherwise. Very few people can appreciate that fact. Personally, I think they just don't want to acknowledge it because they don't like change. But change can be beautiful. Don't you agree?"

He knows he's found the right words, but they don't seem to have registered yet. The broken man turns toward him, looking like he's going to punch him in the mouth. He spits out an indignant, "Listen, fella--" and

Click.

It's as if a switch has been flipped. The broken man falls silent and turns to look at the river again. "You might be right," he murmurs, "You just might be right."

Knowing his work is done, the Straw Man turns to go home. He normally walks another mile or two after the bridge, but he's suddenly feeling very tired. No longer concerned with the river, the sunrise, or the world around him, all he wants now is his comfy chair and maybe a nice cup of hot tea.

The other man asks him if any diners nearby are open this early. He directs him to Frank's place in town and starts walking toward home. Though tired, he hits his stride quickly and feels better the more distance he puts between himself and the once-broken man.

All of a sudden, he is once again awash in the stream of the man's thoughts. This time, it comes in images, clear and unbroken.

Steaming eggs and bacon on a clean white plate.

                                A man in a mechanic's coverall shaking his hand.

                                           The open arms of a smiling red-haired girl.

And then, there is a single, reverberating word:

FUTURE.

For a moment, it is more than he can take. He reels as if he's been slapped, and his knees feel as though they are going to give way. The riotous hues of the dawn recede to gray.

Taking a deep breath of the fresh morning air, he exhales slowly. The color seeps back into the world. His limbs are heavy, as if he's narrowly escaped drowning in the river below. He leans against a tree and lets the cool breeze ruffle his hair. By the time his strength begins to return, the sun has climbed in the sky and it's almost fully light.

He doesn't usually think of the future, but now he remembers the geode that sits on his desk at home. A geode is just another rock until water hollows it out, leaving a space where glittering crystals can grow.

After considering this for a moment, he shrugs and begins walking home again. Watered by the storm, the world around him is green and blooming. The music rises within him once more and he marches to its beat.




This was originally written for intersection week in LJ Idol. The talented ellakite wrote a companion piece here.

Auguries

This is an unofficial intersection with the almost disturbingly creative alien_infinity. For maximum enjoyment (and minimum confusion), please read her piece first. It can be found here.




Darkness surrounds me - a thick black cloak that's heavy against my skin. I shudder as it wraps me in its deadly embrace.

My hands grope for something solid but find no purchase. All the while, the blackness presses ever closer. Soon I can't move my arms and legs at all. Screams tear at my throat, but there's no sound. The air is viscous and every breath is agony. I'm wracked by painful spasms as my lungs try to rid themselves of the choking blackness. My muscles tense against my invisible bonds.

A memory breaks through the panic. Carla. What happened to her? Did she get out?

Then a glowing warmth flows through my veins and the tension melts away. My body goes limp as a broken doll's and my eyes close. Colors swirl behind my eyelids. I feel the blackness enfolding me once more, this time as tender as a lover.

* * * * *
At first there is nothing. Then there are sounds, floating in the blackness. My body feels like lead, but the crushing pressure is gone now. I try to move my arms, but nothing happens.

Beeping. Voices. I recognize these sounds.

He's coming around.

I open my eyes, but everything is too bright. Squeezing them shut, I groan, but the only sound that comes out is a strangled squeak. My throat is on fire; I swallow against the pain. Someone grasps my hand.

Blinking, I open my eyes again. Everything is white and the smell of antiseptic assaults my nose. My head is throbbing. I try to sit up, but my muscles don't seem to want to obey me. White fades to gray and I let my eyes slide closed.

Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.

It's a supreme effort, getting my fingers to work. For a moment, I'm not even sure they've moved at all.

He's responsive.

I try to speak, but no words come out.

Do you know your name?

Of course I know my name. What a stupid question. Wait a minute, what is it? It's hard to think with this pounding in my head. Okay, I've got this now. Taking a deep breath, I try my voice again. This time, I manage to force words from my aching throat.

"Matt Norman."

Do you know why you're here?

At first all I can remember is the suffocating darkness. Then it comes back in bits and pieces. A stormy night. An accident. The blinding flash of light. My body breaks out in a cold sweat and my vision turns to gray. I fight to keep my eyes open, to get the words out.

"Carla... Is she okay?"

Exhaustion claims me and everything goes black again.

* * * * *
I open my eyes. The lights are too bright. Squinting, I sit up slowly, waiting to see if my body is going to cooperate. My head feels wrong, like maybe part of me is still out there, suspended in the blackness. Still, I'm able to sit up. I'm getting stronger.

Carla. Where is she?

Sighing, I lie down again. I'm only nineteen but I feel a hundred years old. Everything aches and even the smallest tasks are taxing. Staring out the window, I wonder how long it will be until I feel like myself again.

"Hey, Matt."

It's Carla. My heart pounds as I turn to face her. Behind her black-framed glasses, her eyes are scrunched up with concern, and she's twisting a strand of her long brown hair between her fingers. Besides her obvious unease, though, she looks as well as she did before the accident.

"Hey, Carla."

My mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton and it's hard to get the words out. I reach for the hideous pink plastic cup beside my bed, feeling the water sloshing in it as I take a sip. By the time I'm done, she's at my side.

"I got you something." Carla hands me a box wrapped in purple paper.

I thank her and tear at the paper with clumsy fingers. She looks expectant, then tense, as I work to free the gift from its wrapping. Finally, I open the box and examine its contents. I look at Carla in surprise. Inside is a geode, an almost perfect half-sphere of rough gray stone. Its center is a cluster of glittering purple crystals.

"It's beautiful," I say, the words catching in my throat. "You didn't have to get me anything."

"Of course I did. It's my fault you're here in the first place."

"Are you kidding me?" My laugh is more like a croak. "You're the one who pulled me out of the car. If it weren't for you, I'd be dead."

"But," she bursts into tears. "I wouldn't have needed to pull you out if I hadn't been a dumbass and driven off into the river."

"Hey." I cup her chin in my hand and look straight into her eyes. "It's nobody's fault. And I'm going to be fine. It's all right."

"No it isn't," Carla says, her voice still shaky. She leans in and plants a kiss on my lips.

I reach out and hold her in my arms, so happy to have her with me at last. Pulling her to me, I feel alive again for the first time since I woke up here. She wraps her arms around me.

All of a sudden, the darkness is back. This time it's in my mind, pervading my thoughts and choking me from the inside. I try to scream, struggle to break away, but I'm paralyzed. The blackness snakes its way through my brain, seeps into every pore and perfuses everything that is me. It has a hold on me again; this time I know I'll never escape.

Click.

Something gives way inside my head, and everything fades to nothingness.

When my vision returns, the first thing I notice is a shrill, high-pitched whine. At first I think it's one of the machines they still have me hooked up to. Then I realize it's coming from me. Just then, Carla breaks our embrace. A thought fills my head - it doesn't feel like my own.

Did I really just do that to you, Matt?

Carla doesn't even look me in the eye as she dashes from the room. Yanking the tubes from my arm, I launch myself from the bed and across the room. I almost make it to the hallway before my knees buckle. Pain shoots through my head and I clutch at the nearest wall for support. Gritting my teeth, I force myself to keep moving forward.

Images fill my mind, slammming into me with an almost physical force. They stop me in my tracks.

Carla bending her knees and leaping.

                     Flying through the air in a perfect arc.

                                                        Slipping beneath the surface.

All the air has gone out of the room. I'm gasping for breath and my vision is graying in and out. As I cling to the wall for dear life, I wonder if I'm going to be sick. Closing my eyes, I rest my head against my hands.

I'm not sure how much time passes before I come back to myself. Though I'm terrified and confused, I'm able to catch my breath. I need to see if Carla's okay, but I feel too weak to go after her now. Thinking I can call a nurse to check on her instead, I decide to get back in bed. As I turn away from the hall, my eyes meet the gaze of a haggard, frightened man. For a moment, I wonder how he got here. Then I realize I'm looking at my own reflection.

I stare at the mirror on the bathroom door in disbelief. No wonder I didn't know it was me at first. My face is pale and covered in bruises and my eyes are sunken and shadowed. Enough stubble is sprouting on my chin to make me look unkempt and a little deranged. That's not the worst of it, though.

Before the accident, my hair was dark, almost black. Now it's so white it almost glows under the fluorescents.

* * * * *
I open my eyes and stare into the white. There's a dull ache behind my eyes and the bright lights only make it worse. I sit up anyway, my glance falling on the bedside table. A geode rests atop it, dull and gray on the outside, brilliant glittering purple on the inside. It makes me feel happy and sad at the same time, but I don't know why.

Matt, you're awake. The name sounds foreign but I know it means me.

A pretty blonde girl in purple scrubs is standing beside my bed. I don't recognize her, but she's smiling as if she knows me. Everyone here smiles at me.

How are you feeling today?

"My head hurts," I say. She hands me a paper cup with medicine. I smile. Everyone here wants to help me get better. Then I remember. Carla. Where is she?

When I ask where Carla is, the girl dressed in purple looks sad, then resigned.

She's not coming to visit today, Matt.

Opening my chart and making some notes, the girl in the purple gives me a look I can't read. Snatches of words fill my head as she goes back to her charting.

We tell him, but he never remembers.

                             Jumped off the same bridge and all.
                                                                   
                                                       So tragic, after surviving the first time.

When she's done, she offers a half smile and lays a hand on my shoulder.

Call me if you need anything, she says, and leaves the room.

A heavy feeling creeps over me and I don't know why. My chest tightens and my eyes sting. Then I look at the geode with its sparkling crystals and the weight is lifted. Whatever was burdening me, it's gone now.

Auguries

This is an unofficial intersection with the almost disturbingly creative alien_infinity. For maximum enjoyment (and minimum confusion), please read her piece first. It can be found here.




Darkness surrounds me - a thick black cloak that's heavy against my skin. I shudder as it wraps me in its deadly embrace.

My hands grope for something solid but find no purchase. All the while, the blackness presses ever closer. Soon I can't move my arms and legs at all. Screams tear at my throat, but there's no sound. The air is viscous and every breath is agony. I'm wracked by painful spasms as my lungs try to rid themselves of the choking blackness. My muscles tense against my invisible bonds.

A memory breaks through the panic. Carla. What happened to her? Did she get out?

Then a glowing warmth flows through my veins and the tension melts away. My body goes limp as a broken doll's and my eyes close. Colors swirl behind my eyelids. I feel the blackness enfolding me once more, this time as tender as a lover.

* * * * *
At first there is nothing. Then there are sounds, floating in the blackness. My body feels like lead, but the crushing pressure is gone now. I try to move my arms, but nothing happens.

Beeping. Voices. I recognize these sounds.

He's coming around.

I open my eyes, but everything is too bright. Squeezing them shut, I groan, but the only sound that comes out is a strangled squeak. My throat is on fire; I swallow against the pain. Someone grasps my hand.

Blinking, I open my eyes again. Everything is white and the smell of antiseptic assaults my nose. My head is throbbing. I try to sit up, but my muscles don't seem to want to obey me. White fades to gray and I let my eyes slide closed.

Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.

It's a supreme effort, getting my fingers to work. For a moment, I'm not even sure they've moved at all.

He's responsive.

I try to speak, but no words come out.

Do you know your name?

Of course I know my name. What a stupid question. Wait a minute, what is it? It's hard to think with this pounding in my head. Okay, I've got this now. Taking a deep breath, I try my voice again. This time, I manage to force words from my aching throat.

"Matt Norman."

Do you know why you're here?

At first all I can remember is the suffocating darkness. Then it comes back in bits and pieces. A stormy night. An accident. The blinding flash of light. My body breaks out in a cold sweat and my vision turns to gray. I fight to keep my eyes open, to get the words out.

"Carla... Is she okay?"

Exhaustion claims me and everything goes black again.

* * * * *
I open my eyes. The lights are too bright. Squinting, I sit up slowly, waiting to see if my body is going to cooperate. My head feels wrong, like maybe part of me is still out there, suspended in the blackness. Still, I'm able to sit up. I'm getting stronger.

Carla. Where is she?

Sighing, I lie down again. I'm only nineteen but I feel a hundred years old. Everything aches and even the smallest tasks are taxing. Staring out the window, I wonder how long it will be until I feel like myself again.

"Hey, Matt."

It's Carla. My heart pounds as I turn to face her. Behind her black-framed glasses, her eyes are scrunched up with concern, and she's twisting a strand of her long brown hair between her fingers. Besides her obvious unease, though, she looks as well as she did before the accident.

"Hey, Carla."

My mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton and it's hard to get the words out. I reach for the hideous pink plastic cup beside my bed, feeling the water sloshing in it as I take a sip. By the time I'm done, she's at my side.

"I got you something." Carla hands me a box wrapped in purple paper.

I thank her and tear at the paper with clumsy fingers. She looks expectant, then tense, as I work to free the gift from its wrapping. Finally, I open the box and examine its contents. I look at Carla in surprise. Inside is a geode, an almost perfect half-sphere of rough gray stone. Its center is a cluster of glittering purple crystals.

"It's beautiful," I say, the words catching in my throat. "You didn't have to get me anything."

"Of course I did. It's my fault you're here in the first place."

"Are you kidding me?" My laugh is more like a croak. "You're the one who pulled me out of the car. If it weren't for you, I'd be dead."

"But," she bursts into tears. "I wouldn't have needed to pull you out if I hadn't been a dumbass and driven off into the river."

"Hey." I cup her chin in my hand and look straight into her eyes. "It's nobody's fault. And I'm going to be fine. It's all right."

"No it isn't," Carla says, her voice still shaky. She leans in and plants a kiss on my lips.

I reach out and hold her in my arms, so happy to have her with me at last. Pulling her to me, I feel alive again for the first time since I woke up here. She wraps her arms around me.

All of a sudden, the darkness is back. This time it's in my mind, pervading my thoughts and choking me from the inside. I try to scream, struggle to break away, but I'm paralyzed. The blackness snakes its way through my brain, seeps into every pore and perfuses everything that is me. It has a hold on me again; this time I know I'll never escape.

Click.

Something gives way inside my head, and everything fades to nothingness.

When my vision returns, the first thing I notice is a shrill, high-pitched whine. At first I think it's one of the machines they still have me hooked up to. Then I realize it's coming from me. Just then, Carla breaks our embrace. A thought fills my head - it doesn't feel like my own.

Did I really just do that to you, Matt?

Carla doesn't even look me in the eye as she dashes from the room. Yanking the tubes from my arm, I launch myself from the bed and across the room. I almost make it to the hallway before my knees buckle. Pain shoots through my head and I clutch at the nearest wall for support. Gritting my teeth, I force myself to keep moving forward.

Images fill my mind, slammming into me with an almost physical force. They stop me in my tracks.

Carla bending her knees and leaping.

                     Flying through the air in a perfect arc.

                                                        Slipping beneath the surface.

All the air has gone out of the room. I'm gasping for breath and my vision is graying in and out. As I cling to the wall for dear life, I wonder if I'm going to be sick. Closing my eyes, I rest my head against my hands.

I'm not sure how much time passes before I come back to myself. Though I'm terrified and confused, I'm able to catch my breath. I need to see if Carla's okay, but I feel too weak to go after her now. Thinking I can call a nurse to check on her instead, I decide to get back in bed. As I turn away from the hall, my eyes meet the gaze of a haggard, frightened man. For a moment, I wonder how he got here. Then I realize I'm looking at my own reflection.

I stare at the mirror on the bathroom door in disbelief. No wonder I didn't know it was me at first. My face is pale and covered in bruises and my eyes are sunken and shadowed. Enough stubble is sprouting on my chin to make me look unkempt and a little deranged. That's not the worst of it, though.

Before the accident, my hair was dark, almost black. Now it's so white it almost glows under the fluorescents.

* * * * *
I open my eyes and stare into the white. There's a dull ache behind my eyes and the bright lights only make it worse. I sit up anyway, my glance falling on the bedside table. A geode rests atop it, dull and gray on the outside, brilliant glittering purple on the inside. It makes me feel happy and sad at the same time, but I don't know why.

Matt, you're awake. The name sounds foreign but I know it means me.

A pretty blonde girl in purple scrubs is standing beside my bed. I don't recognize her, but she's smiling as if she knows me. Everyone here smiles at me.

How are you feeling today?

"My head hurts," I say. She hands me a paper cup with medicine. I smile. Everyone here wants to help me get better. Then I remember. Carla. Where is she?

When I ask where Carla is, the girl dressed in purple looks sad, then resigned.

She's not coming to visit today, Matt.

Opening my chart and making some notes, the girl in the purple gives me a look I can't read. Snatches of words fill my head as she goes back to her charting.

We tell him, but he never remembers.

                             Jumped off the same bridge and all.
                                                                   
                                                       So tragic, after surviving the first time.

When she's done, she offers a half smile and lays a hand on my shoulder.

Call me if you need anything, she says, and leaves the room.

A heavy feeling creeps over me and I don't know why. My chest tightens and my eyes sting. Then I look at the geode with its sparkling crystals and the weight is lifted. Whatever was burdening me, it's gone now.

Waking Dream

He doesn't usually come to the bridge at night. He couldn't stand the sound of the storm.

Before, he had a life, small but his. Sunrises, walks in the park, evening cups of tea. Sleep was soft and warm like the quilt on his bed. He didn't fear the rain against his roof. Nameless terror colors everything now. The morning sky, wind through the trees, nightfall most of all. It wraps him in darkness, pins his limbs and stifles his screams.

Lightning splits the sky above his head. The bridge disappears.

They're arguing - bitter words and drops beating on glass. Tires screech. Metal screams against metal. They're soaring, then falling. Water rushes in. He's frozen. Hands tug at him as he submits, inhales, relaxes.

There's a blinding white flash and nothing more.

Back on the bridge, he grips the slick rail so hard his shoulders hurt. Wet hair drips into his face; that must be why his eyes are streaming. Shivers wrack his body - it's only a chill from his sodden clothes. Breathing in ragged gasps, he sits down and hugs his knees. If the crying he's not doing makes any noise, it's lost in the wind.

It's dawn when the storm abates. Head pounding, he turns to go. He doesn't think about the accident, the geode on his desk, the girl who gave it to him. Better not to remember.

He's almost home before he realizes. It's stopped raining.

Why is my face still wet?

Waking Dream

He doesn't usually come to the bridge at night. He couldn't stand the sound of the storm.

Before, he had a life, small but his. Sunrises, walks in the park, evening cups of tea. Sleep was soft and warm like the quilt on his bed. He didn't fear the rain against his roof. Nameless terror colors everything now. The morning sky, wind through the trees, nightfall most of all. It wraps him in darkness, pins his limbs and stifles his screams.

Lightning splits the sky above his head. The bridge disappears.

They're arguing - bitter words and drops beating on glass. Tires screech. Metal screams against metal. They're soaring, then falling. Water rushes in. He's frozen. Hands tug at him as he submits, inhales, relaxes.

There's a blinding white flash and nothing more.

Back on the bridge, he grips the slick rail so hard his shoulders hurt. Wet hair drips into his face; that must be why his eyes are streaming. Shivers wrack his body - it's only a chill from his sodden clothes. Breathing in ragged gasps, he sits down and hugs his knees. If the crying he's not doing makes any noise, it's lost in the wind.

It's dawn when the storm abates. Head pounding, he turns to go. He doesn't think about the accident, the geode on his desk, the girl who gave it to him. Better not to remember.

He's almost home before he realizes. It's stopped raining.

Why is my face still wet?

Just One Look

Sitting on his front steps, the Straw Man rests his head in his hands. He hoped today would be a better day, but now he's not so sure. After the storm last night, he felt cleansed; now he's just exhausted. Already the fear is creeping back in. The darkness lies in waiting, never truly gone. More than anything he craves sleep, but he's afraid to close his eyes.

So tired. His eyelids droop. Maybe just for a minute.

A gentle pressure on his shoulder jerks him awake; he jumps. He doesn't remember the last time someone touched him. A face shimmers at the edge of his memory - brown eyes, black-framed glasses, wavy brown hair. It ripples and floats away as quickly as it came. In the periphery of his vision, the blackness inches ever closer.

Skin prickling with the feel of eyes upon him, he snaps to attention. Another face; this one doesn't disappear when he blinks. All sad green eyes and framed by pale hair, it persists in hovering near his own. She must a hallucination; no one comes here. Real or no, she looks at him in a way no one has in years, as if he still exists.

"You're... like me?" The words are out of his mouth before he's even sure what they mean.

"Not exactly." The blonde girl looks unfazed by the question. "But I'm sure as hell not normal."

He doesn't intend to touch her mind, but the surge of thoughts comes anyway. This time it's different. A screech like feedback through a bullhorn fills his head; he winces in pain. Through the noise, her name is all he hears.

Sam.

"It doesn't work on you," he says. He expects a look of confusion, but Sam just smiles.

"It doesn't have to," she says. "I'm just here to talk. You look like you need a friend."

Friend. He barely remembers what the word means. Before the broken man, he had no need of one.

"I just..."

The Straw Man trails off, unsure where to begin. It feels like a lifetime since he's just talked. The only time he speaks to anyone is when they need his help. These days, even those conversations are few and far between.

"I don't feel right anymore, ever since I met the broken man," he finally says. It's a start.

Scooting over, he makes room on the bricks, and Sam sits down beside him.

"I haven't felt right in ages," she says. "You get used to it after a while."

* * * * *
Sunlight slants in through the Straw Man's window. Basking in its yellow warmth, he curls up in his chair and smiles. Night will come soon, but for now he feels safe. Today he is him - mind clear and unburdened. The darkness from his dreams still lurks somewhere, but for the moment it isn't here.

There's a chair for her here now, right next to his. On the hard nights, it's a place to hide. Though it doesn't always stop the nightmares when they come to claim him, at least it's a place to go. Sitting in her chair, wrapped in the afghan she likes to use, it's easier to remember. Day will come. He's not alone.

A knock comes at the door. It's Sam; she's the only one who ever comes here unannounced.

"It's open," he calls out.

The door is always open for her.

Squealing on its hinges, it swings ajar. The Straw Man turns toward it, hand raised in greeting. Then his eyes widen in shock; it isn't Sam. In the entrance stands a haunted man, hair awry and eyes wild.

Hair rises on the back of the Straw Man's neck just before he's pummeled by a wave of thoughts.

I've tried everything to get Rachel back.

                            The writer is my last hope.

                                                 If I take her friend, she has to help me.

Then a hand is clutching his shoulder while another presses a cloth to his face. There's a sick-sweet smell like sugared gasoline. The Straw Man tries to fight, but the haunted man's grasp is firm. Air rushes in his ears and his vision is all wrong. Everything is both hazy and strikingly detailed. As his knees give way and the world goes dark, one last thought fills his mind.

I have to warn Sam.

Just One Look

Sitting on his front steps, the Straw Man rests his head in his hands. He hoped today would be a better day, but now he's not so sure. After the storm last night, he felt cleansed; now he's just exhausted. Already the fear is creeping back in. The darkness lies in waiting, never truly gone. More than anything he craves sleep, but he's afraid to close his eyes.

So tired. His eyelids droop. Maybe just for a minute.

A gentle pressure on his shoulder jerks him awake; he jumps. He doesn't remember the last time someone touched him. A face shimmers at the edge of his memory - brown eyes, black-framed glasses, wavy brown hair. It ripples and floats away as quickly as it came. In the periphery of his vision, the blackness inches ever closer.

Skin prickling with the feel of eyes upon him, he snaps to attention. Another face; this one doesn't disappear when he blinks. All sad green eyes and framed by pale hair, it persists in hovering near his own. She must a hallucination; no one comes here. Real or no, she looks at him in a way no one has in years, as if he still exists.

"You're... like me?" The words are out of his mouth before he's even sure what they mean.

"Not exactly." The blonde girl looks unfazed by the question. "But I'm sure as hell not normal."

He doesn't intend to touch her mind, but the surge of thoughts comes anyway. This time it's different. A screech like feedback through a bullhorn fills his head; he winces in pain. Through the noise, her name is all he hears.

Sam.

"It doesn't work on you," he says. He expects a look of confusion, but Sam just smiles.

"It doesn't have to," she says. "I'm just here to talk. You look like you need a friend."

Friend. He barely remembers what the word means. Before the broken man, he had no need of one.

"I just..."

The Straw Man trails off, unsure where to begin. It feels like a lifetime since he's just talked. The only time he speaks to anyone is when they need his help. These days, even those conversations are few and far between.

"I don't feel right anymore, ever since I met the broken man," he finally says. It's a start.

Scooting over, he makes room on the bricks, and Sam sits down beside him.

"I haven't felt right in ages," she says. "You get used to it after a while."

* * * * *
Sunlight slants in through the Straw Man's window. Basking in its yellow warmth, he curls up in his chair and smiles. Night will come soon, but for now he feels safe. Today he is him - mind clear and unburdened. The darkness from his dreams still lurks somewhere, but for the moment it isn't here.

There's a chair for her here now, right next to his. On the hard nights, it's a place to hide. Though it doesn't always stop the nightmares when they come to claim him, at least it's a place to go. Sitting in her chair, wrapped in the afghan she likes to use, it's easier to remember. Day will come. He's not alone.

A knock comes at the door. It's Sam; she's the only one who ever comes here unannounced.

"It's open," he calls out.

The door is always open for her.

Squealing on its hinges, it swings ajar. The Straw Man turns toward it, hand raised in greeting. Then his eyes widen in shock; it isn't Sam. In the entrance stands a haunted man, hair awry and eyes wild.

Hair rises on the back of the Straw Man's neck just before he's pummeled by a wave of thoughts.

I've tried everything to get Rachel back.

                            The writer is my last hope.

                                                 If I take her friend, she has to help me.

Then a hand is clutching his shoulder while another presses a cloth to his face. There's a sick-sweet smell like sugared gasoline. The Straw Man tries to fight, but the haunted man's grasp is firm. Air rushes in his ears and his vision is all wrong. Everything is both hazy and strikingly detailed. As his knees give way and the world goes dark, one last thought fills his mind.

I have to warn Sam.

Pandemic

December 8, 1918


Where the hell is that damned doctor?

I look out the parlor window for the hundredth time, pushing back the heavy green drapes. Rachel spent so many evenings stitching away at those curtains, pretending to scold when I made her laugh so hard her needle slipped. She glowed with pride the night I hung them up.

Outside, it's growing dark, and there's still no sign of old Doc Weems. He should have been here an hour ago. With so many ill, though, perhaps the delay is to be expected.

Back in the bedroom, Rachel's still asleep. The room is getting dim, so I turn on the reading lamp. Its stained glass shade is still chipped from the time she knocked it over. Rachel's always been a little bit clumsy.

Only this morning, her cheeks were rosy with health. Now they are pale and waxen, and her lips have a blue tinge I don't like. Huddled under a pile of blankets, she shivers and murmurs incoherently. I lay a cool cloth over her forehead and sink into the leather chair at her bedside. Pulling out the folded newspaper I've tucked beneath my seat, I read the same headlines over and over.

I hear the sound of the bedclothes shifting and look up. Rachel is sitting up, dark curls rumpled and brown eyes too bright.

"Abel?" Her voice is barely a whisper.

"I'm here, darling," I say, taking her hand.

"I'm so cold," she says, her voice faint.

"I know, Gracie." The old endearment feels awkward now. Everything does.

Rachel opens her mouth to speak again, but a fit of coughing overtakes her. It seems to go on forever; I can do nothing but watch as she struggles for breath. When the paroxysm finally subsides, she's even more ashen than before. Against the deep burgundy of her housecoat, her skin looks almost bloodless.

"It's... it's bad, isn't it?" Her words come in gasps; I watch in horror as she wipes blood from her lips.

"Don't talk," I say, "Rest."

Her eyes are already closed again when I hear the knock. I leap up and run for door. Throwing it open, I usher the doctor inside. Flakes of snow cling to the shoulders of his wool overcoat and his hair is windswept. There are bruised-looking hollows beneath his eyes. It's after seven at night and he's probably been seeing patients non-stop since dawn.

"Good to see you, Abel," he rasps. "Wish it could be under better circumstances."

"Do you want some tea?" I ask, taking his coat. He nods, and I go into the kitchen to make it as he opens his black bag.

I have to search for the aluminum kettle. Rachel's mother bought it for us as a housewarming gift, and that's the last time I remember seeing it. Under normal circumstances, the kitchen is Rachel's domain. By the time I return with the doctor's tea, he's finishing his examination. I hand him the steaming cup and he sips from it with a grateful sigh.

"Can you help her, Doc?" I ask.

The doctor looks away, his shadowed eyes sad. It's all the answer I need.

* * * * *
August 27, 1911


Sighing, I attach the handmade placard to the front of the table. I step back and admire my handiwork. TIMEPIECE REPAIR - BEST PRICES, SATISFACTION GUARANTEED. It's not the most clever slogan, but it will do. Sitting down in the chair behind the table, I take a deep breath, only to gag as the stench of manure fills my nostrils.

Just my luck, getting a table next to the livestock.

Annoyed, I scribble a note - "Back in 1 hour" - and attach it to the sign. There won't be many customers until after the horse races anyway. I set off across the grounds to see the sights.

The stroll does me a world of good. A nice breeze is blowing, and the air is fresh. By the time I reach the front of the park, my mood is much improved. I pause for a moment, enjoying the happy buzz of the people around me and the scent of fried dough.

All of a sudden, something smashes into me from behind. I stumble and pitch forward, eyeglasses falling to the ground. Blind as a bat without my spectacles, I fumble for them in the dirt. As I find them and shove them back onto my nose, I hear a feminine voice from above me. Peering through my now-dusty lenses, I see a young woman's anxious face staring into mine.

"I'm so sorry! I've never been the height of grace, but - " A blush spreads across her cheeks.

"Exactly how tall is Grace?" I ask, dusting myself off and getting to my feet.

She laughs. "Well, I guess about my height..."

"I suppose I'll have to call you Gracie, then." I offer my hand. "Abel Simmons."

"Actually, my name's Rachel Malden." Her hand is tiny but her grip is firm.

"If it's all the same to you, I'll just call you Gracie." Her face turns an even deeper shade of red, but she keeps trying to make conversation.

"Exciting, isn't it?" she asks, eyes shining with enthusiasm. "The first county fair in over a decade!"

"I'm here for business, not pleasure," I tell her. "I'm an inventor, but it doesn't always pay the bills. I've got to take extra work when I can get it." As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. I've had this conversation countless times, and it never ends well.

"An inventor?" Her eyes light up. "Like Thomas Edison?"

Oh boy, here we go again.

"Well, not exactly like Edison."

"What sorts of things do you invent, then?" she asks. This is where things always start to go awry.

"Well," I hedge, shuffling my foot in the dust. "I'm sort of working on... a time machine." I wait for it. At best, there will be confusion - at worst, laughter and ridicule.

One of these days I'll learn to make up a convincing lie.

"A time machine?" she shrieks.

Here it comes.

"How wonderful!" She claps her hands in childlike excitement. "Can you really do it?"

Well, this has never happened before.

"I'm still in the planning phases," I tell her, "but I believe it can be done."

A voice crackles over the loudspeaker. "ALL PIE CONTEST PARTICIPANTS, PLEASE REPORT FOR JUDGING."

"Oh, I've got to go," Rachel's face falls, but brightens again a moment later. "Say, do you like apple pie?"

"I've been known to eat a slice or two." To tell the truth, I'm not a fan of sweets at all. I'm also not opposed to seeing more of this woman. She may be lacking in the coordination department, but she's not bad-looking. Besides, she actually seems interested in my time machine.

"Splendid! The pie contest is being judged in an hour. Will you still be here?" When she smiles, I revise my opinion of her looks from "not bad" to "beautiful".

"I'm here all day, Gracie," I say. All of a sudden, the thought no longer fills me with dread.

* * * * *
Winter, 2057


The wind whistles as I step out into the street. It must be cold here - the people rushing past me on all sides are dressed in layers of puffy clothing. Though I'm clothed in only a lightweight shirt, I'm drenched in sweat. My head is spinning and I should be in bed, but I can't turn back now.

I won't let this damnable ailment claim me, too - not when I'm so close to finding the cure.

I'm surrounded by enormous structures of glass and steel. Most of them are adorned with enormous flat panels, like the projection screens in the cinema but in living, breathing color. Brilliant patterns caper across them, constantly shifting. The streets, wet with rain, are bathed in the shining hues of the screens.

I'm delirious. This can't be real.

Gritting my teeth against waves of dizziness, I push my invention into a darkened alley nearby. The simple act of moving the time machine saps what little strength I have left, and I have to sit down to catch my breath. Spots dance before my eyes and everything blurs together.

Not now. Not when I'm so close to getting her back.

I bite my tongue hard. The taste of blood fills my mouth and I snap back to reality. After a few moments, I'm able to get to my feet. Stepping out of the alley, I breathe in the cold night air. My head pounds as I contemplate my next move.

"Please make a selection," a metallic voice intones behind me. I jump. Looking over my shoulder, I see a small screen on the side of the nearest building. On its white background is a red cross, along with the words CLINIC MACHINE.

"Well, that's an unbelievable stroke of luck," I mutter to myself.

"Whaddaya mean, compadre?" The gruff voice comes from behind me, and I let out a yelp of surprise. I turn to face a short and scabrous man. Raising his right hand, he spreads his fingers in a strange salute. Though I do my best to mimic his hand gesture, my fingers will not cooperate.

"I'm looking for medication, and lo and behold - a Clinic Machine."

"One on every corner, man. Hardly a miracle." The little man grins, baring long yellow teeth.

Shuddering, I tip him a curt nod and turn back to the machine. The screen now shows a moving illustration of a finger touching a small square. Below that are several options. With a trembling finger, I touch the one for INFLUENZA NANITES.

"Scanning... please stand by," the artificial voice replies. A moment later, I flinch as a loud buzz issues from the Clinic Machine and it speaks in a tone that sounds almost angry. "Error! Credit implant not found!"

Stinging tears of frustration fill my eyes. I beat my fists against the metal surface of the building and howl with rage.

"You're not lookin' so hot, compadre. Why don'cha let ol' Chester help ya out?"

"Can you tell me where to find a credit implant? I'm very ill, and my wife..." The words catch in my swollen throat.

"Tricky, those," Chester says, forehead creasing. "Gotta get the holo-imaging right and all. For that, ya wanna see Big Davey."

He pulls a billfold from his pocket and opens it up. With a small whoosh, it expands into a case the size of a picnic basket. After rummaging inside it for a moment, he holds up a cord with a single metal prong protruding from one end.

"Plug in," he says, "and I'll upload the map for ya."

"Plug what in?"

Chester looks at me as though I've just sprouted horns and a tail. "Y'know what? Never mind," he says. Stepping up to the Clinic Machine himself, he asks, "Whaddaya want?"

"The influenza cure - one for me, and one for Rachel."

"Ya know how to work these?" he asks a moment later, holding out two shiny metal syringes. I shake my head.

"Lemme do it for ya, then. Won't hurt a bit!" A searing pain spreads through my arm. My knees go weak and I clutch at the metal wall for support. By the time I've recovered, he's holding the remaining syringe out to me.

"How can I repay you?" I ask, pocketing it.

"Don't worry about it - we're buds now," Chester cackles, then dissolves into a fit of hacking. "Wacky Weed," he gasps, "Stuff'll kill ya. Want a pinch for the road?"

I shake my head.

"Seeing Potion, then? Visions that can't be beat!"

"No, thank you! I've got to get home to my wife." I'm already backing away toward the alley. In the distance, a klaxon begins to wail.

"Ya better get outta here, compadre," Chester calls after me. "Sounds like the popies're onto ya. Those Clinic Machines, they got silent alarms and all."

* * * * *
December 8, 1918


Restored to health, I step out of the time machine into my own backyard. It's a quiet night, and I hear nothing but the crickets and the crunch of my shoes over the light dusting of snow. Reaching my back door, I slowly turn the knob.

Locked. We never lock the back door.

I fumble in my pocket and pull out my house key. Shivering in only my shirtsleeves, I slide it into the lock. It doesn't turn.

What in the blue blazes?

At last, I climb in through a window - at least that isn't locked. I make my way to the bedroom, heart hammering in my throat. The room is dark and there's a sick smell in the air. I hear the sound of labored breathing.

"Rachel?" She moans but doesn't respond.

But she's alive, and soon I'll have her back for good.

I turn on the yellow-fringed reading lamp. Grateful to see her alive once more, I take in every detail. Her dark curls spread over the pillow and her skin is pale as milk against her dark green nightgown. The only color in her face is the blue cast to her lips.

Tears fill my eyes and my throat closes up. Even near death, she is beautiful.

Fishing the syringe from my pocket, I administer the injection. Rachel stirs for a moment, but her eyes remain closed. If my own experience is any indication, the nanites should begin to take effect in less than half an hour. Somehow, that still feels like an eternity.

I can't just sit here waiting. Looking for a way to pass the time, I go out to the hall. As I consider making a pot of tea, I hear a scratching at the front door. Crossing to the parlor window, I part the gauzy blue curtains and look out.

No sign of a carriage. There's no one out there.

When the scratching continues, I fling open the front door. Crouched before me on the stoop is a large orange cat. With an indignant meow, it brushes past me and disappears into the back of the house.

Ridiculous creature, acting as if it owns the place.

I snort in annoyance, but decide not to chase after the animal. Instead, I go to the kitchen to brew a pot of tea. This time, I remember exactly where the kettle is. Reaching into the cabinet, I pull it out - only to nearly drop it in surprise. Staring at its shiny copper surface, I try to make sense of what I'm seeing.

The tea pot I used on the night Rachel died - it was aluminum, not copper.

My stomach drops into my shoes as the realization hits me. The lamp, the curtains, even Rachel's nightclothes - none of those are right, either. But what does it mean? Did I do something wrong?

It's too late to turn back now. Tea forgotten, I return to the bedroom. My chair no longer sits at Rachel's bedside. Feeling as though my legs might give out at any moment, I sink to the floor. Minutes stretch unbearably as I sit cross-legged, waiting for her to come around.

After what seems like hours, I hear the sighing sound of movement against the sheets. Looking up, I see that Rachel is awake. The orange cat is beside her, and she's stroking its fur. Her eyes meet mine - lucid, but they show no recognition. Confusion and then alarm flit across her features. She gathers her breath as if to scream.

"Gracie, it's all right. It's me, Abel."

"My name is Rachel. Rachel Malden," she says, the fear still in her dark eyes. "Who are you?"

Pandemic

December 8, 1918


Where the hell is that damned doctor?

I look out the parlor window for the hundredth time, pushing back the heavy green drapes. Rachel spent so many evenings stitching away at those curtains, pretending to scold when I made her laugh so hard her needle slipped. She glowed with pride the night I hung them up.

Outside, it's growing dark, and there's still no sign of old Doc Weems. He should have been here an hour ago. With so many ill, though, perhaps the delay is to be expected.

Back in the bedroom, Rachel's still asleep. The room is getting dim, so I turn on the reading lamp. Its stained glass shade is still chipped from the time she knocked it over. Rachel's always been a little bit clumsy.

Only this morning, her cheeks were rosy with health. Now they are pale and waxen, and her lips have a blue tinge I don't like. Huddled under a pile of blankets, she shivers and murmurs incoherently. I lay a cool cloth over her forehead and sink into the leather chair at her bedside. Pulling out the folded newspaper I've tucked beneath my seat, I read the same headlines over and over.

I hear the sound of the bedclothes shifting and look up. Rachel is sitting up, dark curls rumpled and brown eyes too bright.

"Abel?" Her voice is barely a whisper.

"I'm here, darling," I say, taking her hand.

"I'm so cold," she says, her voice faint.

"I know, Gracie." The old endearment feels awkward now. Everything does.

Rachel opens her mouth to speak again, but a fit of coughing overtakes her. It seems to go on forever; I can do nothing but watch as she struggles for breath. When the paroxysm finally subsides, she's even more ashen than before. Against the deep burgundy of her housecoat, her skin looks almost bloodless.

"It's... it's bad, isn't it?" Her words come in gasps; I watch in horror as she wipes blood from her lips.

"Don't talk," I say, "Rest."

Her eyes are already closed again when I hear the knock. I leap up and run for door. Throwing it open, I usher the doctor inside. Flakes of snow cling to the shoulders of his wool overcoat and his hair is windswept. There are bruised-looking hollows beneath his eyes. It's after seven at night and he's probably been seeing patients non-stop since dawn.

"Good to see you, Abel," he rasps. "Wish it could be under better circumstances."

"Do you want some tea?" I ask, taking his coat. He nods, and I go into the kitchen to make it as he opens his black bag.

I have to search for the aluminum kettle. Rachel's mother bought it for us as a housewarming gift, and that's the last time I remember seeing it. Under normal circumstances, the kitchen is Rachel's domain. By the time I return with the doctor's tea, he's finishing his examination. I hand him the steaming cup and he sips from it with a grateful sigh.

"Can you help her, Doc?" I ask.

The doctor looks away, his shadowed eyes sad. It's all the answer I need.

* * * * *
August 27, 1911


Sighing, I attach the handmade placard to the front of the table. I step back and admire my handiwork. TIMEPIECE REPAIR - BEST PRICES, SATISFACTION GUARANTEED. It's not the most clever slogan, but it will do. Sitting down in the chair behind the table, I take a deep breath, only to gag as the stench of manure fills my nostrils.

Just my luck, getting a table next to the livestock.

Annoyed, I scribble a note - "Back in 1 hour" - and attach it to the sign. There won't be many customers until after the horse races anyway. I set off across the grounds to see the sights.

The stroll does me a world of good. A nice breeze is blowing, and the air is fresh. By the time I reach the front of the park, my mood is much improved. I pause for a moment, enjoying the happy buzz of the people around me and the scent of fried dough.

All of a sudden, something smashes into me from behind. I stumble and pitch forward, eyeglasses falling to the ground. Blind as a bat without my spectacles, I fumble for them in the dirt. As I find them and shove them back onto my nose, I hear a feminine voice from above me. Peering through my now-dusty lenses, I see a young woman's anxious face staring into mine.

"I'm so sorry! I've never been the height of grace, but - " A blush spreads across her cheeks.

"Exactly how tall is Grace?" I ask, dusting myself off and getting to my feet.

She laughs. "Well, I guess about my height..."

"I suppose I'll have to call you Gracie, then." I offer my hand. "Abel Simmons."

"Actually, my name's Rachel Malden." Her hand is tiny but her grip is firm.

"If it's all the same to you, I'll just call you Gracie." Her face turns an even deeper shade of red, but she keeps trying to make conversation.

"Exciting, isn't it?" she asks, eyes shining with enthusiasm. "The first county fair in over a decade!"

"I'm here for business, not pleasure," I tell her. "I'm an inventor, but it doesn't always pay the bills. I've got to take extra work when I can get it." As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. I've had this conversation countless times, and it never ends well.

"An inventor?" Her eyes light up. "Like Thomas Edison?"

Oh boy, here we go again.

"Well, not exactly like Edison."

"What sorts of things do you invent, then?" she asks. This is where things always start to go awry.

"Well," I hedge, shuffling my foot in the dust. "I'm sort of working on... a time machine." I wait for it. At best, there will be confusion - at worst, laughter and ridicule.

One of these days I'll learn to make up a convincing lie.

"A time machine?" she shrieks.

Here it comes.

"How wonderful!" She claps her hands in childlike excitement. "Can you really do it?"

Well, this has never happened before.

"I'm still in the planning phases," I tell her, "but I believe it can be done."

A voice crackles over the loudspeaker. "ALL PIE CONTEST PARTICIPANTS, PLEASE REPORT FOR JUDGING."

"Oh, I've got to go," Rachel's face falls, but brightens again a moment later. "Say, do you like apple pie?"

"I've been known to eat a slice or two." To tell the truth, I'm not a fan of sweets at all. I'm also not opposed to seeing more of this woman. She may be lacking in the coordination department, but she's not bad-looking. Besides, she actually seems interested in my time machine.

"Splendid! The pie contest is being judged in an hour. Will you still be here?" When she smiles, I revise my opinion of her looks from "not bad" to "beautiful".

"I'm here all day, Gracie," I say. All of a sudden, the thought no longer fills me with dread.

* * * * *
Winter, 2057


The wind whistles as I step out into the street. It must be cold here - the people rushing past me on all sides are dressed in layers of puffy clothing. Though I'm clothed in only a lightweight shirt, I'm drenched in sweat. My head is spinning and I should be in bed, but I can't turn back now.

I won't let this damnable ailment claim me, too - not when I'm so close to finding the cure.

I'm surrounded by enormous structures of glass and steel. Most of them are adorned with enormous flat panels, like the projection screens in the cinema but in living, breathing color. Brilliant patterns caper across them, constantly shifting. The streets, wet with rain, are bathed in the shining hues of the screens.

I'm delirious. This can't be real.

Gritting my teeth against waves of dizziness, I push my invention into a darkened alley nearby. The simple act of moving the time machine saps what little strength I have left, and I have to sit down to catch my breath. Spots dance before my eyes and everything blurs together.

Not now. Not when I'm so close to getting her back.

I bite my tongue hard. The taste of blood fills my mouth and I snap back to reality. After a few moments, I'm able to get to my feet. Stepping out of the alley, I breathe in the cold night air. My head pounds as I contemplate my next move.

"Please make a selection," a metallic voice intones behind me. I jump. Looking over my shoulder, I see a small screen on the side of the nearest building. On its white background is a red cross, along with the words CLINIC MACHINE.

"Well, that's an unbelievable stroke of luck," I mutter to myself.

"Whaddaya mean, compadre?" The gruff voice comes from behind me, and I let out a yelp of surprise. I turn to face a short and scabrous man. Raising his right hand, he spreads his fingers in a strange salute. Though I do my best to mimic his hand gesture, my fingers will not cooperate.

"I'm looking for medication, and lo and behold - a Clinic Machine."

"One on every corner, man. Hardly a miracle." The little man grins, baring long yellow teeth.

Shuddering, I tip him a curt nod and turn back to the machine. The screen now shows a moving illustration of a finger touching a small square. Below that are several options. With a trembling finger, I touch the one for INFLUENZA NANITES.

"Scanning... please stand by," the artificial voice replies. A moment later, I flinch as a loud buzz issues from the Clinic Machine and it speaks in a tone that sounds almost angry. "Error! Credit implant not found!"

Stinging tears of frustration fill my eyes. I beat my fists against the metal surface of the building and howl with rage.

"You're not lookin' so hot, compadre. Why don'cha let ol' Chester help ya out?"

"Can you tell me where to find a credit implant? I'm very ill, and my wife..." The words catch in my swollen throat.

"Tricky, those," Chester says, forehead creasing. "Gotta get the holo-imaging right and all. For that, ya wanna see Big Davey."

He pulls a billfold from his pocket and opens it up. With a small whoosh, it expands into a case the size of a picnic basket. After rummaging inside it for a moment, he holds up a cord with a single metal prong protruding from one end.

"Plug in," he says, "and I'll upload the map for ya."

"Plug what in?"

Chester looks at me as though I've just sprouted horns and a tail. "Y'know what? Never mind," he says. Stepping up to the Clinic Machine himself, he asks, "Whaddaya want?"

"The influenza cure - one for me, and one for Rachel."

"Ya know how to work these?" he asks a moment later, holding out two shiny metal syringes. I shake my head.

"Lemme do it for ya, then. Won't hurt a bit!" A searing pain spreads through my arm. My knees go weak and I clutch at the metal wall for support. By the time I've recovered, he's holding the remaining syringe out to me.

"How can I repay you?" I ask, pocketing it.

"Don't worry about it - we're buds now," Chester cackles, then dissolves into a fit of hacking. "Wacky Weed," he gasps, "Stuff'll kill ya. Want a pinch for the road?"

I shake my head.

"Seeing Potion, then? Visions that can't be beat!"

"No, thank you! I've got to get home to my wife." I'm already backing away toward the alley. In the distance, a klaxon begins to wail.

"Ya better get outta here, compadre," Chester calls after me. "Sounds like the popies're onto ya. Those Clinic Machines, they got silent alarms and all."

* * * * *
December 8, 1918


Restored to health, I step out of the time machine into my own backyard. It's a quiet night, and I hear nothing but the crickets and the crunch of my shoes over the light dusting of snow. Reaching my back door, I slowly turn the knob.

Locked. We never lock the back door.

I fumble in my pocket and pull out my house key. Shivering in only my shirtsleeves, I slide it into the lock. It doesn't turn.

What in the blue blazes?

At last, I climb in through a window - at least that isn't locked. I make my way to the bedroom, heart hammering in my throat. The room is dark and there's a sick smell in the air. I hear the sound of labored breathing.

"Rachel?" She moans but doesn't respond.

But she's alive, and soon I'll have her back for good.

I turn on the yellow-fringed reading lamp. Grateful to see her alive once more, I take in every detail. Her dark curls spread over the pillow and her skin is pale as milk against her dark green nightgown. The only color in her face is the blue cast to her lips.

Tears fill my eyes and my throat closes up. Even near death, she is beautiful.

Fishing the syringe from my pocket, I administer the injection. Rachel stirs for a moment, but her eyes remain closed. If my own experience is any indication, the nanites should begin to take effect in less than half an hour. Somehow, that still feels like an eternity.

I can't just sit here waiting. Looking for a way to pass the time, I go out to the hall. As I consider making a pot of tea, I hear a scratching at the front door. Crossing to the parlor window, I part the gauzy blue curtains and look out.

No sign of a carriage. There's no one out there.

When the scratching continues, I fling open the front door. Crouched before me on the stoop is a large orange cat. With an indignant meow, it brushes past me and disappears into the back of the house.

Ridiculous creature, acting as if it owns the place.

I snort in annoyance, but decide not to chase after the animal. Instead, I go to the kitchen to brew a pot of tea. This time, I remember exactly where the kettle is. Reaching into the cabinet, I pull it out - only to nearly drop it in surprise. Staring at its shiny copper surface, I try to make sense of what I'm seeing.

The tea pot I used on the night Rachel died - it was aluminum, not copper.

My stomach drops into my shoes as the realization hits me. The lamp, the curtains, even Rachel's nightclothes - none of those are right, either. But what does it mean? Did I do something wrong?

It's too late to turn back now. Tea forgotten, I return to the bedroom. My chair no longer sits at Rachel's bedside. Feeling as though my legs might give out at any moment, I sink to the floor. Minutes stretch unbearably as I sit cross-legged, waiting for her to come around.

After what seems like hours, I hear the sighing sound of movement against the sheets. Looking up, I see that Rachel is awake. The orange cat is beside her, and she's stroking its fur. Her eyes meet mine - lucid, but they show no recognition. Confusion and then alarm flit across her features. She gathers her breath as if to scream.

"Gracie, it's all right. It's me, Abel."

"My name is Rachel. Rachel Malden," she says, the fear still in her dark eyes. "Who are you?"

Group Therapy

My palms sweat and my thoughts race as I walk down the hall. While I've run numerous groups in my two years working at the Rainey Institute, this one is going to be something else entirely.

They're going to eat me alive, I think. This isn't like running Grief Group or Anger Management. Any group leader can identify with those issues. How am I supposed to find common ground with these patients, though?

I enter the room to find my participants already there, awaiting my arrival. There are eleven of them - ten people and one robot - spread across four rows of mostly-empty seats. Here goes nothing, I think, taking a deep breath.

"Hi, everyone. My name is Sarah and I'll be facilitating this group today. It's my first time leading this particular group, so please bear with me and hopefully we can all learn together."

A dark-haired woman in the back row snorts. "What could I possibly learn from you? You're scared to death right now."

"This group will give you the opportunity to talk with others who have been in the same situation as you." I do my best to appear confident in the face of her scrutiny.

"Somehow, I doubt that." The woman shoots me a haughty glare, crossing her arms.

"Okay, then," I continue. "This is a support group for people suffering from Uncooperative Fictional Character Disorder. As I've never been a fictional character myself, I can't say I identify with what you all go through. But that's why we're here. In this session, you'll have the chance to talk about your feelings with other people who've experienced the same things you have."

Nine pairs of human eyes and one pair of electronic ones stare at me in stony silence. In one corner of the room, a man with shaggy white hair sits on the floor and picks at the torn knee of his jeans.

This is going swimmingly so far, I think.

"Um, let's all introduce ourselves. First names will suffice. Please also tell the group how you're feeling today and a little bit about why you're here."

More blank stares.

"Okay, I'll go first," I say, trying not to sound intimidated. "My name is Sarah and I'm feeling nervous right now. I'm not a fictional character, but we don't have any of those working here at the Rainey Institute. They picked me to run this group because sometimes I'm a writer."

With what I hope is an encouraging nod, I address the petite blonde girl sitting in the front row.

"Hi, my name is Sam?" It sounds like a question rather than a statement. She fidgets in her chair and falls silent. A young man of Asian descent with a long ponytail is seated beside her. He grabs her hand and gives it a supportive squeeze, and she speaks again. "Um, I'm feeling depressed and I'm here because I stared at my best friend's butt during an important plot point."

Sam's friend twitches and almost falls out of his chair.

"You what?"

"It... it was an accident," Sam mumbles. "I didn't know it was you." Her friend looks disappointed.

"Um, I'm Daisuke," Sam's friend jumps in before I can ask any more questions. "Right now, I'm feeling, well... kind of shocked. I'm here because I lived in a fantastical world for a year and a half and refuse to talk to anyone about what happened while I was there."

Sam keeps shooting Daisuke nervous looks when she thinks he isn't looking. Daisuke examines his fingernails.

Thanking him, I glance at the two young men seated in the second row. Both are well-dressed, one young and blonde and the other slightly older with dark hair and glasses. They are engaged in a furious make-out session and oblivious to anyone else in the room. I clear my throat, but they don't appear to notice. I'm about to move on to the next participant when a condescending female voice speaks up from the back of the room.

"The pretty yellow-haired one is Jazz and the perverted one is Savin. They're a couple of idiots." It's the dark-haired woman who called me out at the beginning of the session.

Jerking away from his partner, Jazz looks at the woman with alarm. Savin gives her a cursory glance, then resumes kissing Jazz with impressive fervor. Jazz continues to eye the woman for a moment, then shrugs and returns his attention to Savin.

Sighing, I move on. In the third row of seats, a group of four men in their teens or early twenties sit with a feminine-looking robot. I catch the eye of an olive-skinned boy with shocking blue eyes and blonde hair. He offers me a shy smile.

"I'm Kalen, and I am feeling... overwhelmed? I'm here because I committed an act of terrorism by sneezing, thereby turning what was supposed to be a serious story into a new genre called 'goofy dystopia'." Kalen nudges the robot, who is sitting to his left.

"I'm CallaBot. I have no idea why I'm here. Robots don't need therapy." She glares at me, eyes glowing as if lasers are about to emanate from them. Feeling a trickle of sweat roll down the small of my back, I do my best not to flinch. CallaBot turns to the large muscular young man to her left, who appears to be sleeping, and punches him hard in the arm.

"Wake up, numbnuts!"

"OW!" The brawny young man jerks awake with a shout. "Why'd you do that?"

"It's your turn, Shit-For-Brains." At least the fembot is glaring at him instead of me now.

"Um... hi? I'm Brendan."

"Name. How you're feeling. Why you're here. It's not rocket science, seriously." A young man with Mediterranean features and long dark hair stares at Brendan with a disdainful expression that rivals CallaBot's laser eyes.

"Shut up, Devin!"

"Whatever, you troglodyte."

"What?" Brendan looks puzzled.

"Exactly." Devin smirks.

"Can we get to the point already? This is getting boring." The dark-haired woman in the back row stands up. "I'm Jordine. I do what I want. Period."

Jordine points at Brendan. "This one doesn't follow orders."

Gesturing at Devin, she continues.

"This one cracks jokes at inappropriate times and loses his sense of humor at crucial moments. And the one next to him, Wes, thinks that real life is exactly like an episode of NebulaQuest, a fictional 'neurovision' show." She punctuates the word "neurovision" with sarcastic air quotes.

"How did you know all that? Are you some kind of mind-reader?" Wes is staring at Jordine with rapt adoration.

"Yes." Jordine doesn't even spare Wes a glance. She directs her piercing gaze to the white-haired man in the corner, who is still paying no attention to anyone else in the room.

"And this one." Her words drip with disgust. "I don't even know where to begin. He has a perfectly good proper name, but insists on being called The Straw Man instead, making all references to him awkward and ungainly. When his Author wants to write him, he's nowhere to be found. At times when the Author has a million other projects, he begs to be written, promising to behave, only to run away at inopportune moments. Besides all of that, he has no concept of time and his thought processes look like something Salvador Dali vomited up once."

Jordine glares at the Straw Man, who looks up, startled. He stares at her for a moment, whimpers like a kicked dog, and shrinks away. Sam jumps out of her seat and runs over to comfort him as Daisuke eyes him with open hatred.

"This is ridiculous." Jordine snorts, rising and making for the door. "I'm leaving. Have fun exploring your feeeeeeeeeelings."

Sighing, I look at the clock. Only twenty minutes have passed. What am I supposed to do with the rest of the hour?




Author's Note: Thank you so much to theun4givables, who allowed me to borrow her characters (Jordine, Jazz and Savin) for this story.

Group Therapy

My palms sweat and my thoughts race as I walk down the hall. While I've run numerous groups in my two years working at the Rainey Institute, this one is going to be something else entirely.

They're going to eat me alive, I think. This isn't like running Grief Group or Anger Management. Any group leader can identify with those issues. How am I supposed to find common ground with these patients, though?

I enter the room to find my participants already there, awaiting my arrival. There are eleven of them - ten people and one robot - spread across four rows of mostly-empty seats. Here goes nothing, I think, taking a deep breath.

"Hi, everyone. My name is Sarah and I'll be facilitating this group today. It's my first time leading this particular group, so please bear with me and hopefully we can all learn together."

A dark-haired woman in the back row snorts. "What could I possibly learn from you? You're scared to death right now."

"This group will give you the opportunity to talk with others who have been in the same situation as you." I do my best to appear confident in the face of her scrutiny.

"Somehow, I doubt that." The woman shoots me a haughty glare, crossing her arms.

"Okay, then," I continue. "This is a support group for people suffering from Uncooperative Fictional Character Disorder. As I've never been a fictional character myself, I can't say I identify with what you all go through. But that's why we're here. In this session, you'll have the chance to talk about your feelings with other people who've experienced the same things you have."

Nine pairs of human eyes and one pair of electronic ones stare at me in stony silence. In one corner of the room, a man with shaggy white hair sits on the floor and picks at the torn knee of his jeans.

This is going swimmingly so far, I think.

"Um, let's all introduce ourselves. First names will suffice. Please also tell the group how you're feeling today and a little bit about why you're here."

More blank stares.

"Okay, I'll go first," I say, trying not to sound intimidated. "My name is Sarah and I'm feeling nervous right now. I'm not a fictional character, but we don't have any of those working here at the Rainey Institute. They picked me to run this group because sometimes I'm a writer."

With what I hope is an encouraging nod, I address the petite blonde girl sitting in the front row.

"Hi, my name is Sam?" It sounds like a question rather than a statement. She fidgets in her chair and falls silent. A young man of Asian descent with a long ponytail is seated beside her. He grabs her hand and gives it a supportive squeeze, and she speaks again. "Um, I'm feeling depressed and I'm here because I stared at my best friend's butt during an important plot point."

Sam's friend twitches and almost falls out of his chair.

"You what?"

"It... it was an accident," Sam mumbles. "I didn't know it was you." Her friend looks disappointed.

"Um, I'm Daisuke," Sam's friend jumps in before I can ask any more questions. "Right now, I'm feeling, well... kind of shocked. I'm here because I lived in a fantastical world for a year and a half and refuse to talk to anyone about what happened while I was there."

Sam keeps shooting Daisuke nervous looks when she thinks he isn't looking. Daisuke examines his fingernails.

Thanking him, I glance at the two young men seated in the second row. Both are well-dressed, one young and blonde and the other slightly older with dark hair and glasses. They are engaged in a furious make-out session and oblivious to anyone else in the room. I clear my throat, but they don't appear to notice. I'm about to move on to the next participant when a condescending female voice speaks up from the back of the room.

"The pretty yellow-haired one is Jazz and the perverted one is Savin. They're a couple of idiots." It's the dark-haired woman who called me out at the beginning of the session.

Jerking away from his partner, Jazz looks at the woman with alarm. Savin gives her a cursory glance, then resumes kissing Jazz with impressive fervor. Jazz continues to eye the woman for a moment, then shrugs and returns his attention to Savin.

Sighing, I move on. In the third row of seats, a group of four men in their teens or early twenties sit with a feminine-looking robot. I catch the eye of an olive-skinned boy with shocking blue eyes and blonde hair. He offers me a shy smile.

"I'm Kalen, and I am feeling... overwhelmed? I'm here because I committed an act of terrorism by sneezing, thereby turning what was supposed to be a serious story into a new genre called 'goofy dystopia'." Kalen nudges the robot, who is sitting to his left.

"I'm CallaBot. I have no idea why I'm here. Robots don't need therapy." She glares at me, eyes glowing as if lasers are about to emanate from them. Feeling a trickle of sweat roll down the small of my back, I do my best not to flinch. CallaBot turns to the large muscular young man to her left, who appears to be sleeping, and punches him hard in the arm.

"Wake up, numbnuts!"

"OW!" The brawny young man jerks awake with a shout. "Why'd you do that?"

"It's your turn, Shit-For-Brains." At least the fembot is glaring at him instead of me now.

"Um... hi? I'm Brendan."

"Name. How you're feeling. Why you're here. It's not rocket science, seriously." A young man with Mediterranean features and long dark hair stares at Brendan with a disdainful expression that rivals CallaBot's laser eyes.

"Shut up, Devin!"

"Whatever, you troglodyte."

"What?" Brendan looks puzzled.

"Exactly." Devin smirks.

"Can we get to the point already? This is getting boring." The dark-haired woman in the back row stands up. "I'm Jordine. I do what I want. Period."

Jordine points at Brendan. "This one doesn't follow orders."

Gesturing at Devin, she continues.

"This one cracks jokes at inappropriate times and loses his sense of humor at crucial moments. And the one next to him, Wes, thinks that real life is exactly like an episode of NebulaQuest, a fictional 'neurovision' show." She punctuates the word "neurovision" with sarcastic air quotes.

"How did you know all that? Are you some kind of mind-reader?" Wes is staring at Jordine with rapt adoration.

"Yes." Jordine doesn't even spare Wes a glance. She directs her piercing gaze to the white-haired man in the corner, who is still paying no attention to anyone else in the room.

"And this one." Her words drip with disgust. "I don't even know where to begin. He has a perfectly good proper name, but insists on being called The Straw Man instead, making all references to him awkward and ungainly. When his Author wants to write him, he's nowhere to be found. At times when the Author has a million other projects, he begs to be written, promising to behave, only to run away at inopportune moments. Besides all of that, he has no concept of time and his thought processes look like something Salvador Dali vomited up once."

Jordine glares at the Straw Man, who looks up, startled. He stares at her for a moment, whimpers like a kicked dog, and shrinks away. Sam jumps out of her seat and runs over to comfort him as Daisuke eyes him with open hatred.

"This is ridiculous." Jordine snorts, rising and making for the door. "I'm leaving. Have fun exploring your feeeeeeeeeelings."

Sighing, I look at the clock. Only twenty minutes have passed. What am I supposed to do with the rest of the hour?




Author's Note: Thank you so much to theun4givables, who allowed me to borrow her characters (Jordine, Jazz and Savin) for this story.

Food Memory

Sweating in the sticky Louisiana heat, 8-year-old Dobie spread his haul out on the grass in front of him. He'd scored twelve candy bars, all the chocolate he and Jean could eat. There were Baby Ruths for him, Hershey bars for Jean, and a couple of Snickers bars for good measure. After all, who didn't like Snickers?

I'm gonna be real sorry I didn't listen to my mama, he thought.

His hands trembled with anticipation and a healthy dose of fear. It was always a bad thing when he didn't listen to his mama. Mama had told him time and time again that stealing was bad, but sometimes the devil just got in him and he couldn't help himself.

He knew that stealing was a sin, but he'd be damned if he'd go back and apologize to Old Man Maynard, who always peered at him over his glasses and whispered the R word when he thought Dobie couldn't hear him. Today, he hadn't even bothered to whisper, shouting after him as he ran, spitting out not just the R word but also a string of curse words that'd have mama washing his mouth out with soap if he repeated them.

Sweet Jean would never call him the R word. She never talked to him like he was stupid, the way other people did, all slow and overly patient. She spoke to him like she'd speak to anyone else, and he loved her. Picking up his forbidden treasure, he swallowed his fear and sauntered down the road toward her house.

*****
Sweating despite the air conditioning in the small and lonely room, 38-year-old Dobie spread out the twelve candy bars on the fake-wood top of the table in front of him. Just as he'd requested, there were Baby Ruth, Snickers and Hershey bars.

If only I had listened to Mama in the first place, I wouldn't be in this mess now, Dobie thought. It's always a bad thing when I don't listen to my mama.

His hands trembled with trepidation and the effort of making his twisted, arthritic fingers tear open a wrapper. He stared down at the gray-tiled floor and wished that Jean could be with him now to share this feast. Hunched stiffly in his plastic chair, Dobie bit into the first candy bar, remembering.

*****
Mama made him promise not to drink when he came home to visit for the weekend. He was visiting on a weekend furlough from Camp Beauregard, where they'd sent him the last time he'd gotten caught stealing. Mama knew he tried to be a good boy, but she knew the devil just got in him sometimes too. She didn't want him to get in any more trouble.

He should have listened to his mama, but instead he went and sat out back of Fred Harris's store, drinking with his friends. They spent the evening sipping cold beer and sweet cognac. On their drinking nights, no one called him names and there was no smart or stupid. There was just him and his buddies, sitting out under the stars and telling yarns.

The cognac made his stomach hurt. He started to feel like he was going to puke, so he stumbled to his Grandpa's house to lie down. He collapsed on the couch and fell asleep.

He woke up to someone shaking his shoulder. It was a policeman and he said he had to come with him to the station. He said they'd be there all night and all morning and all the next day 'til he got to the bottom of things. The policeman kept asking about a white lady and a knife and Dobie was scared and confused.

Dobie knew he shouldn't disobey his mama. He knew he shouldn't drink and that stealing was a sin. He knew that sometimes the devil got in him and he couldn't help himself, but he also knew he didn't kill that white lady.

*****
Dobie unwrapped and ate one candy bar after another, savoring each bite. He thought about Jean and how she'd never doubted him this whole time. He thought about the hat she'd given him, a black ball cap with the words "Fear Not" sewn on the front. He wished he still had that hat, but they'd taken it when they brought him here to the death house to wait for his execution.

Dobie did fear. He feared a lot, but he was trying to be brave.

Warden Cain had asked him earlier if he wanted to be taken to the execution room in a wheelchair. Ever since the arthritis started five years ago, he walked all slow and bent and the other inmates in "The Farm" made fun of him. Dobie just ignored them. He was used to being called names. It hurt his pride, but he wouldn't let them see that.

Dobie would be damned if he'd be rolled to his death in a wheelchair. If he was going to the death chamber, he was getting there on the two feet God gave him.

Warden Cain had tried to get Dobie to have his last meal with him, too, but Dobie'd said no. The warden liked to share the prisoners' last meals, because it was the Christian thing to do. Dobie had heard about the meals the warden had taken with other prisoners who'd gone before him. They were big affairs with fancy white tablecloths and special food and guests of honor and singing and prayer.

"I ain't going to eat with those people," Dobie had said to Sister Helen, "It's not like, you know, real fellowship. When they finish eating they're going to help kill me."

Sister Helen was the nun who'd been coming to see him in jail for the past eight years. He liked Sister Helen. She never talked to him like he was stupid, and she said she was going to write his story in a book someday.

Dobie was afraid of death, but he wasn't afraid to eat his last meal alone. He knew that God loved him and his mama loved him and Sister Helen loved him and Jean did too. He was alone in body but not in spirit.

Hands still shaking, but heart a little steadier now, Dobie unwrapped his last candy bar, a Snickers. He pictured Jean's sweet face, her kind smile, and her beautiful eyes. He pretended they were sharing the candy bar, just like they'd done on a hot summer day long ago.

He was alone, but he was at peace.



This piece is based on the true story of Dobie Gillis Williams. He was convicted of murder based on shaky evidence and an alleged confession that was never recorded. He was executed on January 8, 1999 despite having an IQ of 65 and no known history of violence. The quoted text in this piece are Dobie's own real words, taken from excerpts of his story in Sister Helen Prejean's book.

Food Memory

Sweating in the sticky Louisiana heat, 8-year-old Dobie spread his haul out on the grass in front of him. He'd scored twelve candy bars, all the chocolate he and Jean could eat. There were Baby Ruths for him, Hershey bars for Jean, and a couple of Snickers bars for good measure. After all, who didn't like Snickers?

I'm gonna be real sorry I didn't listen to my mama, he thought.

His hands trembled with anticipation and a healthy dose of fear. It was always a bad thing when he didn't listen to his mama. Mama had told him time and time again that stealing was bad, but sometimes the devil just got in him and he couldn't help himself.

He knew that stealing was a sin, but he'd be damned if he'd go back and apologize to Old Man Maynard, who always peered at him over his glasses and whispered the R word when he thought Dobie couldn't hear him. Today, he hadn't even bothered to whisper, shouting after him as he ran, spitting out not just the R word but also a string of curse words that'd have mama washing his mouth out with soap if he repeated them.

Sweet Jean would never call him the R word. She never talked to him like he was stupid, the way other people did, all slow and overly patient. She spoke to him like she'd speak to anyone else, and he loved her. Picking up his forbidden treasure, he swallowed his fear and sauntered down the road toward her house.

*****
Sweating despite the air conditioning in the small and lonely room, 38-year-old Dobie spread out the twelve candy bars on the fake-wood top of the table in front of him. Just as he'd requested, there were Baby Ruth, Snickers and Hershey bars.

If only I had listened to Mama in the first place, I wouldn't be in this mess now, Dobie thought. It's always a bad thing when I don't listen to my mama.

His hands trembled with trepidation and the effort of making his twisted, arthritic fingers tear open a wrapper. He stared down at the gray-tiled floor and wished that Jean could be with him now to share this feast. Hunched stiffly in his plastic chair, Dobie bit into the first candy bar, remembering.

*****
Mama made him promise not to drink when he came home to visit for the weekend. He was visiting on a weekend furlough from Camp Beauregard, where they'd sent him the last time he'd gotten caught stealing. Mama knew he tried to be a good boy, but she knew the devil just got in him sometimes too. She didn't want him to get in any more trouble.

He should have listened to his mama, but instead he went and sat out back of Fred Harris's store, drinking with his friends. They spent the evening sipping cold beer and sweet cognac. On their drinking nights, no one called him names and there was no smart or stupid. There was just him and his buddies, sitting out under the stars and telling yarns.

The cognac made his stomach hurt. He started to feel like he was going to puke, so he stumbled to his Grandpa's house to lie down. He collapsed on the couch and fell asleep.

He woke up to someone shaking his shoulder. It was a policeman and he said he had to come with him to the station. He said they'd be there all night and all morning and all the next day 'til he got to the bottom of things. The policeman kept asking about a white lady and a knife and Dobie was scared and confused.

Dobie knew he shouldn't disobey his mama. He knew he shouldn't drink and that stealing was a sin. He knew that sometimes the devil got in him and he couldn't help himself, but he also knew he didn't kill that white lady.

*****
Dobie unwrapped and ate one candy bar after another, savoring each bite. He thought about Jean and how she'd never doubted him this whole time. He thought about the hat she'd given him, a black ball cap with the words "Fear Not" sewn on the front. He wished he still had that hat, but they'd taken it when they brought him here to the death house to wait for his execution.

Dobie did fear. He feared a lot, but he was trying to be brave.

Warden Cain had asked him earlier if he wanted to be taken to the execution room in a wheelchair. Ever since the arthritis started five years ago, he walked all slow and bent and the other inmates in "The Farm" made fun of him. Dobie just ignored them. He was used to being called names. It hurt his pride, but he wouldn't let them see that.

Dobie would be damned if he'd be rolled to his death in a wheelchair. If he was going to the death chamber, he was getting there on the two feet God gave him.

Warden Cain had tried to get Dobie to have his last meal with him, too, but Dobie'd said no. The warden liked to share the prisoners' last meals, because it was the Christian thing to do. Dobie had heard about the meals the warden had taken with other prisoners who'd gone before him. They were big affairs with fancy white tablecloths and special food and guests of honor and singing and prayer.

"I ain't going to eat with those people," Dobie had said to Sister Helen, "It's not like, you know, real fellowship. When they finish eating they're going to help kill me."

Sister Helen was the nun who'd been coming to see him in jail for the past eight years. He liked Sister Helen. She never talked to him like he was stupid, and she said she was going to write his story in a book someday.

Dobie was afraid of death, but he wasn't afraid to eat his last meal alone. He knew that God loved him and his mama loved him and Sister Helen loved him and Jean did too. He was alone in body but not in spirit.

Hands still shaking, but heart a little steadier now, Dobie unwrapped his last candy bar, a Snickers. He pictured Jean's sweet face, her kind smile, and her beautiful eyes. He pretended they were sharing the candy bar, just like they'd done on a hot summer day long ago.

He was alone, but he was at peace.



This piece is based on the true story of Dobie Gillis Williams. He was convicted of murder based on shaky evidence and an alleged confession that was never recorded. He was executed on January 8, 1999 despite having an IQ of 65 and no known history of violence. The quoted text in this piece are Dobie's own real words, taken from excerpts of his story in Sister Helen Prejean's book.

Cesspool

Life here in Buffalo Creek was different before the flood. We were family, all of us.

Everyone looked out for everyone else, and no one was ever alone. All the families had the same little four-room houses, with one bedroom for the parents and another for the kids. Everyone got all they needed at the company store and no one was better than anyone else. Our doors were always wide open. You could pop by your neighbor's house any time you needed to borrow something or just wanted to chat. People were cheerful and always had time to talk.

We kids all played together, laughing and running through the grass. There were blue skies and sun and shade trees. If we got tired, there was always a pitcher of ice cold lemonade and a plate of cookies waiting for us in someone's kitchen. We came home dirty and sweaty and late for dinner more times than not. Our mommas might scold us, but no one ever stayed mad for long.

The mommas all looked after each other's kids without a second thought. Whenever a new baby was born in Buffalo Creek, all the women and girls came around to rub the new momma's feet or make her a cup of tea. There were always more than enough pairs of arms to love on that little one while its momma got a bit of sleep. The daddies all worked in the coal mines. Mining was dangerous and everyone knew it, but no one thought of doing anything else. It was good money. When someone did get hurt, everyone else pitched in to make sure his family was taken care of.

That was the best part. No matter the burden, you never had to bear it alone. If you were sick, someone would appear like magic with a steaming pot of soup. If you were sad, people would come by to comfort you. You never even had to ask - people just knew what it was you needed and were always eager to provide it. Hardly anyone ever moved away. Why would they want to when they had everything they needed right here?

That all changed the day the black waters came crashing down, twenty feet high or more.

Momma and I barely made it to the hills in time; Daddy wasn't so lucky. We clutched each other tight as we watched the flood take out a church, carrying cars and houses right along with it. Some of the houses still had people in them - you could see them at the windows. All around us, people were running and screaming and weeping. Some were praying to the Lord Our Savior and others were just standing there in shock. Momma and I watched as everything we had ever loved washed away in a swoosh of dirty water.

I've had nightmares ever since - choking, strangling dreams of being mired in thick black gunk. No matter how hard I struggle, I can never get my head above the surface. When I wake, I'm shuddering and gasping for breath. It feels like I'm screaming but no sound comes out.

Maybe the others are plagued by these dreams, too. I'll never know, because people here in Buffalo Creek don't talk like they used to. They don't look out for each other, either. After the flood, it was like people just stopped caring for each other. Cheery smiles were traded for dazed, unfocused expressions and slack jaws.

A lot of people left, but Momma and I stayed because we'd never known any other home. I was hoping that things would get back to normal sooner or later, but they never did. Trailer parks were built for the people who'd lost their homes and after a while, new people moved into some of them. It was strange not knowing all my neighbors anymore; even the people I grew up with seemed like strangers now.

The doors of all the houses were closed and locked up tight. When you ran into people along your way, they never seemed to have time to talk anymore. Mommas didn't watch each other's little ones or stop by to chat. They never let their own kids out of their sight, and the kids didn't want to run and play anymore anyway. It was almost like the whole world had ended instead of a dam collapsing. People drank and screamed and fought as if it were the End of Days. Men took each other's wives and beat their own and no one looked out for his neighbor anymore at all.

Momma went to work in the mines. We could have gotten by on the settlement check she got from the coal company, but she couldn't stand to sit there and do nothing, all alone like she'd never been before. I knew how she felt and I started to think about getting out altogether. Before the flood, I never would have thought of leaving. Now it wasn't the place where I'd grown up at all. It was cold and empty and sad and I wanted no part of it.

Though I'd never had any schooling, Momma always told me I was smart as a whip. Some of the girls in Buffalo Creek couldn't read at all, but I taught myself to read the Good Book and the newspapers Daddy brought home from the company store. Here in Buffalo Creek, women only kept house or worked in the mines, but out in the world there was something called Women's Lib. Girls went to college and became teachers and nurses and maybe even lady doctors.

Jameson was one of the engineers who came to town to investigate the dam that broke and caused the flood. With his fancy degree and his sweet smile, he had me under his spell before I knew it. Tall and thin with dark hair and liquid brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, he felt like home. When he held me in his arms, I felt loved and warm and whole like I used to feel all the time before the black water came.

Even though he had lots of schooling and I had none at all, he never treated me like I was stupid. He told me that there were people out in the world who thought that dam wasn't built right and the coal company was responsible. As the weeks went by, he got more and more angry. The dam, he said, would never have held. It was just coal sludge on top of dirt and water with no supports like it should have had.

Buffalo Creek was kind of like that. We thought our community was rock solid, but when the waters came, it all washed away. There was no structure underneath to hold it up.

After Momma went to bed at night, I'd sneak out to the trailer where Jameson stayed. He held me and stroked my hair and talked about taking me with him when he left. I could go to school to be whatever I wanted to be and we'd build a new life together. Out in the world, I wouldn't need my neighbors or the coal mines or the company store. We could have everything we needed, just the two of us.

Then I got real sick. For weeks, I couldn't keep anything down, not even soup or water. In the old days, all the women in town would have fussed over me with cold compresses and home remedies but now not even my own Momma was there to take care of me. Jameson was worried and never left my side. Since our old family doctor had left town for good, I finally went to see the new doctor who'd moved into the trailer camp nearby. When he told me I was pregnant, I nearly fainted from shock.

When I told Jameson, he got real pale and looked like he was going to throw up instead of me. Then he said it would be okay - we'd get married and raise the baby together and I would be a great momma. After I started to feel less sick, he took me into the city and let me try on any dresses I liked. He smiled as I twirled and swirled like a little girl in layers of lace and white.

I told him it was bad luck for him to see me in my dress before our wedding day, but he just laughed. An old wives' tale, he called it. With his soft voice and college words, anything he said felt like God's honest truth.

But as the weeks went on, I started to wonder if I hadn't been right after all. Jameson was pale and even thinner than before; I thought maybe he was sick. He didn't hold me like he used to, and his nose was always in his books and charts. I tried to talk to him about the baby, whether it would be a boy or a girl, whose nose it would have and whose eyes, but he didn't seem to care. His eyes were flat and hard like closed doors. When I asked him what was wrong, he said everything was fine. So I kissed him and pretended that he didn't feel cold and empty just like the town that used to be my home.

Now here I am all fussed up in my pretty dress and veil, and Jameson is nowhere to be found. The wedding time came and went, and the preacher man sent went over to the trailer where he stays. There was no answer at the door; it was unlocked and all his things were gone.

Momma held me while I sobbed. It's the first time she's touched me since the day of the flood. She stroked my hair the way she used to when I was a little girl, the way Jameson used to do. Then she said it would be okay - I don't need a man to go out into the world and make something of myself. I can still go off to school if it's what I want. She'll quit the mine and keep my little one and it'll be like old times; we'll help each other because that's what we do here in Buffalo Creek.

She painted a pretty picture of how we'd make it all right, but then it was time for her shift. So Momma got changed into her mining clothes, lit up a smoke, and went off to work. Now there's just me and my flowers and fancy dress, all alone except for a baby whose daddy is gone.





The original inspiration for this story was the photograph below by James Stanfield.



Additional inspiration for many of the details of this piece came from the real-life story of the Buffalo Creek Disaster, which occurred in 1972. A coal waste impoundment dam burst, sending over a million gallons of sludge-infested waters over the 16 thriving coal mining towns of Buffalo Creek. Many were killed and injured, and even more lost everything they owned. Despite overwhelming evidence that the accident was caused by poor construction and negligence on the part of the coal company that owned the dam, its owners declared the tragedy "an act of God". If you are as fascinated by this story as I have become, you might enjoy this essay that I found here about the survivors of the disaster (link downloads the essay as a .doc file).

This piece was originally written for LJ Idol intersection week. The wonderfully creative everywordiwrite wrote an alternate version of the story behind the photo which can be found here.

Cesspool

Life here in Buffalo Creek was different before the flood. We were family, all of us.

Everyone looked out for everyone else, and no one was ever alone. All the families had the same little four-room houses, with one bedroom for the parents and another for the kids. Everyone got all they needed at the company store and no one was better than anyone else. Our doors were always wide open. You could pop by your neighbor's house any time you needed to borrow something or just wanted to chat. People were cheerful and always had time to talk.

We kids all played together, laughing and running through the grass. There were blue skies and sun and shade trees. If we got tired, there was always a pitcher of ice cold lemonade and a plate of cookies waiting for us in someone's kitchen. We came home dirty and sweaty and late for dinner more times than not. Our mommas might scold us, but no one ever stayed mad for long.

The mommas all looked after each other's kids without a second thought. Whenever a new baby was born in Buffalo Creek, all the women and girls came around to rub the new momma's feet or make her a cup of tea. There were always more than enough pairs of arms to love on that little one while its momma got a bit of sleep. The daddies all worked in the coal mines. Mining was dangerous and everyone knew it, but no one thought of doing anything else. It was good money. When someone did get hurt, everyone else pitched in to make sure his family was taken care of.

That was the best part. No matter the burden, you never had to bear it alone. If you were sick, someone would appear like magic with a steaming pot of soup. If you were sad, people would come by to comfort you. You never even had to ask - people just knew what it was you needed and were always eager to provide it. Hardly anyone ever moved away. Why would they want to when they had everything they needed right here?

That all changed the day the black waters came crashing down, twenty feet high or more.

Momma and I barely made it to the hills in time; Daddy wasn't so lucky. We clutched each other tight as we watched the flood take out a church, carrying cars and houses right along with it. Some of the houses still had people in them - you could see them at the windows. All around us, people were running and screaming and weeping. Some were praying to the Lord Our Savior and others were just standing there in shock. Momma and I watched as everything we had ever loved washed away in a swoosh of dirty water.

I've had nightmares ever since - choking, strangling dreams of being mired in thick black gunk. No matter how hard I struggle, I can never get my head above the surface. When I wake, I'm shuddering and gasping for breath. It feels like I'm screaming but no sound comes out.

Maybe the others are plagued by these dreams, too. I'll never know, because people here in Buffalo Creek don't talk like they used to. They don't look out for each other, either. After the flood, it was like people just stopped caring for each other. Cheery smiles were traded for dazed, unfocused expressions and slack jaws.

A lot of people left, but Momma and I stayed because we'd never known any other home. I was hoping that things would get back to normal sooner or later, but they never did. Trailer parks were built for the people who'd lost their homes and after a while, new people moved into some of them. It was strange not knowing all my neighbors anymore; even the people I grew up with seemed like strangers now.

The doors of all the houses were closed and locked up tight. When you ran into people along your way, they never seemed to have time to talk anymore. Mommas didn't watch each other's little ones or stop by to chat. They never let their own kids out of their sight, and the kids didn't want to run and play anymore anyway. It was almost like the whole world had ended instead of a dam collapsing. People drank and screamed and fought as if it were the End of Days. Men took each other's wives and beat their own and no one looked out for his neighbor anymore at all.

Momma went to work in the mines. We could have gotten by on the settlement check she got from the coal company, but she couldn't stand to sit there and do nothing, all alone like she'd never been before. I knew how she felt and I started to think about getting out altogether. Before the flood, I never would have thought of leaving. Now it wasn't the place where I'd grown up at all. It was cold and empty and sad and I wanted no part of it.

Though I'd never had any schooling, Momma always told me I was smart as a whip. Some of the girls in Buffalo Creek couldn't read at all, but I taught myself to read the Good Book and the newspapers Daddy brought home from the company store. Here in Buffalo Creek, women only kept house or worked in the mines, but out in the world there was something called Women's Lib. Girls went to college and became teachers and nurses and maybe even lady doctors.

Jameson was one of the engineers who came to town to investigate the dam that broke and caused the flood. With his fancy degree and his sweet smile, he had me under his spell before I knew it. Tall and thin with dark hair and liquid brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, he felt like home. When he held me in his arms, I felt loved and warm and whole like I used to feel all the time before the black water came.

Even though he had lots of schooling and I had none at all, he never treated me like I was stupid. He told me that there were people out in the world who thought that dam wasn't built right and the coal company was responsible. As the weeks went by, he got more and more angry. The dam, he said, would never have held. It was just coal sludge on top of dirt and water with no supports like it should have had.

Buffalo Creek was kind of like that. We thought our community was rock solid, but when the waters came, it all washed away. There was no structure underneath to hold it up.

After Momma went to bed at night, I'd sneak out to the trailer where Jameson stayed. He held me and stroked my hair and talked about taking me with him when he left. I could go to school to be whatever I wanted to be and we'd build a new life together. Out in the world, I wouldn't need my neighbors or the coal mines or the company store. We could have everything we needed, just the two of us.

Then I got real sick. For weeks, I couldn't keep anything down, not even soup or water. In the old days, all the women in town would have fussed over me with cold compresses and home remedies but now not even my own Momma was there to take care of me. Jameson was worried and never left my side. Since our old family doctor had left town for good, I finally went to see the new doctor who'd moved into the trailer camp nearby. When he told me I was pregnant, I nearly fainted from shock.

When I told Jameson, he got real pale and looked like he was going to throw up instead of me. Then he said it would be okay - we'd get married and raise the baby together and I would be a great momma. After I started to feel less sick, he took me into the city and let me try on any dresses I liked. He smiled as I twirled and swirled like a little girl in layers of lace and white.

I told him it was bad luck for him to see me in my dress before our wedding day, but he just laughed. An old wives' tale, he called it. With his soft voice and college words, anything he said felt like God's honest truth.

But as the weeks went on, I started to wonder if I hadn't been right after all. Jameson was pale and even thinner than before; I thought maybe he was sick. He didn't hold me like he used to, and his nose was always in his books and charts. I tried to talk to him about the baby, whether it would be a boy or a girl, whose nose it would have and whose eyes, but he didn't seem to care. His eyes were flat and hard like closed doors. When I asked him what was wrong, he said everything was fine. So I kissed him and pretended that he didn't feel cold and empty just like the town that used to be my home.

Now here I am all fussed up in my pretty dress and veil, and Jameson is nowhere to be found. The wedding time came and went, and the preacher man sent went over to the trailer where he stays. There was no answer at the door; it was unlocked and all his things were gone.

Momma held me while I sobbed. It's the first time she's touched me since the day of the flood. She stroked my hair the way she used to when I was a little girl, the way Jameson used to do. Then she said it would be okay - I don't need a man to go out into the world and make something of myself. I can still go off to school if it's what I want. She'll quit the mine and keep my little one and it'll be like old times; we'll help each other because that's what we do here in Buffalo Creek.

She painted a pretty picture of how we'd make it all right, but then it was time for her shift. So Momma got changed into her mining clothes, lit up a smoke, and went off to work. Now there's just me and my flowers and fancy dress, all alone except for a baby whose daddy is gone.





The original inspiration for this story was the photograph below by James Stanfield.



Additional inspiration for many of the details of this piece came from the real-life story of the Buffalo Creek Disaster, which occurred in 1972. A coal waste impoundment dam burst, sending over a million gallons of sludge-infested waters over the 16 thriving coal mining towns of Buffalo Creek. Many were killed and injured, and even more lost everything they owned. Despite overwhelming evidence that the accident was caused by poor construction and negligence on the part of the coal company that owned the dam, its owners declared the tragedy "an act of God". If you are as fascinated by this story as I have become, you might enjoy this essay that I found here about the survivors of the disaster (link downloads the essay as a .doc file).

This piece was originally written for LJ Idol intersection week. The wonderfully creative everywordiwrite wrote an alternate version of the story behind the photo which can be found here.

Bringing a Knife To a Gun Fight

This is shit, Yossi thought.

He rocked the stiff military-issue chair backward onto its rear legs and heaved a mighty sigh. The sound echoed in the stillness of the desert. The sun hung languidly in the bleached sky, glinting across the rippling waters of the canal and unconcerned with Yossi's plight.

After spending Pesach on duty, he'd looked forward to a quiet Rosh Hashanah at home with Yael and their two little ones. When he had been called to serve at the Milano strongpoint instead, he'd written a letter of complaint to the Minister of Defense. Surprisingly, the man with the eye patch had responded, releasing all of the 68th Battalion from service except for a skeleton crew. Perhaps Yossi had not been the only one to protest the deployment.

In exchange for a leave during Sukkot, he had volunteered to remain at his post. At 2 and 4 years old, Meir and Avital weren't really old enough to appreciate the High Holy Days anyway. A chance to go on a weeklong holiday with his family later was well worth missing them now.

Milano was a ghost town, as neglected as the rest of the Bar-Lev Line. The Line had been built to guard against an Egyptian invasion, but it had been years since anyone truly believed such an attack would come. Half of the strongpoints that comprised the line had been shut down, and the remaining forts had fallen into disrepair. Duty here was as an exercise in futility. Reserve units, mostly students and men well past their prime, manned the stations, bringing books and games and anticipating no action.

Today was Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. Yossi had expected the solitude of the nearly-abandoned base to be meditative, an opportunity for reflection. Instead, he felt oddly disconcerted. Worshiping with a congregation of sand and rocks and accompanied by the only the whistling wind, it was easy to imagine that God had already passed judgment and found him lacking.

And the real hell of it all is that I can't even have a damn cigarette.

Sighing again, he pulled his father's old olivewood snuff box from his left breast pocket and tapped its lid firmly with two thin fingers. He opened the box and took a pinch, rolling the finely ground tobacco briefly between his thumb and forefinger before inhaling lightly. The sweet aroma filled his nose, and he dissolved into a violent fit of sneezing. He wasn't a fan of snuff, but it was all he was allowed during the fast.

He'd barely recovered his composure when he saw the commander approaching. There would be a briefing in the mess hall in fifteen minutes. Stretching his long legs, he stood up and went inside to wash up. He welcomed the distraction.

* * * * *
Crouched in a scrubby juniper bush, Yossi ate for the first time in over 48 hours. It was an unimpressive spread: canned beef and tuna, crackers, pickles and olives. After the unintentional extension of his Yom Kippur fast and a long trek through the desert, however, it tasted like heaven.

Only minutes into the briefing, the commander's talk had been interrupted by loud explosions. Artillery shells had torn through the air, part of a military action they'd all thought impossible. The inexperienced reservists had panicked, diving for cover. The commander had sent him to the observation tower to see what was happening while he took the rest of the troops to the bunker.

Up in the tower, Yossi had rubbed his eyes in disbelief. The detonating projectiles weren't the worst of it; hundreds of Egyptian troops were advancing across the canal. A flotilla of rubber boats sailed over waters that had been calm less than an hour before, loaded down with men dead set on breaching the Bar-Levi Line.

By the time he'd made it back to the bunker, two members of his company had already been killed by shrapnel. Still, everyone had been certain that the air force would quash the Egyptian war efforts in no time. They'd rejoiced at the ear-splitting roar of the first planes flying overhead, only to reel in horror moments later as they watched the aircraft being gunned down. No reinforcements had come; no one had expected any to be needed and none were available on such short notice.

The impossible had happened. The Egyptians were staging an all-out attack. And from the looks of things, they were winning.

Only a third of the soldiers from his base were here with him in the desert now. Terrified and bedraggled, they prayed, some for the first time in years. One of the men had managed to escape with his tallit, and they took turns using the prayer shawl, each offering his own words to the heavens. When the tallit was passed to him, Yossi entreated God to allow him to see his wife and babies again.

As if in answer to his supplication, the sand beneath him began to vibrate with the thundering approach of a tank. The prayer shawl clutched around his slender shoulders, Yossi almost ran toward the sound, then hesitated. A member of the armored corps would be able to tell an Israeli tank from an Egyptian one simply by listening to the sound of its treads. He himself was only a reservist, far more learned in Torah than in the ways of war.

We barely made it out of Milano alive, and we've got no more food, he thought. We're ill-prepared and won't last much longer out here. And if the enemy's tanks have already advanced this far, there's a good chance we won't be rescued in time anyway.

His feet made the decision for him, and Yossi tore up the hill in the direction of the tank. He crested the ridge, waving the borrowed tallit like a white flag. Squinting toward the horizon, he began his prayers anew.

Please God, let it be one of ours.




[This story is a fictional account of the beginning of the Yom Kippur War of 1973. Although there were signs that the Egyptians were planning an attack, the Israeli government did not believe the Egyptian army had the resources to engage them. Their overconfidence coupled with the observance of Yom Kippur, the holiest day in the Jewish calendar, left them woefully unprepared when the Egyptians quite literally brought out their big guns. If you are interested, here are two of the resources I used in researching this story. There really was a soldier named Yossi stationed at Milano strongpoint that day, and the prayer shawl really was instrumental in his rescue. However, I've taken quite a few artistic liberties with the other details of his story.]

Bringing a Knife To a Gun Fight

This is shit, Yossi thought.

He rocked the stiff military-issue chair backward onto its rear legs and heaved a mighty sigh. The sound echoed in the stillness of the desert. The sun hung languidly in the bleached sky, glinting across the rippling waters of the canal and unconcerned with Yossi's plight.

After spending Pesach on duty, he'd looked forward to a quiet Rosh Hashanah at home with Yael and their two little ones. When he had been called to serve at the Milano strongpoint instead, he'd written a letter of complaint to the Minister of Defense. Surprisingly, the man with the eye patch had responded, releasing all of the 68th Battalion from service except for a skeleton crew. Perhaps Yossi had not been the only one to protest the deployment.

In exchange for a leave during Sukkot, he had volunteered to remain at his post. At 2 and 4 years old, Meir and Avital weren't really old enough to appreciate the High Holy Days anyway. A chance to go on a weeklong holiday with his family later was well worth missing them now.

Milano was a ghost town, as neglected as the rest of the Bar-Lev Line. The Line had been built to guard against an Egyptian invasion, but it had been years since anyone truly believed such an attack would come. Half of the strongpoints that comprised the line had been shut down, and the remaining forts had fallen into disrepair. Duty here was as an exercise in futility. Reserve units, mostly students and men well past their prime, manned the stations, bringing books and games and anticipating no action.

Today was Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. Yossi had expected the solitude of the nearly-abandoned base to be meditative, an opportunity for reflection. Instead, he felt oddly disconcerted. Worshiping with a congregation of sand and rocks and accompanied by the only the whistling wind, it was easy to imagine that God had already passed judgment and found him lacking.

And the real hell of it all is that I can't even have a damn cigarette.

Sighing again, he pulled his father's old olivewood snuff box from his left breast pocket and tapped its lid firmly with two thin fingers. He opened the box and took a pinch, rolling the finely ground tobacco briefly between his thumb and forefinger before inhaling lightly. The sweet aroma filled his nose, and he dissolved into a violent fit of sneezing. He wasn't a fan of snuff, but it was all he was allowed during the fast.

He'd barely recovered his composure when he saw the commander approaching. There would be a briefing in the mess hall in fifteen minutes. Stretching his long legs, he stood up and went inside to wash up. He welcomed the distraction.

* * * * *
Crouched in a scrubby juniper bush, Yossi ate for the first time in over 48 hours. It was an unimpressive spread: canned beef and tuna, crackers, pickles and olives. After the unintentional extension of his Yom Kippur fast and a long trek through the desert, however, it tasted like heaven.

Only minutes into the briefing, the commander's talk had been interrupted by loud explosions. Artillery shells had torn through the air, part of a military action they'd all thought impossible. The inexperienced reservists had panicked, diving for cover. The commander had sent him to the observation tower to see what was happening while he took the rest of the troops to the bunker.

Up in the tower, Yossi had rubbed his eyes in disbelief. The detonating projectiles weren't the worst of it; hundreds of Egyptian troops were advancing across the canal. A flotilla of rubber boats sailed over waters that had been calm less than an hour before, loaded down with men dead set on breaching the Bar-Levi Line.

By the time he'd made it back to the bunker, two members of his company had already been killed by shrapnel. Still, everyone had been certain that the air force would quash the Egyptian war efforts in no time. They'd rejoiced at the ear-splitting roar of the first planes flying overhead, only to reel in horror moments later as they watched the aircraft being gunned down. No reinforcements had come; no one had expected any to be needed and none were available on such short notice.

The impossible had happened. The Egyptians were staging an all-out attack. And from the looks of things, they were winning.

Only a third of the soldiers from his base were here with him in the desert now. Terrified and bedraggled, they prayed, some for the first time in years. One of the men had managed to escape with his tallit, and they took turns using the prayer shawl, each offering his own words to the heavens. When the tallit was passed to him, Yossi entreated God to allow him to see his wife and babies again.

As if in answer to his supplication, the sand beneath him began to vibrate with the thundering approach of a tank. The prayer shawl clutched around his slender shoulders, Yossi almost ran toward the sound, then hesitated. A member of the armored corps would be able to tell an Israeli tank from an Egyptian one simply by listening to the sound of its treads. He himself was only a reservist, far more learned in Torah than in the ways of war.

We barely made it out of Milano alive, and we've got no more food, he thought. We're ill-prepared and won't last much longer out here. And if the enemy's tanks have already advanced this far, there's a good chance we won't be rescued in time anyway.

His feet made the decision for him, and Yossi tore up the hill in the direction of the tank. He crested the ridge, waving the borrowed tallit like a white flag. Squinting toward the horizon, he began his prayers anew.

Please God, let it be one of ours.




[This story is a fictional account of the beginning of the Yom Kippur War of 1973. Although there were signs that the Egyptians were planning an attack, the Israeli government did not believe the Egyptian army had the resources to engage them. Their overconfidence coupled with the observance of Yom Kippur, the holiest day in the Jewish calendar, left them woefully unprepared when the Egyptians quite literally brought out their big guns. If you are interested, here are two of the resources I used in researching this story. There really was a soldier named Yossi stationed at Milano strongpoint that day, and the prayer shawl really was instrumental in his rescue. However, I've taken quite a few artistic liberties with the other details of his story.]

Only a Matter of Time

237 BCE - Carthage

The sky was almost completely dark as General Hamilcar Barca stood before the altar. Lifting the shallow libation dish carefully so as not to slop any liquid over the sides, he poured its contents onto the rough stones before him. In the flickering torchlight, he watched as the wine darkened the masonry like a spreading bloodstain.

May the blood of my enemies soon flow as freely.

It wasn't just that the Romans had humiliated him on the battlefield, though that was bad enough. After the war, many of his troops had revolted. He'd been forced to go into battle once more, against his own men. The Carthaginian Senate had been no help, so he'd been forced to turn to Rome for assistance. To add insult to injury, they'd seized a king's ransom in land and silver as their price for helping him quell the mutiny.

Though he couldn't retaliate directly, Hamilcar had a plan. Soon he would sail to Iberia, where he'd rebuild his wealth and also his armies. Though it might not be during his lifetime, his losses would be avenged.

As he began to prepare the sacrificial goat, a jagged flash of blinding white light split the bruised heavens. Until now, the evening had been clear, with no sign of an impending storm. This could only be an omen of favorable things to come. After all, what better response could the god of the skies send to a man named for lightning itself?

"Hannibal!" he called out, his voice echoing across the plain.

"Yes, Father?" His eldest son's voice, as yet clear and unchanged, rang out from somewhere in the blackness. A moment later, the pale oval of his face swam into view. Then he stepped into the light, a slim figure in simple robes, dark curls spilling over his broad shoulders. Though he was only a boy, he carried himself like a man.

It was time he learned to fight like one.

"Son, do you wish to accompany me to Iberia?"

The boy's eyes shone, and for a moment he was speechless.

"Of course, if you're not ready, I understand," his father gently teased.

"Not ready?" Hannibal all but squealed with delight, for once seeming precisely his age. "Of course I am ready. I've spent my entire life preparing for this!"

The elder Barca smiled inwardly. "Well, if you are certain..."

Reaching out, he clasped his son's hands firmly within his own. "If you are to join me in battle, there is one thing I must ask of you."

"Anything, Father," came the breathless response.

Guiding the boy's hand to the carcass that laid on the altar before them, the general spoke gravely. "Swear to me, son, that as long as you live, you will never be a friend to the Romans."

The flames of the torch painted shadows across the boy's cheeks. His dark eyes were filled with fire.

"I swear it on my life!"

The spreading warmth of pride suffused the older man's heart. All three of his sons showed great promise, but this one was special. Quiet and thoughtful, he had a quick mind and was eager to learn the ways of combat. It was this boy who would someday restore Carthage to its former glory.

It was only a matter of time.

*****
216 BCE - Capua

The luxurious comfort of the city was anything but relaxing to Maharbal. During the treacherous march through the Alps, he would have given anything for a warm bed and a full belly. Now, however, he yearned to be anywhere but here.

As his father's wine had once spilled across the altar stones, so had the blood of Hannibal's foes flowed over the plains of Cannae. The earth had become slick with it; the river had run red. As the cavalry commander, Maharbal was no stranger to killing. Still, even he had been disquieted by the sight of the corpses piled over the killing field on the morning after the battle.

His uneasiness had quickly been replaced with a certainty that they needed to keep moving at all costs. He had begged Hannibal to let him bring the cavalry to Rome immediately, but the commander had refused.

Always a bit impulsive, Maharbal had lost his temper. He had shouted, "So the gods haven't given everything to one man; you know how to win a victory, Hannibal, but you don't know how to use one!" Then he had stormed off, too exasperated to discuss the issue any further.

Perhaps it was imprudent to speak so disrespectfully to the most deadly military commander that Carthage had ever known. This hadn't been the first time Maharbal had done so, and it probably wouldn't be the last. His sharp tongue and fiery disposition often got the better of him.

Having served under his father, most of the inner circle had known Hannibal since he was little more than a boy. It was a close-knit group comprised of both blood relatives and chosen family. Crossing the frozen Alps, though it had nearly killed them, had only strengthened their bond.

One might expect that a journey into near-death from exposure and starvation would breed distrust of the man responsible. Indeed, many thousands of the mercenary troops who had begun the journey with them had defected along the way. Hannibal had let them go, saying that the last thing he needed was a contingent of men whose loyalty was questionable.

In the inner circle, there had been no defectors. While they'd respected his father, they were completely devoted to Hannibal. It wasn't just that they admired his brilliant tactical mind and his ability to do whatever the enemy least expected, though of course they did. He was brilliant (and sometimes knew it all too well), but beneath that he was also a compassionate and approachable leader with a wicked sense of humor.

He valued fealty and honesty above all else, and provided the same in return. Fearless in combat, he fought and slept on the hard ground beside them. Unafraid of criticism, he would never penalize an adviser for speaking to him as Maharbal had done. He welcomed their insight and trusted them implicitly.

However, that didn't mean he always listened to their advice.

Hannibal had argued that even now, the Roman armies still far outnumbered his. They had been dogged by fatigue and hunger since they'd left Iberia. The five-day march to Rome would deplete their resources even further. Little would be left for a siege against the seat of the mighty empire.

Instead, the commander had sent his youngest brother Mago home to Carthage. Loaded down with baskets of golden rings from the fingers of slain Roman nobles, he would plead their case to the Senate. Faced with this display, Hannibal was sure they'd send additional resources. Renewed, they would continue their advance on Rome.

He had a point. Each new victory saw another mass defection of Gallic warriors once loyal to the empire. Already the wealthy and beautiful city of Capua had literally burned its bridges with Rome in favor of an alliance with them. It stood to reason that others in Italy would soon follow suit.

Despite these positive omens, Maharbal was certain that this hesitation would be his beloved leader's undoing. Older by more than a decade, he hadn't forgotten how the Senate had failed to come through for his company in the first war against Rome. It could be years before they sent reinforcements. It could be an eternity.

The Romans' numbers would always be greater than theirs. No fresh troops, no new allies, could change that fact. The bloodbath at Cannae had shaken the empire to its core, and their only chance was to strike before that shock had subsided.

There was nothing to be done, though. Maharbal had said his piece and it had gotten him nowhere. Even now, the window of opportunity was closing. If they left today, it might already be too late. It was better not to focus on things he could not change.

Instead, he'd make the most of his time in this beautiful city. Unlike most of his countrymen, he was not burdened with overly developed moral sensibilities. There were many pleasures he could enjoy here. He had a warm bed for the first time in ages and he might as well find someone to share it with him.

It was out of his hands, and there was no sense troubling himself with the matter any longer. He prayed that he was wrong and Hannibal was right. One way or the other, they'd find out soon enough.

It was only a matter of time.

*****
206 BCE - Croton

Hannibal stared moodily across the lush grounds of Hera's temple. Ten years had spilled away like wine from a cracked vessel, and he was no longer a young man. Nor did the gods, if they had ever existed, smile upon him as they once had.

The temple grounds, hectic with blooms that could take a man's breath away, were home to some of the most lovely women imaginable. Though they hung within his grasp like figs, supple and ripe for the picking, he was unmoved by their beauty. He'd had little taste for such conquests even in his youth, and his capacity for pleasure was in short supply these days.

Maharbal had been right - he knew that now. More than a decade in Italy and a host of battles won had brought him no closer to winning the war. Instead, he'd been pinned in place as he watched it all slowly slip from his grasp.

His armies were outnumbered more than ever by their foes. The Romans' supply of conscripts was virtually inexhaustible, and his own dwindled by the day. Though his alliance with Capua had afforded him food and shelter, it had come at a cost. His obligation to protect the people of the city was at odds with his goal of driving further into the heart of Italy.

The Gallic lands to the North were too far to stray, and he could no longer venture there to enlist more troops. The elders of Carthage had been no help. Unimpressed with Mago's theatrics, they had been loath to send money or fresh soldiers.

Capua was gone now, the earth around it scorched and the city itself fallen to the Romans. They'd paid dearly for their allegiance to him. When the empire had overtaken the city, its people had been beaten to death with rods. The survivors had been sold into slavery.

It had been hard to find new allies since then. Instead, his army struggled to keep the footholds they had left.

Since the day he'd sailed for Iberia on his father's ship, he'd been a soldier at heart. Tearing across the countryside, striking fear into the hearts and minds of his enemies - it was what he lived for. The Romans had long since learned not to engage him, and battles now were few and far between. This waiting was a slow and painful death.

In Iberia, the Barca lands were now lost, and he supposed his wife Imilce had gone with them. Though their marriage had been largely political, he'd been fond of her in his way. There had been no time to mourn her loss, though, before he'd received news of his middle brother Hasdrubal's death, in the form of his severed head.

Never had he felt so alone. Though he had a reputation for bloodlust, he'd always been blessed with the love of friends and family. Now most of them were gone, lives burnt up like sacrifices to gods he'd never been sure he believed in. He'd never realized how much he relied upon them all.

Arrogance had been his undoing. Maharbal had tried to warn him and he, basking in the foolish glow of his latest victory, had not deigned to listen. Now, like so many others who'd loved and helped him, his old friend was dead. Their blood was on his hands.

So many lives lost, and for what?

He had never been an emotional man, but he'd wept upon seeing his brother's face for the last time. In Hasdrubal's wide, unseeing eyes, he'd seen the fate of Carthage. Like all the others who'd stood with him, the people of his homeland would soon be lost.

It was only a matter of time.

*****
183 BCE - Bithynia

The Romans were coming for him.

Hannibal was no stranger to escaping under cover of darkness. It was a tactic he'd used countless times when he was still a brash young commander. Though he was an old man now, he was still always prepared to leave in a hurry. It was a necessity in his line of work.

Exiled from his homeland, he'd reinvented himself as a consultant of sorts. Currently, he worked in the court of King Prusias of Bithynia. His official title was "city planner", but he provided assistance with many other sorts of planning as well. Sometimes that planning involved catapulting pots of snakes onto the ships of the King's enemies.

It was a living, but it didn't make him any friends. As always, he kept his ear to the ground. Tonight, he'd heard that the owner of the snake-plagued ships had asked the Roman empire to intervene in his dispute with King Prusias. This sort of intervention was never good news for him.

Gathering a few possessions, he slipped into an underground passage just down the hall from his quarters. Creeping through the tunnel, he made as little noise as possible. Subterfuge was harder with an aging body that didn't work the way it once had.

All of a sudden, he heard shouting and the sound of running feet. The King's guards were almost upon him before he knew it. Pulling a flask of wine from his pocket, he drank deeply. The poison would kick in any minute, and he'd escape once more.

It was only a matter of time.




When I was 12 years old, I took a summer course about the ancient Roman empire and became obsessed with Hannibal Barca and the Second Punic War. I was supposed to write a paper for the end of the class, but got so sidetracked by researching Hannibal's conquest that I never actually finished the paper. The same thing almost happened to me when I went to write this entry.

Because history is generally written by the victors, most of what we know about Hannibal and his people is written from a Roman perspective. I used this book and this website for the majority of my research. When in doubt, I made things up.

Only a Matter of Time

237 BCE - Carthage

The sky was almost completely dark as General Hamilcar Barca stood before the altar. Lifting the shallow libation dish carefully so as not to slop any liquid over the sides, he poured its contents onto the rough stones before him. In the flickering torchlight, he watched as the wine darkened the masonry like a spreading bloodstain.

May the blood of my enemies soon flow as freely.

It wasn't just that the Romans had humiliated him on the battlefield, though that was bad enough. After the war, many of his troops had revolted. He'd been forced to go into battle once more, against his own men. The Carthaginian Senate had been no help, so he'd been forced to turn to Rome for assistance. To add insult to injury, they'd seized a king's ransom in land and silver as their price for helping him quell the mutiny.

Though he couldn't retaliate directly, Hamilcar had a plan. Soon he would sail to Iberia, where he'd rebuild his wealth and also his armies. Though it might not be during his lifetime, his losses would be avenged.

As he began to prepare the sacrificial goat, a jagged flash of blinding white light split the bruised heavens. Until now, the evening had been clear, with no sign of an impending storm. This could only be an omen of favorable things to come. After all, what better response could the god of the skies send to a man named for lightning itself?

"Hannibal!" he called out, his voice echoing across the plain.

"Yes, Father?" His eldest son's voice, as yet clear and unchanged, rang out from somewhere in the blackness. A moment later, the pale oval of his face swam into view. Then he stepped into the light, a slim figure in simple robes, dark curls spilling over his broad shoulders. Though he was only a boy, he carried himself like a man.

It was time he learned to fight like one.

"Son, do you wish to accompany me to Iberia?"

The boy's eyes shone, and for a moment he was speechless.

"Of course, if you're not ready, I understand," his father gently teased.

"Not ready?" Hannibal all but squealed with delight, for once seeming precisely his age. "Of course I am ready. I've spent my entire life preparing for this!"

The elder Barca smiled inwardly. "Well, if you are certain..."

Reaching out, he clasped his son's hands firmly within his own. "If you are to join me in battle, there is one thing I must ask of you."

"Anything, Father," came the breathless response.

Guiding the boy's hand to the carcass that laid on the altar before them, the general spoke gravely. "Swear to me, son, that as long as you live, you will never be a friend to the Romans."

The flames of the torch painted shadows across the boy's cheeks. His dark eyes were filled with fire.

"I swear it on my life!"

The spreading warmth of pride suffused the older man's heart. All three of his sons showed great promise, but this one was special. Quiet and thoughtful, he had a quick mind and was eager to learn the ways of combat. It was this boy who would someday restore Carthage to its former glory.

It was only a matter of time.

*****
216 BCE - Capua

The luxurious comfort of the city was anything but relaxing to Maharbal. During the treacherous march through the Alps, he would have given anything for a warm bed and a full belly. Now, however, he yearned to be anywhere but here.

As his father's wine had once spilled across the altar stones, so had the blood of Hannibal's foes flowed over the plains of Cannae. The earth had become slick with it; the river had run red. As the cavalry commander, Maharbal was no stranger to killing. Still, even he had been disquieted by the sight of the corpses piled over the killing field on the morning after the battle.

His uneasiness had quickly been replaced with a certainty that they needed to keep moving at all costs. He had begged Hannibal to let him bring the cavalry to Rome immediately, but the commander had refused.

Always a bit impulsive, Maharbal had lost his temper. He had shouted, "So the gods haven't given everything to one man; you know how to win a victory, Hannibal, but you don't know how to use one!" Then he had stormed off, too exasperated to discuss the issue any further.

Perhaps it was imprudent to speak so disrespectfully to the most deadly military commander that Carthage had ever known. This hadn't been the first time Maharbal had done so, and it probably wouldn't be the last. His sharp tongue and fiery disposition often got the better of him.

Having served under his father, most of the inner circle had known Hannibal since he was little more than a boy. It was a close-knit group comprised of both blood relatives and chosen family. Crossing the frozen Alps, though it had nearly killed them, had only strengthened their bond.

One might expect that a journey into near-death from exposure and starvation would breed distrust of the man responsible. Indeed, many thousands of the mercenary troops who had begun the journey with them had defected along the way. Hannibal had let them go, saying that the last thing he needed was a contingent of men whose loyalty was questionable.

In the inner circle, there had been no defectors. While they'd respected his father, they were completely devoted to Hannibal. It wasn't just that they admired his brilliant tactical mind and his ability to do whatever the enemy least expected, though of course they did. He was brilliant (and sometimes knew it all too well), but beneath that he was also a compassionate and approachable leader with a wicked sense of humor.

He valued fealty and honesty above all else, and provided the same in return. Fearless in combat, he fought and slept on the hard ground beside them. Unafraid of criticism, he would never penalize an adviser for speaking to him as Maharbal had done. He welcomed their insight and trusted them implicitly.

However, that didn't mean he always listened to their advice.

Hannibal had argued that even now, the Roman armies still far outnumbered his. They had been dogged by fatigue and hunger since they'd left Iberia. The five-day march to Rome would deplete their resources even further. Little would be left for a siege against the seat of the mighty empire.

Instead, the commander had sent his youngest brother Mago home to Carthage. Loaded down with baskets of golden rings from the fingers of slain Roman nobles, he would plead their case to the Senate. Faced with this display, Hannibal was sure they'd send additional resources. Renewed, they would continue their advance on Rome.

He had a point. Each new victory saw another mass defection of Gallic warriors once loyal to the empire. Already the wealthy and beautiful city of Capua had literally burned its bridges with Rome in favor of an alliance with them. It stood to reason that others in Italy would soon follow suit.

Despite these positive omens, Maharbal was certain that this hesitation would be his beloved leader's undoing. Older by more than a decade, he hadn't forgotten how the Senate had failed to come through for his company in the first war against Rome. It could be years before they sent reinforcements. It could be an eternity.

The Romans' numbers would always be greater than theirs. No fresh troops, no new allies, could change that fact. The bloodbath at Cannae had shaken the empire to its core, and their only chance was to strike before that shock had subsided.

There was nothing to be done, though. Maharbal had said his piece and it had gotten him nowhere. Even now, the window of opportunity was closing. If they left today, it might already be too late. It was better not to focus on things he could not change.

Instead, he'd make the most of his time in this beautiful city. Unlike most of his countrymen, he was not burdened with overly developed moral sensibilities. There were many pleasures he could enjoy here. He had a warm bed for the first time in ages and he might as well find someone to share it with him.

It was out of his hands, and there was no sense troubling himself with the matter any longer. He prayed that he was wrong and Hannibal was right. One way or the other, they'd find out soon enough.

It was only a matter of time.

*****
206 BCE - Croton

Hannibal stared moodily across the lush grounds of Hera's temple. Ten years had spilled away like wine from a cracked vessel, and he was no longer a young man. Nor did the gods, if they had ever existed, smile upon him as they once had.

The temple grounds, hectic with blooms that could take a man's breath away, were home to some of the most lovely women imaginable. Though they hung within his grasp like figs, supple and ripe for the picking, he was unmoved by their beauty. He'd had little taste for such conquests even in his youth, and his capacity for pleasure was in short supply these days.

Maharbal had been right - he knew that now. More than a decade in Italy and a host of battles won had brought him no closer to winning the war. Instead, he'd been pinned in place as he watched it all slowly slip from his grasp.

His armies were outnumbered more than ever by their foes. The Romans' supply of conscripts was virtually inexhaustible, and his own dwindled by the day. Though his alliance with Capua had afforded him food and shelter, it had come at a cost. His obligation to protect the people of the city was at odds with his goal of driving further into the heart of Italy.

The Gallic lands to the North were too far to stray, and he could no longer venture there to enlist more troops. The elders of Carthage had been no help. Unimpressed with Mago's theatrics, they had been loath to send money or fresh soldiers.

Capua was gone now, the earth around it scorched and the city itself fallen to the Romans. They'd paid dearly for their allegiance to him. When the empire had overtaken the city, its people had been beaten to death with rods. The survivors had been sold into slavery.

It had been hard to find new allies since then. Instead, his army struggled to keep the footholds they had left.

Since the day he'd sailed for Iberia on his father's ship, he'd been a soldier at heart. Tearing across the countryside, striking fear into the hearts and minds of his enemies - it was what he lived for. The Romans had long since learned not to engage him, and battles now were few and far between. This waiting was a slow and painful death.

In Iberia, the Barca lands were now lost, and he supposed his wife Imilce had gone with them. Though their marriage had been largely political, he'd been fond of her in his way. There had been no time to mourn her loss, though, before he'd received news of his middle brother Hasdrubal's death, in the form of his severed head.

Never had he felt so alone. Though he had a reputation for bloodlust, he'd always been blessed with the love of friends and family. Now most of them were gone, lives burnt up like sacrifices to gods he'd never been sure he believed in. He'd never realized how much he relied upon them all.

Arrogance had been his undoing. Maharbal had tried to warn him and he, basking in the foolish glow of his latest victory, had not deigned to listen. Now, like so many others who'd loved and helped him, his old friend was dead. Their blood was on his hands.

So many lives lost, and for what?

He had never been an emotional man, but he'd wept upon seeing his brother's face for the last time. In Hasdrubal's wide, unseeing eyes, he'd seen the fate of Carthage. Like all the others who'd stood with him, the people of his homeland would soon be lost.

It was only a matter of time.

*****
183 BCE - Bithynia

The Romans were coming for him.

Hannibal was no stranger to escaping under cover of darkness. It was a tactic he'd used countless times when he was still a brash young commander. Though he was an old man now, he was still always prepared to leave in a hurry. It was a necessity in his line of work.

Exiled from his homeland, he'd reinvented himself as a consultant of sorts. Currently, he worked in the court of King Prusias of Bithynia. His official title was "city planner", but he provided assistance with many other sorts of planning as well. Sometimes that planning involved catapulting pots of snakes onto the ships of the King's enemies.

It was a living, but it didn't make him any friends. As always, he kept his ear to the ground. Tonight, he'd heard that the owner of the snake-plagued ships had asked the Roman empire to intervene in his dispute with King Prusias. This sort of intervention was never good news for him.

Gathering a few possessions, he slipped into an underground passage just down the hall from his quarters. Creeping through the tunnel, he made as little noise as possible. Subterfuge was harder with an aging body that didn't work the way it once had.

All of a sudden, he heard shouting and the sound of running feet. The King's guards were almost upon him before he knew it. Pulling a flask of wine from his pocket, he drank deeply. The poison would kick in any minute, and he'd escape once more.

It was only a matter of time.




When I was 12 years old, I took a summer course about the ancient Roman empire and became obsessed with Hannibal Barca and the Second Punic War. I was supposed to write a paper for the end of the class, but got so sidetracked by researching Hannibal's conquest that I never actually finished the paper. The same thing almost happened to me when I went to write this entry.

Because history is generally written by the victors, most of what we know about Hannibal and his people is written from a Roman perspective. I used this book and this website for the majority of my research. When in doubt, I made things up.

In Your Wheelhouse

Fred lifted the bottle of rum, tipped his head back and took an eager swallow. Liquid fire seared his parched throat, and a contented sigh escaped his lips. It wasn't his drink of choice, but it would do just fine. Under the circumstances, he was grateful to have it at all.

At their last stop in New Guinea, he'd fought tooth and nail to keep his own bottles aboard. Every last ounce of fuel could mean the difference between life and death, and they were leaving all but the most essential cargo. Fred argued that the navigator's sanity might become their saving grace, but somehow the pilot hadn't understood why that required whiskey.

Now here they were, stranded on this coral reef in the middle of nowhere, but at least he'd finally gotten his drink. The remains of the old ship proved they weren't the first to make an unexpected landing here; they might also be their salvation. A quick search of the wreck had yielded a few tins of sardines, some dried peas, and of course, the blessed liquor. These supplies would hold them over for a few days, by which time they might be rescued.

And if not, I might just get a sailor's burial after all, he thought wryly.

The irony was not lost on Fred. He'd given up two decades at the helm of a ship for a career as an aviator, but it seemed the ocean had laid claim to him nonetheless.

Learning to fly had never been his real goal; his first love and true skill was navigation. The sea and stars spoke to him, whispering the way to go. He was an expert with charts and sextants, but a healthy dose of guesswork and a sailor's intuition were two of the finest tools in his kit. In seven short years, he'd become one of the best aerial navigators around.

His skill hadn't been enough this time. They'd gotten off course and been unable to get their bearings again. With their fuel tanks almost empty, an emergency landing on the coral reef had been their only real option.

The sound of footsteps broke into his reverie.

"Anything?" he asked, knowing the answer the moment he saw her face.

Amelia's critics loved to question her talent as an aviator, but her spirit and determination were indisputable. Her gap-toothed grin shone from the pages of papers and glossy magazines, a beacon of hope to guide a nation in dire need of it. Fred had learned quickly from working with the her that the smile was not just for show; she had a love for life that few could match.

At the moment, however, that smile was nowhere in evidence. Her eyes were chips of ice and her face was set in grim determination. Today, she was nobody's lighthouse; all she wanted was to find her own way home.

* * * * *
Fred swirled the ice cubes in his drink and sighed. He hated parties like this - industry mixers where the only point was to see and be seen.

At least there was free booze. He took a healthy gulp of his whiskey, relishing the warm glow as it spread through his chest. Scanning the room, he wondered where the hell Larry was. He'd only come because his friend insisted there was someone he needed to meet.

"There you are!" Larry's overly enthusiastic voice came from behind him. Fred turned to greet his friend, and his heart sank. This was who Larry wanted him to meet?

"Fred, meet Amelia Earhart. Amelia, meet Fred Noonan."

A no-nonsense man, Fred had never been overly impressed with Ms. Earhart or the whirlwind of publicity surrounding her. Sure, she'd achieved feats no woman and few men had managed, but she'd also crashed several planes in the process. Besides, Fred found it hard to trust a pilot who spent as much time writing books, giving lectures, and even designing clothes as she did in the air. Was she an aviatrix for the sake of flying, or for the love of attention?

Still, it wouldn't do to be rude. Taking another slug of his drink, he offered his hand.

"Ms. Earhart," he said coolly.

"Please, call me Amelia," she replied, "They say you're one of the best." Media darling or not, he had to admit she had a firm handshake and a great smile.

"They say you wreck a lot of planes," Fred said. The words were out of his mouth before he knew it. This was another reason he didn't like parties. Larry groaned beside him. Cursing his lack of self-control, Fred drained the rest of his whiskey in one swallow.

"You're a man who speaks his mind," Earhart replied, "I like that."

She was still smiling, and it didn't look forced. Fred had to hand it to her - if nothing else, she certainly had spunk.

"Well, enough small talk," Earhart continued. "I asked Larry to introduce us for a reason."

Fred's head was spinning. She'd asked Larry to... what?

"Are you still working for Pan Am?"

"Yes, for almost seven years now," he replied, not adding that he'd quit in a heartbeat given half a reason. He was drowning in the airline's bureaucratic nonsense.

"Ever thought of leaving?" she asked, seeming to read his mind.

"Well, I'd like to open a navigation school someday," he said.

"Before you do that, would you consider joining me on a flight around the world?" Earhart asked.

This was certainly unexpected.

Why the hell not? he thought. If nothing else, it should get me plenty of publicity for the school I want to open.

Fred shook Ms. Earhart's hand and gave her a genuine smile. "I'd be honored."

* * * * *
Fred watched apprehensively as the roiling sea pounded the shore.

"We need to move inland," he said.

"But we can't leave the plane behind," Amelia argued, "Without it - without the radio - how will anyone find us?"

He opened his mouth to tell her they'd probably abandoned the search by now anyway, but the words withered on his tongue.

A week had passed, and she'd never once given up hope. She made it her mission to raise someone, anyone, on the plane's radio. From dawn until dusk, every hour on the hour, she sat at the controls, shoulders squared, jaw set.

"I'm sure they'll find us sooner or later," he said weakly.

"Fred, don't coddle me like I'm some sort of child! If you don't believe they're going to find us, just say so." Her blue eyes drilled into him, freezing him in place.

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. Heaven help the man who underestimated this woman.

In the months since he'd signed on with her, his feelings had changed from grudging admiration to real respect. Amelia worked twice as hard as most men he knew and rarely complained. If she'd wrecked a few birds, it was only because she was forever impatient to fly farther and faster, her ambitions outstripping her level of learning.

She did have skill as a pilot, though, and a cool head in a crisis situation to boot. When they'd decided to land on this godforsaken reef, she'd pulled it off without a hitch.

"What makes you think they've given up?" she asked, her eyes and voice softer now.

With her cropped and tousled hair, freckled nose and trim figure, she could easily pass for a girl in her early twenties. Fred felt an almost irrepressible urge to protect her, even knowing it was the last thing she wanted. Instead, he gestured toward the surf as it pummeled the reef.

"If the water stays this rough it'll dash the plane to bits in no time, and us along with it," he said, "and if they are still looking for us, there's not much chance a rescue team will get close enough to see us here anytime soon."

Amelia nodded slowly.

"Let me try the radio one more time," she said, "and then we'll go."

* * * * *
Nighttime in the forest was peaceful, resting under a roof of leaves and lulled by the drone of the insects. Fred leaned back against a tree trunk, watching the moonlight filter through the tops of the trees.

Two weeks had passed since they'd found the campsite. The trek inland had been brutal, requiring them to hack their way through tightly interwoven bushes higher than their knees. Had they been equipped with machetes, this task would have been formidable; with nothing but his pocket knife, it was near impossible.

Fred couldn't have asked for a better travel companion. Though the sun beat upon them until he was on the verge of collapse, Amelia never flagged. She never complained aloud, though at times Fred caught her muttering what sounded suspiciously like swear words.

The campsite was in a clearing shaded by magnificent tall trees whose leaves formed a green canopy. Fred supposed the people from the wrecked ship might have camped here. Whoever had occupied the area had left behind a makeshift shelter and the remains of a fire circle.

It was as good a place as any to stay. The forest offered protection from the sun, and was home to many birds and small turtles that they could catch and eat. With a nearby shore unblocked by brush, they could easily hunt for fish and clams by the sea.

Their existence might have been almost idyllic had it not been for one major want. They'd found no fresh water anywhere on the island. When it rained, they used shells and empty bottles to collect the precious drops.

Fred had sacrificed his beloved rum for the greater good. His argument about the antiseptic properties of alcohol had failed to impress Amelia, who rightly shot back that he was only going to drink it anyway. Though he'd pointedly asked when she planned to donate her glass bottle of hand cream to the cause, his protests were little more than bluster. What good was alcohol anyway when you could be dead of dehydration at any moment?

Apart from that argument, they'd gotten along well. When they weren't foraging, they'd sit in camp and share stories of their loves back home. Fred told Amelia about his new wife Bea, and Amelia regaled him with stories of her husband George and her lover Gene.

Amelia was a study in contradictions. She worked like a man and wore men's underwear in the name of convenience, yet faithfully applied lotion every night. When a crab nearly three feet across came up to their campsite, she wasn't the least bit squeamish about smashing it with a rock and eating it for dinner. However, after a week of observing the enormous crabs, she became enamored of them and refused to kill them anymore.

Fred found this juxtaposition of toughness and vulnerability quite endearing. He was certain that it was best for him to keep this sentiment to himself. To do otherwise would surely earn him a fate worse than death.

At night when he couldn't sleep, he wondered what would become of them. If they never made it home, how would they be remembered? Would the world remember Amelia as a great pioneer, or a careless adventurer prone to crack-ups? Would it remember him at all?

"You couldn't sleep either?" Amelia asked, startling him out of his thoughts.

"No," Fred replied, "I'm worried about our water supplies."

"Good thing you got rid of the booze, then," Amelia teased, "It's dehydrating. Besides, it makes you snore."

"I don't snore!" Fred protested.

"Right, and your boots don't stink, either."

"You know, Amelia, I'm really glad I've gotten to know you," Fred said changing the subject, "If I could choose anyone in the world to keep me company while I died of thirst on a deserted coral reef, I'd choose you."

"Don't be silly," Amelia said, "I'm sure we'll be rescued soon."

"We'd better be," Fred retorted, "I'm all out of rum now, so who knows how long I'll be able to put up with you?"

Fred didn't know if they'd make it another week, or even another day. He was sure that no one out there was still looking for them. But he was comforted by the knowledge if there was any way for them to get by, Amelia would be the one to find it.

She was tricky like that, and she never gave up.




This story is based on one hypothesis about what happened to Amelia Earheart and her navigator Fred Noonan. There's no definitive proof, but of the alternate theories out there, I think it's the most believable. It's unfortunate that Amelia and Fred probably died shortly after this, but I'd like to think that they really were friends.

In Your Wheelhouse

Fred lifted the bottle of rum, tipped his head back and took an eager swallow. Liquid fire seared his parched throat, and a contented sigh escaped his lips. It wasn't his drink of choice, but it would do just fine. Under the circumstances, he was grateful to have it at all.

At their last stop in New Guinea, he'd fought tooth and nail to keep his own bottles aboard. Every last ounce of fuel could mean the difference between life and death, and they were leaving all but the most essential cargo. Fred argued that the navigator's sanity might become their saving grace, but somehow the pilot hadn't understood why that required whiskey.

Now here they were, stranded on this coral reef in the middle of nowhere, but at least he'd finally gotten his drink. The remains of the old ship proved they weren't the first to make an unexpected landing here; they might also be their salvation. A quick search of the wreck had yielded a few tins of sardines, some dried peas, and of course, the blessed liquor. These supplies would hold them over for a few days, by which time they might be rescued.

And if not, I might just get a sailor's burial after all, he thought wryly.

The irony was not lost on Fred. He'd given up two decades at the helm of a ship for a career as an aviator, but it seemed the ocean had laid claim to him nonetheless.

Learning to fly had never been his real goal; his first love and true skill was navigation. The sea and stars spoke to him, whispering the way to go. He was an expert with charts and sextants, but a healthy dose of guesswork and a sailor's intuition were two of the finest tools in his kit. In seven short years, he'd become one of the best aerial navigators around.

His skill hadn't been enough this time. They'd gotten off course and been unable to get their bearings again. With their fuel tanks almost empty, an emergency landing on the coral reef had been their only real option.

The sound of footsteps broke into his reverie.

"Anything?" he asked, knowing the answer the moment he saw her face.

Amelia's critics loved to question her talent as an aviator, but her spirit and determination were indisputable. Her gap-toothed grin shone from the pages of papers and glossy magazines, a beacon of hope to guide a nation in dire need of it. Fred had learned quickly from working with the her that the smile was not just for show; she had a love for life that few could match.

At the moment, however, that smile was nowhere in evidence. Her eyes were chips of ice and her face was set in grim determination. Today, she was nobody's lighthouse; all she wanted was to find her own way home.

* * * * *
Fred swirled the ice cubes in his drink and sighed. He hated parties like this - industry mixers where the only point was to see and be seen.

At least there was free booze. He took a healthy gulp of his whiskey, relishing the warm glow as it spread through his chest. Scanning the room, he wondered where the hell Larry was. He'd only come because his friend insisted there was someone he needed to meet.

"There you are!" Larry's overly enthusiastic voice came from behind him. Fred turned to greet his friend, and his heart sank. This was who Larry wanted him to meet?

"Fred, meet Amelia Earhart. Amelia, meet Fred Noonan."

A no-nonsense man, Fred had never been overly impressed with Ms. Earhart or the whirlwind of publicity surrounding her. Sure, she'd achieved feats no woman and few men had managed, but she'd also crashed several planes in the process. Besides, Fred found it hard to trust a pilot who spent as much time writing books, giving lectures, and even designing clothes as she did in the air. Was she an aviatrix for the sake of flying, or for the love of attention?

Still, it wouldn't do to be rude. Taking another slug of his drink, he offered his hand.

"Ms. Earhart," he said coolly.

"Please, call me Amelia," she replied, "They say you're one of the best." Media darling or not, he had to admit she had a firm handshake and a great smile.

"They say you wreck a lot of planes," Fred said. The words were out of his mouth before he knew it. This was another reason he didn't like parties. Larry groaned beside him. Cursing his lack of self-control, Fred drained the rest of his whiskey in one swallow.

"You're a man who speaks his mind," Earhart replied, "I like that."

She was still smiling, and it didn't look forced. Fred had to hand it to her - if nothing else, she certainly had spunk.

"Well, enough small talk," Earhart continued. "I asked Larry to introduce us for a reason."

Fred's head was spinning. She'd asked Larry to... what?

"Are you still working for Pan Am?"

"Yes, for almost seven years now," he replied, not adding that he'd quit in a heartbeat given half a reason. He was drowning in the airline's bureaucratic nonsense.

"Ever thought of leaving?" she asked, seeming to read his mind.

"Well, I'd like to open a navigation school someday," he said.

"Before you do that, would you consider joining me on a flight around the world?" Earhart asked.

This was certainly unexpected.

Why the hell not? he thought. If nothing else, it should get me plenty of publicity for the school I want to open.

Fred shook Ms. Earhart's hand and gave her a genuine smile. "I'd be honored."

* * * * *
Fred watched apprehensively as the roiling sea pounded the shore.

"We need to move inland," he said.

"But we can't leave the plane behind," Amelia argued, "Without it - without the radio - how will anyone find us?"

He opened his mouth to tell her they'd probably abandoned the search by now anyway, but the words withered on his tongue.

A week had passed, and she'd never once given up hope. She made it her mission to raise someone, anyone, on the plane's radio. From dawn until dusk, every hour on the hour, she sat at the controls, shoulders squared, jaw set.

"I'm sure they'll find us sooner or later," he said weakly.

"Fred, don't coddle me like I'm some sort of child! If you don't believe they're going to find us, just say so." Her blue eyes drilled into him, freezing him in place.

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. Heaven help the man who underestimated this woman.

In the months since he'd signed on with her, his feelings had changed from grudging admiration to real respect. Amelia worked twice as hard as most men he knew and rarely complained. If she'd wrecked a few birds, it was only because she was forever impatient to fly farther and faster, her ambitions outstripping her level of learning.

She did have skill as a pilot, though, and a cool head in a crisis situation to boot. When they'd decided to land on this godforsaken reef, she'd pulled it off without a hitch.

"What makes you think they've given up?" she asked, her eyes and voice softer now.

With her cropped and tousled hair, freckled nose and trim figure, she could easily pass for a girl in her early twenties. Fred felt an almost irrepressible urge to protect her, even knowing it was the last thing she wanted. Instead, he gestured toward the surf as it pummeled the reef.

"If the water stays this rough it'll dash the plane to bits in no time, and us along with it," he said, "and if they are still looking for us, there's not much chance a rescue team will get close enough to see us here anytime soon."

Amelia nodded slowly.

"Let me try the radio one more time," she said, "and then we'll go."

* * * * *
Nighttime in the forest was peaceful, resting under a roof of leaves and lulled by the drone of the insects. Fred leaned back against a tree trunk, watching the moonlight filter through the tops of the trees.

Two weeks had passed since they'd found the campsite. The trek inland had been brutal, requiring them to hack their way through tightly interwoven bushes higher than their knees. Had they been equipped with machetes, this task would have been formidable; with nothing but his pocket knife, it was near impossible.

Fred couldn't have asked for a better travel companion. Though the sun beat upon them until he was on the verge of collapse, Amelia never flagged. She never complained aloud, though at times Fred caught her muttering what sounded suspiciously like swear words.

The campsite was in a clearing shaded by magnificent tall trees whose leaves formed a green canopy. Fred supposed the people from the wrecked ship might have camped here. Whoever had occupied the area had left behind a makeshift shelter and the remains of a fire circle.

It was as good a place as any to stay. The forest offered protection from the sun, and was home to many birds and small turtles that they could catch and eat. With a nearby shore unblocked by brush, they could easily hunt for fish and clams by the sea.

Their existence might have been almost idyllic had it not been for one major want. They'd found no fresh water anywhere on the island. When it rained, they used shells and empty bottles to collect the precious drops.

Fred had sacrificed his beloved rum for the greater good. His argument about the antiseptic properties of alcohol had failed to impress Amelia, who rightly shot back that he was only going to drink it anyway. Though he'd pointedly asked when she planned to donate her glass bottle of hand cream to the cause, his protests were little more than bluster. What good was alcohol anyway when you could be dead of dehydration at any moment?

Apart from that argument, they'd gotten along well. When they weren't foraging, they'd sit in camp and share stories of their loves back home. Fred told Amelia about his new wife Bea, and Amelia regaled him with stories of her husband George and her lover Gene.

Amelia was a study in contradictions. She worked like a man and wore men's underwear in the name of convenience, yet faithfully applied lotion every night. When a crab nearly three feet across came up to their campsite, she wasn't the least bit squeamish about smashing it with a rock and eating it for dinner. However, after a week of observing the enormous crabs, she became enamored of them and refused to kill them anymore.

Fred found this juxtaposition of toughness and vulnerability quite endearing. He was certain that it was best for him to keep this sentiment to himself. To do otherwise would surely earn him a fate worse than death.

At night when he couldn't sleep, he wondered what would become of them. If they never made it home, how would they be remembered? Would the world remember Amelia as a great pioneer, or a careless adventurer prone to crack-ups? Would it remember him at all?

"You couldn't sleep either?" Amelia asked, startling him out of his thoughts.

"No," Fred replied, "I'm worried about our water supplies."

"Good thing you got rid of the booze, then," Amelia teased, "It's dehydrating. Besides, it makes you snore."

"I don't snore!" Fred protested.

"Right, and your boots don't stink, either."

"You know, Amelia, I'm really glad I've gotten to know you," Fred said changing the subject, "If I could choose anyone in the world to keep me company while I died of thirst on a deserted coral reef, I'd choose you."

"Don't be silly," Amelia said, "I'm sure we'll be rescued soon."

"We'd better be," Fred retorted, "I'm all out of rum now, so who knows how long I'll be able to put up with you?"

Fred didn't know if they'd make it another week, or even another day. He was sure that no one out there was still looking for them. But he was comforted by the knowledge if there was any way for them to get by, Amelia would be the one to find it.

She was tricky like that, and she never gave up.




This story is based on one hypothesis about what happened to Amelia Earheart and her navigator Fred Noonan. There's no definitive proof, but of the alternate theories out there, I think it's the most believable. It's unfortunate that Amelia and Fred probably died shortly after this, but I'd like to think that they really were friends.

Broke the Mode

Young Niko stood beside his uncle in the museum hall. He turned the steel engraving over and over in his hands, his mind doing somersaults along with it. A flash of white light exploded behind his eyes, followed by a cascade of images that rivaled the waterfall in the etching. He saw a great wheel, twirling under the force of the frothing waters. The vision faded; Niko breathed a wistful sigh that echoed in the large and empty corridor.

"See these falls, Uncle Pavle?" he said, holding out the portrait.

Offering only a cursory glance, Pavle gave a noncommittal grunt.

"Someday," Niko continued, "I am going to America to harness their power."

"What will your father say?" Uncle Pavle snorted.

"Nothing good, I'm sure," Niko admitted.

"You know what he wants for you," Pavle chided.

"But is that truly my destiny?" The boy's voice, just beginning to change, cracked. "Ever since I was small, I've known I was meant for greater things."

Pavle cleared his throat and said nothing.

"One day when I was scarcely old enough to speak, my cat Macak came in from the chill. I stroked his back, and the sparks danced and crackled beneath my hand," Niko's voice quavered with passion. "Then a halo of light surrounded his body, as if he were a saint or an angel. It was then I knew."

"Hm?" Pavle shot the boy a distracted look.

"That mystical power, Uncle," Niko continued. "It is my calling to master it."

"Your father expects you to join the priesthood," Pavle said.

"Yes, Uncle," the boy replied, a small smile curving his lips. "But perhaps I'm meant for a different path."

"Hmmm," the older man mused. "Perhaps you are, at that."

* * * * *
Niko walked in the city park with his friend Anthony. The sun hung low above the horizon and the evening breeze blew soft and clean. It was good to be out in the fresh air, good to feel strong and healthy again. The illness had seemed to last an eternity. Unable to work or rest, he was tormented by too-bright lights and sounds that echoed like gunshots. Doctors had come and gone, unable to provide any remedy, finally giving him up as a lost cause.

He was better now. The puzzle had saved him - the riddle of alternating current and his need to solve it.

"Have you made any progress?" Anthony's voice broke into his thoughts.

"I have the answer," Niko replied.

"That's wonderful - " Anthony began, but Niko silenced him with a wave of his hand.

"I have the answer," he began again, "somewhere inside my mind. The solution is there, waiting for me to find a way to express it."

Anthony's smile faded. The two men paused, watching the sun as it slipped below the horizon. Pink and orange streaks began to trace their way across the evening sky. Suddenly, a verse crept into Niko's thoughts.

The glow retreats, done is the day of toil;
It yonder hastes, new fields of life exploring;
Ah, that no wing can lift me from the soil
Upon its track to follow, follow soaring!

Niko didn't realize he was reciting the words aloud until he saw his friend's forehead crease with confusion or perhaps concern. By then, he was in no position to explain himself; he was too absorbed in the task at hand. Snatching a stick from the ground, he began to sketch a diagram in the sand. Behind his eyes, the solution was drawn in perfect detail. Throat constricting with excitement, he watched it come to life.

* * * * *
In the quiet of his empty office, Niko's pen scratched against a sheet of paper. Late nights at work were not uncommon for him; his daily hours were from 10:30 am until 5 the following morning. Tonight, however, was different.

He finished writing the letter and signed his name. With a leaden heart, he sat back and examined his handiwork.

Dear Mr. Edison:

It is with great sadness that I resign my position at Edison Machine Works, effective immediately. Thank you very much for the opportunity you have provided to me. I wish you the best in all your future endeavours.

Sincerely,
Nikola Tesla

Sighing, Niko placed the letter on his desk and began to pack up his few belongings. He was starting to wonder if coming to America hadn't been an enormous mistake. Perhaps when his pockets had been picked on the way to his ship, he should have taken it as an omen. But how could he, with his letter of recommendation in his pocket and his goals so firm in his mind?

Upon arriving in the Land of Golden Promise, he'd been taken aback by its spare and stark appearance. Buildings were rough and utilitarian, as were the people inside. Still, Niko had been able to put his misgivings aside in the excitement of meeting Edison, the man who would help him realize his dreams.

Edison had dismissed his statement that alternating current was the future of electricity as "utterly impractical". Even so, Niko had been sure that things were looking up. After all, the man had hired him on the spot to redesign his generators, promising a payment of $50,000 upon completion. It was a foot in the door, and surely Edison would come around to his point of view sooner or later. If not, Niko would have a small fortune with which to seek the backing he needed elsewhere.

All those hopes had been dashed in the space of a 5-minute conversation this morning. Bursting with pride, Niko had approached Edison in the hall and informed him that he'd finished redesigning the dynamos. The other man had nodded brusquely and continued walking.

"Sir," Niko had asked, "Might I inquire as to when I shall receive my payment?"

"Payment?" Edison had chuckled. "When you become a full-fledged American, you will appreciate an American joke."

Personal effects gathered, Niko pulled on his coat. Taking one last look around the room where his dreams had lived for the past several months, he turned off the light and walked out the door. It was a joke, all right, and he was the punchline. Still, he was determined to have the last laugh.

* * * * *
Niko stood at the back of the crowd, hat pulled down over his eyes and shoulders hunched. Up at the podium, his former employer had already begun his rhetoric.

"Think of direct current as a river flowing peacefully to the sea," Edison called out. "Alternating current, on the other hand, is like a torrent rushing violently over a precipice. Unpredictable. Dangerous. Uncontrollable."

Edison paused. Voices buzzed in affirmation. When they were silent, he continued.

"Even lethal."

An approving murmur rose from the audience. This was the part they had been waiting for.

"Topsy here is crazed," Edison said, gesturing with a flourish at an elephant, slumped and forlorn. Chained to post a few feet away, the enormous beast was outfitted with sandals of wood and wire. Large men flanked her on both sides.

As the throng pressed closer to the stage, the drone of voices took on an almost fevered pitch.

"Topsy has murdered three people," Edison said, "and her handlers have called for her execution. You'll find that alternating current is the perfect tool for this deadly job - and for no other purpose."

The crowd rumbled in anticipation. A consummate showman, Edison let them wait before nodding to his technician.

Stomach churning, Niko watched as the switch was thrown and smoke billowed into the air. Without a sound, the elephant jerked briefly before collapsing onto her side. By the time the scent of burning meat reached him, it was already over. Inside the pockets of his overcoat, his fingers curled into angry fists so tight his nails bit into his palms.

Niko's ears rang with the shouts of the crowd. Despair flowed over him like an incoming tide. All his efforts would be for nothing if Edison's smear campaign succeeded. His whole life, he'd worked for nothing but this one goal. Time and time again, this man had made a mockery of it, and all in the name of egotism and greed.

The familiar white light flared behind his eyes, blinding him to all else. Gone were the park in which he stood, the people, the despair and anger. In their place came the images, etched in his mind's eye with a painful clarity. He saw himself, lying in bed at age 17, extracting his father's promise to send him to University if only he'd live. Studying at the Polytechnic Institute, hell-bent on a conquest the world thought impossible.

Lightning flashed again; the scene shifted. Dirty and exhausted, he stumbled home after digging ditches for $2 a day. The vision changed; he was building his invention at long last. With no blueprints, he'd used only the picture in his mind. Brought to life, the machine worked just as he'd imagined. One final burst of white heat - he was signing the contract that would bring his dream to fruition.

By the time the world returned to normal, the crowd was dispersing. Head pounding, Niko stood alone and watched them go. The scent of singed flesh still hung in the air, but he barely noticed. None of that mattered now.

All his life, Niko had always found a way. This time would be no different.

* * * * *
The air in the small room vibrated with activity. Around him, engineers were abuzz with frenetic activity, but Niko remained calm as he watched the falls crashing over the rocks. The rushing water was just as it had been when he'd seen it in his mind's eye as a boy. In only moments, the dream would come full circle. All his life, he'd known this day would come.

In his five years as a consultant for the Niagara Falls Power Project, he'd been questioned over and over. Would the machines really work? After all, they'd existed nowhere beyond his own imagination. Investors and engineers on the project had been reluctant to believe the devices would function as well in reality as they did inside Niko's head. As they waited now for the switch to be thrown, their anxiety was palpable.

Niko himself had no doubts. The visions had brought him to this point, against all odds. They would not fail him now.




This entry tells part of the life story of Nikola Tesla, the man who made AC electrical current possible. For anyone who's wondering, yes, he really did experience visions and no, I didn't know this when I initially chose to write about him. It was obviously fate. If you're interested in reading more about Tesla, you might check out his autobiography.