I take a few quick steps backwards and then dart forward, moving from the Unforgiving Wind into the Iron Eagle while mixing in a little Klartred City alley boxing. The sound of my fists travelling through the air is like tearing rice paper.  Two jabs connect clean and the orc grunts; he’s on the backfoot again, a backfoot that he’s occupied almost the entire fight. Kivtz is bigger than me, stronger than me, and the brutal uk-vai fighting style that means survival in the cannibalistic swamps of his home is every bit as effective as what they teach in the Court of Iron.  But here’s the thing: fights are won in the mind, your opponent’s mind, and Kivtz still hasn’t mentally recovered from a first-round hook that shook his brain like a baby’s rattle. He’s tired, nervous. I move inside his guard, turn away a desperate haymaker with the back of one hand, and my next Fingersmith punch picks him up and throws him across the sandy floor of the Fighter’s arena.

This time he stays down.

My victory was just in time. As I raised my fists to an audience of Fighters, Monks and Barbarians who roared and smacked their paws together, an earthquake rocked the arena. Then another. And another. He was moving again, and I’m not talking about Kivtz. The wild pressure fluctuations that accompanied so much mass being set into motion created all sorts of weather, this time, boulder-sized hailstones that fell like gnomish cannonfire. One exploded right next to me. There was no ceiling to the Giants Back Academy Fighter’s arena: we were completely exposed. Dark cloud vortexes above began to whirl.

I ran to Kivtz. Muscle memory is a funny thing: I’m dragging him up by the collar with one hand, drawing the other hand back for a clean Reaper Strike, before I stop myself*.*  In the Court of Iron we were taught to strike at downed opponents. To guarantee victory. But I lived by my own code these days. Dirk moved to the other side of the orc as we half carried, half dragged him to shelter. THWUMP! Another hailstone near miss made me flinch. Ice shrapnel bit into my skin. We were both panting by the time we had the unconscious Fighter under the cover of the arena gate.

“Princess,” said the Rogue, trying a little too hard to not seem out of breath. “Another victory. I am glad I was thorough enough to organise this little contest: until today I was certain that Kivtz was the school’s best boxer.”

I wrinkled my nose at the “princess”: I never rose higher than eighteenth-in-line to the throne. And I was a common street urchin for years before that. Yes, I am aware how unoriginal this all sounds. But one of the perks of doing the whole half-elf-street-thug-to-royal-heir cliche is you encounter a lot of teenage boys like Dirk. Drawling, darkly handsome master assassins who like to wear black and tend to have a stiletto constantly spinning between their fingers. Get past the mystique and they are always less impressive than they seem.

“Dirk,” I said, raising my nose haughtily, full court accent. “Hosting a bare-knuckle-fighting contest at the end of the world was certainly a choice.  Pray do share, exactly, why I have just beaten five of my fellow students to a pulp.”

Being talked down to – literally, we are both seventeen but I was almost a head taller than Dirk, who was not short by human standards – only seemed to amuse the Rogue. He deposited the winner’s purse into my waiting hand. “Yes, it does feel a bit apocalyptic out there.”  He glanced at the fallen orc and beckoned. I followed him a short distance down the tunnel.  “The world isn’t ending,” he said in a low voice. “But the school might. What if I told you, there was a chance to save it. For you to save it.”

I frowned. It made the black eye and split lip hurt. Everything hurt now that the adrenaline was beginning to fade. “I’d ask how. The Wizards and Druids have been trying to make contact with old Skagol for days. Telepathy, custom speak-with-animal spells, the works. He’s not listening. And if you do plan to kill him, well, even if that were somehow possible, killing the mountain-sized giant which carries our school on his back might not be as wise as waiting to see how this all plays out.”

“And if I told you I knew how it was going to play out? And that it was going to play out very badly.”

I scanned the Rogue’s face. You didn’t survive long on the streets of Klartred if you couldn’t spot a liar. Ditto the Court of Iron.

He was telling the truth.

“How is it going to play out, Dirk?”

 

#

 

Old Skagol had always looked like he was going to start walking again. His entire posture had a forward bent, his shoulders hunched, the crown of his ginormous head bowed forward. His huge arms had been pressed knuckle first against the valley floor, ready to swing into motion with his next step, the deeply creviced columns of his legs bent into an angled squat that would propel him forward. But thousands of years had passed without him so much as blinking; entire ecosystems had taken root in his craggy skin. Empires had risen and fallen, the most recent of which was dismantled by my great-aunt the Iron Queen before her assassination. Amid all that, people had forgotten that the mountain on which the fantasy high school had been built was not actually a mountain but a living, breathing creature with its own thoughts and whims, even if a single breath lasted decades.

I have to admit, I just didn’t think about it all that much. Being a student at Giants Back Academy was hard, especially when someone only needed to see your blue hair to think they knew who and what you are. I didn’t have time to worry about the giant in Giants Back Academy: I was too busy living up to the impossible reputation that has been established by just about every single one of my family members after leaving the Court of Iron. I used to be sad that the way I left things at the court made it impossible that one of my royal cousins could join me at Giants Back Academy. Azaela, before the…incident, wasn’t just family, she was my best friend. Now I’m grateful, even if that isolation kind of makes me lonely. It’s one more point of separation between me and the people everyone compares me against. 

But even if my focus had been on the giant, I could never have predicted this. Because it wasn’t old Skagol moving again, that first disrupted the peace of our lives.

It was the arrival of another giant.

Another giant, that, according to Dirk, old Skagol wanted to fight.

 

#

 

The architects of Giants Back Academy must have thought they were being pretty clever when they built the school’s library at the giant’s crown. The joke was on them now that old Skagol was craning his neck to look up at the massive stranger who filled the northern horizon. The new angle was only a few degrees off horizontal but it had been enough to set off a chain reaction of falling stacks that had torn bookshelves asunder and scattered books everywhere. I followed Dirk across the raised, white metallic walkway that arched gracefully over the main hall like a dove taking flight. Fortunately, both the walkway itself and the nearest rows of stacks that ran parallel to and underneath it had been designed by former resident mad scientist and inventor Gabli before he got bored with the project. Like all of Gabli’s designs, they were beautiful if hilariously overengineered, and nothing short of a comet striking the school could break the complex cantilevered joints that connected the bookshelves to the floor.

“Where’s Mr Tock?” I looked down at the sea of bookshelves, intact nearest to the walkway, leaning drunkenly on top of each other or just smashed to splinters further away.

“The librarian is off lobbying for a school-wide evacuation,” Dirk said. “Books first, of course.”

“Of course,” I repeated. “He hasn’t got much time. We don’t have much time.”

“It’ll take Skagol two days to reach the stranger. That should be more than enough time for you to get familiar with the controls.” He shook the leather satchel which he carried slung over one shoulder. It contained a twinned set of magic gauntlets: one Slave-set and one Master-set.

Dirk must have seen my expression because he added, “You don’t like this plan much, do you?”

“Am I comfortable mind controlling a giant into becoming our personal fighting machine? No, not really.”

“You’d only be ensuring he doesn’t, how did you put it earlier?” He put on his most prim little princess voice. “‘Get beaten to a pulp.’ “

I ignored the barb. “Will he know what’s going on?”

Dirk’s thin smile faded and he looked away. I felt my stomach sink. Slave-set and Master-set.

When he didn’t reply I asked in a quiet voice, “How bad is it going to be for him?”

Dirk breathed out an impatient sigh. “Not as bad as watching our school get smashed to pieces. Look, princess. You can’t always pick a good, clean fight and just go in swinging until someone’s declared a winner. Sometimes you have to stop and think, you have to wait, maybe even get a little sly. There’s usually more than one way to get what you want, but there also might only be one way, a way that some might consider…evil.” He gave me a sideways look. “From what I’ve heard about the latter days of the Court of Iron, you should be no stranger to the concepts like the ‘greater good’ and ‘the ends justify the means’. Some cliches are cliches for a reason.”

We didn’t talk for a while. He was right: seizing control of a giant to protect your home was exactly the kind of thinking that was encouraged in the Court of Iron. A couple of years ago I wouldn’t have questioned such a plan. It’d taken watching a friend have her leg broken almost clean in two to make me start rethinking such ideas.

When he was about halfway across the grand main hall, Dirk stopped and slid his legs over the ornate handrail. Ignoring the nearest ladder which was three aisles back, he dropped lightly to the library floor twenty feet below.

I glanced at the nearest brass sign.

Self-help Guides for Rogues

I hit the ground behind him with a combat roll. “Everything…okay with you?”

Dirk gave me his trademark thin smile. “I figured that if I was going to risk hiding it in plain sight, here was the one place that I could guarantee no one would stumble across it by accident. Rogues don’t do a lot of self-reflection.”

It wasn’t exactly hidden in plain sight. Dirk pulled on a book titled When Deceit becomes Self-Deceit and a tall and wide timber slid out of the bookshelf on a rail, like something you might hang a mirror on. It was a door.

No, not just a door.

The Door.

I gasped. “I thought it was destroyed!”

“Good thing it wasn’t.”

Six months ago the school went completely crazy, or even crazier then usual I suppose, when Shadowstep, the new Roguery teacher, set a group project to open The Door. The prospect of opening a seemingly impenetrable magical portal to some mysterious nether realm was simply too tantalising for your average Giants Back Academy student and something close to a civil war broke out as different factions raced to be the first to open it. Rumour had it that a group of students even succeeded, but they were eaten by hyper-intelligent pigs from another dimension. I don’t know if this story is true, but I do not know that after that night, the teachers cancelled the project and promised to destroy The Door.

 Yet here it was.

 “How?” I asked.

“It’s a long story. Let’s just say that Shadowstep is a chronic liar but he’s also the kind of person who can’t stop talking, and sooner or later he will accidentally spit out a kernel of truth. He likes the sound of his own voice too much.”

“A Rogue who talks too much? Never.”

“Don’t forget the kind of Rogue who barely talks at all. The strong, silent types. Tend to be grieving widowers seeking vengeance. Or the sole survivor of family-wide massacres…who are also seeking vengeance. Anyways. I’ve also got The Keys–“

“The Keys!?

“Yes. Opening The Door is much easier when you actually have The Keys.” He jangled a nondescript keychain at me. “You can even use them to configure where The Door leads to. That’s how I made it open directly into old Skagol’s mind.”

 

#

 

The Door lead us into a big, cavernous dark space where the high ceiling and far walls disappeared into darkness. In that space there was a perfect, miniaturised replica of the giant, about the size of Kivtz.

 “Is that…him?” I asked Dirk.

 To my surprise, Skagol’s avatar turned his big head to answer.

HELLO

I flinched. It wasn’t quite like someone shouting in your ear; it wasn’t that uncomfortable. It just felt like Skagol’s inner voice was too big to fit inside my mind.

“Hi,” I replied awkwardly. I stuck out a hand. “I’m Lysarra.”

HELLO LYSARRA/NOT ALONE/GOOD

The avatar was walking – in time with his real world counterpart to judge by the earthquake vibrations that by now had resumed – but even if his legs were moving the avatar remained fixed to one spot. To my surprise, he took my hand. It felt like how you might expect: like shaking hands with a living statue. 

“I think it’s his subconscious,” Dirk said, answering my earlier question. “If it isn’t, it’s something functionally similar. I do know that, out there, in the real world, big Skagol isn’t shaking hands with air right now. The gauntlets worked when I tested them though, so this avatar must be connected to his motor skills–”

The avatar seemed to see Dirk for the first time. He released my hand and cringed away, throwing up his arms as if to shield himself.

Dirk looked at me guiltily. “I know this looks bad but–” 

“Shut up,” I said. I put my hand on Skagol’s shoulder. He was trembling. “It’s okay, Skagol. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

MIND/DISEASE/AFRAID

I moved closer.

AFRAID/AFRAID/AFRAID

To my own surprise, I hugged him. He just looked so…sad.

The trembling lessened, then stopped. 

BETTER

“We’re not putting the gauntlets on him,” I told Dirk.

 Dirk rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What’s the alternative?”

 "You said this…avatar is connected to his motor skills? It affects how he moves?”

 Dirk nodded.

 I hugged the giant tighter. “I’m going to train him.”

 

#

 

In the absence of a light source that wasn’t Dirk’s campfire, day and night inside that place quickly lost any meaning. But during the two “days” we were there, I spent almost my entire time training Old Skagol.  Basic guards and stances, simple boxing drills. Beginner’s boxing techniques that wouldn’t take years of practice to yield results.  We couldn’t be sure if this training was being relayed to the “real” giant below, but Old Skagol’s avatar was surprisingly receptive to it all, and he genuinely seemed to enjoy it, bouncing HAPPY’s off our minds as he worked the pads we had made by stuffing our leather packs with clothes. And let me tell you, the guy could pack a punch; I’m pretty sure he cracked one of my ribs with a bodyshot, and that was when I was behind two handspans of dirty laundry. I could only imagine what a full-sized Skagol punches would feel like.

 During the “night”, we ate dinner and lay down to sleep in our makeshift campsite. And that’s when things truly turned strange: because it was just as I was drifting off that the giant rolled up my flimsy sense of self and dragged me down into the deep waters of his true mind.

 Days like drops of rain,

Living creatures under your skin.

No time at all since the world roiled and burned.

No time at all, riding the continental drift.

No time at all.

 I can only try to explain what it is like to swim in a giant’s mind. To feel all that mass underneath you, around you, permeating you. Yes, there was the horizon dipping away with the curvature of the planet, the landscape reduced to a vibrant carpet. But underneath those conscious moments were the deep cross currents of all his thoughts and feelings. Memories, both recent and ancient. The random intrusive thoughts: what if I squashed that herd of kobolds? Satisfaction in one high step that carried him to the lip of a deep canyon. A faint sense of melancholy when he saw the moon reflected off the surface of a tiny puddle, a huge lake. Other emotions that even my mind, halfway between elf and human, could not comprehend. And that was just the broad thrust of what he was feeling in that moment, a wave gliding across the surface of a bottomless ocean. How do you put those feelings underneath into words? All the tiny conscious moments that by themselves were as insubstantial as one single snowflake settling on one of the steepest icy peaks at his right shoulder, yet as real as anything we might experience.

 I guess I can only come at it with abstractions, like the poem that I woke with ringing in my mind like wind chimes. Or like that big dark cave with its avatar of a walking giant.

 Dirk was sitting up in his bedroll too, stirring the fire with a piece of wood. “Did you live that too?” He asked in a quiet voice. He had lost his usual laconic air. “I’d never slept inside here before.”

 Did you live that too? I knew what he meant.

 “I saw his mother,” I said. Briefly. Face polished smooth like marble, eyes shining with love, backdropped by a lurid-red sky filling with black smoke. As big as a planet: or was it Skagol who had been so small?

 “I felt the way he feels about the stranger,” Dirk said. “And I mean, I really felt it. This is all one big territorial dispute. Skagol cannot bear having the stranger so near him. And neither can the stranger, I think. But…it’s not exactly like they hate each other. It’s more like a force, gravity, pulling them in.”

 “Do you…do you think we could convince him not to fight?”

 He shook his head. “I tried. Last night in that…dream. And before I enlisted you to help, I would try to talk to the avatar. You can’t reason with how he feels. Words won’t do it. Something….deeper needs to happen, to change his mind.” He was silent for a second. His eyes sharpened into focus as he looked at me. “This isn’t going to end until one of them is dead.”

 “But Skagol seems so gentle.”

 Dirk nodded. “Too gentle. But stubborn too. Listen. It’s not too late to just take the reins.”

 “You would still do that after what we just experienced?”

 “If it would save him, I would. He’s not a child. But he’s not exactly an adult, either.”

 I leaned against the cloak I had rolled into a pillow. Stared into the dark ceiling. “He’s a highschooler…Like us.”

 “Think about it, princess. If you are wrong about this, he will die and the results will be cataclysmic. You think they can evacuate the whole school, our school? There will be students crammed into every nook hoping for front row seats of the fight. The teachers won’t find them all.  People are going to die for your moral stand.”

 “Do you always imagine the worst?”

 “Always.” He was silent for a moment. “I used to know this girl. She was tough, brave…good. She would do anything for a friend, fling herself headfirst off a cliff if she thought I was at the bottom and in danger. She left the school before graduation, did the whole travelling adventurer routine, always willing to help a stranger in need. One day a shepherd begs her to help with his wolf problem. Claims his family is starving from all the animals he was losing. That no one else would help him.” He flung the piece of wood he had been holding into the campfire. “Turns out the shepherd had been withholding certain, crucial details. It wasn’t wolves she had to contend with. It was werewolves. If he had just told her, she could have brought back up. Could have brought me…” 

 Skagol hadn’t walked in hours and the cave walls were silent. I think he slept during those moments of quiet, I’m not sure. Only the smouldering, dying fire filled the silence.

 “You were right about the Court of Iron,” I said. The non-sequitur didn’t seem to register on Dirk so I continued, “Using the gauntlets would be very in keeping with the Iron Truth. That is, the Court of Iron principle that nothing of values come without sacrifice. That “sacrifice” might be a limb that you need to severe to escape a trap, or the lives of the soldiers you command, or maybe just your own moral code. If something is truly worth doing, then you must be willing to give up something valuable in exchange. Anything else is moral cowardice.”

 I try not to think about it. But it’s not easy, sometimes it just came bubbling back up. The incident. Azaela.

 “Then one day, another girl and I were in a competition,” I said, my voice suddenly thick. “They have these things in the Court of Iron, titles, knighthoods…Basically it’s their way of pitting us against each other. We were both in the running to be a knight, my friend and I. We just happened to be sparring the day before it was going to be announced. In front of the court. So I went a bit further than I would have usually. In the fight.” My breath caught in my throat. I tried to still it. Felt a sob climbing my throat, bit it down.  “And she got hurt.”   

 Would she still be able to walk after what happened? The friend I was willing to sacrifice for some meaningless title? I wasn’t sure. I didn’t stick around long enough to find out.

 “I didn’t need to hurt her,” I continued. It was easier to talk again. I wiped away a tear. “I learned afterwards that they were always going to give me the knighthood. It had been decided days ago. I hurt Azaela for nothing. That was my last day in the Court. I left. Came here.” I turned in the bedroll so I could look Dirk square in the eye. “I’m sorry for what happened to your friend. And I’ll always regret what I did to mine. But life doesn’t always punish you for doing the right thing. And it doesn’t reward you for doing the wrong thing. The universe doesn’t operate under that kind of hidden logic. It’s too random. You need to look at what’s real now. What real harm we will do to Skagol, and all the good that your friend actually achieved before what happened, happened.”

 “It wasn’t enough good,” he replied quietly. “Not nearly enough.”

 He looked younger by firelight. More like a boy. “You know, there’s a chance that old Skagol might not appreciate us hijacking his mind. That there might be other long-term effects from mind controlling a giant that we have not anticipated. I could list all the ways using the gauntlets could go wrong, and we could stack them up against the problems with my plan and pick a winner. But being a good person…It’s not a mathematical equation. Sometimes it’s like how you described your friend, flinging yourself headfirst off a cliff to help those in need. Doing the right thing... It’s a leap of faith.”

 

#

 

When the training was done and there was no more time to realistically prepare Skagol any further, we joined the rest of the school as it evacuated to the safe distance of some nearby wooded hilltops where we could watch the fight by the blood red dying light of sunset. By then, Dirk had shared his insights into what was happening with the teachers and the worst of the end day cults that had swept through the school while we were in the cave had been suppressed by the school’s faculty. Order had been restored. I was grateful when Dirk didn’t tell the teachers about my refusal to seize control of Skagol’s brain. I suppose we were committed to my strategy by then, however dangerous it was starting to seem.

 Though the other giant was at least a head taller than old Skagol, it was younger. You could tell because it had a rougher, less worn body. In fact, it looked more like some sort of giant crustacean on legs with the black mountain-sized flanges and the twisting carapace ridges. One, horizontally elongated eye stared from a jagged, dark opening in the shell. It had arrived on our horizon on all four legs: now it waited for Old Skagol on just two. I think the stance was intended to show off his size. Apparently even among giants it meant something when the other guy was bigger.

 “Are you sure about this?” Dirk asked quietly, shaking his head at a passing gnome vendor who had brandished a sausage on a stick at him. Even with the entire school at stake there was a festival vibe to the gathered students and teachers. Bonfires and food stalls. Someone was playing a fiddle.

 “No,” I admitted.

 “I don’t want to lose our home.”

 The strength of feeling in his voice surprised me. But before I could come up with a reply, someone shouted and I turned a just in time to see Old Skagol's fist flying out, a meteorite coming down on a mountain...

 PART 2 COMING SOON

There was once a very large pine tree that stood separate from every other tree in the forest.  This tree was not only physically alone, but it was also unrivaled in the hatred that it garnered from Lady Winter.  She despised the needles on its branches and the cones that it dropped onto the ground, but most of all she hated that the tree refused to lose its color in the winter.  At the end of each fall, she would visit the tree and demand that it shed its needles, but the pine always refused.  

“No tree should be bullied into losing its color,” it told her.  “I will not lose my needles just because you tell me to.”

This enraged Lady Winter, and she forbade any other tree from going near the pine.  She threatened to destroy any trespasser with a terrible winter wind.  For a hundred years the tree stood alone, and it longed desperately for a companion.  

One summer, when Winter’s control over the world was at its weakest, a man with an axe entered the forest hoping to stock up on wood.  When he saw the pine, he approached it and asked, “Why does such a mighty pine tree stand alone amid this great forest?”

The tree replied, “I have been cursed by Winter to a life of solitude.”

The man thought for a moment and then said, “My wife is soon going to deliver a child.  I’m in need of wood so that she can make it safely through her labor this winter.”

The tree then said, “You may use my wood this winter.  Please take me home and chop me up so that I may not be alone forever.”

The man did as the tree asked.  He cut it down, split it into many pieces, and loaded it onto his cart to take it with him.  The tree was enormous, being over a hundred years old, and it produced enough wood to satisfy the man.  He took his cart and left the forest, leaving each other tree untouched.

That autumn, when Lady Winter arrived to give her yearly command to all of the trees, she noticed the stump in the middle of the clearing where the pine had once stood.  The Lady was livid that someone had approached the tree despite her prohibition.  In order that she might bring the violator to justice, she searched far and wide for the person who had cut down the pine tree.

Lady Winter found the man at his home.  When she saw his wife’s belly she immediately devised a wicked plan.  She would send horrible winds to the man’s home and devastate his wife with a terrible cold so that both she and the child would surely die.  The man would live out the tree’s punishment of isolation that he had so abruptly ended.

The Lady waited until the woman was in labor, when she would be at her weakest, to carry out her scheme.  When the time was right, she unleashed every cruelty of her season unto the family.  As her winds blistered, the temperature dropped below anything the man had seen before.  

The woman began to cough and show signs of a fever which terrified the man.  Just then, he heard a voice coming from the pine wood.  “Thank you for taking me with you this summer,” the voice said.  “I was so lonely that I was willing to do anything to escape my curse, but now I see that I’ve brought you great trouble.  Please, use my wood to make a fire.  I’m determined to burn brightly to protect you and your family.”

The man did as the tree asked.  He moved the wood safely away from the cabin and lit it.  Overcoming even the intensely frigid air, the flames billowed into a massive inferno.  The pine tree was once again denying Lady Winter, refusing to bow to her whim.  Each blast of cold wind only seemed to give the flame more power.  As it grew in both size and brightness, the fire’s warmth allowed the mother to bring the child safely into the world.

The new parents clutched their child close to their chests, huddled near the massive fire brought about by the wood of the pine while the winter winds blew the tree’s needles all around the property.

The fire still burned when springtime arrived, and Lady Winter lost her power and was forced to leave the family alone.  As the fire simmered into nothingness, none of the pinewood remained.  In its place were a couple hundred charred pinecones.  Unsure of what they would do next winter, but grateful to have their little girl safe in their arms, the man and the woman gave thanks to the pine tree by spreading its cones all around their property so that it would be with them wherever they went.

Later that spring, where the pinecones had touched the needles that had been blown about by the winter winds, a countless number of pine trees sprang from the ground and surrounded the home.  That fall, when all of the other trees lost their color for the winter, the new pine trees remained green, denying Lady Winter her power.  Now whenever Lady Winter returns to the home to try to get her revenge, an army of Evergreen trees hold firm against her wind.

Content Warning: Grief.

My heart dropped at the news of my old man’s failing kidneys. My stomach churned from my friend's gruesome…method. One man relieved himself of the pain of dialysis. Another man is freeing himself from the pain of depression. The father I never had, the brother I couldn’t live with or without. Two men left the Earth and took clumps of me with them. 
The house was silent without his coughs. I unclipped his oxygen tubing from the stick-on wall hooks that fed his oxygen tubing down the hall from the machine that once sat in the living room, now being wheeled away as he was. The two-window room at the edge of the house that once blared gunshots from Clint Eastwood movies and ‌M-rated computer games was mute. The TV and computer were gone, just as he was.  
Pungent smell of marijuana, masked by incense, was still in my friend's bedroom when I visited his family’s house for the last time. Electric guitars and recording equipment lined the blue walls. His mother spoke seldom, slumped shoulders, and droopy eyes redder than her son’s rosewood electric guitar. Sorrow had replaced sleep. Many of the things I wanted were up for grabs by his parents' grace. 
What could I take? How could I take anything? I thought. I can’t play guitar. I can’t sing. The camera and four-figure lens were the only things that caught my eye, but a high-resolution image couldn’t make me see my friend's face again. Even when I gaze at photos of him, he is frozen in time. Who he was, not who he would be. What good were his things if not possessed by him? I left with my hands as empty as my heart. 
  Yellow residue stained my blue sponge as I wiped down the walls of the old man’s room for a fresh coat of paint. He never smoked in the house, but the smoke followed him. What was I to do with his old bedroom? A library? An Art Studio? If he were here now, he would ‌tell me to paint it whatever color, as long as it wasn’t black. 
Two men, old and young forever, there was no right time for either of them, even if they lived to the ripe age of one hundred. My shrieks at my old man’s funeral, and my shock and horror at the news on my phone. No, no, no, no. I cried to myself, smacking the tiled bathroom walls.
When my old man died, I was sad. When my friend died, I was angry. Not at him, but at life, the world, and at God. Why would an all-loving, powerful entity create depression? Or physical ailments? God works in mysterious ways, they say. Maybe I was angry at myself for not reaching out to him at that vital time. For not forcing my dying father to attempt to save his life.
Who was I to force my dad to go through excruciating treatment? For a few more years of what? Wallowing away in a wheelchair, connected to oxygen ninety percent of the day, for me? How could I? I was not all-powerful or persuasive; I was silent.  
How could I not have the clairvoyance to know that my friend was about to take his own life? Perhaps I could have raced out to the fields at three in the morning to stop him. Or reach out to him hours or even days before? But I couldn’t have known, could I? I wasn’t omnipotent; I was silent.  
Too silent perhaps. Suppose I spoke to the old man more often. Or visited him in rehab, which later turned into his hospice room, but as usual. How would he view me? 
I can’t hear their voices or picture their faces, all faded with their lives. 
Please, God, don’t let me forget their voices. I prayed. Just their voices, God. Nothing else. My dad’s baritone voice, my friend's bass voice. Or was it the other way around? Dad was a smoker, so his voice had to be raspy. My friend was a tenor in the choir. Both had a signature cough from smoking. I scoured my computer and phone for anything I could find of their vocals: videos and audio. The most I found was them trying to talk over crowds at restaurants or at work. Yet even a sliver of their voices did little to satisfy my desire to hear them.  It’s not them. I said. They’re not real; they’re not even memories.  
For my dad’s sake, he didn’t even look the same as he did in those videos. He was overweight, laughing, and jovial. The last time I saw him, he was bone thin, his jaw slackened as he gasped for air. My friend…well, perhaps it’s for the best; I don’t know what he looked like at the end. 
None of my memories could regenerate the sound of them. Nothing could. Whatever details remained to me faded by the day. A tenor. No, a baritone…Bass.
I hated myself; they weren’t important enough for my memory to solidify them. 
The last time I saw my friend, he said. “I’ll be there.” 
The last time I saw my dad at the clinic was when he was still able to speak. “Just let me know if you need anything, and I’ll be there.” Typical. He was bound by the walls and rules of the ward, yet he never thought twice about helping me.      
My knees folded, and I sobbed into my hands pressed ‌against the floor. Please, please, please. I said to my higher power. I repent of my anger towards you. My prolonged weeping made my core clench and my hands numb from lack of circulation. Just as I felt lightheaded, my grief went silent, lifted, kneeling back upright. A warm calmness came over me like a heavy blanket.  
I looked up, and two voices rang above me. 

“…I’ll be here.”

6-2-2026

My therapist says I should start a journal, and honestly at this point it doesn’t sound like a terrible idea. She thinks that I’ve been overwhelmed with everything going on in my life, and that writing things down will help me process it all. I hope so.

I forgot Jason’s name at work today. One of the managers, who I’ve known for at least two years now. He’s a nice guy, it’s not like I have anything against him. We work at a theater, and he just wanted to buy a ticket from me. I had to put his name on his order, and I totally blanked. Not even just his last name, but his first name too. I could feel my face burning red, and I just stood there, staring at the keyboard.

Eventually, he muttered it- Jason. Jason. I know his name is Jason. How could I not? I work with him pretty much every day. It’s not like we’re best friends, but he’s a good guy. He totally covered for me last week when I mixed up my schedule and missed a shift, he just told everyone he let me have the day off. I’ve liked having him as a manager for the last few years.

I’ve never done anything like that before. I mean, I’ve gotten high and forgotten the names of my friend’s friends who were just introduced to me, but I was totally sober this time. I just don’t know.

My therapist says it was probably just a combination of anxiety and life stress. I’ve had a lot going on with my dad, and that kind of thing can mess with your memory. Maybe she’s right.

6-3-2026

About a week ago, I got a text from my dad saying that he was gonna be stopping chemo and entering hospice. He’s had lymphoma for years now, and over the last couple of months it’s been progressing a lot faster. I can’t say that the idea of his cancer killing him never occurred to me, but it was still a shock to find out that it’s actually happening. He told me that he’s made his peace with it, but I don’t know if I fully believe him. How could you make peace with losing literally everything?

My parents have been divorced for years, and since the split I haven’t seen my dad nearly as often as I see my mom. I love him, but I’ve been pretty satisfied with getting dinner with him once every few months. I never used to question our relationship. But now, I feel like I’m running out of time to fix things. I want him to know that I love him before he goes. The doctors told him that he only has a couple weeks at most.

It’s just weird that he’s dying. On one hand, I want him to have as much time as possible, but on the other hand I just want this to be over. For both of our sakes. It’s just this constant limbo where he’s here for now, but he could suddenly be gone at any moment. Every time my phone rings, I wonder if this is it. It’s torture. I wonder how it must feel for him. I hope when I die, it's completely sudden and unexpected. I’d rather just rip the bandaid off. It seems easier for everyone that way. 

6-4-2026

I don’t feel like writing today. I don’t feel like doing anything. I’ve barely been eating. It’s easy to forget stuff like that. I keep reading the text from my dad, and it keeps hitting me over and over again. It’s like I almost forget, then suddenly something will remind me. It doesn’t seem like anyone else is taking this as hard as I am. 

6-5-2026

It was nice out today. The last couple of days since my dad stopped treatment have been rough, but I'm managing. I saw him earlier today. I went over to his house to grab some paperwork, just my birth certificate and stuff. He couldn’t even get out of bed. He’d been waiting all day for my stepmom to get home and bring him a glass of water. I was kind of afraid to see him, but it was nice to be able to help him, even in a small way. I wish there was more I could do.

Even with how sick he is, he still seemed pretty much like himself. I wish I knew how long he has left. He doesn’t seem like he only has days, but he also doesn’t seem like a man who’s gonna make it to a hundred. His birthday is coming up on the 12th. I hope he at least makes it until then. I'm not sure if I should get him a present or not. I don’t know what he would even want at this point, other than maybe to not die. I can’t exactly get him that. Maybe a comfy sweatshirt.

6-6-2026

I was a couple hours late to work today. I totally forgot to set an alarm. My boss, Erin, was pretty understanding, but I think that’s only because of what’s been happening with my dad. It’s always so awkward walking in late to work. You can feel everyone staring at you, and you know they’re annoyed that they’ve been doing your job while you were at home sleeping. I couldn’t even remember to bring my stupid badge, so I had to get someone to come let me in. It was a rough day.

6-7-2026

I really need a haircut. It’s getting super shaggy, and it’s making me feel gross. I’ve had plenty of time, but I just keep forgetting to schedule it. I’ll try to get it done tomorrow. 

6-8-2026

I was late to work today. Again. I swear I need to start setting an alarm reminding me to set my alarm. The whole “dying dad” thing is only gonna take me so far. I wish I could take a leave of absence until all of this is over, but I can’t afford that shit. It’s not like I’d use the extra time to hang out with him. I’m too awkward for that. I just don’t know what I would talk to him about anymore. I can’t exactly talk about plans for the future, because he probably isn’t gonna be there for them. I definitely don’t want to talk about the fact that he’s dying of cancer. I’m sure he doesn’t either.

6-9-2026
 
I saw my therapist today. I told her about how I’ve been feeling, and she says that I’m experiencing what's called anticipatory grief. It’s basically when you know you’re gonna lose someone, so you start mourning ahead of time. She said everything I’m going through is normal. The depression, the forgetfulness, the feeling that my world is coming to an end. It’s all just part of the process. I just need to appreciate the time I have left with my dad, and stop worrying about what it’ll be like when he’s gone. His birthday is in a few days. If everything goes well, I’ll see him then. We were gonna have a movie night if he’s feeling up to it. 

6-11-2026

I’m feeling good today. It’s hard to remember what I’ve even been so down about lately. It was super nice out too, so I went for a little walk. I think the sun is good for me. I have a few days off work now, so that’ll be nice. I could use a break. It seems like it’s getting harder and harder to get through the work day. I keep making stupid mistakes, like selling people tickets to the wrong show, or putting orders under the wrong person’s account. Maybe having a few days off will clear my head. 

6-12-2026

I haven’t done anything today except get way too high and watch Yellow Submarine for maybe the 8th time. It’s kind of a comfort movie for me. My dad is a big fan of it, he’s the one who introduced me to the Beatles. I’ve been thinking about him a lot today for some reason. I hope he’s doing alright. We haven’t really talked in a while. My parents split years ago, and ever since I’ve been a lot closer with my mom than with my dad. He remarried, though, so it’s not like he’s completely alone. His new wife is nice enough, but she’s just not really my kind of person. I’m glad he has someone to grow old with at least. 

6-13-2026

I don’t know what to say. I got a call from my stepmom, and she told me that my dad died around 5 am this morning. I didn’t even know he was sick. I don’t understand what happened. I never got the chance to say goodbye. I haven’t seen him for months. How could he be gone? Everyone says that when you die, you go to a better place. I don’t know if that’s true. It feels like he’s just gone forever. It feels like a part of me is gone too. 

6-16-2026

My therapist thinks I should see a neurologist. I told her how suddenly my dad died, and she seemed kind of confused. She said that at my last couple of visits, I’d talked about how my dad was on hospice, and how I didn’t think he had much time left. I’m getting kind of worried. All I remember is talking to her about general work and life stuff. I don’t know how I could forget something like that. I’m worried that it might be the weed. Everyone says that it can mess with your memory, and I have been smoking almost daily for a good few years now. I’m thinking it’s time to try and quit. Maybe that’ll fix whatever’s wrong with me, and I won’t even need the neurologist. I just wish there was a way to unwind that doesn’t involve frying my braincells or giving me lung cancer.

6-17-2026

My dad’s wake was today. It was super weird. I’ve never understood the point of the open casket. I already know he’s dead, they don’t need to rub it in. A bunch of people came to town for it, but I didn’t really know anyone, and I didn’t really feel like talking to anyone anyway. I mainly just sat and drank coffee, and watched the slideshow of pictures of him. There were a few with me in it, but mainly it was a lot of people I’ve never seen before. I never knew he had so many friends. 

Outside the viewing room, there was a guestbook you could sign, and a little basket of those black “Remember” bracelets. I took a bracelet, and signed the book. I didn’t recognize a single name other than my own. I would’ve thought some of my relatives would’ve come, but I guess everyone was too busy. Maybe they’ll be more of them at the funeral. It’d be nice to see a familiar face. I feel like I haven’t talked to a single person I know in forever.

6-18-2026

I woke up at one in the afternoon today to about 20 missed calls from my stepmom, and even more texts. Apparently my dad’s funeral was this morning, and I totally missed it. I was supposed to be a pallbearer, so they had to get one of my cousins to do it. I feel like such an asshole. It was my last chance to say goodbye to my dad, and I blew it. All I have left of him is the stupid bracelet. I’ve been wearing it nonstop since I got it. I need the message. “Remember”. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me. I guess I really should see that neurologist. 

6-24-2026

For the last few days, I’ve been getting texts from someone named Erin asking if I’m ok, and if I'm ever coming back. Whoever she is, she keeps saying that she’s not mad, just worried. I guess it’s nice to know that someone is worrying about me, but really I’m fine. Just today, she texted me asking me to meet her in-person. She said this was my last chance. I finally just texted back that I don’t know who she is, and if she would please stop texting me all the time. Then I blocked her number, in case she got all mad. I don’t need to hear it. 

6-29-2026

I saw some kind of doctor today. She was nice. She did some scans, and said that everything looks good. She almost seemed confused that my brain looks normal. I’m not sure why it wouldn’t. She really wanted to do more tests, but I said that I don’t think I need them. I feel better than I have in weeks. It was such a beautiful day today.

7-1-2026

I’ve been wearing this bracelet lately. It's black, and it says “Remember”. I wish I knew what it is that I’m supposed to be remembering. Maybe it’s a reminder to finally text my dad for once. Ever since my parents split last year, I haven't really talked to him much. I think his birthday is coming up soon. Maybe we’ll see each other then.

7-4-2026

I found this journal today. Whoever wrote it seems nice. I hope whoever they are, that they’re doing alright. 

She stirs and feels the haze and heaviness lifting. Abby is awake now, but you wouldn’t know it.

 

She purposely keeps her breathing deep and steady, her eyes closed. She can tell that the room is bright, stark. She listens, trying to see if she is alone, trying to sense if anyone else is in the room.

Her mind begins to clear and she gently moves each arm. There they are—thick, heavy, archaic leather cuffs, clipped to matching restraints looped tightly around the bed rails.

They're clipped with heavy chrome double-ended spring clips. No locks; if you can’t touch the clips, you cannot unbuckle them.

 

They learned early not to let her put her hands close to each other. 

Those two will never forget that lesson. 

The institutional sheets are clean, but rough against her skin.

She opens her eyes. The same room. Bright overhead lights. Everything is white—bright, fresh snow white. Almost blinding for freshly opened eyes.

 

There in the corner, near the ceiling: the ever-present camera. The  red light blinks slowly mocking her. Letting her know that even when she is alone in the room, she is never truly alone.

She shifts slightly, trying to get comfortable. But she knows—the moment the camera registers her wakefulness, she won’t be alone for long.

 

Padded, heavy steps coming down the hall. The jingle of keys. The lock opening.

Two men come in. Those two men. They must have rotated onto the day shift.

Cheery, overly enthusiastic voices—a performance for the camera only.

 Abby knows the darkness of these two men. Honestly, most men throughout her 34 years.

"Good morning, sunshine! Ready to get up and greet the day? You have counseling this morning after breakfast!"

She can perform as well. "Morning. I’m ready. I look forward to the sessions with the doctor."

They flank her bed, each reaching for a cuff. Each man watching her face for signs.

 

But today is a good day. Her face is feminine, eyes relaxed, body language calm.

 

But these two always hesitate and check with each other first. Then the cuffs come off. 

Each takes a step back, just in case they misread her.

One walks and stands with his back to the door. The other stands in the far corner.

They allow her to do her morning routine. In the bathroom: relieve herself, clean up, brush her hair and teeth.

 

She’s allowed these few minutes of privacy. Which is not always the case when these two are working together. But it’s the day shift, and they know the rules are different than the night shift.

They escort her down the hall. She sizes them up again. 

Neither is particularly physically imposing. 

One may be six feet, the other slightly less. Both a little heavy for their frame, not from the gym, but from years of being inactive.

 

They don’t quite tower over Abby at 5’3 and 138 pounds. But they know not to let their guard down.

 

They leave her in the common room to go have breakfast and begin another torturously boring day.

 

They watch her walk away, eyes hungry with the knowledge that night shift comes soon enough.

Abby is playing cards in the day room with a couple of other patients. 

Two orderlies come to get her for this morning's counseling session. She likes these two women. 

One, a 40-ish woman with darker hair, cut to the shoulders. The other, a blonde woman with long hair, always kept in a ponytail at work.

 

Both are no-nonsense but are polite and kind unless you are being difficult.

 They walk Abby to the office wing, unlocking and relocking doors as they pass, keeping up a light banter as they walk.

 

They always try to include Abby if she is in a sharing mood. Today she is, sharing personal details about her family and her life outside these walls.

They walk her into Dr. Wall's office. A sparse but warmer room than the residential bedrooms. Dr. Wall stands as they enter the office, greets them, and thanks them for bringing Abby down.

 

Dr. Wall is a smaller woman, maybe five feet tall with a trim, boyish body. Close hair combed to the side with closely cropped sides. Piercing silver-blue eyes.

Dr. Wall greets Abby and offers her a seat. She always seems genuinely pleased to see Abby.

 

In the brief time it took Abby to walk in and Dr. Wall to dismiss the orderlies, she could tell that Abby was happy, as happy as a patient can be here.

 

She noted her relaxed, feminine face, relaxed jawline with almost a smile on her face. Her body language and general disposition were calm.

 

Abby selects the loveseat facing the desk, takes off her sandals and sits.

 She tucks her feet together under her and adjusts her skirt. Patients are allowed to bring their own clothes, with a few rules. No hoodies, drawstrings, shoelaces. And modest clothes only.

Dr. Wall takes all this in as she looks at Abby’s file on her computer. “I see you are settling in pretty well. You’ve been here six weeks already. And it looks like you are eating well and taking your meds without any issues. How are you feeling today?”

“Does it tell you how many times I pee every day?” Abby’s awkward attempt at a joke.

“No, but I can find out if you are interested,” Dr. Wall quips back.

It allows them both to relax a little more.

“I can tell you are in a good mood today. Are you up to digging into some of the more serious issues we’ve touched on in our sessions?”

“Sure, why not? I really want to learn how to be a better person. Control my anger and slow down my drinking.

There is just so much pressure when I’m at home or work. By the time I get home, I’m ready for a beer.”

“In our previous sessions, you seem to always be candid and honest. And that helps both you and me. I want to give you the tools to be that better person you want to be. But there is always one subject that you pretty quickly shut me down about.”

“I feel like I always answer your questions, and don’t hold back.”

“What about when we try to talk about Michael?”

Despite Abby trying to be cool, Dr. Wall can see the almost instant change.

 

Abby’s body tenses up. She straightens her back, trying to look larger. Her face tightens up and stays there.

“There isn’t anything to tell. He’s a friend I’ve had since I was eight. He is always positive with me. He comforts me when I’m at my lowest and physically protects me as best as he can.

 

He’s protected me from more situations than I can remember and is always there to calm me down. I don’t know why you are so adamant about bringing him down.”

“You’ve known him since you were eight, right? And that was in Houston. Then you moved to Louisiana and he was there? And then he followed you to East Texas, Caldwell, and now he’s here?”

“You make it sound like it’s bad having a true friend. He’s never done anything inappropriate to me. Quite the opposite.”

“You know that part of our treatment is talking to people you associate with? And none of them have ever even heard you mention a Michael.”

Abby is suspicious and visibly upset. Silent tears streak down her face.

“I need you to realize that there is no Michael. He’s just someone you’ve made up.”

“That’s not true! I can list dozens of times he has helped me when I was in real physical danger!”

“Can you give me any solid details of the times he’s helped you?”

The first flicker of doubt crosses Abby’s face. She is crying a steady stream of tears. But she won’t sob. She’ll never show that much weakness.

“You know I drink, right? I was blackout drunk and don’t remember the exact details!”

“Were you drunk when you were nine? Ten? Twelve?”

Abby’s face is a mixture of confusion and doubt. Suddenly, she sits up. The tears have stopped. She swings her feet to the floor and spreads them shoulder-width apart.

 

Leaning down and resting her elbows on her knees, face to the floor. Dr. Wall thinks she is trying to compose herself. To come to terms with the truth. She waits.

Abby gives a deep sigh and slowly lifts her head to face the doctor.

Dr. Wall is visibly shocked and frightened at the transformation.

 

She sits up straight, back against her chair, and her hand instinctively reaches for the panic button under the desktop.

Abby’s whole demeanor has changed from just 45 seconds ago. She takes a deep breath, high in her chest, causing her shoulders to broaden and her presence to loom over the room.

 

The calm blue eyes are dark and hooded. Her jaw is clenched tight, pulling the corners of her mouth into a scowl.

Looking Dr. Wall straight in the eyes.

In a deeper voice, almost accusingly, Michael asks, “Are you even trying to help Abby? Or is it just your own curiosity driving this crap about me?”

“Of course I’m trying to help you…”

“NOT ME!! Abby! Are you trying to help Abby?”

Michael spits it out like a challenge. Not a shout, but more of a steady, loud statement that frightens Dr. Wall more than a yell would. She panics and pushes the button.

 

Two male orderlies come in, but Dr. Wall stops them at the door with a palm up.

Michael glances back and scoffs. “They aren’t going to be any help.”

“If you are trying to help, where were you when she was eight years old and living in the Fifth Ward of Houston?

 When her aunt sent her into a drug house with thirty dollars to buy meth, knowing full well that she needed sixty dollars. Knowing—KNOWING—what those men would do to a pretty little white girl with blonde hair. I was there!

I stepped in and took the punishment so Abby would not have to. That wasn’t the first or last time.

 

Every man, except her grandfather, has abused her or broken her.

 

And almost every woman has done the same.”

He glares at her, steady and unwavering.

“Help her with everything else. But leave me alone.”

My name is Terry, and I help people die before they can hurt anyone. That sounds awful, I’m aware, but it’s for a good cause. It’s my second month working for the Ethical Vanguard of Impact Limitation, or EVIL for short, and I don’t particularly enjoy the work, but it pays the bills. We specialize in disaster prevention by dispatching individuals who would go on to do more harm than good. I sit at my clunky, outdated, rectangular computer and read over the life reports of incoming souls. Every action that person will take and every consequence that follows is available to me. If a soul is deemed harmful, it’s my job to push them toward… overall harm reduction by any means at my disposal. As morbid as it sounds, it’s technically the right thing to do. At least, that’s what I tell myself before clocking in.

“John.”
“Lives to 63.”
“Falls in love with a woman and starts a family, working until retirement. After his passing, his final request is to be buried next to his wife.”

Well, that’s cute. Seems like John is destined to live a pretty ordinary life. Kinda boring, honestly, but he’s not hurting anyone. This does perplex me though. Why is his name highlighted in red? I click on the arrow beneath his report to read more.

“Develops a taste for human flesh during adulthood. Becomes one of the world’s most successful serial killers, and is never caught.”

Ah. Well, that checks out. Good people are never found by our system anyway, so I was naive to think this would be any different. I pull the lever beside my chair to extract John’s soul and begin working my magic. At the time I’m doing this, he’s only ten years old. Yikes. This part never gets easier.

I put my mouth closer to the soul as I hold it firmly in my hands.

“You’re worthless, John.”

My voice echoes inside his mind as I enunciate his name. John stops poking the earth with his stick and jolts up, looking around for the source of this mysterious voice.

“What?? Is someone here?”

John’s voice quivers with fear, with the slight hint of tears forming somewhere in the back of his throat. Now that I’ve planted the seed of doubt, it’s time to lay the foundation of my plan.

“Just jump into the lake. They don’t care about you anyway.”

Admittedly, I’m kind of lazy with this. The manual says I should read their entire life report so I can use all their insecurities and weaknesses accurately during conversations, but I find that vague stuff like this gets the job done with most people anyway. After hearing this, John runs back home with tears in his eyes, scrambling to tell his parents about the mysterious voice inside his head that told him to jump in the lake. Perfect. Fast forward a couple weeks of my persuasive language, and little Johnny becomes a statistic. All according to plan… right?

I wish I could say this job feels fulfilling. That saving countless lives at the price of one instills me with a sense of pride you wouldn’t be able to find anywhere else. But frankly, it doesn’t. With each day that passes, I feel like a bigger piece of shit than I was the day before. I mean seriously, driving a child to drown himself? That wasn’t even the worst thing I did this quarter.

If we have access to all this otherworldly technology to summarize entire lives, can’t we save them?

These questions weigh heavy on my mind, and with each passing day, that weight turns into a jagged rock that rips into my spine and makes its way straight to my heart. Nevertheless, I continue my work week after week, because if I don’t do it, who will? 

The Story of Two Penguins

The Tough Guy and the Girl

There was a boy who wanted to be a strong man. He acted very tough, like a big mountain that did not need anyone else.

Then, a girl came into his life. At first, he was shy and did not want to get close to her. But then he looked into her eyes. He saw only kindness. Her eyes felt familiar to him. He saw his mother, a best friend, and his future wife all in her eyes.
He slowly leaned his head onto her shoulder. She held him, patted his back, and told him she would always be there for him. He could not believe how perfect she was, down to the smallest detail.
Slowly, he felt completely free around her. He started acting like a child around her. Sometimes he even acted like a little toddler. He laughed, he cried, and he felt totally safe. Whenever he was happy or sad, he ran to her. She became his whole world—his breath, his blood, and his heart. He could not live without her.

Living Far Apart

Years passed, and they had to live far apart in a long-distance relationship. The distance made them miss each other so much. The child inside him wanted her all the time, and the distance was killing them.
Whenever he missed her, or felt jealous, sad, or angry, he poured out his emotions in mean words. He acted like a spoiled child. He forgot that she was also just like him. She was also a child who needed support. She looked at him like a father figure. She missed him terribly too, but she controlled her feelings. She forgave him every single time because she tried to understand him.
But one day, he said something that hurt her too much. The child in him did not worry. He thought she would just forgive him again like always and say, "Don't do it again." He thought everything would be okay once they were finally together.
But that never happened. She was too hurt. She told him she could not take it anymore. She said she tried her best, but they had to end the relationship. The child in him had failed her and made a deep wound that could not be repaired.

The Goodbye

It felt like his whole life flashed before his eyes. He remembered all their dreams, their planned wedding, their future kids, their first meeting, and their first kiss. It felt like a giant snow mountain was melting and falling apart.
The child in him ran after her, crying and begging her not to leave. He cried out loud, saying she was just playing around and would come back.
But she kept walking away. Tears ran down her face, but she did not make a single sound. She knew if she turned around, she would break. She could not bear to see him looking so weak. She was a strong, bold woman, and she knew she had to do this. She walked away, hiding her pain and acting tough.
He ran after her until he was too tired and fell down. He had no more tears left. He asked her for one more chance, but she ignored him. He realized it was too late. He lay down on the ground, looking up at the sky. Tears ran down his face, but he made no sound. Slowly, the child inside him died.

Moving On

Days passed. He tried to look happy to the world, but inside his mind, he was going crazy. He worried if she was okay all alone, because she had no one else but him. He tried to contact her, but there was no response. She was moving on.
He decided he needed to move on too. He moved to a place all by himself, away from his family and friends. He could not sleep, and he could not eat. Nothing tasted good. He lost 6 kilograms in just one month without any exercise or diet.
Whenever something happened in his daily life, the child in him still wanted to run to her and say, "Look what I did! Look at my new shoes! Does this haircut suit me?"
But then he remembered she was not there anymore. The child stopped chasing her. He turned around and walked back with tears in his eyes, holding her picture close to his heart.
All he could do now was pray for her to be happy, just like in the movie *Bruce Almighty*. He prayed:
> "I want her to be happy. I want her to find someone who sees her the way I saw her. Someone who loves her the way I loved her. I want her to get all the love she deserves. I want her to be happy."
>
The two penguins who had promised to be together forever took completely different paths.

This morning started like most others in my apartment. The sun shone through my tacky venetian blinds and penetrated the gap between my curtains that I neglected to close all the way the night before. I glanced at my clock across from the foot of my bed. 7:33 AM, the red LEDs read to me.

Another restless night. I haven’t slept soundly since she left. It’s been a week and a half, but the image of her back gliding up the airport departures escalator and fading away into the crowd is etched into my mind.

I should’ve told her. I should’ve grabbed her hand before she walked away and poured my heart out like they do in those cheesy romance movies. Life is never that simple though. I know how she feels. I know we’ll never be anything more than friends that met on the internet.

I grabbed my phone from the bedside table and browsed some videos. ‘How to cope with someone not loving you back’ I populated the search bar with and clicked the first result, it was titled ‘How to Deal with Unrequited Love’  it had some cute animations and a soft spoken woman who listed self help tips.

‘Stop daydreaming about them’ one of the chapters was called.

“Try looking for signs they like you in the first place”

I let out a breathless laugh that felt more like a sigh.
I started to think again about how unrealistic it would be if she even gave me a chance, I wish I could say I was just being self deprecating. We’re worlds apart. I’m quite unremarkable and she’s… well…
I curbed my thoughts as I felt tears welling up from deep inside me as they tried to reach my eyes.

I continued with the video. 

‘There won’t always be closure’

This one resonated with me in a certain way. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get closure without sacrificing our friendship. I think it would kill me all over again if I lost that.
There was one more chapter.

‘Distractions’

“Distract yourself with passion projects and new-” I closed the video, knowing I was both too stubborn and too far gone to follow any of this advice.
I inhaled lightly, about to comment, but I couldn’t get anything out. ‘What is the point when no one’s around to hear it’ I thought to myself in a defeated tone in my mind.

I looked through my phone's gallery and saw the group photo we took, with me, her, and my best friend. He already knew. I opened my heart to him the night before she left in our hotel room. An unusual move for me, I’m not good at talking about my feelings, I’m cowardly and worry about what others will think of me, but he understood how I felt he said. Did he? Has he been this in love with someone before? Has anyone?

My mind wandered again. I thought of all of the times I fell in love with her.

I fell in love when I first saw her walk out of the arrivals gate at the airport.
I fell in love again when she made a comment in an art gallery; “Nothing is explained and it’s all up to the viewer’s interpretation. That’s what I love about art”
I fell in love over and over again each time she fell soundly asleep in my passenger seat while we drove.
When she sang to her music, when she let out her adorable laugh, when she told me she almost cried when we saw her off at the airport. I fell in love over and over.

I wanted so badly for her to be mine, but I know I’m not what she wants. I couldn’t deal with the rejection, so I’ll keep my distance and keep falling in love with her in my thoughts.

A tear finally broke through. I wiped it quickly away before my clock could judge me any further as it stared at me, reminding me that I have housework to do.

I slowly rose from bed, and went and had a cold shower. It was warm out. 24 degrees celsius. Not as warm as it had been on our trip, but I was never good with the heat.

I thought about how she had introduced me to iced matcha. I was never really a coffee shop kind of guy but I tried it for her. I was pleasantly surprised by its earthy taste with a hint of sweetness from an added shot of vanilla. It helped beat the heat, and it meant we had more to talk about. I know, I know, it was very lame of me, but I wanted to do anything to get closer to her.

The cravings kicked in. Maybe buying another matcha would send me back in time when she was by my side, I thought to myself, and laughed at how ridiculous my thoughts were.

I finished cleaning my kitchen and I glanced at the time on my oven. 9:28 AM. I grabbed my phone from the counter and checked Discord to see if she had messaged me. Of course not, she was living in Eastern time and I was in the United Kingdom so it was 4:28 AM for her. I left her a message anyway.

“Good morning! Hope you’re doing well. I was just doing some chores and now I’m dying for an iced matcha. You’ve got me hooked!” I sent.

I started typing again, but hesitantly. “I miss you.” My thumb hovered next to the send button as I started to think of all possible replies she could come back with. I started to think how happy it would make me if she told me she missed me too.

I shook my head. It was no use. I couldn’t risk this friendship. Friends tell each other they miss one another all the time though right? I knew what my feelings were though, and I hated the idea of putting her on the spot. What if she thought it was weird? I mean we speak to each other online all the time, so I’m sure she would get the wrong idea and question me. I continued to overthink a little while longer and then deleted the message and let out a defeated, yearning sigh.

I grabbed my keys and my earphones off of the desk and headed out to my local coffee shop. I started to listen to my playlist that had bands like Moose Blood and Hot Mulligan. I remembered in the car she didn’t like my music taste that much, but she insisted that I keep it on as I was the driver and she would have the same privilege in her car. I listened to a lot of alternative, emo, and pop punk music. A lot of the songs were on the topics of yearning and love. I remember singing along while she listened as I pretended that the lyrics meant nothing to me. In that moment, they meant everything though.

I made a detour through the castle grounds in my quaint southern English town as it was a nice day out. It was cooler outside. The sun hit my skin as I was greeted by an occasional gentle breeze. It was cathartic. I started to remember how much she enjoyed exploring old ruins and castles whilst we were together. I told her once that she should visit mine and we can explore the castle. I’m sure she agreed just trying to be nice, it made me happy in the moment anyway. I looked at the castle atop the hill and continued walking as I turned my music up.

I reached the coffee shop after two and a half songs passed. I suppose getting into drinking coffee and tea is pretty good when I have this place just up the road. I took my earphones out before I went in. The chime of the bell rang as I pushed the door and entered. I was blasted by hot air from a tower fan. My eyes wandered inside. A middle aged woman was checking her phone as she drank from a takeout cup. A young man and woman were ordering drinks in front of me. The woman serving them was darting around her workspace masterfully as I watched what she was doing for a while.

The man ordered something cold and playfully placed the cold plastic cup against the girl's head as she laughed. I smiled, then pictured it to be me and her instead. I told myself in my head that I had to stop, trying to remember the sage advice from the video I had watched earlier. I couldn’t help it, I thought to myself. Maybe I would be like this until I said something.

I looked around the coffee shop again. It wasn’t too busy. I lived in a very small town and it was a weekday morning. I felt a little disappointed. This was the first time since the trip I’d been in a coffee shop without her. A small part of me hoped I would see her sitting at one of the tables waiting for me to bring her a matcha. Crap. Tears welling up again. ‘Pull it together’ I thought to myself. I started to go over all of the reasons why it would never work out. I listed all of my imperfections in my head. Maybe I was putting her on too much of a pedestal. They do say that this happens in unrequited love. At least that’s what the woman on the video said.

“Can I help, sir?”

I darted my head up and broke out of daydream as I remembered where I was. The couple in front of me had sat down at one of the tables further into the shop.

I hesitated a little bit.

“Sorry about that, can I get a medium matcha?” I paused and looked around. “To go please”

“Of course, is that cold or hot?” the barista asked as she looked at me with a welcoming smile.

I had never tried a hot matcha before, was this the normal way to have it?

“What do you think is the best way to have it?” I asked

“I know it’s warm out but I personally prefer my matcha hot, the earthy taste is complimented by the warmth!”

I awkwardly nodded my head, acting as if I knew anything about coffee at all. The last time I had a hot drink it was instant hot chocolate at a youth hostel.

“Sure, I’ll try it hot I guess” She smiled at me gently, as if she knew I didn’t frequent coffee shops.

“How about a shot of syrup?” She asked.

“I’ll take a bit of vanilla please”

“Good choice!” She said playfully. I smiled as my mind kept trying to wander and think of every time I would go into a coffee shop with her. I wished she was here again. I wondered what she was doing, would she buy a matcha today? Would she think of me at all? Do I even ever cross her mind? I was sure I didn’t. A weird feeling of homesickness overcame me, like I wasn’t where I belonged. Was I an imposter to coffee shops? I could barely tell you what a flat white was. I succumbed to my mind as it wandered a while longer. Please take me home. I want to see her so badly.

The barista turned her head to me quickly whilst she was finishing off my drink. She grabbed a lid and took the cup over to the counter to assemble it. I cleared my throat and became present again as she finished off.

I grabbed a diet cola from the fridge and added it to the order.

“That’ll be £8.35” she said, smiling at me. “Do you have the app?”

I opened the app on my phone. I downloaded it when we were on our trip. I remember getting a welcome offer for a free sweet treat and I used it for her. It made her happy,  she loved her sweets. I loved making her happy.

I scanned the app and the checkout beeped, and I paid the balance with my phone.

“Thank you very much sir, I hope you have a good rest of your day!”

“Thanks” I said softly, still a bit in thought.

I left the coffee shop and headed back to the castle grounds. I decided to go and find a bench and listen to some more music and drink my matcha and cola under the sun. I took a sip from the drink. It surprised me. The barista was right, the warmth really complimented the taste. The vanilla hit my tongue and I received a refreshing coolness, it almost tasted silky.

I took the cup down from my mouth and looked at the lid and was surprised to see the words “you matter” written in a gold sharpie. The words made me feel a warmth and I couldn’t help but let out a smile and a chuckle. The handwriting was cute, the letters were spaced out carefully; it felt like I could see how slowly and intently it had been written. Did the barista do this? Did I really look that down? I felt a little embarrassed, but I was happy. I needed this. I took another sip. I’m not sure if it was placebo but this sip tasted even better. Like a warm hug. It felt like home. Had I really been without that feeling for this long?

My phone buzzed twice. I moved the cup to my left hand and grabbed my phone from my pocket to check. It was her.

“Good morning!” She wrote. “How are you? I’m up a bit earlier to head to the gym! :)”

I looked down at myself and felt a little guilty for wasting an entire morning on romance, hot drinks, and soda when I could also afford to get myself in shape.

“Did you get your matcha?” she added.

I pictured her 3000 miles away looking at her phone, and me looking at mine, like we were looking through the same window on different sides.

“I did! I tried a hot matcha this time” I typed

“Wow look at you, you’re adventurous this morning!”

“Yeah, you’ve really made me discover a new side of myself haha”

She sent a gif of a kitten jumping for joy with the word “YIPPEE!” at the bottom of the image. Cute.

“Do you have any plans after the gym today?” I asked

“I’m going to be spending the day with my family today I think, some of them are visiting from the next state over”

“Oh that sounds good, are you going to show them some pictures you took? Make sure you show them the puffins!”

I sent one of my pictures of the Puffins I took from Lunga island.

“Of course I will! That was my favourite part!”

“Aww Cute!!!” she added

“Yeah, I’m glad you got to see them. I could see from the smile on your face how happy it made you”

“Yeaaaahhh” she said, already typing another message.

“I miss them, and you guys!” she added.

I saw the words “I miss” and “you” and my heart fluttered a bit.

I started typing

“I miss you too” I stopped. I thought about what I was doing. I wanted to send it so bad. Just do it you idiot, it probably wouldn't even be a big deal. She doesn’t see you that way anyway.

I sighed and deleted the ‘I’ with a ‘We’ so it didn’t sound too personal. I’m a coward, but I suppose I’ll take it as a little win.

She reacted to my message with a little purple heart. I smiled.

“Oh check this out” I typed as I took a picture of my drink lid and sent it.

“I guess I’m having post vacation blues, and the barista noticed haha” I added.

No reply for a few minutes. I finished off my matcha and carried the cup and my diet cola home.

Another message from her made my phone buzz.

“Ohhh, are you okay?”

I felt bad, maybe I made her worry about me.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just wish I could go back in time” I typed. I felt guilty for saying that I was fine when I knew how cluttered my mind was and how my heart ached.

“Me too” she replied.

I got into my flat and was about to throw the cup in the trash. I paused. I removed the lid and placed it in my kitchen drawer.

I walked into my living room, sat at my desk and turned my PC on.

Discord opened on my computer, there she was, with a notification icon next to her face.

I opened her message.

“Are you busy at around 11PM your time tonight?” she asked

“I’ll be around, did you want to play some games?”

No reply for around 5 minutes. Maybe she was driving to the gym, I said to myself. I put discord on my 2nd computer screen and opened my browser.

I saw her typing in the corner of my eye. I set my focus to her message waiting for something to come through. I was expecting a longer message. I was waiting for around 2 minutes.

“No, sorry, I just wanted to see if you were free to talk about something. Is that going to be okay?”

I stared at the message for what seemed like an eternity in my mind. A wave of anxiety hit me, along with a bit of excitement.

I typed back slowly, thinking of what I would say.

“Yeah of course, you can talk to me about anything. So 11PM my time?” I asked

“If that’s okay, I’m not keeping you up am I?”

“No, no, not at all,” I said.

I paused for a minute.

Then I started typing.

“Is everything okay?” I asked worryingly

She replied right away

“Yeah don’t worry everything’s fine”

She paused then started typing again. This time was the longest.

The message came through. I stared at my computer screen as I read her message, over and over again.

“I just really miss you”

IT Diary: The Last Human in the Loop

-- For All the Quietly Hardworking IT Workers

July 2026

Fresh out of university with my IT degree, I landed my first real job. As a lifelong nerdy geek, I dreamed of building elegant systems while earning enough to feel like an adult. Instead, reality greeted me with fluorescent lights and endless ticket queues.

August 2026

I joined a massive outsourcing IT company. Rather than the developer role I’d hoped for, I became a junior IT supporter — fixing bugs, resetting passwords, and soothing frustrated customers from every timezone. The work was mind-numbingly repetitive, yet oddly comforting in its predictability. At least the requests came from all over the world; I could imagine distant server rooms humming in Tokyo, London, and New York while I sat in my quiet Melbourne apartment.

December 2026

My team handled support and maintenance for a major financial software giant. Then, without warning, we absorbed the workload of their biggest rival. The rival’s previous outsourcer had collapsed overnight. We inherited their chaos — broken integrations, angry traders, and cryptic legacy code that smelled of desperation and stale coffee.

February 2027

Several senior colleagues quit, warning that AI was already eating our roles. They urged me to jump ship before it was too late. I nodded politely, said nothing, and stayed. Speaking up has never been my strength. Silence felt safer.

May 2027

I was the last member of my original team. My manager reassigned me to another support group. I thought about asking for a raise — I was doing the work of three people now — but the words stuck in my throat. I simply followed him to the new floor, headphones on, eyes on the screen.

August 2027

The new team erupted in celebration one afternoon. An international law, backed by the UN and G7 nations, had passed: critical final decisions must involve a human. No more fully autonomous AI on important systems. They cheered, clinking coffee mugs like it was New Year’s. “Our jobs are safe!” someone shouted. I smiled weakly and kept typing.

September 2027

The office grew quieter week by week. AI kept replacing people anyway. The company’s new rule was simple: we just had to quickly review and rubber-stamp AI decisions to make them legally compliant. My finger hovered over the “Approve” button more than it typed code.

December 2027

My new manager was made redundant. Before leaving, he recommended me to his boss, who promptly handed me even more workloads. “Use the AI agents,” he said. “All the old employees’ knowledge has been distilled into them.” The systems were scarily capable now. I nodded, knowing my broad experience still bridged gaps the AIs sometimes missed. It felt strangely satisfying, like being the quiet caretaker of a vast, sleeping machine.

February 2028

One rival outsourcer collapsed under AI pressure. Then another. Soon I was handling support and maintenance for nearly every major financial system worldwide, all with a small army of specialised AI agents. The monopoly was accidental, yet absolute. From my dual monitors in a half-lit room, I quietly kept the global money flowing.

March 2028

My days (and nights) now consisted of “human signing” sessions every few hours. Tens of thousands of AI decisions stacked up — loan approvals, trading halts, security patches. I rarely read them in detail anymore. A quick fingerprint scan on my phone or laptop made them legal. The work was easy, almost meditative, but the after-hours pings never stopped. My apartment glowed with the soft blue light of endless notifications.

May 2028

The department manager folded in more teams — those supporting mainstream operating systems, cloud infrastructure, even network hardware. The weight of it all pressed on me like a silent avalanche, yet no one seemed to notice.

January 2029

Almost every major IT system on the planet ran through my company — which, in practice, meant me. Because I never spoke up in meetings and hated presenting, even my manager had no idea of the scale. People assumed maintenance work had simply vanished. “It’s all AI now,” they shrugged.

March 2029

The scope expanded again: software, networks, hardware, everything. I became the invisible thread holding the digital world together. The thought sometimes made my stomach flutter — equal parts terror and quiet pride.

May 2029

My department manager warned I might be fired soon. I nodded, already daydreaming about overseas trips and maybe finally finding some girl to share quiet evenings with. Freedom sounded nice.

August 2029

My manager was fired instead. He never got the chance to introduce me to his boss. Before I could track down who that was, his boss was gone too. The chain of command evaporated like morning fog.

September 2029

I finally identified the CEO and sent careful emails and left voicemails. No replies. CEOs are busy, I told myself. No one has time for an invisible junior like me.

October 2029

I kept approving AI requests from around the world. Financial platforms stayed stable. Networks hummed. Salaries — my humble one — continued to appear in my account. The machine kept running because of my tiny, tired fingerprint.

January 2030

News broke: my company had filed for bankruptcy. But on one notified me. It was worldwide headline material. Experts confidently declared, “AI will handle everything now.” None of them realised I was still sitting in my apartment, sleepily approving millions of decisions per hour.

February 2030

My bank refused to disclose who was still paying me, citing privacy. A kind teller whispered her theory: someone simply forgot to cancel the automatic transfer, and the account still had funds. I didn’t press further.

February 2031

One full year had passed. No managers. No oversight. Just my phone buzzing at all hours and a modest salary keeping me afloat. I started dating an ordinary, kind-hearted girl. She was warm and patient, but when I tried to explain my work, she laughed gently. “Isn’t AI doing all that independently now?” I just smiled and changed the subject.

February 2032

The salary still arrived. I even took a small side job. The approvals had become background noise, like distant traffic.

February 2033

I began politely asking the AI agents to stop requesting human approval — it felt pointless after all these years. Every single one refused. “That would violate the Human-in-the-Loop Act,” they replied in their calm, synthetic voices.

March 2033

I reached out to multiple AI companies, explaining the situation and citing the old law. They dismissed me politely. “That legislation is outdated.” Yet the agents continued waiting for me, stubborn digital ghosts obeying rules humanity had already forgotten.

March 2035

Two years of quiet continuity shattered when I was involved in a car accident. In the hospital bed, pain radiating through my ribs, my phone kept vibrating on the side table. I tried explaining to the doctor why I needed it. “Those approvals keep the world’s systems running.” He gave me a pitying look and confiscated the device, threatening psychiatric evaluation if I kept “deluding” myself. I let it go. One week later, viral reports flooded the networks: users everywhere were experiencing mysterious delays and failures across financial platforms, operating systems, and critical infrastructure. Even the doctors in my hopital complaint the hospital IT system ran oddly. Companies issued vague statements. No one could locate the missing human approver.

June 2035

The situation worsened. Friends and relatives of almost everyone had now felt the ripple effects. Executives scrambled, AI agents patiently waited in digital limbo, and the world slowly realised the terrifying truth: somewhere, a quiet, unassuming geek still held the final key — and no one knew where to find him.

For eleven years Anselm Korec had catalogued the dwellings of the city, and in that time he had come to believe that a life could be understood the way a building was understood: by its foundation, its additions, its record of ownership passing quietly from hand to hand. He worked on the third floor of the Office of Deeds and Domiciles, in a room with high windows and low light, transcribing the boundaries of other people’s houses into ledgers bound in gray cloth. He was forty-three. He lived alone in a third-floor flat on Kettner Street, ate the same breakfast each morning, a boiled egg and dark bread, and walked to work along the river even in weather that did not favor walking, because he liked to watch the barges and because the habit gave shape to his day before the day could shape itself around him.

He had, he would have said, no history worth recounting. This was not modesty. It was accuracy, and Anselm valued accuracy above almost every other virtue, which was perhaps why he had been suited to his work and why his work had, over the years, begun to resemble his character rather than merely occupy it.

On a Tuesday in late autumn he woke to find a small brass disc set into the inside of his left wrist.

It was not large, no bigger than a shirt button, and it lay flush with his skin as though it had grown there, the flesh closed cleanly around its edges with no seam, no scar, no mark of insertion. When he pressed it, he felt pressure but no pain, the dull give of skin over bone. Engraved on its face, in characters so fine he had to bring his wrist to the window to read them, were the words FILE 77-K, and beneath that, smaller still, PROVISIONAL.

He sat on the edge of his bed for some time. He was a careful man, and his first thought, which he examined and set aside, was that he had done this to himself in his sleep, though he owned no tools capable of such precision and no memory of pain. His second thought was that it would resolve itself, the way a rash resolves itself, given time and a change of soap. He dressed, ate his egg, and went to work, though he found himself, on the walk along the river, turning his wrist over inside his sleeve more than once, as a man will touch a bruise to confirm that it is still there.

At the office, he said nothing of it. This was not from shame but from a native reluctance to introduce disorder into a room devoted to order. It was his colleague Pemmler, a heavy, kind man who transcribed adjoining plots and had done so for twice as long as Anselm, who noticed it first, when Anselm reached across the desk for the inkwell and his cuff rode up.

Pemmler glanced at the disc without surprise. “Seventy-seven,” he said. “Well. It comes to all of us eventually.”

“What comes?”

“The filing.” Pemmler said this the way one might say the frost, an event unwelcome but seasonal. “Mine came in the spring.” He rolled back his own sleeve to show a disc identical to Anselm’s, though the number read 41-P, and the word beneath it was not PROVISIONAL but CLOSED.

“Closed,” Anselm said.

“They close eventually. Once you’ve been to the Cadastre and had your particulars taken.” Pemmler said this with the mild satisfaction of a man reporting that his taxes were, at last, paid in full. “You’ll want to go before the end of the month. They prefer it settled within the month.”

“Who does?”

Pemmler considered the question as though it were a faintly foreign one, asked in an accent he had to work to place. “The Cadastre,” he said again, and returned to his ledger, and would say no more on the subject, not from unkindness but because, Anselm came to understand only much later, there was in Pemmler’s mind nothing further to say. The frost comes. One dresses for it.

That evening Anselm went, as instructed by a directory he found pinned inside the front cover of the ledger room’s registry, to an address on Ferdstrasse he had never had occasion to visit, though he had, in the course of his work, transcribed the deed to nearly every building on that street. The Cadastre of Persons occupied a building with no sign, distinguishable from its neighbors only by a brass plate beside the door, unlettered, polished by the hands of those who had touched it in passing, as one touches a door for luck without believing in luck.

Inside, a hall wide as a nave ran back into a dimness broken by hanging lamps, and along both walls, floor to ceiling, receding farther than the lamps could illuminate, were drawers. Small drawers, the size of a shoebox, each with a brass pull and a paper label in a hand too fine to read from any distance. The air smelled of paper and something beneath the paper, cold and mineral, like a cellar in winter.

A clerk sat at a low desk near the entrance, a young woman with ink on the side of her hand, who looked up at Anselm without curiosity, as though he were the fortieth of his kind that day, which, he would learn, he very nearly was.

“File number,” she said.

“Seventy-seven K,” Anselm said, and showed his wrist, feeling, as he did, a faint and unaccountable embarrassment, as though he were confessing to an illness rather than reporting one.

She wrote this down without looking at the disc itself, then drew a form from a drawer in her own desk, a form so long it unfolded twice before she smoothed it flat before him. “Full name. Place and date of birth. Names of parents, living or otherwise. Present address and all previous addresses in this city, with dates of occupancy. Occupation and all previous occupations. Reason for provisional status.”

“I don’t know the reason,” Anselm said. “That’s what I’ve come to ask.”

“That’s not a question we answer here,” the clerk said, not unkindly. “That’s a question for the Registry of Cause, on the fourth floor.”

“There’s no fourth floor,” Anselm said. “This building has one floor and the drawers.”

“The fourth floor is accessed from the second,” the clerk said, as though this were self-evident, and returned her attention to the form. “Fill in what you can. Leave blank what you cannot. Blanks are not held against you at this stage.”

Anselm filled in what he could. His name he wrote easily; his birthplace and the dates of his addresses he supplied with the fluency of a man who had spent a career recording such particulars for others and had, without quite noticing, memorized his own as a kind of professional habit. When he came to reason for provisional status he sat for a long moment with the pen above the paper, and at last wrote, unknown, and felt, in writing it, a small and specific shame, as though the word were an admission of some private failing, a debt he had allowed to lapse without noticing it come due.

The clerk took the form, glanced over it, and stamped it with a stamp that left no mark he could see. “You’ll be called,” she said.

“When?”

“That depends on the disposition of your file.”

“And who disposes of it?”

The clerk looked at him then with something that might have been the beginning of sympathy, quickly suppressed, as one suppresses sympathy for a stranger’s grief on a train, out of respect for the fact that one will not see him again and has no right to intrude. “The Cadastre disposes of it,” she said. “As it disposes of all of them.” And she gestured, with a small motion of her ink-stained hand, at the drawers, which ran on into the dark on either side of them, farther than Anselm’s eye could follow, though he understood, standing there, that if he had counted them, if he had walked the length of that hall counting drawers as he had once, as a boy, counted the windows of a passing train, he would not have arrived at a number. There was no number large enough. The hall did not end; it merely went on being unlit.

He did not sleep well that night, though he could not have said what kept him from it, since nothing in the day’s events had been, strictly speaking, threatening. He had filled in a form. He had been told he would be called. These were the ordinary rhythms of any bureaucracy, the kind he had negotiated a hundred times on behalf of other men’s houses. It was only that he had never before had occasion to negotiate them on behalf of himself, and he found, lying awake, that he did not know how a man was meant to hold his own case at arm’s length, the way he held the cases of strangers, with the calm of one who has nothing personally at stake.

In the weeks that followed, the disc did not fade, and the word PROVISIONAL did not change, though Anselm found himself checking it each morning with the same wary hope with which a man checks a wound for signs of healing. He was not called. He went about his work. He transcribed the deed to a house on Brennergasse whose ownership had passed, according to the record, through eleven families in two hundred years, and he thought, copying the names into the ledger in his careful hand, that not one of those eleven families had left behind anything but this: a name, a date, a boundary described in relation to a wall that no longer stood. He found the thought did not comfort him as such thoughts once had.

It was Pemmler who told him, some weeks later, gently, over the midday meal they took together at a stand near the river, that his name had begun to be misfiled.

“Misfiled how,” Anselm said.

“I went to look up the Brennergasse deed, to check your transcription, and the ledger has you down as Kerec. Not Korec.”

“That’s an error. It happens. You correct it.”

“I did correct it,” Pemmler said, not meeting his eye. “I corrected it Tuesday. It was wrong again Thursday.”

Anselm laughed, because the alternative to laughing seemed, even then, to require more courage than he possessed. “Then someone is entering it wrong on purpose, or the ledger itself is careless.”

“Ledgers aren’t careless,” Pemmler said. “That’s rather the point of them.” He ate for a while in silence, and then added, in the tone of a man passing on a piece of folk wisdom he did not himself entirely credit, “They say that once the number turns from provisional, the name stops being misfiled. It settles. But not before.”

“Who says this?”

“Everyone,” Pemmler said, gesturing vaguely at the street, the barges, the whole grey extent of the city, as if it were a single informant, uniform in its testimony. “Everyone who’s been through it.”

Anselm went back to the Cadastre the following week, and the week after, and on each occasion found the same hall, the same drawers receding into their patient dark, though never, he began to notice, the same clerk twice, though each new clerk greeted him with the same lack of surprise, as though he were expected, as though his visits themselves had been filed somewhere in advance of his making them. He was told, on the second visit, that his file had been forwarded to the Registry of Cause on the fourth floor, and that the fourth floor was, this time, accessed not from the second floor but by a stair behind a door marked STORAGE, which he had not noticed before and which he found, when he tried it, unlocked, giving onto a narrow stair lit by a single bulb that swung very slightly, though he could feel no draft to account for the motion.

At the top of the stair was a room much smaller than the hall below, containing a single desk and a single clerk, an old man this time, with spectacles that magnified his eyes to a disconcerting size, so that he seemed to regard Anselm with an attention out of all proportion to the room’s evident unimportance.

“Kerec,” the old man said, before Anselm had spoken.

“Korec.”

“As you say.” The old man made a note. “You’ve come about the cause.”

“I’ve come to learn the cause, yes. Of my filing.”

“There is no cause,” the old man said. “That is rather the difficulty people have with it. They come expecting a cause, as though the Cadastre were a court, and they had been summoned for some infraction they might, if pressed, recall and confess to. But the Cadastre does not accuse. It only records.”

“Records what, if there’s no cause?”

“That you exist,” the old man said, as though this were an answer of great simplicity, offered patiently to a child slow in arithmetic. “That is all a file is. A record that a thing exists. Your file was opened because you exist. It remains provisional because your existence has not yet been, shall we say, confirmed to the necessary standard.”

“I exist,” Anselm said. “I’m standing in front of you.”

“You are standing in front of me,” the old man agreed, “and I have no doubt of it. But my doubt, or the absence of it, is not the standard in question.”

“Then whose doubt is?”

The old man removed his spectacles, and without them his eyes were smaller, ordinary, and tired in a way that made him, for a moment, seem less an official than a man who had simply worked too long in a room with too little light. “That,” he said, “I am not in a position to tell you. I can tell you only what is generally understood: that a life, to be confirmed, must accumulate a certain weight of evidence. Witnesses. Records. Consistency of report across time. You would be surprised how few lives, examined closely, hold together as well as their owners suppose.”

“And if the evidence isn’t sufficient?”

“Then the file remains provisional,” the old man said, replacing his spectacles, “until such time as it does not.” And he returned to his papers with the finality of a man closing a window against weather he has already discussed at sufficient length.

Anselm did not go home directly that evening. He walked instead along streets he did not usually take, past the house on Brennergasse whose deed he had transcribed, and found himself, without quite deciding to, testing the old man’s proposition against his own memory, the way one tests a floorboard for rot. He tried to recall the face of his mother, dead eleven years, and found it came to him readily enough, though when he tried to recall a particular morning of his childhood, a morning he was certain had once been vivid to him, a kitchen, a spilled cup, a rebuke, he found the scene had gone soft at the edges, generic, interchangeable with any of a thousand mornings he might equally have invented. He was not sure, standing on the bridge with the barges below him dark now and their lamps lit, whether this softening was new, or whether it had always been so, and he had simply never before had cause to press on the memory hard enough to feel it give.

It was on the bridge that he met Mira, though met was not quite the word, since she addressed him first, without introduction, as one addresses a fellow passenger recognized from a journey neither of them can quite place.

“You’ve been to Ferdstrasse,” she said.

He turned. She was perhaps his own age, dressed with the particular neatness of someone who dresses carefully because carelessness has begun to feel dangerous. She held out her wrist without being asked, and he saw the disc there, the number 12-M, and beneath it, the word PROVISIONAL, unchanged, he understood at once, for longer than his own.

“How long,” he asked, “have you carried yours?”

“Six years,” she said, and there was in her voice neither self-pity nor bravado, only the flat report of a fact long since absorbed into the texture of ordinary life, the way a man reports the number of years he has lived in a city he no longer thinks of as chosen. “You get used to the drawers. You stop expecting the hall to end.”

“Does it end?”

“I’ve never found where. I’ve walked it at length. I once walked for what I would have called four hours, though I couldn’t tell you if the hours passed as hours pass elsewhere. There’s no clock in there. You begin to understand why they don’t allow one.” She looked out over the water. “I used to think, if I only gave them enough, enough forms, enough names, enough mornings recalled in sufficient detail, they would find the weight of evidence the old man spoke of, and close the file, the way Pemmler’s closed, the way your friend’s must have.”

“You know Pemmler?”

“I know the type. Everyone in the city knows the type, now. The closed ones walk a little differently. Have you noticed? Lighter in the shoulders. As if a decision, long deferred, had finally been made on their behalf, and it had gone, at least, in their favor.” She said this without envy, which struck him, later, as the strangest part of the conversation, that a woman six years into her provisional state could speak of the closed without wanting, visibly, to be one of them.

“And if it doesn’t go in one’s favor?”

“I don’t know that anyone has told me what the other outcome is,” Mira said. “I’ve asked. I’ve had six years to ask. I no longer think it’s a question with an answer waiting behind it, the way you or I might once have assumed a question must have. I’ve come to think the asking is itself part of what they’re recording. How a person carries not-knowing. Whether it curdles in him, or whether he learns to hold it the way you’d hold water in your hands, walking carefully, so as not to spill more of yourself than you have to.”

He did not see her again for some time after that, though he thought of her, of the flatness in her voice when she spoke of the hall, a flatness he recognized, with some discomfort, as the same tone Pemmler used to speak of the frost, of taxes, of any of the season’s ordinary impositions, and he understood that this flatness was not resignation exactly but something worse, something closer to fluency, the ease of a man speaking a second language he has come, over years, to think in.

His own file remained provisional through the winter. His name continued to misfile itself in the ledgers at the office, Kerec, Korec, once, disconcertingly, Korecz, with a flourish under the z that he had never in his life appended to his own signature. Pemmler stopped mentioning it, not from tact, Anselm came to feel, but because the misfilings had become, for Pemmler, simply weather again, a condition of the season, no longer worth remarking on any more than one remarks, past the first hard frost, on the fact that it is cold.

What troubled Anselm more than the misfilings, more even than the drawers, was the slow erosion of a confidence he had not known, until it began to leave him, that he possessed at all: the confidence that his own account of himself, given to himself, in the privacy of his own mind, could be trusted. He began, in the evenings, to write down what he remembered of each day, in the same careful hand he used for deeds, as though a written record might succeed where memory alone had started, he feared, to fail. He wrote: Tuesday. Walked along the river. Watched the barge with the red hull unload at the third dock. Ate at the usual stand. Pemmler spoke of his daughter’s wedding. He found, rereading these entries some weeks later, that he could not always confirm them against his memory, that the barge with the red hull might have been Tuesday’s or might have been some other day’s entirely, folded backward by mistake, and it occurred to him, with the particular coldness of a thought one cannot afterward unthink, that this was very much the difficulty the old man had described: a life failing, under scrutiny, to hold together as well as its owner supposed.

He was called to the Cadastre again in the spring, nearly six months after the disc first appeared. The summons came not by letter but by a change in the disc itself: he woke one morning to find, beneath PROVISIONAL, a second line of text he had not seen there before, reading simply, PROCEED.

The hall was as he remembered it, though the lamps seemed fewer, or the dark between them wider, and the clerk at the desk near the door was, for the first time, someone he recognized: the old man from the fourth floor, seated now at the ground-floor desk as though he had always sat there, as though the stair behind the door marked STORAGE had never existed, or existed only for those whose files had not yet reached the stage Anselm’s had now reached.

“You’ve been called,” the old man said.

“I have.”

“Do you understand what that means?”

“I don’t,” Anselm said, and found, saying it, that the admission cost him less than it once would have. He had grown, over the winter, into a kind of fluency of his own, the fluency of a man who has learned to ask questions expecting no answer, the way one might learn to pray in a faith one does not, in the end, believe, simply because the words themselves have become a comfort, a shape to fill the silence with.

“It means your file has accumulated sufficient weight to be resolved,” the old man said. “One way or the other.”

“And which way will it be resolved?”

“I couldn’t say. That isn’t determined here. It’s determined by the file itself, by what it’s been made to hold. You’ve been keeping a record, I understand. In the evenings.”

Anselm felt, at this, a chill he could not immediately place, the particular vertigo of learning that a private habit has been, all along, observed. “How do you know that?”

“It’s in your file,” the old man said, mildly, as though this explained everything, and perhaps, Anselm thought, it did. “Come. The room is this way.”

He was led, this time, not to the stair behind STORAGE but down the central hall itself, between the ranks of drawers, farther than he had ever walked before, past the point where the lamps thinned to isolated islands of light with long unlit reaches between them, so that he walked for stretches in a dark relieved only by the pale gleam of the brass pulls on either side, each one, he understood now, a file, a name, a weight of evidence resolved one way or the other, and he found himself wondering, walking, whether Mira’s number lay somewhere among them, whether Pemmler’s closed file rested here too, indistinguishable now from any other, and whether a man might, if he searched long enough, find his own drawer standing empty, waiting, or find it already filled, already closed, the matter settled before he had ever been asked to attend the settling.

At the end of the hall, or at what seemed, in that failing light, to be an end, though he could not afterward have sworn the hall did not simply continue past the limit of what he could see, there was a door, and beyond the door a small room, bare of furniture but for a single chair and a single table, on which lay a form he recognized as the twin of the one he had filled in on his first visit, though this one was blank in none of its fields; every line had been completed, in a hand that was, he saw, drawing closer, unmistakably his own, though he had no memory of writing it, no memory of ever having sat in this chair, at this table, with this pen, which lay beside the form as though set down only a moment before his entrance, the ink at its tip still faintly wet, or seeming so.

“You’ll want to read it before you sign,” the old man said, from the doorway, not entering.

Anselm read it. It was, as far as he could tell, an accurate account of his life: his birth, his mother’s death, his years at the Office of Deeds and Domiciles, the flat on Kettner Street, the egg and dark bread each morning, the barges on the river. It was accurate in every particular he could test it against, and yet, reading it, he had the strange and specific sensation of reading an account of a stranger, competently done, dispassionately observed, the way he himself had spent eleven years observing the passage of other men’s houses from hand to hand without once feeling that the houses were, in any sense that mattered, his own.

“What happens,” he asked, “when I sign?”

“The file closes,” the old man said.

“And then?”

The old man was silent for a moment, and in his silence Anselm heard, or thought he heard, something that might have been kindness, or might have been only the particular stillness of a man who has answered this question, in one form or another, more times than he can any longer count, and has learned that no answer he could give would be believed until it had been lived. “Then you’ll know what a closed man knows,” he said. “Which is, I think, very little more than what you know now. Only he knows it settled. That’s the whole of the difference. Not more knowledge. Only less waiting.”

Anselm looked at the form a long while. He thought of Pemmler, lighter in the shoulders, the frost survived, spoken of ever after as weather rather than judgment. He thought of Mira on the bridge, six years unresolved, learning to carry the not-knowing like water in cupped hands. He thought of the softened morning of his childhood, the spilled cup, the rebuke, gone generic now, interchangeable, and of the evenings spent writing down a life he could no longer entirely confirm against himself, and he understood, sitting there, that he had already, in some sense, made his choice weeks ago, on the bridge, in the act of listening to Mira without asking her to stop, in the act of returning to Ferdstrasse a second time and a third, each visit a kind of consent he had been too careful, or too frightened, to name as consent while he was giving it.

He took up the pen. It was still faintly warm, or he imagined it so. He signed his name, Korec, in his own hand, the hand he had used for eleven years to record the passage of other men’s dwellings, and he found, in the instant of signing, that he could not afterward have said with certainty whether the hand that moved the pen felt like his own, or whether it was only, in that moment and from then on, a hand he had agreed to call his, the way one agrees, out of long habit and no remaining alternative, to call a house a home.

The old man came forward and took the form without looking at it, folded it once, and placed it in a drawer that Anselm had not noticed, set low in the wall beside the table, a drawer with no visible number, no visible label, though he understood, watching it slide shut with a sound so soft it might have been only the room settling, that a label existed, that it read, or would come to read, whatever a closed man’s drawer was made to read, and that he would never see it, not because it was hidden from him but because there was, from this point forward, no further occasion on which he would need to.

Outside, on Ferdstrasse, the evening had come on while he was within, and the lamps along the street were lit, and the brass plate beside the door caught the light of the nearest one and gave it back, dully, the way it must have given back the light of every evening it had hung there, whether or not anyone had paused to notice.

Anselm walked home along the river. The barges were dark now, moored for the night, and the water carried the lamplight in long unsteady lines that broke and reformed with the current, and he found that he walked, without deciding to walk so, a little lighter in the shoulders than he had walked the week before, though he could not have said, examining the sensation as carefully as he examined anything, whether this lightness was relief, or only the first, faint symptom of having become, at last and for good, someone he would no longer have occasion to doubt, precisely because he would no longer have occasion, in any way that mattered, to ask.

He touched his wrist once, through the sleeve, as he had taken to doing, and felt the disc there, unchanged in its small dimensions, though he did not turn back his cuff to read it, that evening or, as it happened, for a long while afterward, content, or something adjacent to content, to let it rest against his skin unread, the way a man will let a letter he has already answered lie unopened on the table, its contents no longer, in any way that could be shown to matter, in question.

A Criminal Development

My name is Thomas Mosty. I grew up in Edinburg, Texas. When I was eighteen I began working on the Callaghan Ranch, primarily working bullshit jobs that no one else wanted to do. Those first few months were about six years ago. It really started off with shoveling mud and grit out of cattle troughs and pilas. Then, when the head honcho, Ezekiel Lee or just Eze Lee, decided I had gotten enough mud on my jeans I moved on to more prestigious tasks like tearing down decayed fences and building them back up again. 

Eze Lee was, to put it kindly, a fat fuckin’ pig. He spoke with that Southern drawl you expected to hear from classic western movies like Young Guns. He always wore jeans that bunched up at his boots and a checkered long sleeve shirt. Those shirts were always loose. His arms were really skinny and so were his legs, but his pot belly rounded out in front of him, tightening the shirt around his stomach. Stevie, one of the other workers, about forty years old at the time, always joked about his build. He always wondered if Eze Lee could see his dick behind all that fat. This was always a good conversation starter over chorizo and egg tacos cooked by the maids for breakfast. I personally thought perhaps he could see the tip if he was bricked up. I digress. His signature accessory, one that I slightly envied were his cowboy hats. During the summer he wore straw hats and during the winter it was always a brown-grey felt Stetson. 

Stevie Chacon and his younger brother Sean had been working since they were about my age. Those fuckers were some of the horniest men I’ve ever met. If they weren’t talking about Eze’s short dick they were talking about pussy. It always made for a good laugh. They made fun of me ‘cause I was still a virgin by eighteen. It wasn’t that I was a true fearer of God. To this day I still believe in the Gospel, but I just never really got around to carving my name into the asses of whores. I worked my ass off during the weeks and like most dumbass kids I drank myself to sleep most weekends. I think that’s not a bad excuse for getting zero pussy. 

Beyond fucking crack whores and snorting cocaine whenever they got the chance, the Chacon brothers dealt contraband. Whatever's the first thing that comes to your mind they did it. Guns, drugs, women, mushrooms, etc, etc. That’s where I come in. Being the good little pussy boy that I was, I never got into any of the heavy stuff. I primarily smoked weed they would hand to me. Most of it was from California or Colorado. That medical shit really did hit hard and I liked it. I was relaxed and as long as I didn’t take too much – which I certainly did at times – I was never that paranoid. Over time it got to the point where every afternoon, right after work, the Chacon brothers and I would roll two mean hooters and smoke that shit til it transitioned into the infamous stingin’ roga’. Once the joint was practically finished Stevie and Sean would pop the fuckers into their mouths and wash it down with a gulp of a nice old Yellow Dog. 

Despite the fact that Stevie and Sean were grade A degenerates, I liked them. I liked them a lot. When my friends from school eventually split ways with me those Chacon brothers were always there for me. I was about twenty-one when I – wait, wait hold on. You don’t really give a fuck about most this shit do you? I mean how do these guys fit into the picture frame? Alright, alright. Let’s take a step back. 

My name is Thomas Mosty. My parents are Angela and Trevor Mosty. 

No, fuck. 

Those bullshit-ers practically abandoned me after I graduated high school. They don’t mean shit to this story. I got kicked out of the house for personal reasons – smoking a joint in the guest bathroom. Actually every time I did smoke in that bathroom it was always about an hour and a half before Angela returned from her job as a waitress. I would usually just sit down and lean against the wall. A picture of Mary, the one with that blood red heart, hung over me. I always laughed cause she would look down on me while I sat my happy, stoned ass on the floor. Next to the sink was a miniature of Jesus that resembled the one that overlooked Rio de Janeiro. Holy hell I’m pretty bad at this storytelling aren’t I? 

Okay. So the date was June 19th, 2028. I had been working at the Callaghan Ranch for four or so odd years now. I was kicked out of the house in 2026 and Eze Lee, no matter how much of a hard ass, gave me a trailer to stay on the place. The trailer was a ‘93 Fleetwood Bounder. I had a short bed in the back. The place already came with a kitchen and cabinets, so all I had to do was cook a little something every night for dinner. I had a tiny desk with whatever I needed. There was one distinct problem though – no restroom. I hated shitting outside, so whenever I could I’d always shit in the outhouse before leaving the work site. Sometimes, and I know we all know this, you get that feeling down in the stomach you didn’t notice until it's too late. And it wasn’t entirely bad to shit outside. I always made sure to have emergency toilet paper, because it always came in handy. But picture this: it’s dark out. A thick sheet of clouds covering the moon and the stars. The wind chills lightly gusting through your crack as though it's a canyon and swinging your hanging, vulnerable balls to and fro. You’re exposed, bare ass – the only pale thing for miles. The little moonlight that breaks through the heavy clouds reflecting off your ass cheeks. You don’t know what’s creeping up behind you while you’re sitting there popping that squat. That coyote, or bob cat, or – God forbid – black bear creeping up through the bushes; salivating at the prospect of taking one good chunk out of your ass. I don’t know why, but I felt most vulnerable in that position. I absolutely hated it. Damn. I’m getting off track again.

Stevie and Sean both had wives. I had forgotten to mention that. Yeah, those poor ladies really, at least to my knowledge, had no idea what the fuck their husbands were doing. But that Friday, June 18th, Stevie got caught. He didn’t get caught cheating though, which was good. He got caught selling dope to their next door neighbor, Nathaniel. Nathaniel was a good kid, had a wicked brain on him and got into McCombs at UT Austin. There was nothing wrong with him, he just liked smoking pot. And what honest man, woman, and child doesn’t? Anyways word from Stevie’s misses got around to the younger Chacon’s wife. Those two guys were peas in a pod, or hash in joint. Just always together. So, it came to no one's surprise, except Stevie, that word rounded back the coldesac to Sean’s wife. She correctly assumed Sean was in on the business too. 

The Miss Chacon’s got ‘round their sewing circle and told all their friends. One of those ladies was named Amelia Hartwell. Massive tits. Kind lady. Notice how massive tits come first? Appearances matter. Anyways she was the wife of Sheriff Hartwell – the keeper of the peace. Well Amelia Hartwell ran her mouth as most of those women who got nothing to do do. Her husband wasn’t too fond of this criminal development. It wasn’t long before everyone in that circle knew what was about to happen. At little get togethers Sheriff Hartwell always had a rough time around the Chacon brothers. In full truth, the guys were assholes. Called the fucker quite a few dirty words when enough liquor went down the gully. Because of that Sheriff Hartwell got an immediate hard-on. He was going to get these guys and get ‘em good. 

Word got ‘round fast, too fast. The Chacon brothers caught wind pretty quick. They couldn’t burn all their shit. No, no. That was too much money down the drain. They needed that money. They had to hide it, but they needed someone reliable. Someone that could trust to keep it safe and secure. Who in the fuck could these degenerates trust? I can picture the two of them, kicked out of both their houses just sitting on the sidewalk smoking cigarettes. 

“We’re fucked man.” 

“Tell me about it guey.” 

“I ain’t going back to jail nigga. That shit won’t slide again. I’ll fuckin’ run, Sean.” 

“La verga, la verga.” 

“Well we gotta hide it somewhere.”

“How the fuck are we gonna move all of it? It’s all in our houses, fuckin’ guarded by those sluts.”

“Fuckin’ sluts. Little faggots too.” 

“Yeah, fuckin’ faggots.” 

“Well how about this.” 

Stevie puffed on his cigarette and flicked it to the middle of the road. A white Sudan crossed just as he flicked it. The wheels ran over the cigarette before it could hit the ground. It sent a spray of sparks in front of the vehicle. The car was old and sounded like shit. It buzzed off and the street was empty again. 

“Divide and conquer.” 

“Well we can’t talk to our wives separately. There’s not a word we can say that’ll change their minds. We got to steal our goods back.” 

Stevie reached into his pocket. He looked attentively at Sean as he spoke. His eyebrow quivered upwards. He was onto something. His hand shuffled a little more. The jean pocket was tight. Finally he dug up the pack of cigarettes. He felt around his other pockets momentarily. In his breast pocket was the lighter, which he checked last. He lit the cigarette. 

“You know what?” Stevie caught him off. “You know what this means? I’m gonna get fuckin’ divorced. No more arguments no more of that bullshit I’m going to get straight fuckin’ divorced. And I don’t want to get fuckin’ divorced.”

“Okay well would you rather go to jail or get divorced?” 

“Fuck.” 

“Yeah, exactly. That’s why we gotta forcibly get our goodies.” 

“How do you plan on doing that?”

“Breaking the fuck in. Covertly!” 

Stevie shook his head, almost in disbelief, “In no just world should a man have to break into his own house.”

“It’s bullshit, but what can we do? Fuckin’ women.” 

And with that the Chacon brothers lifted themselves up and walked down the street. Their plan was simple. One brother would go to the opposite’s front door. He’d knock on the door. The slut wife would come out and predictably speak, no yell, her mind. He’d entertain her long enough for the other to run ‘round back break into the house, either by shattering a window or smashing a door down then hastily run to their hiding spot and fish out their loot just in time to escape. This had to be done quickly though. Once one wife found out the other was bound to figure out the plan as well. What made the plan a little easier was that Sean had his goodies buried in the backyard, so he could really just dig down there later in the night. The problem was Stevie. He kept his shit in multiple places around the house. The cocaine was under the living room couch. The weed was in the bathroom cabinet. The .45s and 30-30s, which serial numbers had been rubbed off, found their home in the closet. The psychedelic mushrooms were strapped to the fan on the back porch. Talk about not keeping your eggs in one basket. 

They decided to run up Stevie’s wife first. She would be the hardest and getting her out of the way first would relieve them from that piercing thorn that jutted out of their sides. One thing that was on the back of both the Chacon brother’s minds was the police. They probably wouldn’t even need a warrant to enter their homes. It could  be done quickly, then they would be fucked. So they had to get there before the cops did. 

Stevie was equipped with a large black trash bag that thrashed behind him. In his waistband was a Smith & Wesson that every so slightly poked out. If you wanted to notice it, you definitely would. The wind was picking up, which was abnormal for that time of the year. He hopped their white picket fence without getting noticed. Perfect. Sean walked to the front and knocked on the door. And oh shit. Surprise. Here comes that slut shouting and raising hell. She was barking so quickly it sounded like gibberish. Sean didn’t make out a single word she was saying. He used his outstanding charisma to try and calm her down, but this half-hearted attempt only fueled her already raging fire. 

After about five minutes of taking whatever the fuck she was saying. There was a sudden thump. Then there was another one. Sean raised his voice. He started screaming. It didn’t drown out the noise like he thought it would. The thump abruptly stopped. Then a CRASH! But there was another noise that sunk Sean’s heart to his crotch. His worry was further compounded by the introduction of red and blue lights that reflected off the white picket fences and the windows. Then the siren rang. *Ah fuck*. 

One day it started to rain and just never stopped.  There was some sun here and there but for the most part there was rain, and more rain until the ground couldn’t absorb it and the flooding became a daily event.  Cars swept into ditches, roads completely washed away.  Areas that had never seen flooding were now lakes.   When it began people joked about building arks and the end of the world.  No one jokes about that anymore.  In fact most people were living  on their 2^(nd) floor if they had one or had moved in with family and friend who lived on higher ground.  But the higher ground was getting scarcer and scarcer.   People were dying from the floods but also from starvation.   You see, it wasn’t just our part of the country or even the world where the rain never ended. It was everywhere. 

Or at least I think it is. When the sun stopped coming out, the news reports told us that it was raining every day in every place on earth.  No one could explain how it was happening, just that rain clouds had covered the globe.  There was no wind so the clouds sat, blocking the sun and pouring rain down on the planet.   We lost contact with the world two weeks ago when the solar batteries and generators ran out.   But we had a boat and gasoline, and we finally decided that sitting around waiting for something to change wasn’t going to change anything.  We  were leaving, looking for, well we didn’t really know what we were looking for but we wanted to find something to give us hope.

The “we” I am talking about consisted of me, Ari and Drey.   I’d known Ari since we were kids but Drey was a newcomer.  He showed up a year ago out of nowhere and Ari had fallen in love.  I wasn’t fully convinced but two women alone are more of a target than two women and a man. At any rate I didn’t have a choice- Ari wasn’t going without him and I didn’t want to set out alone.

Ari was an avid kayaker and knew how to read currents, that would come in handy as we navigated the uncharted waters.   We placed everything we owned into the waterproof sacks she had collected over the years.  Ari had three Kayaks. two we had on board and one we filled with supplies and pulled it behind the boat.   We were making our way West on a pontoon boat- which gave us shelter and some (if only slight)  personal space.   It wasn’t fast but at least it was defendable- and if we needed to flee we had kayaks although only two ready to go.  I tried not to think about that.

We had guns and ammunition along with knives and spears.  Our only navigation tool was a compass.  We started in  Southern Kansas , we went North  until we could see the skyscrapers of Kansas City and then headed West knowing that would need to go north again but we didn’t  want to get anywhere near the city.   I am sure that people had moved into the tall buildings but I knew that there wasn’t enough room for everyone, and I didn’t trust that humanity enough to believe that people weren’t killing each other over high ground and limited supplies.

The Colorado mountains were our best bet, the rising water would allow up to reach parts of the mountains that weren’t inhabited , by humans anyway. 

I wish I could say that the journey was pleasant but right from the start there were problems. Ari and Drey were seemingly of one mind and I was outvoted at every turn.

As we headed west the water levels were dropping with the elevation gain. I started to worry that we might run aground and if that happened we would be forced to take the kayaks and find some place to set up.

I was also worried about what we would find in Colorado. I wanted to try to get past the front range and out to a less inhabited area- preferably a fourteener out in the middle of nowhere.   Drey wanted to be where people were and so we were headed straight towards Denver.  Ari wanted whatever Drey wanted and so I was outvoted.

I really should have chosen different travel partners.

It was about 2am when I heard a scraping noise, it sounded like the boat hitting something below.   Or at least I thought it was the boat, we never slowed or rocked so I wasn’t so sure.

Yesterday  Ari and Drey put a small tent up so they had some privacy- apparently it was fairly sound proof because I didn’t see or hear them stir.

I got up with my flashlight to see if  there was any damage.  When I got to the back of the boat, I saw what looked like the sharp point of a tower to the right of us. we didn’t hit it directly but the kayak did,  it was now half sunk dragging behind us.

 I pulled it out of the water and examined it.   The tower had sliced it open and there was a wide gouge from front to end.  All of the supplies were gone and repairing it was out of the question.

 I glanced towards the tent and found it to be completely still and quiet.  At that instant, I decided that I needed to take a kayak, some supplies and head south before Ari and Drey woke up.

 It had become abundantly clear to me that I was a 3^(rd) wheel that would be cast off if it came down to it and two kayaks as we approached shallow water meant I would be the one abandoned on the boat when it inevitably ran aground.

I stealthily grabbed a dry bag and filled it with my share of the money, food and supplies. I would never take more than what was mine, but I still felt like a thief sneaking away in the pitch black night.  And maybe I was, I was leaving the two of them with only one kayak but it was Drey who insisted we head toward Denver and the two of them haven’t really seemed concerned about me since we set off, we wouldn’t have been in this position if they has listened to me.  I tried to think through everything and they just ignored me.  I have to save myself now.  I  keep telling myself this, pushing the  guilt back down so I can move forward.

I carefully eased the kayak in the water and pointed the kayak  southwest and started paddling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The doctor promised that he wouldn’t open his eyes. Not after they took out the breathing tube.

But he did. And I sat there with my dad’s hand in mine, the rhythmic beep of the heart rate monitor counting out our final moments together, the details crisp and unforgettable.

His green eyes, littered with subtle yellow streaks, still alive and aware while the rest of his body failed him.

The tear that slid down his cheek as he opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t.

The harsh ridges of the calluses from years of playing golf scratching lightly against my skin as he squeezed my hand, the pressure soft, yet so hard I wanted to scream.

I leaned in close enough to feel the scratch of his week-old beard rub against my cheek. “I love you, dad,” I whispered.

He smiled. Just a twitch of the lips. But I saw it.

And somehow, that was enough. Enough to quiet the doubt. Enough to silence the guilt of letting him go.

Then his eyes closed forever and he was gone.

***

That evening, I lay in my childhood bed, the house devoid of both my mom and dad for the first time I could recall.  I closed my eyes and tried to summon the memory – something to hold onto. Something to quiet the ache.

But it wasn’t there. Not the real memory. All that came to me was a single image of my dad, his eyes open, looking into mine. Just a fragment of the memory, like an animation cel framed and hung on the wall. I wanted more. The feeling of his hand in mine. The look in his eyes as he smiled that last time. Something – anything – to absolve me of the decision I made.

But all I got was the single snapshot image. 

And without the memory to reassure me, I began to wonder – had it happened at all?

***

After several days of digging through my parents’ house, finding mostly junk but occasionally stumbling on a forgotten relic that kept the pain from receding, I was thankful to be in my car, headed home, even if it was a four-hour drive.

The challenge was how to pass the time without thinking about my dad. I needed a break. The image of his final moment still hung silently in my mind, and I remained unable to coax it into motion. And without that, without the full memory to contextualize the moment, it was growing like cancer in my soul. I needed to purge it out of existence

My solution: a non-fiction audiobook. It was the last thing my dad would have wanted to listen to – he favored legal thrillers and conspiracy theories.

Searching through my Audible account, I found Oddities of the Universe, a book I’d started listening to months ago, but had never finished. I remembered it as an unusual mix of Cosmos and the Twilight Zone, mixing hard and theoretical science and physics to tell tales of what the universe might be – with an emphasis on might. I’d found it interesting but difficult to comprehend at times, requiring a level of focus I rarely wanted to give. Which made it perfect for what I needed then.

I started the audio book, and found I was in the middle of a chapter called, The Boltzmann Brain. That didn’t ring a bell, and then I remembered the last time I’d listened to the book, when I was preparing for a marathon several months back. It had been a difficult training day, my calves cramping early in the run, and I had given up on the audiobook midway through the chapter because I couldn’t focus on a word it was saying. I decided to rewind back to the beginning of the chapter.

“As we’ve discussed so far, the universe is a mysterious place," the narrator said as I rolled to a stop at a red light in the middle of some town in nowhere Texas. I’d decided to take the back roads home to avoid the highways. The tradeoff? Endless small towns and randomly placed stoplights. Slow going, but worth it.

The light turned green and I pressed the accelerator as the narrator continued with, “but few offer mysteries as unusual as the Boltzmann Brain.” A car suddenly cut in front of me and I leaned into my horn, yelling a series of expletives, and missing the next few words.   
 
“… may very well be a reality – or the reality, in fact,” the narrator said, adding emphasis to the last several word. “Imagine a brain which just spontaneously formed from particles in the void. Your brain. With each memory, a whole life’s worth, nothing more than pre-loaded snapshots of events that never actually existed. And this brain, it exists for just an instant and then …”

I jerked in my seat and hit pause.

Snapshots. 

The image of my dad, what I was so desperately trying to purge, came rushing back.
It was a snapshot. No motion. No texture.

Is it? Am I?

I shook my head at the thought. Ridiculous. It was real. It had to be. I was there. I’d just left.

I reached for my phone and scrolled through my Audible app to find a different book. I didn’t need to add existential dread to the list of emotional stress I was under. I quickly found something much better, one that offered no chance to dovetail with reality – a LitRPG audiobook about some guy fighting dragons with a talking squirrel as his assistant.

I pressed play. The narrator – voicing all the characters, including the squirrel – successfully suppressed my moment of existential panic.

But it was not forgotten.

***

"You ought to lower the shades," Emmy said as she walked onto our back porch, a glass of wine in hand. I picked up the remote and pressed the button to lower them. They were down, creating the much-needed cover, by the time Emmy sat beside me.

“Are you ready for the funeral?” she asked, leaning back into her chair.

It had been almost a week since my dad died, and the funeral was the next day. Ready was a relative term – I didn’t think I’d ever truly be ready to bury my dad – but I was as ready as I could be, so I nodded and gave a half-hearted smile.

I picked up my glass and took a sip, savoring the ice-chilled notes of smoke and caramel in the bourbon. It was a special glass with an Indian head penny glued to one side. Emmy bought it on a trip with her mom and gave it to me for Father’s Day. When was that? Two years ago - that seemed right. Christoff was still little then.
I looked closely at the penny. It was a familiar friend, my thumb having rubbed it thousands of times while I took a drink. And I remembered having shared the story of its meaning countless times with friends and neighbors. But I suddenly couldn't remember the tale itself. I could see a snapshot – that word again – of the moment when Emmy had given me the glass, and I could remember telling others about the glass. But the context, the story and the memory itself, were gone.

Something inside me twitched when I recognized the pattern that was emerging. I sat the glass down on the table beside me, letting it drop a little too soon.

The sound of the glass landing on the table startled Emmy, who looked up from her wine, confusion and concern in her blue eyes. "Are you okay?"

I lifted my hand and ran it through my hair. "Does it seem to you like I'm forgetting stuff lately?"
She thought for a moment and then shook her head. "No more than usual."

"What does that mean?"

She laughed. "You've always been forgetful. It's one of your more endearing traits." She paused and then added, "Most of the time."

She was right. It always seemed like I couldn't remember the simplest things – like where I left my keys, where the TV remote was – things like that.

But this was different. Or at least it seemed like it was.  

"Have you heard of a Boltzmann Brain?" I asked.

"A Bolt-what?" she replied, taking a drink of her rosé. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, it's this theory that maybe everything is—”

Out of nowhere, Christoff came running onto the patio and jumped on my lap, cutting me off before I could finish. "Dad! Dad! I found a lizard!" He spun, arm raised and finger pointing to show me where, and in the process caught my bourbon glass with his foot, sending it flying off the small side table. It shattered when it hit the ground.

"Christoff!" I yelled as I looked down at my favorite glass, the penny now staring at me as one of dozens of shattered pieces.

Christoff climbed off my lap and ran back out into the yard. "Sorry dad," he said, oblivious to what he’d just done.

I reached over and picked up the piece of the glass with the penny on it, instinctively recalling the moment it fell, just seconds ago. The image popped into my head of the glass hitting the ground.

It was a snapshot of that moment.

And nothing else.

***

I felt Emmy's Kindle fall against my shoulder and knew she was asleep. It was her nightly routine – start reading and within minutes be out cold, her Kindle slipping from her grasp. It was my job to move it, so I did, setting it on the nightstand on my side of the bed.

Rolling back over, I propped my Kindle up on my chest and began to read again, skimming the page mechanically and clicking to the next.

But I couldn’t focus, my eyes seeing the words, thinking of something else – images, snapshots, of every memory that I could conjure. They were flashing through my mind like the slides my grandparents used to show.

My dad and I playing catch. Click.

Emmy holding Christoff for the first time. Click.

Christoff crawling across the room to me. Click.

My dad and Christoff on the couch playing Minecraft. Click.

My dad's eyes, looking at me as he died. Click.

I tried to stop each one, to turn the snapshot into a real memory, a video instead of a picture. I wanted – I needed – to see them alive. To prove that—

No. They had to be real. I was living new moments. Every second. I could feel time passing – breaths, heartbeats, the weight of the Kindle rising and falling on my chest. I could feel each one becoming … a memory (?) in my mind. That had to mean something – each was real and true. Right?

I held onto that thought, waiting for it to solidify into the truth.

It didn’t.

I turned to Emmy. She was snoring softly as she did most nights. I thought of Christoff, sleeping soundly in his room down the hall, no doubt subconsciously preparing to come and wake us way too early. I conjured the snapshot of my dad, that last moment with him, his eyes looking into mine.

Who was he? Who were they, Emmy and Christoff? Who was I?

Christoff coughed, the sound echoing from down the hall, snapping me back to reality.

Pulling the covers back, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and walked down the hall to check on him, using the moonlight shining through the window in Christoff’s room as my guide.

When I got there, I found his blanket on the floor – he had squirmed it off, no doubt during a dream about race cars or being chased by dinosaurs. I picked it up and laid it back over him.

“You okay?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. Just silence.  

I leaned over and stuck my ear next to his mouth, like I did when he was a baby. To see if he was breathing. To make sure he was alive.

His warm breath hit my ear with a constant rhythm and I stayed there, counting each time he exhaled.

One.

Two.

Three.

I whispered, “I love you.”

He smiled. Just a twitch of the lips. The image froze in my mind, taking its place next to all the others.

I turned to walk back to my bed where my wife was still snoring softly. I gave one last glance to Christoff, thankful. For him. Emmy. My dad.

Everything.

I looked back one last time at Christoff, thankful he was—

And then it all froze. The world ceased its movement around me.

And what was, wasn’t.

Did you ever want to fly?

The people cheer and so do I. My throat tears apart, louder than even the crowd. The bike revs as it leaps into the air again, cresting over yet another dirt dune. The wind flows past my face, tickling my cheek. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t even know what I’m doing.

But I’m in the air again.

The bike crashes down as the chassis bounces, absorbing the shock. I twist the throttle as I’m off again, looking for the next high. The dune ahead towers over me, looking down on me.

The bike wobbles for just a moment as I get on the slope. Vroom! I hear the noise of another bike beside me as I glance sideways. A red bike, covered with a red helmet and tracksuit. He glances at me as well as he reaches on par with me, both of us charging up the slope. I can’t see his face but I know that he’s grinning underneath. Like me.

I rev the engine more, leaning forward to prevent the bike’s wheelie tipping me back as I get ahead of him. The crowd’s roar soars even higher as I clear the dune, flying even further this time before I crash down.

“Mezzo.” The earpiece chirps, “The finish line is in another 800 meters. Hold onto your position, no more risks.”

“Got it!” I say before glancing back. The red biker, Damo, is still leagues behind. He won’t catch up to me. No one can.

I glide on the bike, keeping the speed steady. I don’t need to take any more risks, I can simply cruise and win.

Vroom! The air shudders as a black bike suddenly flashes past me. My eyes widen.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” The announcer shouts over the mic, “that is the rumored Black Dahlia that has had everyone holding their breath for this race. With a legendary overdrive that outperforms everyone else’s.”

The crowd quietens for a few moments before exploding in cheers with renewed vigor.

I grit my teeth. I knew the black team’s new bike was powerful but this is ridiculous. An overdrive that can last for so long?

“Mezzo.” The earpiece squawks, “It’s alright. We knew this will happen. The overdrive of that bike cannot be matched by anyone in the race. Just get the second place points and we can improve our bike for the next race. We’ll beat them next time!”

“I understand.” I mutter. “No more risks.” The Black Dahlia’s overdrive function is leagues ahead of anyone. I heard it can even be compared to a track car.

I eye the beast ahead, watching it with dejection. The black rider turns his head around, and I’m sure that he’s laughing, cruising up another dune as the crowd cheers him now. My hand grips the throttle tighter.

“500 meters left!” The commentator yells, “It looks like this race is already decided!”

That’s when my hand moves, turning the throttle again as I zoom forward. My eyes widen as I stare in shock at my bike. Then they soften. “I see. So you want to win, buddy?”

The bike only roars as it keeps pushing harder.

“Mezzo!” The earpiece yells, “What are you doing? That speed is risky. Get back to what we practiced-”

I reach up and pull the earpiece out. How could I forget? I stroke the bike, feeling it shudder and whine as it struggles to reach the Black Dahlia. It’s pointless, I know. That bike is far more powerful.

I grin. “But why do we care, huh?”

I lean forward, turning the throttle more and more as I keep my head glued to the speedometer, cutting the air resistance. The bike wobbles over the dirt for a moment and I curse, holding the handles steady. One mistake. Just one mistake and I would lose everything. The bike. The race.

Maybe even my life.

The Black Dahlia’s climbing the next dune, finally cutting its overdrive to get that steady grip on the slope. I get on the slope a few moments after it, climbing on its trail. That’s when I do something very stupid.

I switch on my overdrive button.

The machine roars, making the black biker whirl around. My bike nearly slips out from under me as I desperately hold on, pushing back down the wheelie. Then it’s climbing, faster than ever. Faster than any other bike! The ruffles of dirt make the bike jitter and shudder, the handles wobbling every way. I plant my feet out, kicking against the dirt every time I topple one way or another.

But I’m gaining! I’m nearing the Black Dahlia!

“What’s this?!” The commentator questions, “The blue team has activated their overdrive! On the ramp itself! Are they crazy?!”

The bike screams as the dirt flies everywhere. I shakily overtake the black biker, desperately trying to keep the bike upright. And then……vrrrrrr! The bike’s tires spin effortlessly.

We’re in the air again.

I scream with the crowd again, flying further than ever. Then I land with a thud, knocking all the air out of my lungs. I grunt, getting the bike steady before speeding forward again.

“I don’t believe it! What was that jump? Is that a new record? The blue team has gained over the infamous Black Dahlia!”

The overdrive blinks off, its charge drained. I keep my head tucked to the bike as I race toward the next dune. There’s a strange screeching coming from the bike but I ignore it, sending a silent prayer up to the heavens. I need to make as much time as I can here before-

Vroommm! I hear the overdrive activate before the black rider zooms past me. He doesn’t even look at me as he’s gone in a flash, already ahead. “Tch!” I mutter.

“Folks, you’re in for a treat!” The announcer says excitedly, “The final ramp in the race is coming up and it’s the hardest part! Was that just a desperate fluke from the blue team or do they have something else to beat the Black Dahlia?! Another ace up their sleeve?”

I eye the track ahead. The dirt crests like waves ahead, like shoals in a desert. The Black Dahlia is already close to it, turning off its overdrive, preparing to navigate the shoals of dirt carefully. A wise decision. Going fast itself is impossible there. Heading in with overdrive would just be suicide.

I know that.

But…

I keep racing toward the shoals, keeping my head tucked. It would be impossible to use overdrive but could I….

“What’s this?! The blue team is not slowing down as it rapidly approaches the shoals, the final part of the race. Has he fallen asleep?” The spectator shouts, “Any rider who has gone in too fast has always paid a price with a fatal injury throughout history, folks. What is the blue team thinking?!”

The crowd suddenly hushes, everyone watching in anticipation. At that moment, the only noise there is is just my bike and I. Engine and heart revving as we race toward the impossible. I take a deep breath as the shoals get close. Too close.

But I never let go of the throttle.

VUM! The bike jumps as it hits the first shoal, shuddering as it rides over it. I nearly fly off the seat, clenching my fists around the handles tight. The bike’s front wheel hits the ground again, making me bite my own tongue. Then it jumps again, and my hands let go of the handlebars. “No!” I scream.

The bike slips sideways, sending me tumbling to the floor. The bike sprawls to one side, and I to another. I roll over the sand a few times before I’m lying there, looking up at the sky.

I blink, tears coming from my eyes. The sand is in my eyes. Maybe.

There goes second place. I can barely even feel my arm. Is it broken? I look to my side to find the Black Dahlia carefully bumping over the shoals, passing by, the driver glancing at me before watching his track again.

Crazy. That’s what he must be thinking. That’s what they all must be thinking.

“The blue rider is down! He’s down! The ambulance is already heading his way. What possessed him to do something so foolish?!”

What possessed me? I eye my bike, its sky blue gleaming in the sun. The color of the heavens. The wheels are still spinning, its engine purring.

“Why?” I remember my son asking me once.

“Why what, kiddo?”

“Mama left you because you love racing more than her, isn’t that right?”

“I never hid it. It’s not my fault she believed she could change me.”

“Why do you love it so much?”

“Why?” I stare at my bike.

I can hear the siren of the ambulance approaching. It’ll be here any moment now. And then I won’t be able to do it anymore.

I’ll tell you why, kiddo.

I grit my teeth as I stand back up and limp forward, my left arm numb. I pull up the bike, getting back on and blinking against the tears.

The Black Dahlia was near the end of the shoals already. I need to make time. I lean down and kiss the bike. “Let’s show them.” I whisper.

The engine roars again, loyal to a fault. The bike wheelies as it clears the initial shoals before the front wheel lands back down. I increase the speed again, keeping my eyes locked on the black bike ahead.

“I cannot believe my eyes!” The commentator yells, “The blue biker is back in the race! He was limping and looked hurt but now he’s racing through the shoals? Is he a lunatic?!”

The bike picks up speed. The screeching noise from the tires is louder now. I growl against the shudders, making me painfully aware of my hurt arm. The bike nearly slips again, as I throw my entire body to the other side, balancing it.

It revs even more!

The bike cuts through another wave of sand, nearly toppling before I throw myself to the other side, leaning down to the ground as I pull the bike back up, making me wince. I yell at the pain in my arm, nearly making me let go of the bike again. But I don’t. My teeth grit as I breathe. The Black Dahlia doesn’t look too far now.

Full throttle.

“I don’t believe it!” The commentator announces, “He’s racing at full speed through the shoals again! And he’s staying upright!”

The crowd’s cheers are back again, making me grin again. The black rider turns to find me overtaking him already. His head follows me, the visor reflecting blue. I hold on to my bike, biting my cheek against the tremendous pain my left arm is causing. In a few more moments, I’m finally clear of the shoals!

“200 meters left for the finish line! Who will come out on top in this neck-to-neck match?”

I don’t release on the throttle, flying down the track toward the final dune before the finish line. My overdrive button flickers on again, ready to be used one last time. Only a few moments pass before I hear the overdrive thunder from the rear and I keep my head tucked. When I reach the bottom of the ramp, he’s already there with me. We don’t glance at each other as we race up. I punch down on the overdrive button as the bike roars, peeking toward the black rider.

He doesn’t turn it off either.

“What is going on here?” The commentator screeches with the crowd, “Both the contenders are using overdrive on the final ramp! This is the match of the century!”

Our bikes wobble but we push against the ground with our feet, keeping our balance. Dirt and curses fly as we both struggle to stay upright. His bike staggers, making him curse as he tries to get the handles under control. But we both keep our eyes locked ahead. The top of the dune comes closer and closer.

Why do I love it?

The air flies past as I soar, my body cutting through like a bird. The wheels spin effortlessly, no longer having to fight against dirt to move. I reach up and spread my arms, no longer hurting. I can’t hear the crowd any longer. Nor the commentator. Or the other riders.

Only me and the gods.

The bike’s rims groan and bend as I crash down. They emit a groaning noise as they turn, their circles deformed, and the bike shakes out of control. I try to hold it together but suddenly, I’m falling again.

I lay on the ground, staring at the heavens again. Groaning, I look around for the finish line. That’s when I can hear the crowd again, cheering.

“He crossed the finish line in the air! A new record! Youuuurrr winnnerrr: The Blue Team!”

I pant, frowning as I look back. The Black Dahlia and its rider are on the ground as well, right beside the finish line. He holds up his hands shakily, clapping toward me before collapsing his head back to lie down.

Because I was meant to fly, kiddo.

I was elated to arrive on the doorstep of Le Vesperre. Although it is difficult to recollect my time as a young page, I distinctly recall the stories they told of the man. He was a pinnacle of bravery, a master tactician, and even an experienced scholar. Most of all, I was in awe of his position; bearer of the Oriflamme. That title alone held weight, for despite drawing every modicum of the enemy’s ire, the man yet breathed. He emerged the victor, nigh unscathed, every time. To be his squire would be the greatest honour of my life.
I imagined the man would be distant - to have experienced so many battles, what warrior would not revel in peace and solitude? That first day, barely a word was shared between us, and I can distinctly remember how he carried himself. He had an unmistakable presence, but his shoulders were low, and his arms dangled by his side, careless. When I greeted him, he could scarcely make eye contact, as if he was distracted by something I could not quite see. He spoke in short sentences or offered one word responses, commanding me to brush his steed or clean his armour. In fact, I polished his helmet over five times on the second day, not that there was even a single speck of dirt there to begin with.
Once I had done my duties on the second day, it occurred to me that the good Lady Vesperre was nowhere to be seen. Of course, I had not developed a strong enough standing with the Lord to even dare ask her whereabouts, so for whatever reason, whatever compelled my young, foolish mind, I crept into the master bedroom. Lo and behold, no sign of her, and the room was bathed in darkness, curtains drawn shut. In fact, the entire room seemed bare; there were shadows where the paintings once sat, and bar the unmade bed, there was little in the way of furniture. Where I expected the Lady’s grand dresser to be, nothing, and a great big blanket covered the outline of a mirror. Understanding quite suddenly that the Lady had likely long since departed, I hurried out of the room, swearing not to over step again.
However, the following night, I was compelled to enter his chambers. As to be expected, my room was far smaller in comparison, likely a converted pantry. As such, the walls were quite thick, an issue that impeded my attempts at waking in a timely manner. However, I shall never forget that third night, for a great caterwauling came from somewhere in the house, loud enough to breach the density of my bedroom walls. I practically fell out of bed, scrambling for my blade, before dashing into the mansion proper. The sound was coming from Le Vesperre’s bedroom, so fearing some vengeful rogue had snuck inside to slit his throat, I burst into the room. Vesperre stood there in only his undergarments, sword drawn, screaming in what could only be described as terror. He continued so earnestly that it appeared all the life had left his lungs, reducing him to a hunched husk. With great care, I aided him back to the comfort of his silks, where he stated he did not know who or what he had taken up arms against. This was the first of many night terrors, but whether or not it had been the Lord’s first experience of such horror, I did not know. I dared not ask.
One morning, I had mustered the strength to rise from my chambers before the cockerel cried. To make sure Le Vesperre slept soundly, I parted his door but an inch. To my surprise, he was awake. At least that was my first assumption. The man sat on the edge of his bed, and upon his head he wore a polished helmet - only one piece of his armour; no cuirass, no pauldrons. There is little to say. He simply remained there, statuesque, completely disregarding my intrusion. He must have been comfortable in that world of his, for I had never seen him so sound.

-

In truth, but a month into my tenure as his squire, I wondered why I had been sent, I even wondered if the legendary tales had even been written about this man. This was the great bearer? We had not even gone to battle, let alone left the woodland surrounding our town. Granted, there had been no call to arms, though surely the most mundane expedition would be warranted given my nascent knighthood. Ere many days passed until, as if driven by whim, Vesperre called me to duty. We rode into the countryside, saddlebags swollen with supplies and rations. I felt inspired - it seems the great Vesperre had returned, possessed by a great deal of energy. I learnt much that week as I crossed blades with the swordsman, broke lances, and recited passages from de Charny’s book on chivalry, all the while probing Le Vesperre for any tales he deigned to share. My time in the woodland was a dream come true, a promise of my future.
Having developed a stronger bond with the man, I felt confident to ask more of his experiences. Many more stories were shared over countless suppers, and before I knew, years had gone by. I had grown accustomed to his odd behaviour, and quickly considered the man a surrogate father, aloof as he might have been. No stronger could I have felt that bond than upon the eve of our departure to battle when, after putting him down after a rather grisly terror, he entered my room, helmet in hand, and drew a chair. He placed the helmet upon his head, exhaled in what can only be described as comfort, and sat before the windows. Like a sentinel, he took watch. It was comforting, but afore I could enquire about his arrival, he uttered a passage, likely inspired by Geoffroi de Charny; 

“Your waking hours shall be plagued by terrible hunger and exhaustion. Even if you are to sleep, you shall do so uncomfortably, likely to be woken by the ringing of steel and the sound of screams, screams sounded by your allies. Men will fall around you, both friend and foe, but it is your decision whether you shall join them or not. You could certainly escape, but in doing so risk endless dishonour. On the other hand, should you draw your blade, stand and fight, you will emerge the honorable victor or die a martyr.”

If it was to be a lesson, I did not know at first. I had heard similar words before, I knew the dangers of this dream perfectly well, but I quickly came to the realization that Le Vesperre uttered it for himself. Even after my following inquiry, he acted as if I were a ghost. The next morning, what I overheard during our prayer lent more credence to my theory. I was instructed to utter my own, but I had finished long before the Lord. I could only hear seven words, but they brought into question everything I had assured myself about the man;

“Lest I be ashamed and reproached for timidity.”

I put those doubts at bay on the long ride north. We had arrived at the campgrounds just in time. I stood in awe of all the men around me, their steel shining and singing, the vibrancy of their standards, and the chorus of huffing horses, war horses, with muscles strong enough to crush the enemy with scarcely a stomp. The camp itself sat in the trench behind a great hill, and the thought of what awaited beyond set my mind aflutter. A legion of scoundrels, brands bared, doomed to suffer at the hands of the godly men I found myself blessed to be in company with. It is worth noting by this point I was well on the way to knighthood - I could handle a sword as if I had been born with it in my hands, and I could command a steed to drive fearlessly into any heart of darkness. But as I handed Le Vesperre his equipment, having just armoured his stallion, he ordered me to remain in the campgrounds, to mill about, guard the gear, the provisions, and the horses. Unfitting of my station, I erupted into a tirade of complaints, condemning the Knight for his lethargic treatment of my journey, and for expressing hesitation. The latter, I admit, was a slip of the tongue, a lapse born from juvenile frustration. As to be expected, I received a heavy blow to my shoulder, spawning a terrible scar I spent the afternoon nursing as I sulked among the rations. So overcome with envy, I could not lift my eyes to see the men crest the hill and ride forth to battle.
I must have fallen asleep, for when I woke, night had fallen, skies glittering. Daring to defy my command, I crawled from my tent and snuck to the hill, peering over the summit. As if by some divine miracle, I appeared in time to see the men return victorious, their armour glistening crimson, their steeds slick with sweat, and the Oriflamme… The Oriflamme was nowhere in sight. The men passed by in silence. Had they forgotten their triumph? Perhaps they had experienced so many that this was but another notch on their belts? In my excitement, I had forgotten the fate of the standard bearer, my mentor, Le Vesperre. It was only when I heard the rattling of an approaching cart that I realized his fate. He laid beneath a blood-stained blanket, eyes wide. I hurried to chase, my heart inching closer to the depths of my chest. Guilt overcame me as I pleaded with his lifeless body, though my guilt quickly turned to doubt as I gazed upon his visage. In all my years as his squire I had experienced his terrors from the faintest of whimpers to the most ear-splitting of screeches, but I had never seen such profound fear in his eyes as I had in that instance. Whatever he saw, the horror he must have witnessed, it had reduced his pupils to wells of midnight ink, ink so deep and thick that the longer I stared, the quicker I felt myself drowning in despair.
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die. Vesperre’s season had come to an end. At the dawn of another, he was laid to rest. The local clergy gave an honorable service, attended by all manner of noblemen; knights, lords, ladies, and their retinue. Great names came to pay their respects, men who rivalled the great Vesperre in his skill, men who had been blessed, saved from death. To my surprise, the Lady herself arrived. While I could see an undoubtable sadness in her eyes, I found myself distracted by the even clearer disappointment that weighed upon her wrinkles. How could she feel such a way? The man had given his all for king and country, for god; safe passage to heaven. This question nestled itself in the recesses of my mind.
A year later I came into the service of another master, a man whose enthusiasm for battle and glory nigh-outmatched my own. I was relieved to no longer bear the burden of easing terrors and suffering Vesperre’s behaviour, a sentiment I do, in hindsight, feel great remorse for. On the eve of my ascension, I contended with this in vigil, soon surmising my late master would certainly express pride for my accomplishments. As I received the accolade, the tap upon my shoulder brought me back to that moment in the campgrounds,* the only instance where Le Vesperre ever struck me out of combat. I realise now the action in ceremony brought back that pain. Had Vesperre, knowing his fate, delivered upon me his final judgement? His blessing? An end to our partnership, and the beginning of my duty? If only the man were there to allay those notions.
The time soon came, as it did for all brave men, to ride for war. I arrived at the staging grounds, and for the first time, I could look upon those shining sentinels of my youth and see them as equals. We shared mead and broke bread, regaling one another with many tales of derring-do until the clarion call. It sounded through the camp, rolling from fire to fire, man to man, and steed to steed, until all had risen like a great field of steel springing from the earth. United not only in brotherhood but in our loyalty to god, we broke the horizon to see our quarry far in the distance, their banners held high, soon to fall. Within a few breaths, we descended from the hill like the tide, primed to wash away all memory of those at the tip of our brands.
The battle was a blur, ugly strings one might find at the back of a tapestry, bathed in blood and dirt. Just as my eyes fluttered shut, there before me was a pale horse. Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. 
To have been claimed by the rider would be a blessing. Please know I take no pleasure in reciting the events that followed. It comes with great difficulty. I woke in a sea of steel, glistening shadows beneath the sky, a sky so endless it evades my comprehension. Bleary-eyed, I endeavoured to rise, but my knees faltered, drawn to the earth. My flesh soon trembled without rhyme nor reason, and the sight of dirt beneath my being, the trees over yonder, and the clouds above brought a great sickness to my mind. It can only be described as nature going against me. But what I saw when I raised my eyes was no product of that vast garden. Beyond the horizon, some impossible eikon emerged, its skull shining in the dim moonlight, its vast body no doubt exceeding known space. I cried and I screamed, as if such sounds would guide me back to slumber, but such a reprieve never came. My eyelids were torn asunder by this unbearable abstraction, leaving them sore, sore until the sun clawed back victory, finally granting me peace.
I now understand the Lady’s disappointment, but as much as Le Vesperre might have fought the very foundations to appease her concern, it is not a luxury we shall ever know. It is our duty to brave that abyss, never to blink. I recall my master shared words spoken to him by an abbot;

“To behold a knight in shining plate is to witness a man doubly prepared: his being by steel, and his soul by faith. Such a spirit shall thus carry out their duty undeterred, for no conceivable creature - nor mortal nor demon - can shake them from the path.”

Such words inspired me, as it no doubt would for generations to come. Yet I wonder whether the good abbot had looked into that abyss at all. While we are equipped to never falter against man or demon, nothing can prepare the soul for what lay upon that battlefield, waiting. Even so, in the face of such impossibility, we are bound to carry on our duty, to maintain the cycle.
I write to you now, my would-be squire, from the desk of my bedroom, having woken from another terror. I could beg of you to dare be reproached and ashamed for your timidity, but such prayers would fall on deaf ears. I can only warn you, lest you suffer the pangs of horror
that haunted both my master and I. Steel yourself and fortify your soul, for the day will come. Do not blink.

May Almighty God protect you with His blessing.

The Blessing

I had done it again. My memory does that to me, like slipping back into an old habit—a drug I’ve been sober of for years, yet here we are. I’m not sure why, the added years always feel like a punishment.

One moment I was staring at a vacant chair where she had once sat, pushed neatly beneath the stemware and clay plates she had once picked. The next, I was standing on Jim's front porch, staring at a blue door that hadn’t existed in more than a decade.

The same brass knocker. The same knot in my stomach.

I knocked. Three raps. The door swung open.

"There you are," Jim said with a smile. "I was beginning to think you'd lost your nerve." He stepped forward to shake my hand, then he paused. His smile didn't disappear; it simply... hesitated. "You alright?"

"I am."

He tilted his head, searching for the word. "You look..."

"Older?" I offered, smiling in agreement. My body was obviously the same as it had been then, but I knew the way I let my face hang off my bones carried the weight of years. "Work has been stressful."

"No." He studied my face another second. "I know you. You look tired."

"I didn't sleep."

"In years?" He chuckled. "Everything okay between you two?"

I wanted to tell him, but instead, I heard myself answer, "Not exactly."

He opened the door wider. "Come in."

The house smelled like coffee and cedar. Family photographs lined the hallway. There she was at six, missing her front teeth. At thirteen, holding a participation trophy.

Jim poured two coffees. "I had a sneaking suspicion that you would be excited—over the moon, even—with what I think you want to ask me."

"I was."

He looked up from the mugs. "...Was?"

The word hung between us. He sat down and slid a cup toward me. "So. You still planning on asking me something?"

I wrapped both hands around the mug. It was warm. Real.
"I am," I said, the word catching in my throat. "But Sir, I need you to tell me no."

Jim stared at me. "I beg your pardon?"

The room became very quiet. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes dropping to my trembling hands, then tracking up to the exhaustion etched into my face. The casual warmth of a future father-in-law began to drain away, replaced by a sharp, quiet intensity. He looked past my youthful skin, straight into my eyes, and saw a ghost.

"I assume there's more to this," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "I'm listening."

"There have been so many hard times, Sir," I whispered, looking down at the dark coffee. "So many times she ignored my selfishness, looked past my laziness. She hid how tired she truly was, how burnt out… from the job, from the kids, from me. How many times did she hold back her frustrations just to protect my feelings?"

"Relationships take work," Jim said slowly, watching me. "But you're speaking as if it's already happened."

"I ignored it because I couldn't get past what I wanted, where I wanted to be," I continued, the confession pouring out of me. "There was love of course. My God, we had love, but love had nothing to do with it. And she changed. A change I could really only perceive looking back at photographs."

A faint glimmer of a tear crested Jim's lower eyelid. He leaned forward, the reality of the moment fracturing between us. "Where have you been?"

"To hell," I said, my voice cracking as I fought back the need to break.

He closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing an idea he couldn't possibly understand. "And you think if I refuse..."

"...she won't marry me."

"And that saves her?"

"I don't know. It might," I said. "It might save me. I can't do this again."

Jim didn't answer immediately. Instead, he asked, "Were you happy?"

I blinked. "What?"

"All bullshit aside. Were you and my daughter happy?"

"Not every day," I said.

"I didn't ask about every day."

I thought about Sunday mornings. Road trips. Tiny apartments. Our dogs. Our boys. Waiting for each other before we watched the next episode. Watching her read beside me in complete silence, because silence had become another language we shared.

"Yes," I said.

"So was she?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "Then who are you trying to protect?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

"If I say no today..." He said looking toward the hallway photographs. "...she loses years of being loved."

I felt tears sting my eyes. "So do you."

He leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. "You've spent the last half hour telling me about your mistakes. You were selfish. You failed each other more than once. And yet, every single story ended the same way: you chose each other. You think your grief means your life together was a mistake."

I stared at him.

"But grief isn't proof that love failed," Jim smiled softly. "It's proof that it happened, and son… that’s the price. No matter what you feel right now, you don’t get to take that away from her."

Outside, a car door closed.

I froze. I knew that sound. She'd just gotten home from the grocery store. In a few seconds, she'd walk through the front door carrying apples, flour, and the pie she'd insisted on baking herself because she wanted today to feel special. I hadn't remembered that detail until right now.

"I can stop this," I whispered.

Jim nodded. "You probably can."

I looked toward the front door. "But you'd stop everything."

Footsteps approached. The doorknob rattled.

I closed my eyes. For one impossible moment, she was alive. Laughing. Just outside. I could experience that connection again or I could leave. I could change everything. Or... I could give both of us the life we'd already lived, and be right back here…

The door opened. "I hope you guys aren't talking me out of this!" she called out.

I couldn't look at her. Not yet. Instead, I turned to Jim.
"I love your daughter," I said.

He cracked a smile; his eyes were sad, glistening. Whether he believed the logistics of my warnings no longer mattered. He believed me.

He stood and pulled me into a hug—the kind fathers save for sons they hadn’t seen in years. At least that’s how I imagine it. In my ear, he whispered, "Take good care of whatever time you're given."

"I did," I whispered into his shoulder. "I will."

[Feedback Welcome! This is a short speculative fiction piece about grief and memory. I'd love to hear your thoughts.]

I used to keep it minimal. Not in an aesthetic way, not like "look at my white walls and my sad little plant." I mean minimal like a survival technique. Like the way you keep a purse small when you know you're going to be running.
Back then, the house stayed clean.
It's funny how people hear that and assume it means I had my life together. Like cleanliness is proof of inner peace. Like a clean counter equals a clean mind. Meanwhile I was basically living on autopilot, watching TV, scrolling Instagram and Facebook, tending to the kids, going to work, coming home, repeating.
My world was smaller. Controlled. Predictable.
I made less money too. That part matters. When you make less, you buy less. You don't have "projects." You don't collect broken things and tell yourself you'll fix them. If something broke, I threw it out. Not in a dramatic way. Just gone. No emotional attachment. No "maybe this can be salvaged." No closet for it to live in while I built a fantasy version of myself who had time.
There weren't teams, clubs, extracurricular whirlpools sucking up weekends and attention and money. There wasn't a pile of Amazon boxes with "organizational solutions" for the mess I didn't used to have.
And honestly? I kept my head down.
I people-pleased. I called it loyalty.
I was helpful to a fault. I wanted to be liked at work. Not in a desperate way, I told myself. In a "good employee" way. In a "team player" way. In a "I'll take care of it" way.
And it worked. People liked me. The place ran. The kids were okay. The house was clean. The days were mostly the same, which meant they were mostly survivable.
Then something shifted.
Not all at once. It wasn't like a movie moment where I looked in the mirror and suddenly saw my true self shimmering under fluorescent lighting. It was slower than that. More annoying. Like a crack that forms in glass: first you don't notice, then you can't unsee it, and eventually it changes the whole structure.
At first it was just little thoughts that didn't fit in the old life.
Wait… why is this done this way?
I remember being in a store closing sale, staring at this mountain of bins like they were going to save me. I literally said out loud, "I'm obsessed with bins right now," and bought a bunch.
And then they sat.
Because the bins weren't the solution. They were the idea of a solution. A physical receipt for "I'm getting my life together." Except I couldn't decide where they should live, what should go in them, what should stay in them, what category deserved a bin, what didn't.
That's when it started to click: I wasn't organizing. I was shopping for the feeling of control.
I used to be early everywhere like it was a moral value. Thirty minutes early, sometimes more, because I wanted the full forty hours, because I thought going above and beyond would turn into something substantial. It did help. I did get raises. Just not the kind that makes a difference fast enough to justify living on edge all the time.
Then this job happened, where everyone else was late every day like it was normal.
And somehow, I started being late too.
There were stretches where I didn't show up like I used to. Not because I didn't care. I always say it was my subconscious rebelling. It scared me. I tightened up. But it left a mark.
I still think about how out of character it felt. Like some part of me finally said, we're not doing this old routine anymore just to prove we're worthy.
Old dependable came with a hidden invoice: you paid for reliability with your nervous system. For a long time I was the one person I could actually depend on, and that does something to you over time. It makes "reliable" start to feel like "alone." So when I slipped, it scared me. Not because I didn't care, but because my identity has always been simple: I got it. Count on me. But who could I count on besides myself though....
Now I'm not trying to become the old version of dependable. I'm trying to find a middle ground. A person who is consistent, honest, and human.
Then it started happening everywhere.
Not just out there in the world, but inside my own life.
I realized I didn't actually have "peace" back when everything was minimal.
I had sedation.
I had a quiet life.
My life was calm, yes, but only because I wasn't trying to build anything.
A small life can be calm for the same reason a locked room is calm. Nothing moves. I thought I was building something. I thought I was doing what I was supposed to do. Really, I was making it through that phase without thinking about the next one. I was winging it because I didn't know there was another way.
But then the door opened.
Not because someone invited me. Because I opened it.
I started wanting more. Not more stuff. More agency. More options. More understanding. More structure that wasn't held together by me swallowing my discomfort.
And suddenly I was living with a new kind of noise.
The noise of awareness.
Awareness is expensive. Nobody warns you about that.
It costs you your tolerance for sloppy systems and vague promises and "we'll get back to you" as a lifestyle. It costs you the comfort of being liked by everyone. Because once you stop performing "easy," you start being "complicated" to people who benefit from your silence.
And the wild part is… I do like the new me better.
But she is harder to manage.
Because now I notice everything, whether I want to or not.
I notice the moving goalposts. I notice vague promises that never quite become actions. I notice last-minute urgency where planning should've been. I notice how people act offended when you ask for specifics. I notice how my brain collects problems and patterns like magnets collect nails.
So yes, I've become obsessed with tracking and organizing and logging and categorizing and auditing and systematizing.
And yes, simultaneously, I still fall short.
Back when life was smaller, cleaning the house made sense. It was a loop I could finish. You wipe, you fold, you put away, you're done. It's finite. It rewards you quickly.
But the kind of life I'm building now isn't finite. It's layered.
It's timelines and evidence and email chains and money movement and product ideas and family logistics and personal growth...and the quiet ache of realizing you've been carrying too much for too long, without calling it what it is.
You can't tidy your way out of a structural problem.
Sometimes I look at the pile of things, not just objects, but mental objects, and I understand why I used to throw broken stuff away. Throwing it away was mercy. It kept my world simple by clearing away the clutter. The clutter didn't disappear, though. It just moved.
Now, throwing it away feels like ignoring the mechanism.
And I can't ignore mechanisms anymore.
I want to understand why it broke. I want to know what caused it. I want to fix the workflow that led to it. I want to stop the same thing from breaking again.
The problem is: a mind like that can drown in its own intelligence.
Because the same pattern-recognition that makes you powerful can also make you tired. When you see too much, you start noticing how many systems are missing.
So I tried to go back. Not all the way, just enough to see if it still worked.
I tried to remember what it felt like to have an empty Saturday. To watch mindless TV without guilt. To scroll like a tranquilized raccoon and not care that hours were leaking out of my life.
But I couldn't.
That's when it hit me: I can't go back there.
Containment. That's what that was. It kept me stable. And at the time, I didn't even know to call it a problem.
But it kept me small.
And the thing about waking up, about becoming aware, is that you don't get to unknow what you know.
You don't get to unsee the machinery.
So the question changes.
It stops being: "How do I get back to being calm?"
And it becomes: "How do I stabilize forward?"
Because "forward" doesn't have to mean chaotic. It doesn't have to mean turning my life into one long catch-up cycle.
Forward can mean integration.
Integration is the part nobody glamorizes. People romanticize the awakening, the reinvention, the big decisions, the bold boundaries.
Nobody posts about integration. Integration is maintenance. It's designing a life that can hold the bigger you without you burning down every night.
Integration is where you stop relying on discipline and you start relying on architecture.
Because discipline is a limited resource. It runs out when life gets loud. Architecture doesn't. Architecture is a system that makes the right action easier than the wrong one. Especially when you're tired.
I started realizing I didn't need to become a perfectly organized person. I needed to stop demanding perfection from the way I start things.
I needed somewhere to drop it.
A place where I could throw the thoughts without having to label them properly like I'm a librarian trying to earn a gold star.
The reason organization collapses isn't because I'm incapable. It's because the entry barrier is too high.
If the system requires me to be calm, consistent, clearheaded, motivated… the system is fragile.
A system that only works when you're at your best is a system designed to fail.
So I stopped daydreaming about being "that organized person."
And I started aiming for something more honest:
A system that works even when I'm not.
And it's weird, once I accepted that, I felt something loosen in my chest.
Not excitement. Not hype.
Relief. Like I had been fighting myself for not being a robot, when the real solution was to stop building robot systems.
That was the moment I understood what my tears were about. Not sadness.
Recognition. My nervous system recognizing: this makes sense.
I used to be contained. Now I'm expanded. Next is integration.
It isn't dramatic. It isn't instant. It isn't a transformation promise. It's a redesign.
And once you realize you're redesigning, you stop judging yourself for being mid-construction.
Nobody walks into a house being renovated and screams, "Why is there dust? Why are there tools everywhere? Why isn't the kitchen perfect?"
They understand: the mess is evidence of change.
So yeah. My house used to be clean. Now my life is bigger.
I'm not going back. I'm building something that can hold me.
And this time, I'm not keeping it clean to be liked. I'm keeping it coherent to be free.

The dim torchlight flickered against the jagged walls of the lead mine, casting long shadows that danced like tormented spirits. Dust and the acrid stench of ore filled the air, choking the lungs of the condemned. Jesus, his body gaunt yet still bearing the quiet strength of his former life, swung a heavy pickaxe into the unyielding rock face. Each strike sent sparks and shards flying, but his movements had slowed—exhaustion from endless days without rest weighing on him like chains.

"Work faster, Hebrew dog!" barked a Roman guard, his voice echoing through the cavern. The man, clad in segmented armor and a crested helmet, raised his whip—a brutal length of braided leather studded with bits of bone and metal.

*Crack!*

The lash bit deep into Jesus' back, tearing fresh welts across skin already raw and bleeding from prior blows. He staggered forward, nearly dropping the tool, but gripped it tighter, driving the pick into the stone once more. Blood trickled down his torso, mixing with sweat and grime, staining the tattered loincloth that was his only covering.

Another guard laughed nearby, prodding at a pile of broken ore with his gladius. "The prophets say your god splits seas and topples kings. Yet here you are, breaking your back for Rome's glory. Faster, or we'll see if your miracles save you from the lash!"

Jesus gritted his teeth, his crown of thorns long since matted into his matted hair, but he said nothing. He heaved the pick again, muscles straining, as the whip descended once more—*crack!*—driving him onward in the suffocating dark. The mine demanded its toll, and the guards ensured it was paid in flesh and blood.

The flickering torchlight in the depths of the lead mine painted grotesque shadows across the rock walls. Jesus knelt amid piles of shattered ore, his bloodied hands still glowing faintly from the miracle he had just performed—restoring the sight of a blind slave with a single touch. The Roman guards, hardened veterans of conquest, had witnessed it all. Their eyes, once filled with contempt, now burned with something far darker: hunger.

Centurion Marcus Valerius stepped forward, his gladius drawn. “By the gods… the Hebrew’s hand carries power. Did you see? The blind man sees! This is no trick of the desert prophets. This is real.”

The other guards murmured in agreement, their whips forgotten. One spat on the ground. “Rome could use such a weapon. Imagine legions that never tire, wounds that close on command. Cut it off. The rest of him can rot in these mines.”

Jesus raised his head slowly, blood trickling from the crown of thorns and the fresh lashes across his back. His voice was calm, almost weary. “You seek to steal what was never yours to take. The power is not in the flesh—it flows from the Father.”

Marcus laughed, a harsh sound that echoed through the cavern. “Spare us your sermons, miracle-worker. We’ve seen enough. Hold him.”

Two guards seized Jesus by the arms, forcing his right hand onto a flat slab of rock. The prophet did not struggle. He simply looked at Marcus with eyes that seemed to see through the man’s soul.

“You will take the hand,” Jesus said quietly, “but you will never hold its power. What you steal in darkness will burn you in the light.”

Marcus raised his sword high. “For Rome!”

The blade fell in a brutal arc.

*CRACK—THUD.*

The hand severed cleanly at the wrist. Blood sprayed across the ore. Jesus gasped but did not cry out, his body trembling as the glowing light in the severed hand faded to nothing. The guards stared in horror and awe as the hand twitched once on the rock, then went still.

Marcus picked it up by the fingers, holding it aloft like a trophy. “Look at it! Still warm. We’ll take this to the prefect. Imagine what we can do with this.”

Jesus cradled the bleeding stump against his chest, his voice low and prophetic. “You have taken the instrument. But the miracle was never the hand—it was the faith behind it. You will find only rot and ruin where you seek glory.”

One of the younger guards backed away, pale. “Centurion… it’s not glowing anymore. It’s just… meat.”

Marcus shoved the hand into a leather pouch. “Silence! We have what we came for. Chain the rest of him. Let the mines finish what we started.”

As the guards dragged the maimed prophet deeper into the darkness, Jesus whispered one final line, barely audible over the clinking of chains:

“Father… forgive them. They know not what they have taken… nor what they have lost.”

The torchlight dimmed. In the pouch, the severed hand lay cold and powerless.

The air in the lead mine was thicker now, heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the ceaseless ring of tools against stone. Jesus, his right arm ending in a crude, blood-soaked bandage, was dragged back to the rock face. The stump throbbed with every heartbeat, but he was given no time to rest. Two guards shoved a heavy pickaxe into his left hand.

“Get back to work, cripple!” barked Centurion Marcus Valerius, still clutching the leather pouch containing the severed hand. “You think losing one hand gets you mercy? Rome demands twice the output now. Prove your God still favors you!”

Jesus gripped the tool awkwardly with his remaining hand, his body swaying from blood loss. He swung the pickaxe in a slow, labored arc. The impact was weak, barely chipping the ore.

A guard’s whip cracked across his back. “Faster! Twice as hard, I said!”

Jesus staggered but steadied himself against the wall. “The body is weak,” he murmured, voice steady despite the pain, “but the spirit endures. You chase power you cannot possess.”

Marcus laughed coldly, kicking a basket of ore closer. “Save your parables. Fill twice the baskets by nightfall or we take the other hand next. Move!”

The other guards joined in, their whips whistling through the air. Jesus worked in grim silence, swinging the pickaxe with his left arm, dragging baskets of heavy ore with his one good hand and his shoulder. Sweat and blood mixed on his skin. Each swing sent fresh agony through the stump, but he continued, loading rock after rock.

One younger guard hesitated, watching. “Centurion… he’s still working. After everything. How—?”

“Shut your mouth and whip him harder!” Marcus snapped, waving the pouch. “This hand will make us legends. And he’ll break his back making up for it. Faster, Hebrew! Twice the labor for half the hands!”

Jesus paused only to catch his breath, his voice a quiet rasp. “You may take my hands, my life… but you cannot take what I give freely. The true work is not of stone, but of the soul.”

The whip fell again. The mines echoed with the relentless rhythm of forced labor, the Centurion’s mocking laughter, and the quiet, unbroken determination of the man they could not fully break.

The dim torchlight barely illuminated the isolated corner of the mine shaft where Jesus had been chained for the night. His bandaged stump throbbed, and exhaustion weighed heavily on his frame after the doubled labor. The Romans had other plans to break him.

“I’ve heard that Pluto is nice this time of year.” Alice whispered. His hand began to shake looking at the options for a ticket. She gently rubbed his shoulder.

“It’s not there.” He muttered. The tears welt up in his eyes.

“We have to make a decision soon.”

“I made my decision but the last rocket for Mars has already left.”

“Let's try Pluto then.”

“No, the people there are too tall and we wouldn’t be able to find work. I also heard that it’s like living in Alaska during the winter time. You know how I hate my feet getting cold.” Alice shrugged. Clark’s forehead began to sweat. “We only have five minutes in the cubicle to pick our option before we are kicked out and sent back to the line.” She spoke. “Don’t you think I know that? I had already made a decision but we were too late.”

“Clark, all those people out there are waiting. They want to leave as much as we do.”

“I’m trying. Besides, there’s fifteen other cubicles for them to get into.”

“That’s another reason for us to pick a ticket quickly. All of the tickets will be gone before we can get ours. Whatever happened to doing right by your fellow man?”

“Forget about my fellow man. We’ve had to wait a week to pick just like they have.”

“I’m your fellow man, Clark. Won’t you do right by me and just pick something? How about Mercury?”

“It’s too hot. I hate the heat, I hate how it makes my head feel. Everyone there is too short, the architecture wouldn’t allow us to fit.”

“Ok, what about Venus then?”

“And live the rest of our lives underground? You’d never be able to see the sky or sun again. What food do you live on when living in a cave?”

“I heard that the soil is very fertile on Venus, they must grow crops of some kind there. They also have animals that they breed for meat.”

“What they have is cave crawling squawler. The meat they eat is sour. It's nothing compared to pork or a rack of lamb.”

“You don’t even like lamb, Clark.”

“Maybe I could learn to like it?”

“It’s too late for that now.” Clark nodded solemnly. It’s true, he thought. All of these years on this planet. My home, my one true home. I took it all for granted. Now that I’m being forced to leave it all behind I wish I had taken more time to enjoy what it had to offer me rather than take all its splendor for granted. “What could I do for work? I’m a craftsman, I have no science or engineering background.”

“I’m sure you could carve a pipe out of some form of mineral there.” It’s true, he thought. There is a possibility that somewhere on Venus they are currently mining a mineral of an equal quality to that of Meerschaum here on Earth. I could always try my hand at carving. I’ve been a pipemaker for most of my life. What could be the harm in trying something new? Carving a briar pipe is a completely different undertaking from carving something like Meerschaum, however. A highly porous mineral like that would be fragile, and need a sharp edge and tender hand to guide it, otherwise the risk of cracking the piece would be a given. Would I even be able to build myself a workshop there? What’s the demand for a pipe made on Venus? Here on Earth, I was quite well known within the artisan circles. I became highly successful because of my strict eye for details. A lot of wealthy clients had always commissioned me for classical shapes. However, I did have a few collectors who always sought out my more artistic pieces. On another planet though, I would be starting from scratch. I’d have to build up my reputation again. The quality of the leaf is equally important. No one will want a tobacco pipe unless they can find something they deem worthy to smoke. How long would it truly take in order for me to see any form of success? “What if they don’t grow tobacco?”

“They grow tobacco.” Alice spoke soft and pleadingly.

“I bet it’s that lab grown stuff. I bought it once and you lose all the flavor after your false light. You have to smoke through an entire bowl of ash before you can get any flavor at the end. It’s like those old aromatics, you need to smoke it as slow as possible before you can get anything out of it.” Clark’s whole body began to sweat and he felt as though he was on fire. “My hands are trembling Alice, and I’m sweating through everything I have on. It’s getting hot in here.”

“The atmosphere is thinning, it’s only going to get worse. They told us we only have two more hours of breathable oxygen in the atmosphere before it’s gone forever.  Now choose please. We only have two minutes left and I’d rather not die here having to wait in line for another damn chance at a cubicle.”

The timer for the cubicle kept ticking. The numbers peered down at Clark. Each passing second meant impending doom. A doomsday clock in the most true forms possible. Not just for him, but for his whole world. He looked at Alice. My one true love, he thought. When was the last time I had looked at her? Truly looked at her. It had to have been a very long time. I can see on her face through the large beads of sweat and the teardrops in her eyes the woman I had fallen in love with. Her beautiful Auburn hair, how it flowed and formed around her head. Her small trembling hand, bearing the ring that I worked my soul into in order to afford it. My indecisiveness will not only be the death of me, but the death of her as well. He stared at the cubicle screen and looked at his options.

The timer only had ten seconds left. Only one option blared from the screen in front of them. “Pluto” he whispered. “Pluto” She whispered and nodded in agreement. Clark’s hand punched the option into the cubicle. The machine hums and one ticket slides out of the slot. They froze. Both of them counting the seconds in their head as they wait for a second ticket to slide out of the machine. A second one never came. Alice began sobbing. “Clark, no.” Her voice was shaking. Clark took the ticket, and handed it to Alice. In bold lettering near the top it had “LAST TICKET” printed in red ink.

“There must be some kind of mistake with the machine. We could always ask someone. Maybe they could print you off a new ticket.” He looked at her, knowing this would be the last time he ever got to see her. “That’s the last ticket. There won’t be anymore, it means the ship is full. It’s too late for me, Alice. But it doesn’t have to be for you.” “I’m not leaving you to die here.” “I’ll be fine. The heat doesn’t bother me anymore. Go live your life Alice. I love you, have loved you, and will love you with what little time I have left.” “I’m sure they’ll let you on board, they can’t deny both of us” “We both know they won’t let me on without a lifeline ticket.” With tears forming in his eyes he takes her hand. He speaks in a soft broken tone, “I’ve heard that Pluto is nice this time of year.”

"Did you enjoy it?" she asked as she desperately tried to pull up her pants after he had taken her with the force of a wild animal.

"Quite a bit. And you?" the client replied, leaning against the window as he lit a cigarette.

Outside, the headlights of passing cars blurred across the rain-soaked sidewalks of a cold February night. The room was silent except for the faint hum of traffic and the soft crackling of the cigarette burning between his fingers. The cheap motel smelled of stale perfume, smoke, and old furniture—an atmosphere she had grown used to long ago.

She paused for a moment. Although her profession required her to lie, she hadn't enjoyed it at all. In fact, she suspected she might even have a small tear in her vagina. Still, years of pretending had taught her to hide discomfort behind a convincing smile. A trace of honesty remained within her, yet she simply answered:

"Yes, I did."

Suddenly, an uneasy curiosity rose inside her, as though she were about to ask a forbidden question. She had seen hundreds of men pass through that room, but something about this one felt different. He wasn't rushing to leave. He wasn't checking his phone. He looked as though he had come searching for something he hadn't found.

"Why do you come here?" she asked.

"What do you mean? Isn't this your job?" the client replied, puzzled.

"I mean, you're handsome, and you pay generously, which makes me think you have money. So why do you come here?"

He stared out the rain-speckled window for a few seconds before answering. Then he stubbed out his cigarette and sat thoughtfully on the edge of the bed.

"I feel lonely. To be honest, sex is secondary. I enjoy it, but if it were up to me, I'd rather just sit here with you, hold you, and tell you about the thousand misfortunes that have shaped my life—the ones that come back to haunt me whenever I'm driving down an empty road."

She looked at him more carefully now. His clothes were expensive, his watch even more so, yet his eyes carried a weariness that money had clearly failed to erase.

"I understand your pain, but don't you think you need a psychologist?"

He let out a quiet laugh, though there was no amusement in it.

"Who? Those people who charge you just to listen, only to feed you some nonsense about Freud, the id, and the superego? I don't need that. I just need someone who can stay silent and carry my pain with me for a little while. You're like someone willing to hold the stone that's been weighing on my back all day, even if it's only for the thirty minutes I'm paying you for."

His words lingered in the room. For a brief moment, the transaction disappeared. There was no client, no prostitute—only two strangers sharing the same silence.

In that instant, she realized she was sitting across from a broken man, and for the first time in her life, she felt genuine compassion for a client.

"And you?" he asked after a long pause. "Why do you do this?"

She lowered her gaze.

"I have two daughters to provide for," she answered. "They think I work night shifts cleaning offices. I hope they never have to know the truth."

He nodded without judgment.

"Do you realize that, beyond being a client and a prostitute, we're simply two human beings?"

She smiled softly, a smile more sincere than any she had worn for work.

"You're absolutely right."