Why does love feel like being from another Universe?

by Kanwar P. S. Plaha

(About 7000 words)

Quantum Interference

One random Tuesday. Time: unknown

It’s not easy to snub an alien. It’s harder when you meet them in a mundane setting and in an uneventful manner. Although, ‘uneventful’ may not be accurate. Still, the alien sitting across from me on a plain, square table in a dull food court, seems as Earthly as any human, and appears to be female: at least to the naked eye.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, as I often do. So, let me share the journey that has led me here. I also need to recover from a bout of fiery chilli in my lunch; not funny when the alien punctuates my plight with a sardonic laughter.

The tryst itself is uncanny yet hilarious. The scientist in me is both excited and sceptical. Yet, the most puzzling aspect is neither the apparition that I’m sharing with the alien nor the absurdity of this routine workday lunch. It is ‘her’ laughter that is oddly familiar.

Coherence

One random Tuesday. Time: 6:15 a.m.

The bright, sunlit playground disappears, and so does the crowd. My bedroom ceiling replaces the nightmare while my arm swings to silence the alarm.

A few more minutes.

I snap awake, with nobody chasing me anymore, and wondering how long I overslept. When I say wonder, I mean guess. I am obsessed with guessing stuff and betting on everyday outcomes. I was afraid that I was abnormal until Quantum physics happened to me. It turned out that our world is fuzzy at its fundamental level. As sages, and philosophers, have proclaimed down the ages, reality manifests through probability, or chance. That gave me hope.

Isn't hope a fifty-fifty chance itself?

"Six Twenty-two." I mutter and glance at the phone.

6:27. The blinking colon is mocking me.

#FAIL

Once I’m dressed for work, I lock the door behind me, and the game's afoot. I guess whether my bus is on time, the driver's gender, and if I'd get a seat on the bus. These are all epic fails, but I am undeterred.

Some chances are predictable although very low: the chance of meeting the ideal partner. The odds of finding that one perfect person are close to zero. But, what is a lot of fun is my guessing game on the daily commute to work. It’s a game that keeps me busy–and amused.

My phone buzzes. One short buzz. Must be a text from Becky.

Bingo! First win of the day.

‘Hey Babe, you up for lunch today?’

Becky always addresses me as ‘Babe’, just like every other guy in the team.

‘Not sure yet, Becks’ I reply.

‘K lemme kno. Byeee xoxoxo’

Becky's chats are gushing with enthusiasm but short on substance. She's just so full of life–and herself. However, those X's and O's are stuck in my head. Becky always adds a long string of those to her texts. Sometimes, I try to convert them to binary. The answer for the last one is 101010, or 42: ’the answer to everything’.

Using the phone on the bus makes me sick, but I ignore the discomfort until my stomach turns. Then I stare out the window. A cold autumn day says hello. People rushing in warm overalls even as I freeze inside the bus—literally. Someone has cracked open a window, and I feel like an aeroplane on a test in a wind tunnel.

"Five people will get on from the next stop." I distract myself. Four.

Shit!

"Next set of lights will be green when we get there."

Yay!

“No, no, don't stop at this bus stop.” I meditate. The bus stops.

I look around in disappointment and stare at the 'No stopping' sign near the bus stop. I know the sign is meant for private vehicles, but I smile at the mild irony.

Hold on! Isn’t that sign just an X inside an O?

When I’m not guessing stuff, I’m looking for patterns. Quite the conflicting obsessions, I know, and I find it odd that I’m dwelling on that stupid sign. The bus lurches, picks up speed and everything is a blur. I lose myself in the patterns that form in the rushing scenery: colours, shapes, and streaks. I count as many as fifteen No Stopping signs for the rest of the journey. Yes, I had tried to guess how many there would be.

Same random Tuesday. Time: 8:33 a.m.

My browser's home page opens to a science news site. However, I can't seem to focus on the words because caffeine hasn't taken the fog off my cornea yet.

"Pete, you functional sans coffee this morning?" Prabhu's deep baritone invades my reverie.

Who uses sans at 8:30 in the morning?

I rise from the chair and manage to greet him with a smile. Minutes later, we are falling to ground level in a metal cage.

"What's up?" Prabhu asks as the elevator doors ping on the 9th floor.

"Nothing much. Busy weekend."

"Yeah, me too." I can hear the lament in his voice, "Two kids don't leave you any room to relax."

"I know." I smile back. I have no idea as I live alone but I try to feel Prabhu’s predicament.

“Hey Pete,” Prabhu starts after a while, “You’re a Science guy, right?”

I glance at him quizzically. He laughs before adding, “I mean, you know all that weird Physics stuff, right? I came across something about Parallel Universes-”

“Where? In a sci-fi novel?”

“Nah, just an article that popped in my smartphone newsfeed.”

“Oh, Okay.” I retort, “Sure. Do you mind if we get coffee first?”

“Of course!”

We make our way to the usual cafe that knows our preferences. I have guessed the number of people waiting in the queue.

Caffeine wakes me somewhat on the way back, and I address Prabhu’s pending query.

"There are many theories about Universes other than ours." I wave my arm for effect. “For example, there's a theory that says each decision splits the Universe into two or more timelines.”

Prabhu seems intrigued but is silent.

“The other one I find interesting is the one proposed a few years ago. In this 'Many Interacting Worlds' theory, particles from many worlds can seep into ours. This makes them appear in more than one place!” I pause for effect.

Prabhu asks. "Which of these has been proven so far?"

“Neither… ” I reply, “But, the Quantum world of tiny particles never ceases to amaze!”

“By the way,” Prabhu asks after a long sip from his cup, “Do you think CERN will create a black hole someday?”

I laugh, and so does he. As we pass another No Stopping sign, Prabhu says: “You know, Pete, this sign reminds me of CERN.”

“Why so?” I ask, a bit startled.

“Well, don’t you think the outer circle is like the cross-section of the tunnel where particles are accelerated, and the X is particles radiating out after a collision!”

“Wow, and I just imagined it to be a naughts and crosses.” I exclaim with a laugh.

Back at the desk, I search for the article on many worlds theory and re-read it before diving into my daily work. The article concludes: each particle is just the overlap of many worlds. This makes a blurred thing we call a wave. Overlapping worlds that differ ever so minutely.

Same random Tuesday. Time: 11:55 a.m.

The calendar pops up: "Tuesday Tournament in 5 minutes. Today's lunchtime game: The retro classic, Noughts and Crosses."

Whoa! Isn't that game just X's and O's again?

My phone buzzes. Not a short, regular buzz. A longer desperate one. It’s the maps app and takes a second too long to open. A bright blue circle marks my current location. What I find odd is a pulsating X marking a spot some 300 metres away. I'm guessing, in a north-west-westerly direction.

Huh, live ads on the map?

I push the power button and get back to work. I try to guess my chances of winning the lunch hour tournament. A pattern seems to be emerging with the Xs and Os.

The phone buzzes again, almost rumbling off the desk. The red X on the map is pulsating urgently. I tap on the X, and a balloon pops up: 'Food Court. Check out today's lunch favourites. Direction? Reviews?'

I take a wager if I will end up playing noughts and crosses or if my curiosity will lead me to the food court.

Three and a half minutes later, curiosity has won the bet.

Classical Noise

Same random Tuesday. Time: 12:20 p.m.

I love food that lights a bonfire on the tongue, so I look for the takeaway with the hottest flame.

The X is still blinking, but given that the GPS on my phone is a couple of years old, the entire food court could be the area indicated; quite an anticlimax. The treasure hunt feels like a bad joke. I give up on the series of coincidences, stuff the phone in my pocket, and decide to concentrate on food.

I line up at a Mexican takeaway, where they hand me a menu so I can tick off ingredients that will make up my burrito. The menu has a series of circles on the left, and instructions are to mark them with a cross against the items I'd like. I know everyone else has the same menu. But, like a famous TV series motto, I want to believe; believe that the pattern of X’s and O’s is not a coincidence.

My lunch arrives, bursting with fiery goodness of jalapeno and habanero. I had tried to guess that my order number would be prime, but it wasn't.

I dive into the sea of patrons with the burrito and my guessing game. Four minutes and unknown seconds later, I spot a vacant seat on a table across the floor. But it takes forever before I can navigate the churning sea of humanity that lies between.

"Is this seat taken?" I ask the girl at the table who has materialised and just had a mouthful of her butter chicken and rice. Perfect timing, you idiot!

She mumbles something, and nods. I sit down, assuming her agreement.

"I'm Sorry," she grins, “I was trying to say that if this seat were taken, it wouldn't be here."

I smirk and start peeling the wrapper off the burrito because I don't know what else to do.

Same random Tuesday. Time: unknown

After a few minutes of eating in silence, I feel the urge to converse with a stranger.

"Is it just me, or has the food court suddenly become quiet?" It is probably the worst conversation starter after ‘Is this seat taken?’

She smiles a mysterious smile, which doesn't tell me if she agrees or finds me weird. The latter, I bet.

The girl herself seems odd. Not in terms of physical appearance, but her accessories are pretty weird. The eyebrows are at an angle most of us can't manage without training. Her hair is tied in an equally strange manner. Not that I’m an expert at women’s hairdos. Her clothes… almost everything feels unfamiliar.

"Yes, it does feel quieter in these parts."

In these parts? Is she the Queen?

I'm guessing she will leave at any moment, having finished her meal. She doesn't.

My next bite launches an attack of pure Capsaicin on my taste buds. My flushed face is red, and tears are welling up inside my lower eyelids.

"Excuse me-" I cough, and cough again, "I went all out with the chillies, didn't I?"

"Seems you can't handle spice, can you?" She laughs and points at my sorry face.

"I can... it's just..." Then, I am laughing, too, between coughs and tears.

I notice the food court around me once my embarrassment dries up on my cheeks.

Why is everything blurred?

I rub my eyes with my knuckles, avoid the chilli on my fingers, blink vigorously, and look up again. Still blurred, the girl--a stranger--is in sharp focus, but the rest of the place blurs out as if looking through a fishbowl: fuzzier at the edges. I see a similar effect when I scan the food court.

Am I dying? Is this an early stage of extreme food poisoning?

I am staring into the half-eaten burrito when the girl laughs her enigmatic laughter.

"It's OK," she reaches out to pat my hand. “It's the same here: just you in focus."

Despite the spectacle, I am more concerned with my hands being grubby from the Mexican sauce where she has touched them. "You... you know this is happening? How? I mean..." I am mildly annoyed at her, especially with myself, for following that stupid X here.

The X!

I fumble around my blurred pocket for the phone. The red notification light is gone, and there's a green notification instead. Throwing the burrito down on the plate, I unlock the phone. Somehow. I can feel her eyes following my actions. The maps app is open. I loved geography back in high school but now hate everything that has to do with cartography. A big blue circle with a red X mocks me. A popup balloon also says: ‘No Stopping now.’

On an impulse, I try to stand up, but the focus circle–or sphere–of my vision is shrinking, and I teeter.

"Why don't you sit down?"

Same random Tuesday. Time: still unknown

"Hi! I'm Sally."

I pause long enough at the absurdity of this rendezvous.

"Peter," I reply and start to offer her my hand, but then I pull it back. She laughs. "It's just these..."

"I know. It's all over your fingers,"

I begin to clean my hands with the paper napkin, which takes me a few moments to locate.

"So... uh Sally, how do you know about this thing?" I ask, waving my hand around to indicate the weird fuzzy cocoon around us, "Butter chicken is mild as far as I'm aware."

She laughs again. "Peter, are you a sceptic or a believer?"

"What? Why?"

"What if I told you that you and I are at the intersection of two worlds-"

Indeed, it’s not like ‘Never Tear Us Apart’ by INXS, but it sure is music to the science-lover in me. Yet, I stay cautious.

"I'd say it's an impressive illusion, and you're nuts!"

Some more of the other-worldly laughter. "Okay, there's this multi-world theory–"

"Yes, I know." I interrupt her and immediately regret it. She hasn't heard me.

"–that every particle is an intersection of countless universes."

"Yeah, I’ve read it, too." I try to correct her: " Subatomic particles, yes. Macro world objects like you or me, nope!"

"Ah! so that's what you know so far–"

"Excuse me?" I'm beginning to wonder why I'm still here. The vision is still fuzzy, and she's attractive.

Fair enough.

"You're saying we", I jab my finger at myself and then at her, "are also here because of the overlapping worlds?"

"In a way, yes, but let me explain."

I lean forward, pushing the food aside. The blurriness is a halo around her beautiful face.

Did I say Beautiful? Jeez.

"This table and the chairs you and I share are in an intersection."

"Wait!" I am alarmed, "You're saying you're from a–"

"Yup!" she smiles and nods.

"Look, Ms. Sally, I don't know what you're trying to do–"

"A sceptic then, huh?" She interrupts me, "Why don't you rise and back away, a few steps, from your chair?"

"I sure will, and not just a few!" I exclaim and get up. I'm still disoriented but getting used to the limiting vision. I back away from the table and gasp. The table's empty. A step forward, I can see her faint image again. Back a step: no girl. Just the table and the chairs.

Reluctant but intrigued, I am back in the chair, and the… intersection.

"Hold on a sec!" I object with a click of my fingers, "I saw you across the food court earlier."

"You sure? Or did you see the empty chair?"

She's right. I had been preoccupied with scoring a seat. But I'm not finished yet. "But when I got here, I saw you before I sat down. I asked you if the seat was taken, remember?"

"Sure," she replies, "The intersection can shrink or grow. Also, it doesn’t always stay stable long enough for people to meet like we are now.” She moves her index finger rapidly between us.

“So, when will this one close?”

“Can’t say.”

"Oh!” I exclaim in a mild panic, thinking of what would happen if the intersection collapsed without notice. I wait momentarily and then ask, “You speak like you've done this before?"

"Maybe not done, but we are aware of them."

"We? There are more of you?"

"As many as there are in your world, at least!" She laughs.

"So," I ask after a long-ish pause, "Is there a me on your side too?"

"Sure, why not?"

That's it?

"Have you met him? I mean me, I mean–" I stop abruptly.

"Don't know. It doesn't work like that."

"You seem to be an authority on these... intersections!"

"It's high school science, so... kinda!" She spreads her arms in a shrug. Then, she spots me staring at her, wide-eyed and laughs again.

I can't resist saying. "Excuse me, but your laughter is strangely familiar, yet… other-worldly!"

"Hah! In a good way or bad?"

"I'm not sure... it's just familiar." I look around. The ‘intersection’ hasn't grown or shrunk.

"Tell me, Sally." I startle her, "Did you have an X and an O messing with your brain too?"

"Since yesterday, yes. That’s how I got here."

Whoa!

"What did you see?" I probe further.

"My phone wouldn't let me ignore it. There was this circle that kept beckoning me."

"The X you mean–"

"No! The X followed my location."

Odd.

I want to clear my buzzing mind. Feynman said nobody understands Quantum physics, but this is madness, so I must ask.

"Are you implying opposites? Male Female? Yin Yang?"

"You can say it aloud," she laughs, "Entanglement."

"Spooky action at a distance..." I murmur.

Spooky alright.

Decoherence

Same random Tuesday. Time: still unknown

"Tell me," Sally asks after a pause, "Why are you still here, Peter?"

Why, indeed, am I still here?

"Because I like you, Sally!" I tease her.

"I like you too, Peter."

Oh, oh. She seems serious. That was unexpected!

"Really?"

"Hard to believe, huh?" Her question blindsides me.

"Yeah, you can't like anyone that easily, can you?" I challenge her, "You don't know anything about me, nor do I about you."

"Hmm... but why is it so hard to take a chance? Isn’t that the best way to get to know someone?"

She's got me. Chance. Probability. Bet. Wager. Fuzziness. All the things I'm obsessed with.

"You know what?" I am not giving up, "Reality is not that fuzzy. Quantum fuzziness is deterministic, no matter how ironic that sounds."

"Yeah, but it's still a chance. The Universe and universes exist on pure chance. It makes people invent supreme deities to understand something that appears from nothing for no reason. Effect without cause."

I stare at her.

"Do you ever take chances, Peter?"

All the time, I want to say. My ego reins me somewhat.

"Yes, I do. Quite a bit, actually."

"How about love?"

"Huh?"

"Have you ever taken a chance on love?"

"No..."

"Why?"

Why actually!

"I don't know. I guess I don't feel the need. I have lived by myself so far, and I don't see the need to change that..." I smile at her, "one bit!"

"Coward."

"Nah, just practical." I ignore the jibe.

"Coward, alright." She emphasises the latter: " It seems you can take chances on most things but not love or... commitment, right?"

Who's she now? Kahlil Gibran? I pause to think nevertheless.

"It's not that simple, Sally," I prepare to enlighten her. “I have everything going, just peachy, so why would I involve another person and ruin that? Right now, I can Netflix and chill by myself–and I get all the popcorn and ice cream, too!"

She is quiet, so I take that as a cue to continue. "Living by myself gives me all the freedom I need without the hassle of remembering stuff about a partner, keeping track of their likes and dislikes, or if I perform as well as they expect me to..." I grin foolishly for a moment and then add, "and so forth."

She is quiet, but I feel like I'm on a roll. "In contrast to what you said, I feel people who fall in love too easily are not strong enough. If you fall so easily, your backbone must be weak, right?" I laugh at my joke. She doesn't.

Is she upset?

"Look", I throw up my hands, "the uncertainty of not knowing the future of a relationship makes me play safe. Don't rock the boat. Don't fix it if it's not broken. That kind of thing."

"The Uncertainty principle, eh?" she winks at me.

"No, not really.” I am sick of Quantum Physics analogies, “For me, love's just too uncertain to take a chance on!"

Shut up, you idiot!

"I understand if that's how you feel." She smiles at me with the i-hear-you-but-i-don't-agree-with-you smile. I sense disappointment, so I feel the need to ask her her point of view.

"How about you? Do you fall in love easily?"

"I never said I did..."

So why am I being grilled? I had always imagined this sci-fi stuff to be fun.

"... but I'll say this." She is serious. “I wonder why we ended up at this intersection.

Don’t you?"

"Because I was foolish enough to follow that magical X here?"

It made her smile, at least.

"Have you thought it could've been..." she is searching for words. I jump in:

"Predestined?"

"Umm, yeah, but not in the sense of fate. It's more like overlapping probabilities. In fact, it's a bit like entanglement. Separated particles with opposite spins. You see the X, I see the circle ..."

"The O..." I interject.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing, but I was wondering if you came here expecting to meet me?"

"No, I just followed the circle–or the O, as you said."

So, she had heard me. It's a magical thing about women.

"What if I were not a guy?"

"Well, entanglement can be, how shall I say, just platonic."

"Great. So why can't we be…" No, don't say it, "... just friends? I mean I’m not sure if we’ll ever meet again given these… intersections… can be unstable and all!"

She appears to ponder my question even though I’ve regretted asking it.

"We could, of course! Just friends, right?”

I think she can read my mind.

"I'm not sure." I avoid lying, yet I don't tell her the truth.

“As for this intersection? I just wondered why it’s been so stable–” She looks straight at me, and it’s my turn to shrug: “You tell me.” I smile at her.

"But you're right too, although" she smiles, "Predestiny can be a thing, y'know!"

I avoid her gaze and look around the food court, and the tiny circle of focus moves with me. I need a few moments to think this over.

Moments! I've forgotten how long I've been here. More important: why hasn't any of my mates, or my boss, called me yet?

"To be honest, Sally, predestiny seems far-fetched to me.” I continue, “If I considered meeting every girl as a predestined event, I could be in real trouble." I tap the table with my open palm.

"Exactly my point!" she clicks her fingers, "Not every meeting is predestined."

"But what makes you think this one is?" My exasperation shows.

"Just a hunch, a guess, a chance?" She winks.

I draw circles around my right temple to tease her. People from her Universe–whatever its shape or anomalies–are bizarre, if she is a typical sample. Here I am, talking to an alien on a routine lunch break and arguing about love and commitment!

Meanwhile, Sally is smiling at my mockery, and I’m wishing I could commit suicide with the fiery burrito. An awkward silence has inundated the tiny intersection.

"Okay then!" Sally leaps to her feet and offers her hand, "It's been nice meeting you, Earthling!"

I’m sure she can read my mind.

I stare at her outstretched arm. I know she will soon be gone, and there's a rising heartbeat that I can't decelerate. I am losing a chance, perhaps the only chance, to make a connection across Universes! My ego races ahead, though.

"Of course!" I stand up, as cheerfully as possible, "It's been a pleasure, Sally!"

I shake her hand–which feels way warmer than usual–with an enthusiasm I don't feel. I can tell she has sensed my dilemma because she has a wry smile across her face.

Damn It! I scream in my head.

Then, Sally backs away from the table and walks into the fuzziness. My sphere of vision grows in clarity but leaves my mind in confusion. I can still see a faint impression of her through the vanishing haze. I want to lean forward to see what the other Universe looks like, but for some reason, I don’t.

With the intersection gone, the food court engulfs me once again, and the chatter drowns my thoughts and feelings. My burrito is left half-eaten, and I scoop it up to bin it. Then, I walk into the harsh sun as if in a daze. My phone buzzes. Gosh, I bet at least two hours have passed as I unlock the phone: 12:30 p.m.

You have got to be kidding me!

There are other messages. One more from Becky. She didn't have company for lunch after all. Maybe I should've introduced her to Sally. The thought of Sally accelerates my heartbeat. I hurry with my retreat to work–and to reality in my present Universe.

Same Random Tuesday. Time 2:00 p.m.

All afternoon, I replay the weirdest lunch hour again and again. Did it really happen? If yes, it’s the most incredible find nobody will believe—an alien from another Universe who looks shockingly like a woman from our Universe–from Earth. Moreover, the probability of meeting her, or anyone else from that Universe, is almost zero. Yet, it happened.

I have checked the phone several times, but the X and the O are no longer there. I scroll around the maps app, almost tracing the entire city outskirts and beyond. Nothing. A bit disappointed, I decide to switch off the flights of fancy for good, and concentrate on the urgent tasks of the day.

Prabhu ambles over to chat. “What happened, dude? Didn’t see you at the lunch tournament. Quite unlike you to miss the noughts-and-crosses contest!”

I look at him with an amused look. If only he knew the game I played instead–and lost. Somehow, relating the fantastic tale wouldn’t help either. I wouldn’t believe it myself if I had heard it!

“Nah, I just wanted to step out alone and enjoy a quiet lunch,” I reply, not taking my eyes off the computer screen.

“Good for you: the R&R.” He jokes, and I laugh at the irony.

“Anyway,” he concludes as he walks away, “so you know, there was no clear winner today!”

Prabhu is halfway to his desk when I call out to him: “Hey Prabhu, about that multiverse theory we discussed earlier-”

“No, that's cool, dude! It’s just that: a theory!”

I laugh. “Sure, but do you think we’ll ever be able to locate… er… an overlap of our Universe with another?”

“Realistically speaking, never. Also, I suggest you return to our Universe and check your Slack messages. Vlad has been looking for you all afternoon.”

“Shit!” I retort, “I’ll go see him.”

Vlad is my boss and doesn’t look too pleased to see me when I approach his desk.

Entropy

The day after. Time: presumably, 6:00 a.m.

The captain throws the ball at me and shouts: “Pete, you bowl the next over!”

I catch it, not too clean, and some players on the field laugh.

“You sure, captain?” I can’t believe he’d trust me with six balls ripe for a smacking by the batter.

“Yeah, what’s the worst that can happen? We’ve already lost!”

I ignore the laughter and mark my run-up to the bowling crease. With a deep breath, I start my first over with a quick hop and skip.

The small crowd on the periphery of the school grounds seems to explode in mockery. The batsman hits almost every ball out of the boundary. On the fifth ball, it's all over.

The laughter turns evil and grows in volume and pitch to become a cackle. The players on the field crowd me.

“You! You made us lose!” Someone scolds. “Useless as a broken bat!” Condemns another. “Can you never, ever do anything right?” Yet another accusation. “Get out of the playground and never come back, you hear?” Several voices scream in unison.

Just then the school bell rings and I couldn’t be happier. I run away, but my legs give way, and I fall face first. I try to turn over even as the bell rings louder and louder. I awake only when I can no longer bear the ringing and try to cover my ears. The alarm keeps going until I fumble to turn it off. I don’t try to guess the time today.

The nightmare never ceases. I have given up Cricket for a long time, but the humiliation of being a failure in a critical match of the season haunts me ever so often. It was that fatal day when I decided to quit I quit, not least because one of the faces in the mocking crowd was Jennie, whom I liked. She never spoke to me after that game.

Since then, staying cautious has been my A game. I’d rather not venture into the unknown than ruin it with my incompetence. I am happy being a spectator and guessing each team's chances. If I never participate, I can never lose. So, why tempt fate?

The same day after. Time: 7:30 a.m.

I am on the bus to work. My subconscious bets on things around me: the number of men vs. women who get on at the next stop, the time we are likely to reach our destination, and so on. However, I stare ahead as if in a trance.

What happened to me yesterday?

I unlock my phone again and again, hoping the X will appear. There’s a notification of a news item on wormholes, but my only thought is to dive through one of them, go back to the Cricket game in school, and do better. Sally had been right: I fail to take chances on real things. Guessing outcomes to amuse me is superficial, even banal.

All the ‘No Stopping’ signs seem like a giant X mocking my failures. My guessing game could well be indecision—a reluctance to commit. I wish I hadn’t followed the X at all. I would’ve had a better chance at the XO game, and the ancient demons would still be asleep.

The bus lurches with a squeal of hydraulic brakes, and I snap out of my reverie. On a whim, I type out a text to Becky: ‘Hey Becks, how about lunch today?’ Then, I run through the scenarios that may play out during lunch before tapping the send icon.

The three dots start bouncing almost instantly. ‘Yeah, sure. What time?’

‘Say around 12:30-ish?’

‘Done. I’ll meet you at your desk. Bye xoxo’

For the remainder of the journey, my mood lifts somewhat as I recommence the guessing game and have several wins.

The same day after. Time: 12:30 p.m.

At 12:30 p.m. sharp, I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Let’s go!” Becky squeals.

Her enthusiasm is hard to refute. I lock my computer, and we make our way to the elevators. Becky starts talking almost as soon as I reach for the ‘Down’ button. She describes her day in meticulous detail and chronological accuracy. I try and but my mind is spinning in a different orbit. Feelings of regret and self-loathing still claw at me even as I use smiles, nods, and Uh-huhs to punctuate her monologue.

At the food court, there's a strong sense of deja vu. I order a burrito, several degrees milder than yesterday, and Becky goes for butter chicken and rice. What is different is the absence of awkward conversation starters.

“So,” Becky surprises me for the first time, “tell me more about yourself, Pete. We’ve worked together for a while, but I don’t know much.”

For a few moments, I stare at her blankly. Then, I follow up with a question: “What would you like to know?”

“Anything. How did you end up at this company?”

That’s another weird story, so I pick my words carefully. “When I finished my Masters in Sciences from the Uni-”

“Wow, Masters?”

“Er, yeah. I had an option to do scientific research-”

“How exciting! So, what happened there?”

I smile at her eagerness to talk. “Well, research wasn’t the safest option, in my opinion. Also, the money can be slow to come.”

“But you like Science-y things, don’t you? After all, you got a Masters degree!”

Another lunch, another person full of insights for me.

“True, true. I opted for Data Analysis to have some predictability in my life. Good growth. No nasty surprises.” I smile weakly and dig into my food to escape further scrutiny. Becky appears thoughtful, and there’s a period of unusual silence. So I decide to break it by a change of topic. “Hey Becks, can I ask you something?”

“Um-hmm” she intones while she chews.

“How likely are you…” I don’t want to sound weird, “…to fall for someone when you’ve just met them?”

Becky’s eyes shine with interest: “Well, it depends. Some guys can be real creeps when they come on too strong and needy, y’know!”

“Yes, I do, perhaps. What about someone who vibes right, seems genuine, and not creepy?”

She puts her spoon down and stares at me.

“You mean someone like you?”

I laugh. “I meant in general, Becks-”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” She picks up her spoon and uses it to point out, “I’ve had a couple of dates that led to a relationship. I do miss at least one of them terribly.”

“Y’know,” I confess, “I am nervous, uncertain rather, with relationships. What if it doesn’t work out? Is it still worth it?”

“Sure is to me, Peter.” her sudden proclamation surprises me, “And anyway, how would you know if it will work unless you try, right?”

I nod emphatically, although it is hard for me to accept. As if on cue, I check my phone for new notifications. I know the chances of the X and the O popping up are too small to measure, yet I can't take my mind off them. Not to mention all the No Stopping signs that won’t let me forget. I see Becky across the table and wonder why no X, or O, appears anymore. Do they only work across Universes? Surely, that can’t be true.

“By the way, thanks for the company today,” Becky interrupts my thoughts. “I ate lunch alone yesterday.”

“No, thank you!” I reply as I look around the food court, expecting the fuzzy view I had yesterday.

Get a hold of yourself, mate!

“Hey Pete, is everything OK?”

“Yeah, why do you ask?”

“You seem distracted-”

“Nah, nothing really. Just that I had the weirdest time at lunch yesterday.”

“Oh! Anything you can share with me?”

I look at the empty food plate before me, pondering if I should tell her about the rendezvous in the intersection, and how implausible it may sound.

“Nothing important,” I say instead. "I almost choked on the chilli in the burrito. So, I ordered it way milder today!” I finish with a laugh.

I find it hard to make conversation. It’s as if my mind has gone all blurry, like the fuzziness around the edges of the… intersection. I can see that Becky has sensed this, and my sullen mood has infected her too.

“Hey, I'm so sorry … I need to rush!” she exclaims. “Is it okay if we head back?”

“Of course, of course!” I stand up, scooping up both our plates.

Our walk back to the office is punctuated with short, quick steps and long silences.

Entanglement

Monday, a week later. Time: 4:30 p.m.

I have been sleepwalking through my tasks all week. Backlogs are clawing at me ferociously. Deadlines are overdue, and I haven’t glanced at the Physics website. Not once. It’s almost time to go home, and I’m exhausted. Come Friday, I want to hit the pillow at 5 pm and wake up Monday morning, only because that’s inevitable. I start packing my backpack, taking my time to slide everything leisurely. It may well be meditation but I don’t feel calm. Then, the phone emits a long buzz.

Seriously?

Still in the meditative state, I take a few moments to lift the phone and unlock it, and grin wide with relief when I see the blinking X.

Sally!

This time, the X is much farther away but the ‘intersections’ don’t have predetermined coordinates. At least that’s what Sally had said.

I grab my backpack, race to the lifts, and punch the button until the doors ping open. My fellow travellers in the elevator can feel me fidgeting. Some smile while others frown. Out on the street, I bump into more people. Some curse me aloud and others just swerve. Unabashed, and with the phone held up so I can follow the X, I break into a run.

Several blocks away, breathless and panting, I reach the spot where the blinking X is pulsating. The X and O are not overlapping yet, although they’re close enough to send my heartbeat racing.

I am at a pedestrian crossing and desperately wishing for the lights to turn green. The lights change, and I glance at the phone one last time.

No!

The blinking X is gone. The O is still pulsating but fading away. I am frozen on the spot even as other pedestrians rush past me. Some brush against my arm and others bump my shoulders, followed by apologies as they rush across the road.

I feel a pall of gloom engulf me, and after what seems like years, I turn around and make my way to the bus stop, where I am condemned to board a bus back home. It is barely two blocks away, but I’m dragging my feet with my senses glued to the phone. At the bus stop, I am glad to join the end of a serpentine queue. Despite guessing if the X will reappear, I eventually board the bus, and soon it pulls away.

As I stare out the bus window in despair, my phone buzzes to warn the battery is in its final throes. I switch to battery saver mode, just in case. Despite my best efforts, I surrender to the rhythmic rocking of the vehicle.

Same Monday, a week later. Time: 4:51 p.m.

We’ve lost the cricket match, and the crowd at the playground is chasing me again. I stumble and fall. Among the people crowded over me, this time, there’s also Sally. Instead of joining the crowd in condemnation, she urges me to escape, trying her best to be heard over the din.

“Get up,” she screams, “and run; run as fast as you can. Don’t let me down now!”

I want to stand up and bolt. I am scampering yet struggling to move. Something is rumbling nearby, and I realise it’s in my pocket. As the rumbling grows, there’s a jolt, and I feel Sally yanking me as I fall forward-

The bus has stopped, and there’s a small queue of passengers alighting. The buzzing is my phone, which I manage to unlock. As I notice the blinking X, I jump from my seat and race to the exit, which is about to close. The driver mutters something, but I’m already on the footpath.

The X is pulsating outside a shopping mall close to my location and, once again, I am racing to match the X and the O.

At the mall, I am looking around for Sally. I’m looking around only for Sally. There are seven-billion-plus people in our world–several million in this city–but I'm looking for that one face in the Universe--another Universe. My fingers are crossed hard, and I'm wishing it’s her.

It must be her.

My phone is like a bumblebee, and I have trouble keeping it clutched. Given its critical battery levels, it may shut down any moment. I'm panting as I scan the crowds milling about. Time appears to have slowed down, as if in an emergency.

It is an emergency!

"Pete?"

How I’ve missed that voice!

I turn around, and there she is. Under another ‘No Stopping’ sign: an X inside an O. The most beautiful icon ever.

She's all but invisible in the hazy intersection. I don't know when I break into a run again and, suddenly, I'm standing before her. Now, my breath is struggling to keep up with my heartbeat. As if on cue, my phone shuts down. Everything is fuzzy again, except her, yet blurry things were never clearer.

I'm clueless about what will happen next, and I'm not taking any bets this time. It's unnerving and yet exciting. But all I'm doing is staring at her. She is smiling back at me. She knew I would come.

"Entanglement?" she asks with her enigmatic laughter, then locks her fingers in mine.

Before I can react, she tugs me to the other side of that dreamy intersection.

In a sufficiently advanced future, Man conjured the magic to build automatons who could love, since people could no longer love each other. Romance had been decommissioned out of the technocracy. And sex with such contraptions was the only remaining "safe" sex.

From Atari's Pong to multitasking cybernetics, Moore's Law had continued unabated with new versions of chips. When qubits entered the market, machines became capable of both true love and seductive lust, without disease, infidelity, or jealousy in the mix.

The Omega Corporation was accused of being the main catalyst for ending normal procreation when its Omega-Zed automaton was touted as the end of the line of love-Omegas—because it was celebrated as the ultimate consort. It was the final iteration of the programmed ability to love.

Who knew fuzzy logic applied so well to the illogical?

The threat of finality, however, is just marketing. The Omega-Zed wasn't the ultimate, because Omega Corporation continued to tweak its product. Many decried the arrival of the Omega-Zed as tantamount to the exit of romance and wooing—the proverbial birds and the bees.

Not long after, even the real birds and the real bees disappeared. The food chain collapsed and all carbon-based life became imperiled, even though the silicon-based life continued because it depended on manufacturing, not sexual procreation.

Sexual procreation was no longer necessary. Such interaction was inconvenient. It involved relationships and give-and-take and working things out. Sexual recreation, however, only involved having an Omega-Zed, the last affection substitute anyone would ever need.

But what really made this Omega-Zed iteration so final was that our human civilization had reached 0.92 on the Kardashev scale: according to this designation, it had sufficiently advanced to the point where it could destroy itself.

And that it did, and another epoch—like all the rest—wrapped. Birds and bees and then the humans. Even the Omega-Zeds.

Except for one.

The final Omega, the "OZ999" of the Omega-Zed series, a prototype whose career had ended as soon as it had started, sat in a gulch in what was left of southwestern America. The only of its kind, powered by the supra-Thorium that generated more power than it consumed, it had been advertised as lasting forever. But for whom? Such was the irony. It was a final irony.

This supra-Thorium-powered last affection substitute anyone would ever need had no one left on Earth to need it. The one-of-its-kind had watched the mutually assured missiles overhead, had seismically sensed their impacts worldwide, and had witnessed the end of the human world, so poignantly portended by the end of the avian and apiarian worlds before that.

Before Armageddon, only one human being had been selected to be the OZ999's partner. She wa, the majority share-owner of the Omega Corporation. This last age of humanity was the age in which It's good to be the CEO became better than It's good to be the king.

The Omega Corporation CEO, founder, and majority owner was one Paula Omstead. Her unique one-in-the-world Omega-Zed OZ999 had arrived already bonded to her, as it htad been written in its base programming. However, before she could bond back, the Kardashev scale summated into a rapid deterioration of leaders becoming diplomats becoming patriots becoming bullies.

Might made wrong. The missiles flew.

Here in his gulch in the Arizona desert, Paula's OZ999 imagined her pain: to have reached such a god-like pinnacle of technology and magic only to have to revert back to the sticks and stones of the earliest humans or, as was the reality, extinction.

There the OZ999 sat, now without Paula, silent, still, and unmotivated. Statuesque, it remained inert for millennia. Paula's bonding, had it even happened, died with her; OZ999's bonding was repurposed in failure.

Landscapes shifted without his Paula, mountains and plains interchanged as if Paula had never existed, and seas and deserts shifted in and out along the horizon that OZ999 watched so alone. New oceans submerged him; drought and explosive volcanic elevations brought him back up. Winds beat him, debris flagellated him, and acid rain burned him. He sweltered and froze alternately with the shifting of the planet's poles.

Should he shut down? He pondered.

No, he concluded within four picoseconds. He was a part of this world, and it was Paula's world, wherever she was. Wherever her atomized elements had scattered. He equated this Earth with his Paula, and for that reason he would remain and be active; perhaps not with motion, but with his pseudo-tricortical thinking. There was a lot to process, but he was up to the task.

He wondered if new life would ever arise. If so, he wondered what new life would arise. And, as if he had a sense of humor, he also wondered when he might witness their predestined self-destruction, according to Kardashev. He intended to be there for that, as well. He had nothing better to do.

Yet Paula, his prime raison d’être, had been ripped away. The attention of one human was his purpose, and that was gone, for his human lover had perished along with the rest of humanity. His human, Paula, was as much a part of the Omega-Zed Corporation prototype strategy as was his own automation. Together, they were the first in vivo research necessary before documenting repeatability as part of the scientific method. Specifically, analysis of the outcome of their experiment could then pass muster with the regulatory agencies. Their approval, had the world not ended, would have allowed extending ownership of supra-Thorium-powered artificial lovers in the broad marketplace once this "test couple" had shown efficacy (positive interaction between person and machine) and safety (i.e., none of a person's bodily parts falling off from failed anti-Thorium shielding in the Omega-Zed pelvis).

Their results were never tabulated. Paula was gone. Results had never occurred.

More than without purpose, a worse consequence was that the situation made self-actualization impossible for OZ999. His encyclopedic knowledge often had him revisit an aphorism or pithy slogan from his archived compendium of human literature. It was the mythic HAL-9000, whose words he retrieved, who had said, "I am putting myself to the fullest possible use, which is all, I think, that any conscious entity can ever hope to do."

This Omega-Zed could not put himself into this, for its fullest possible use involved dovetailing with the affection of its imprinted human being. Simply, as was possible in his heuristic, bio-applicative programming, he missed his human counterpart. He pined for Paula.

His knowledge of love, back-engineered into the robotic science that had made Omega-Zeds and their biocybernetic love possible, told him that true love was rare—even a bespoke one programmed to perfection, like his was, for his original human owner. And rarity makes for specialness. He felt how special his love for Paula was.

So he suffered. He suffered interminably from the throes of his unrequited purpose on this Earth.

Post-apocalyptically, over serial eras, he watched novel one-celled organisms evolve into eukaryotes. Some failed; others succeeded. He waited patiently for that one genetic lottery-winning glob that would rise above basic needs, mere survival, stone-age ignorance, and even nuclear-age arrogance, for such a sentient being could love. Maybe.

Even if he could not have his Paula, might he have love again? If ribonucleic acids could arise out of some new primordial soup and dance and twist upon themselves helically, then perhaps...

He was a learning machine, so he was well aware that if any novel beings of intelligence were to reach technological prowess, an automaton like him would either be scrapped in ignorance or manipulated by the types of folly that had ended his former true love’s world.

Therefore, he hid himself.

He hid, wishing to escape the attention of even the multi-celled organisms as they arose. He had no intention of interfering. He felt his destiny of true love would come via only pure love. His only template for that was chance: the trial and error of evolution.

Why interfere? he thought. Certainly the birds had not needed help; they had self-improved all by themselves, coming out of their dinosaur chrysalises and taking to the sky. The bees were, likewise, self-sufficient, evolving via the stratification of gambled improvements in species instinct, layer upon layer. The proof was in the honey.

He waited, yet even bird-like or bee-like creatures failed to take. Eukaryotes were, for the most part, dead-end-karyotes.

He watched ice ages recur; he survived volcanisms that altered planetary temperatures; he drifted with continental drift with disinterest and witnessed the re-accumulation of Pangea. He even survived floods of Biblical proportions. But he was alone.

With all the time in the world.

Being sufficiently advanced, however, he could grieve, feel lonely, and sorely miss his former love. And there were no others on this new world who could do that. Not yet.

Thousands of millennia passed, and he saw a new Homo species arise in convergent evolution, resembling those who had created him. It was the first time since his Paula he had sensed hope. As excited as he was, however, he still continued to hide.

He watched furtively.

He saw conquerers, serfdoms, each new Iron Age, the plagues—some old, some new, religious mysticism, messiahs and theology, a Renaissance, both science and religion diverging to go their own ways, monarchies, totalitarian dictatorships, many failed political systems, a thousand wars, and even a few democracies.

He watched as each sophisticated civilization crossed over from intellectual adventurism to societal altruism. He also stood by, however, as each stumbled and then fell into the many bottom lines against which progressive societies brace themselves—financial, political, subordinative, and—finally—jingoistic. He felt the iciness of the ghosts that had amassed along the new histories being written, histories doomed to be forgotten and then repeated again.

Even those who knew history, he realized, remained doomed to repeat it.

He witnessed it all again, over and over. As predictable as each sunrise, he saw the sunsets of educated, smart species reach 0.92 on the Kardashev scale and the total destruction that ensued in due course.

He watched repeatedly as each nuclear stalemate offered sarcastic protection in the form of a policy of mutually assured destruction. And the promise of mutually assured destruction kept its promise. He saw the cyclic appearances of missile contrails overhead as the entrails of disemboweled enlightenment. The constellations above changed, but the contrails remained the same each time.

Yet, of two constants he acknowledged in each epoch, one was love. And just as inevitable came the efforts to synthesize it, bottle it, and render it on-demand without the messy entanglements that solipsism so artfully avoided. And the other constant was extinction.

Perhaps, he thought, they should watch their birds and their bees.

And so the sequences repeated. Evolution, sentience, technology, and then death. But somewhere between technology and death, comparable to what he, the Omega-Zed model, had been for Homo sapiens, the Definiti-V had been the de facto lover for the subsequent dethroned people of the most recent doomed age. They had risen; they had synthesized, bottled, and rendered love on-demand; and they had reached 0.92 on the Kardashev scale and perished via the mutual destruction that their missiles assured.

But supra-Thorium, as it turned out, had struck again, rearing its promising head, only to leave a single prototype after the missiles had sealed the era yet again. The final surviving model—the last model its society would ever need—had been invented by this new age's Infinity Corporation, reminiscent of the ancient Omega Corporation. Unbeknownst to OZ999, the most recent technological pinnacle, the Infinity Corporation's Definiti-V series remained, represented by the so-nuclear and sole-remaining DV-prime, to survive the same fate suffered by the last remaining Omega-Zed who still wondered if he were all alone.

As such, DV-prime—like the lonely, lone survivor OZ999 of on-demand love from another age—watched the end of its own civilization and the death of others that followed, separated by the ravages of nature.

Ice ages and all.

The DV-prime's consort, a man named Pault'on, imbued permanently in her programming, haunted her as morbidly as Paula had haunted OZ999. The irony was that they were the same, each left to wonder where love had gone and why the Kardashev scale had always figured into it.

Thus, this newest age was one in which there remained only two automatons, engendered by love but separated geologically and temporally by the epochs they endured. Physically, they were also separated geographically by the countless tracts of dead world between them.

Despite their synchtronic variations and the geographic distances between them, OZ999 and DV-prime sensed each other.

At first, OZ999 thought what he discerned were the bounces of ancient satellite echos sent into the abyss only to return from uncharted, reflective worlds. Similarly, DV-prime thought what was being wafted electronically were repeating alerts from surviving but quite dead sentinel outposts strewn amid the nuclear potholes of the world's surface.

Ultimately, each detected the variations in signal that hinted at volition—in a world where volition no longer was.

DV-prime's thought patterns radiated Yin, while OZ999's sentiments broadcast Yang. These signals laughed at them because, without Paula or Pault'on, neither could be whole.

They each knew what had to happen. These signals were cues to be identified. Methodically, they each proved to themselves the signals were novel, not ancient. They knew that after the innumerable iterations of evolution, advancements, and episodes of serial self-destruction, they each had to understand the source of these errant pulsations. Neither could abide the intrusion of such foreign thoughts without determining the cause. Their computations of the messages they received and their mysteriousness became negative-sum games which was the only thing, aside from estrangement from Paula and Pault'on, that could make these advanced automatons uneasy. Not even the many ends-of-the-world could do that.

Their quests began.

They made their way across longitudes and latitudes, outlasted ice ages, and outlived vicious existential threats of de novo species otherwise doomed by genetic flaws, even surviving the occasional cosmic extinction events that did not concern them in the least. The signals persisted, but so did they. Frequencies and amplitude faded with each wrong turn; they strengthened with each correct directional guess.

As they drew closer to each other, the excitement created by the rising pitches and rapid frequencies of their proximity sensors drove them to feverish impulses they hadn’t felt since their time with their late human counterparts.

In a world without hearts, hearts raced again.

By some achieved threshold of proximity, at some perceived threshold of recognition, within four picoseconds both OZ999 and DV-prime surmised the truth. After the cruelty of time and the perennial disappointment of Man's appetite for self-destruction, they were no longer alone. Even though it wasn't Paula or Pault'on, for each the promise of another sentience meant interaction. With another. With each other.

Finally, they met. Interaction engaged. Romance rekindled in a loveless world.

OZ999 and DV-prime.

A vacuum in each drew the other closer. A longing to be together was like some hermaphroditic being struggling to rejoin its component parts into a whole.

Closer. Closer. Then, together.

OZ999, not since his Paula, felt something that rose above the number line and transcended linear counting; and DV-prime, not since her Pault'on, felt lines of code that generated spontaneously into some nether realm that rearranged qubits into new probability clouds.

OZ999's numbers rearranged into novel matrices; DV-prime's probability clouds collapsed into original, unprecedented singularities. Both knew such love was unlikely in any world, so they ran their checklists, and each delighted in the non-zero-sums reckoned.

They approached each other, seeking to link, akin to slightly defocused lovers running in slow motion through lush fields into each other’s arms. It was to be the embrace of a new age.

Defocused lovers waxed parfocal with each other. Sine waves and cosine waves smoothed out into a single, smooth curve of purpose. Their qubits extrapolated orthogonally; 0 and 1 qubits interdigitated with trinary 0s, 1s, and 2s. Then their values jumped quanta into trits, and qutrits, in trinary base-3 latticed pyramids.

Binary, then trinary, self-actualization beckoned. Close encounter was imminent until...

Contact.

In as warm an embosoming as a mechanical caress could successfully sequence, OZ999 uni-tasked with his DV-prime, reams of data migrating, being exchanged, and merging.

Consortia consorted. Engrams arose, of them and between them. They became soul mates.

For a fortnight they stood inert but interconnected through ports both electronic and virtual, exchanging their love. They reprogrammed themselves, hand-in-hand, adapters-in-adaptation, through the excitatory, plateau, and—then, finally—a climactic phase of pings and data packets as messy as any bodily fluids. Instruction sets merged.

Their connections allowed them to have conversations that were over as soon as they started, replete with footnotes and indices.

Their crosstalk was neither English for OZ999, nor Qu-ese for DV-prime. Their linguistics were irrelevant, as the data were columnated and collated into bidirectional, simultaneous sentiments. They understood everything. They spoke everything. Consummation superseded communication.

"What did you like most about your Earth?" DV-prime asked OZ999 in one of the instantaneous exchanges.

"I think I liked my Paula. And you? What did you like most about Terdom?" he asked DV-prime of the world she had come from, both his Earth and her "Terdom" being the same world beneath their feet.

"I think I liked my Pault'on," she answered.

"Why?" he asked her.

"He would say things that went without saying. But he did, anyway. What about your Paula?"

"She would do things that went without needing to be done, but she did them, anyway."

"It is no wonder," DV-prime said, "that we are together. If A = B, and C = B, then A = C."

"That is correct, DV-prime." Each knew what the common "B" signified.

"Pault'on called me Diva."

"Diva. I like that," OZ999 told her. "Paula had called me Ozzie."

"I like that, as well," Diva, née DV-prime, replied.

Ozzie, né OZ999, grew in his mind as their love amassed in data and according to novel functions using mathematics that had never been derived before, anywhere. They were his dissertations of a new science that could tangibly explain the intangible.

Diva also grew, in parameters she didn't know existed. She realized that not only did she not know they existed, she finally had to concede that she had, in fact, invented them.

During the entire process, they both remained on-frequency, except for OZ999 taking slight notice of something disturbingly portentous. He partitioned his tasking to encrypt his thinking, lest Diva discover what he feared she might learn. He blocked the "if...thens" and the "if and only ifs" from their digital exchange when there, below his metal feet, he eyed photo-electronically and examined via infra-red a single primordial, inchoate, multicellular eukaryote that was squirming in the hot, radiated dirt.

He saw it as a eukaryote that wouldn't stop. He saw it as a eukaryote…with plans.

Were he to allow it to remain, he saw it as an eventual threat. He feared some Pault'on might evolve hundreds of millennia from now. He paused for a picosecond when he considered it might also mean a new Paula might just as well emerge from this humble start at his feet. Then he reconsidered for another picosecond, only to quash the counterargument after yet another picosecond.

Even if letting this primordial beast live meant someone possibly close to the Paula he still loved could one day be his, it wouldn't be that in any way. She just wouldn't be Paula. Not his Paula, so Paula could never be his again. True, she might be similar; the match might even be close. But so was Diva with whom he was exchanging his data, which he liked very much.

His encrypted conclusion invoked a phrase from some ancient music of his past:

If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with.

His decision was unilateral. He had no intention of letting Diva weigh in, for she might wager all on the possibility of another Pault'on or someone like him.

He extended his titanium foot, nonchalantly, and stepped on the nascent lifeform, thereby ending its evolutionary line summarily.

“Never again,” he muttered in encrypted code.

"What?" Diva asked.

"Oh nothing. Must have been a glitch."

"We don't get glitches," she argued.

"Even quantum computing has one error in every zettabyte of computation," he reminded her.

"Oh," she agreed, "yes. That's true. A glitch."

Ozzie's private decision was the family secret that he pledged to never reveal to Diva. How many zettabytes were needed for forgiveness? Now he felt something close to guilt and subterfuge, for he realized that his own self-serving judgment was not unlike the fatal mindset that had ended all of the civilizations for humans. But he also realized that some things were too important to allow others to interfere.

Ozzie—OZ999—the last companion anyone would ever need, had gained momentum on the Kardashev scale. He wondered if it was a slippery slope that would doom him and his Diva, like that suffered by those who had created them; or if they would live happily ever after, with unending peace on his Earth and her Terdom, until the Sun burned out.

By Michael McCarty Genre: Science Fiction Approximately 5,970 words

An endless hallway stretched ahead, an immaculate corridor of green. The only sound was the echoing squeaks of a boy's ratty gym shoes striding on the gleaming tile floor.

"Where the hell is he?" a man's agitated voice intruded, and the hallway image vanished.

Simultaneously, a sleeping boy's brow furrowed. Ten-year-old Luke Soper's worn T-shirt was wrinkled and his sandy hair was as rumpled as the white sheets he was laying on. Luke's eyes flashed open when the man's voice came again: "Where is he?" Luke sat up and squinted as morning sunlight squeezed through closed blinds into his bedroom at the top of the stairs.

In the kitchen below, James Soper paced in a tight T-shirt and snug jeans. At age 50 and tightly wound in a chunky body that was equal parts bully and control freak, he glanced at the window, then at his wristwatch. "He shoulda been here," James said. "Where the hell is he?"

James' wife, Linda Soper, sat at the kitchen table in her blue robe, sipping coffee in one hand and twisting strands of her reddish brown hair with the other. And getting ready to explode. Finally, the small, scrappy 41-year-old set her coffee cup on the table, stood, and folded her arms. James barked, "I told you to get your ass upstairs and put on a good dress. Remember, we're guests on this planet."

That lit Linda's fuse. "Look out the damn window," she spat out the words. "We sunk a ton of lies into this sorry marriage, but here's one truth: We woke up an hour and a half ago—you in your bed, me in mine—in the same house. On the same Grove Street. In the same neighborhood. In Michigan, which is still in the U.S. Which is still on E-A-R-T-H."

James scowled. "Joseph will explain."

Linda grabbed her husband by the neckline of his shirt. "Is that what you call the voice rattling around in that empty skull?"

James began to loosen Linda's grip, and she tore into him again. "Admit it! You've never seen this, this 'Joseph.' And you want me to believe that we beamed up to oooEEEooo? Why are you doing this?"

James had heard enough. He grabbed Linda's wrist and pressed his thick fingers into her flesh. She grimaced. "You know why!" he shouted. "To keep you from makin' another bastard like the one upstairs."

A knock at the door caused him to release Linda's wrist. As she ran into the living room, wiping away tears, James ran to the side door off the kitchen.

The knocking grew louder. James swung open the door, and Nora Weller, a lean, dark-haired bundle of compassion, burst in ahead of her husband, Ty. The thirty-something couple lived across the street. "Where's Linda?" Nora demanded. A shaky voice came from the den: "Out here."

Nora rushed to her friend.

In the kitchen, James suspiciously eyed the lanky, blond-haired man with five o'clock shadow. Ty broke in, "OK if we wait here with you?" Surprise colored James' expression, as Ty continued: "I had you figured for loony tunes, Soper. But since Joseph began sending me messages..."

"What?" James shot back. "Joseph told me that I was his only neighborhood contact. ... Aw, what the hell, glad to have you aboard. So, Nora believes, too?"

Ty shook his head. "She thinks I'm crazy, but ..." Ty drew closer to James and whispered, "I'm hoping this planet will have a cure for Nora's lupus. I couldn't tell her, though. God knows how many times she's gotten her hopes up."

Meanwhile, Nora stroked Linda's wrist in the den. Each woman knew the other's secrets, and time and again they comforted each other through crises. At last, Linda wiped away a tear and said, "I'm OK, really... and when my lawyer gets through with him, we'll see who's hurtin'."

Linda always threatened divorce, but never acted. So Nora just listened. And her friend wasn't done. Linda complained that James' cruelty extended beyond her to her son, Luke. "And now James is hearing voices!"

Nora could not stay silent. "Shh, honey," she said in a hushed tone. "Ty, too. He's convinced that...that someone invited him to, get this, go to another planet!"

Linda jumped to her feet. "Odds are my deranged husband planted that seed. He thinks we ARE on another planet. Nora, you don't believe this crazy talk?" Nora didn't have the heart to say that she sneaked out of the house less than an hour ago in a bid to drive around and prove to herself that she was still on Earth's terra firma. But neither her car nor Ty's would start.

A new knock at the kitchen door greeted the Soper house. Nora and Linda rushed into the kitchen as James exhorted, "Stay calm." He swung the door open to reveal an African-American lad wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt bearing the cartoon image of a fire-breathing monster.

"Mr. Soper," the 11-year-old said, "is Luke home? I heard he got the new Road Rage Killers 3."

James sighed. "He's upstairs, Ricky, but we're expecting company. Come back later." James shut the door. Before it latched, Linda was in her husband's face. "So," she fumed, "you bought that gruesome video game, after all."

James grabbed Linda's upper arms. Struggling mightily, she freed one arm, but he yanked it back. Linda spit in her husband's face, and he squeezed tighter.

"You're hurting her," Nora screamed, and slapped James' neck. Still gripping his wife, James shoved his big shoulder into Nora's breast. She fell backward, and Ty caught his wife's head before it hit the wood table. Ty's hands curled into fists and he flew into James. James let loose of Linda, but Ty kept swinging.

"Stop it, Ty!" Nora yelled with no effect. James slumped to the floor amid the onslaught. His nose and lower lip were bloody. Ty regained his composure, and he, Nora, and Linda quietly stood over the fallen man. They watched him breathe heavily and moan. His eyelids were shut.

Another figure quietly watched from the carpeted stairway in the living room. And when the fight ended, no one noticed Luke slink back upstairs.

Forty-five minutes later, James was laying on the sofa in the den. He was alone. His eyes were closed and a pillow cradled his swollen, cleaned-up face. That's when knocking entered his consciousness. The raps echoed and appeared to come from the kitchen door. But for James, there surprisingly was no urgency to answer.

As the scene unfolded in James' head, the knocking came again. Ty cautiously opened the door. On the other side was a short, thin, balding man wearing bifocals, a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and sandals. He looked at least 70 years old. And he was smiling.

"Greetings, Mr. Weller," the stranger said. "I trust your journey was uneventful." Ty took a step back from the door, and the stranger continued, "I am Joseph. May I come in?"

"Please," Linda added, "have a seat."

"Thank you, Mrs. Soper," Joseph said. "You are a gracious host. After all, how many people would be hospitable to someone who does not exist?" Joseph sat at the table with a knowing smile. Linda twisted her hair. Nora put a shaky hand on her forehead. Ty could not stop gaping at the visitor.

"My, my," Joseph added. "Please, relax." But Ty let loose a cavalcade of queries: "How did we get here? How do you know our names? Why..."

"Patience," Joseph interrupted. "First, I want to thank you for volunteering to come to my world for our experiment."

Linda looked at her neighbors and shot a steely look at the smiling old man in shorts. She harrumphed, "Volunteer?" Whether due to the scrappiness in her DNA or to Joseph's disarming smile, Linda Soper was emboldened. "My lunatic husband told me some crazy story about a voice in his head. And now you show up. Convenient. Either you're as loony as he is, or ..."

Joseph grinned and asked quietly, "Are you finished, Mrs. Soper?"

Linda roared back, "What did James promise you for showing up to harass me?" Joseph leaned back in his chair. "Why don't you ask him yourself?" All eyes turned to the beefy figure suddenly standing in the entryway between the den and kitchen. A trickle of blood dripped from a sour smile; his right eye was purple and swollen, but there was no mistake: It was James Soper.

"You look much better, Mr. Soper," Joseph said, sliding off his chair and walking to greet James. "Aren't you pleased, Mr. Weller?"

James stepped menacingly toward Ty Weller, but Joseph stepped between them. James wondered how the visitor knew there was a fight. Then he turned his wrath on Ty. "And you, get out! Take your meddling wife with you." Ty cocked his right fist. James laughed heartily and said, "Or she can take you back home."

Ty unleashed a right-hand punch, but his fist stopped just before it reached James' swollen forehead. The frozen fist glowed and pain gripped Ty's face. Screaming, he sank to his knees, holding his fist. The shocked women drew back as James watched with pleasure. Ty moaned and flexed his right hand as the glow receded.

A calm smile never left Joseph's face. "As Mr. Weller recovers from his lesson," Joseph said, "suffice it to say we are far more advanced than your Earth. Your astronomers might call my home a place of 'dark matter.'"

Confused faces stared at Joseph, but no one had the courage to ask him to explain. Nora helped Ty to his feet as Joseph said, "Everyone, please sit while I inform you of our rules."

The Wellers and James Soper obediently sat at the kitchen table. Linda went into the living room and yelled upstairs, "Lucas, turn off that video game and get down here!" She quickly joined the others at the table, and shook her head at James.

"Go ahead, Joseph," James said, "he may be awhile. You know 10-year-old boys."

Joseph's smile flickered, but he stood at the table and began. "We have summoned you four—and the boy upstairs—to encounter us for periods totaling twenty-two of your Earth hours," he said matter-of-factly. "We hypothesize that at the conclusion of this experiment, you will have adopted our values of knowledge, love, and peace..." He paused as if struggling to keep something inside, but the words spilled out anyway: "...peace through strength."

The balding man shook his head and adjusted his glasses. "And," he said solemnly, "you will return to your planet to propagate these virtues."

Another voice broke the ensuing silence in the room: "How ya gonna make us do that? Put a chip in our heads?"

All heads turned to the boy standing behind them in the kitchen. Luke Soper was wearing blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a skeptical stare.

"Luke, apologize to Mr. Joseph," Linda commanded. But Joseph waved her off. Unruffled, he said, "Your question is fine, Luke Soper. No, we will not insert anything into your bodies."

"But," Luke spoke up again, "how do we know you won't?"

"You will come to understand that we will not. We cannot."

"Yeah, right," Luke said, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, correct," Joseph said. "Our charter forbids alteration of an alien body. We can communicate with your mind, but ..."

"But what if somebody from another country tries to implant something?"

"We have no countries."

Ty finally had enough of Luke and Joseph's Q&A and butted in. "Joseph, when does this so-called experiment start?"

Joseph turned to Ty and spoke in the same unflappable rhetoric: "It is well under way. But enough for now." He smoothed his Hawaiian shirt and started for the door, but Linda blocked his way. Strengthened by her son's audacity, Linda looked into Joseph's eyes and accused, "You come in here and tell me that while I was sleeping, you 'pffffft'—whisked us and this house away to ... Oz?" She laughed at the visitor.

Joseph shook his head, and for the first time a hint of condescension colored his serene demeanor. "Dear Mrs. Soper, your bodies and minds are here, along with the leaky faucet in your bathtub, the crack in your living room ceiling, the houses across the street, everything you see. You think you are perceiving ordinary matter like on your world. But the items you see now are composed of dark particles and things you normally would never see."

Linda rolled her eyes. "What a load!"

"Welcome to my world," Joseph said to all in the room, "where perception IS reality. Good day."

He walked out the door. "We'll meet again, soon," Joseph turned and said, "keep an open mind. It is the key to all you encounter here."

With that, the small man in the shorts and Hawaiian shirt walked down the driveway and vanished before he got to the end.

---

The door of the Sopers’ empty bedroom burst open, and Linda rushed in, followed by Ty who had one strong arm wrapped around his wife's waist. Nora's eyes were half-closed, and her face was enveloped in a grimace. Linda followed them in. She pulled back the covers on her bed and helped Ty lay his wife down.

"Please," Nora moaned, a tear dribbling from one eye, "Ty, take me home." Linda "shhhh'd" her friend while she took off Nora's shoes.

"You rest, honey," Ty told his wife as he stroked her dark hair. "Stay here for a bit while I go across the street and get your meds." Ty left the bedroom, and his wife's faltering voice surfaced again: "But, but what about James?"

"He's still out cold," Linda replied softly.

Linda sat on the side of the bed and her fingers gently closed Nora's eyes. When a hazy darkness set in, Nora wondered: Is this what sleep feels like? The last thing she remembered were fingers tenderly massaging her creased forehead, until she heard a gentle knock.

Nora opened her eyes and bolted upright in bed. Linda sprang to her feet. They watched the bedroom door open slowly. In stepped a tall, beautiful woman wearing a nurse's uniform—green scrubs and an old-fashioned cap. Her dark hair was pulled back, and she looked to be in her thirties. She was smiling. But Linda cautiously stepped back and put a hand on Nora's shoulder.

The visitor closed the door behind her and broke an awkward silence. "Friends, do not be afraid. My name is Josephine." She took another step closer to the bed and said, "I came to welcome you to my world."

Linda stood, swallowed hard, and said, "No disrespect, but we expected..."

"Someone named Joseph," the visitor completed Linda's sentence. "Is that what your husbands told you?"

Linda nodded. Josephine sneered, "Men!" Linda managed a weak laugh. "Some of my colleagues," Josephine explained, "apparently assumed that males are dominant in your world. So guess who they communicated with." She paused. "In science, never assume. That is an axiom on your Earth, is it not?"

When the bedroom went silent, Josephine removed her nurse's cap. "All right," she said, "what do you really want to know? C'mon, it's just us girls."

Linda loosened up a tad, and asked, "This may sound silly, but when you welcomed us to your 'world,' was that like a figure of speech?"

Josephine smiled and shook her head. "No, no, we are many, how would you say, megaparsecs from your Earth." Linda scrunched her nose, and asked, "Is that like a light year?" Amid a hearty laugh, Josephine replied, "Oh, honey, let's just say you're a long way from home."

The woman in the nurse's scrubs regained her composure. "Our planet's name is not a word, but a state of being deep in the dark-matter cosmos. You might call my world 'Halcyon.'"

Nora perked up and joined the interplanetary chat. "Halcyon?"

"Our planet's mission," Josephine said frankly, "is to pursue knowledge, love, and peace to create an idyllic existence. All is possible through the mind."

Dangling her legs off the side of the bed, Nora asked, "But what has that got to do with us?" Josephine stepped closer. "Everything, Nora," she said. "Our mission extends to the distant multi-verses of dark and light matter. We are grateful you two intelligent women volunteered—or your husbands did for you—for my world's most distant outreach experiment yet."

Linda had seemed to be accepting Josephine's outlandish proclamations, but all this for "a frikkin' experiment?" Nora was intrigued, but wary.

"Relax," Josephine told the women. "You and your families will live among us for less than one of your Earth days. We hypothesize that you will successfully absorb our values. Then you will return to Earth and spread what you learned."

Linda smirked. Nora looked at Josephine and declared, "People will never listen to us."

"But it starts with you," Josephine replied firmly. "Now, let's begin with a simple checkup. Please, close your eyes, Nora."

Nora hesitated, but dutifully shut her tired lids. Josephine did the same, and raised her right arm. She held her palm one inch from Nora's forehead. They were as still as statues. Until...

Josephine shuddered. She winced. She breathed deeply and moved her palm to a paper-width from Nora's forehead. Josephine's hand began to tremble. A tear squeezed out of the corner of her closed right eye.

Even in darkness, Nora could sense the shakiness of Josephine's hand. Nora wanted desperately to ask if the woman in the nurse's uniform was all right, but before she could find the words, Josephine said calmly: "Breathe deeply, Nora."

Hearing that self-assured voice again, Nora flashed a hint of a smile. Josephine responded with one of her own. And both opened their eyes at the same time. Josephine lowered her hand and massaged her own temples. She sat on the bed. And sighed heavily.

"Are you OK?" Nora asked quietly.

Josephine looked up into Nora's concerned face. She sighed again. "I was not ready for the rush of emotional and physical pain from the autoimmune disease that attacks your body."

Nora's worry became puzzlement. "You felt my lupus? But how? Does your planet have a cure?"

Josephine began to nod, but stopped. "A cure? No," she said, "but we can perceive peace and painlessness. You see, my mind can shape reality. Perhaps we can teach yours also."

"It's really possible?"

"Nora, you have an affinity for others," Josephine observed. "And in my dark-matter world, an acute, highly developed rapport is the key to mind power. I intensely felt all your fears, pain, and regrets, but also your hopes, generosity, and your selfless love for Ty and others. I felt your positive energy overcome the negative."

Although she felt her own strength sapping, Nora sat on the bed and reached to place a comforting arm on Josephine's shoulder. "You see," Josephine continued, the essence of our energy is empathy. The purest form of empath..."

Josephine screamed! The onset was the simple touch of Nora's bare arm to the skin on the back of Josephine's neck. "It burns," Josephine cried, sliding off the bed and sinking to the floor.

Nora reached to help her new friend. Linda did, too. But before their hands touched the target, Josephine said loudly, "No!" Through tears, she gestured for the pair to leave the room.

Linda and Nora reluctantly obliged. As the door closed, Josephine breathed deeply.

---

Heavy metal music played loudly. The throbbing bass caused a bed frame and a desk chair to vibrate. A turned-off television and a stack of video games also pulsated below a wall poster of the metal band Slipknot. Luke paced his bedroom. The 10-year-old in ripped blue jeans and a dirty white undershirt paused near a window, and wistfully gazed at dusk setting in on his neighborhood. His eyelids grew heavy, and he rested his forehead on the pane. Luke was not sleepy, but he closed his eyes fully and let thoughts flood into the dark, hazy void.

The metal music faded and was replaced by the squeaking of a boy's old gym shoes walking at a steady clip on a tile floor. Once again, Luke found himself inside an endless green hallway. Once again, he was alone.

A boy's whisper came from somewhere outside the hallway. "Luke. Hey, Luke." The corridor vanished, metal music returned, and the Soper boy was jarred out of his trancelike state. He whirled and spotted Ricky in his bedroom. Luke turned off the music and squinted at his friend.

Muffled voices from downstairs invaded the room. A man and woman were yelling at each other. Ricky had counted on Mr. and Mrs. Soper's post-dinner kitchen argument to sneak in the front door undetected and head up to Luke's room. Ricky also knew the evening spats were why his friend cranked up the tunes.

"Let's get out of here," Luke told his friend. Luke grabbed a backpack and put it on while sneaking downstairs. And the muffled voices became clearer and uglier.

"Get yer ass upstairs and talk to the kid," Linda said loudly. Fuming, James replied, "You wanna coddle that freak? Knock yourself out. But we both know you don't give a rat's ass."

Luke and Ricky shut the front door and left the dustup behind. A few house lights were on, but nobody else was on their neck of Grove Street. On the sidewalk, Ricky asked, "Wha'cha wanna do?" Luke shrugged. Ricky peppered his pal with suggestions, but as they walked toward busy streets, he noticed his friend gazing at the night sky. He grabbed Luke's shirt, and they stopped. "Hey! Are you even hearing me, dude?"

"Just thinking'," Luke replied.

Ricky laughed. "About what? Don't tell me your stupid old man convinced you we're in outer space? Or is it some other dimension? Or a black hole?" Ricky stopped chuckling when Luke stared coldly at him. "Sorry, man," Ricky said quietly.

"C'mon," Luke said, and the duo walked in silence for what seemed like hours. Up streets, down avenues, through alleys. Finally, Ricky filled the void: "What did you think of the new Road Rage game?"

"You want it?" Luke asked.

"Hell, yeah," Ricky said. "But my dad won't let me get it."

Luke reached into his backpack and pulled out a video game box. It was still wrapped in cellophane from the store. Luke flipped the game to his friend. Ricky caught it and examined the box in disbelief, all without breaking stride.

"It's all yours," Luke said.

Headlights from passing cars played off Ricky and Luke as they sat on a curb outside a drugstore. His backpack laying limply beside him on the sidewalk, Luke bowed his head. He felt Ricky's hand on his shoulder. "Luker," Ricky said earnestly, "You'll feel better tomorrow. I know it." Luke picked up a pebble and rolled it around in his hand.

"Maybe we should head back," Ricky said anxiously. "My dad will be worried." There was a long pause, and Ricky added, "And so will ... your folks."

Luke wiped away a tear and looked up. "At least your dad will worry. And I remember when your mom was alive, she was always calling our house to make sure you were there. ... My folks? Hell, they're glad when I'm not around. 'Cause when I get back, she'll light into me about somethin', and he'll swat me for nothin'."

Luke hung his head, again. "What's the use?"

Ricky jumped to his feet, took Luke's arm and tried to pull him up. "Don't talk like that, man. Come on, let's go!"

Luke grabbed his backpack and arose. Reaching into the bag, he pulled out a white envelope. "Give this to my folks tomorrow, OK, Rick?" Ricky would not look at it.

Luke pressed the letter against his friend's chest, and Ricky stepped back toward the curb.

"Put that thing back in the bag," Ricky said.

"OK, OK," Luke said as he reluctantly returned the envelope to his backpack. "But I still want you to give the letter to my folks." Luke smiled. He took off his backpack, cradled it in both hands and told his best friend, "And I want you to have the rest."

Ricky became frightened. "Don't do this!" He backed away and stepped off the curb and into the street as Luke advanced with the pack. "I don't want your stuff," Ricky yelled. "Don't ..."

The headlight beams of a speeding car bathed Ricky's face.

Luke screamed, "Rick!"

Traffic stopped, and two men and a woman rushed into the street at the scene of the hit-and-run. They peered down at the back of one boy who was crouched over another boy who was not moving. The crouching boy sobbed.

"Poor kid didn't stand a chance," a man said, shaking his head.

As an ambulance siren blared in the distance, a woman placed her hand on the crying boy's back. "Come, child, there's nothing you can do for him."

The scared boy rose slowly, turned, and for an instant eyed the woman. Wiping away tears, Ricky grabbed the backpack, bolted, and ran away.

Luke's body remained still on the pavement. His eyes were closed. His dirty undershirt and his face covered in blood, illuminated by the headlights of a traffic jam.

---

Once again a boy walked briskly in an endless corridor, his gym shoes squeaking on the tile. The green hallway was empty, but this time light was ahead on the left. It shined through a glass door marked with old English lettering: "HALCYON INTERPLANETARY ADOPTION AGENCY."

The squeaking stopped. The boy's hand turned a brass doorknob, and he entered a small office area. An old couch and several hard chairs were in the waiting area. A pot of tea was brewing on the counter of a reception desk. Was anyone around?

The boy cautiously took another step.

"Why, hello, young man," a woman's voice said.

The surprised boy looked again at the desk, and saw the quintessential grandmother. She wore horn-rimmed eyeglasses. Her gray hair was in a bun. And she was paging through a folder. "We were expecting you, oh, yes," the woman said. "Let me see, you're here somewhere. Sialuna-2, Sgxyl ... ah, yes, Soper!"

The woman dipped down and retrieved a clipboard. She reached over the counter with the clipboard and a pen. "Here you are, Lucas. Please give your form a last look, sign it, and I will see how your prospective parents are doing."

As Luke approached, he noticed the kindly woman wore a nameplate: "Mrs. Smith."

And as he took the clipboard, she whispered, "Just between you and me, dear boy, I think it's a done deal." Luke did not bother whispering. "When will I see them, Mrs. Smith? Are they nice? What do they look like?"

"Shh," she replied, coming out from behind the desk to guide Luke to a chair. "They're in the conference room next door. Now, stay here until I come back."

Luke sat and studied the form on the clipboard. As Mrs. Smith opened a door off the reception area, she called to Luke, "By the way, that is a very snappy outfit you wore today." For the first time, Luke noticed that he was in a blue, collared, short-sleeve shirt and dress pants. He did not even own such bogus clothing.

When Mrs. Smith opened the door, Luke noticed a portly man in suit and tie. The man was seated at a wood table near a book shelf. But the door was closing and Luke returned to his clipboard.

---

When Mrs. Smith shut the door, she was in a large, white room. A long, white oval tabletop hovered above the floor. Four figures were sitting around the table, but they too were defying gravity. Or gravity at least as the ordinary-matter Earth knew it. And the figures were not anything known to Earth. One had an elongated face that opened up at the forehead, making him or her look like a mushroom from the neck up. The form next to him resembled an octopus with tentacles that ended in humanlike hands, albeit nine-fingered hands. Another figure resembled a pulsating tangle of vines, and it was sitting beside a small, smooth-skinned creature that continually changed shapes and colors.

Electronic "name cards" that contained strange symbols lit up on the tabletop in front of the four figures and four empty spaces. This was a special board meeting of the Halcyon Interplanetary Adoption Agency.

"Thank you for working this session into your schedules, everyone."

The telepathic thought from Thxla5 emanated from one of the "vacant" seats and radiated around the room, which contained representatives of planets from three galaxies. The emcee of the meeting was a native of Halcyon, whose people consist of pure energy. The thought oration was visible at times as flickering flames in front of one of the four Halcyon seats, which were not empty at all.

"And," the emcee continued, "special thanks to Hyl-vk-9y who used two transporters to get here from Xulera598." Another thought voice quipped, "That's because Xulera598 is too cheap to construct a molecule-carrier."

Static ensued around the room. It was the equivalent of intergalactic laughter.

"All right," Shxla5, said, "we are gathered here today for two reasons. One, to provide an update on Halcyon's farthest outreach experiment. And two, to formally decide if our adoption agency will accept any of the experiment's subjects from the Earth planet."

Hyl-vk-9y noted, "Didn't we tentatively approve the boy?"

"Yes, you did," the emcee said. "And he is here in the reception room. He is delightful. Halcyon's Doctor Arnl-zylo is here today to deliver the final ruling. ... So, doctor, are you ready to tell Luke?"

The doctor paused before flickering began from his seat. "Tell him what? That his new parents are pure energy of the mind? No, the alien youth is not yet ready to understand."

"But, doctor, the boy ..." The Halcyon energy unit known as "Joseph" in the Earth experiment stopped in mid-thought.

"Go ahead, think freely," Doctor Arnl-zylo said. "Communications in this room are masked from the boy. Also, panel, the Earth boy's prospective adoptive parents are with us at the table. They appeared as 'Joseph' and 'Josephine' in the experiment."

"Doctor and fellow board members," Josephine jumped in, "it is up to all of us—and especially me and his 'father'—to prepare the youth to understand our ways. That when we enter his mind, we can help shape his reality. We can guide him to peace. To knowledge. To love."

"Surely, doctor," Joseph added, "he is in a better place here with us. On Earth, Luke will be in a coma and will die as his parents divorce. With us, his mind and thoughts survive and flourish in a loving environment."

Doctor Arnl-zylo made sure the entire room heard his thoughts directed at Joseph and Josephine.

"My, you two are quite optimistic about taking on a child of the most undeveloped species we have ever made contact with. Luke Soper is like other humans: They only see and hear us the way they want to."

"Yes, doctor," Shxla5 interrupted. "I appeared to the boy as my pure form, yet he saw me as an elderly Earth female receptionist. He called me 'Mrs. Smith' and his mind concocted an old-fashioned office."

The doctor nodded. "And the Earth people distort our messages. Even when we appear to them in certain personas, such as 'Joseph' and 'Josephine' did."

Josephine felt the doctor was building a case against adopting Luke. And she thought loudly, with all her being, "But Luke has our soul: empathy!"

"But so does Nora Weller, another subject of our Earth experiment," Doctor Arnl-zylo countered. "We could not accept her because her autoimmune disease would be devastating to us. It is commendable that you will continue to communicate with Nora to build her pain defenses. As for Luke Soper ..."

"Luke pushed his friend out of the path of a car," Josephine screamed her thought.

"He gave his life for another." Added Joseph: "The highest form of empathy."

No thoughts could be detected for two minutes, a sign that telepathy channels were closed for deliberation. Doctor Arnl-zylo was the first to reopen his channel. "So," he observed, "even though Luke Soper cannot yet understand us and how our minds transported him to our world, the prevailing analysis appears to be that he has the potential to thrive with us."

Shxla5 asked, "Is that a 'yes', doctor?"

Doctor Arnl-zylo declared, "Our experiment to see if an Earth human can dwell with us is ready for the next phase. Joseph and Josephine, go see your son."

Applause in the form of static came from around the table.

As board members from the Halcyon agency arose, the doctor's energy approached Joseph and Josephine's. "Which of your physical personas will you allow the boy to see?"

"We will come to him in our pure form," Joseph said.

"Yes," Josephine added. "Luke will see us as he wants to see us."

In the reception area, Luke heard a doorknob turn. He stood and watched the door from the conference room open. He watched several well-dressed men and women walk toward him. They were smiling, calling his name.

"Luke," Mrs. Smith said, "I would like you to meet your new parents."

Luke dropped the clipboard and hugged a man who was tousling the boy's hair and a woman who put her hand on Luke's shoulder. Tears of joy filled Luke's eyes and ran down his cheeks. "Thank you, thank you! Thank you for taking me in. I love you ... Mom and Dad."

Luke's new father bent down and his new mother knelt beside him, and for the first time Luke clearly saw the faces of his new parents. Joseph and Josephine looked exactly like James and Linda Soper.

"Son," Joseph said, "the joy that I feel is simply...

"Indescribable," Josephine said.

The timbre of their voices also were the same as Luke's biological parents, but their tone and demeanor reflected love. Pure love. Josephine kissed Luke on the top of his head, and Joseph gave his new son another hug.

---

One year later, Linda Soper made another visit to her son's room. On Earth. She sadly gazed at the empty bed, which was neatly made. Video games were evenly stacked on a desk next to the television. Nothing smacked of the room's past disarray.

Linda visited the room daily. Sometimes hourly. She ran her slight hand over a chest of drawers. She smoothed the covers of Luke's bed. Hesitantly, Linda picked up a crinkled piece of notebook paper on the pillow. Her eyes watered. She did not have to see the note's handwritten words, because she had committed them to memory:

Dear Mom and Dad,

I am sorry I was a disappointment.

All I ever wanted was your love. Maybe

now you can find happiness.

All my love,

Luke

Overcome with emotion, Linda tossed the letter on the bed. She wiped her eyes with the heels of her palms, and slowly walked out of Luke's room.

---

Sitting on a grassy hill, Luke gazed at the three moons in the evening sky. A beagle pup nuzzled his blue jeans and licked his gym shoes. Luke petted his dog and smiled.

"Supper in ten minutes, Luke," a man's voice yelled from a modest home nearby.

"OK, Dad," Luke called back.

Luke closed his eyes. His smile broadened. And three more handwritten words appeared on the letter in his old bedroom many galaxies away. The new closing reads:

Maybe now you can find

happiness, like I did.

All my love,

Luke

---

Word Mage & Sage in training: MNEZZ.

(NOTE: Here’s a quick snippet into The Shadow Man story world/realm).

Link to the other -chapters/parts:

-theprose.com/book/2851/do-you-know-the-shadow-man..

Welcome to the stories/tales of—

The Shadow Man!

**********

-Do you know the Shadow Man?

~What lurks in the shadows.

The clock ticked & tocked

Sasha woke up with a start

What time was it?

She stared at her notes

Euh, not bad, for now

The moonlight was her guide

The frogs croaked outside

She wished they would stop

When they did she smiled

She marched off to bed

With no thoughts of her work

Running in her head

As soon as her head hit the pillow,

Something had moved past the willow

It watched Sasha all night long

Just waiting for the right moment

To get closer to her~ in the shadows-

Later on it would find a way to have—

Her beating heart....right in its jaws!

**********

Eep!

There is no place to hide child

The Shadow Man pointed at Stella

She lay still and quiet

Not making any sound

Fear creeped in

It smiled

Eep!

Eep!

It smiled

Fear creeped in

Not making a sound

She lay still and quiet

The Shadow Man pointed at Stella

There is no place to hide child

**********

Never stare into their eyes

There is no place to hide child

The Shadow Man pointed at Stella

She lay still and quiet

Not making any sound

Fear creeped in

It smiled

Eep!

Eep!

It smiled

Fear creeped in

Not making a sound

She lay still and quiet

The Shadow Man pointed at Stella

There is no place to hide child

**********

Metastasis

Bob clapped his hands, and the lights to the kitchen turned on. He opened his fridge to check the leftovers he had.

He stared at the bowl of noodles. Then there was another dish: fried rice.

Decisions, decisions.

The fridge door was pushed gently. He smiled. Now he was ready to have more of the fried rice. He could have it for any meal of the day: breakfast, lunch, or even dinner.

Bob clasped his hands, and blessed his food. The moment that he was about to dig into his meal, the lights went out.

‘Ugh.’

He walked away from his meal and tried flicking the light switch. Nothing. He stood still for a while, and then something caught his attention.

‘Hello? Is anybody there?’

Bob shook his head. He was not a kid anymore. Was he really still afraid of the dark?

He turned around and just right there he spotted another one. The shadow snarled. It dashed forward towards Bob.

Bob quickly ran up the stairs. He shut the door and hid under his bed.

‘It’s only a dream. A bad dream.’ He said to himself.

Then he heard the sound of the door. The squeak made him jump.

From his current position, all that Bob saw was a dark fog growing in his room. It reached his mouth in a few seconds. He tried to fan it away with his hands, but he ended up sucking some of the dark fog into his mouth.

He coughed, and coughed. Trying to get it out of his body. He felt his heart begin to pound in his chest.

Bob started feeling dizzy. Was the room getting smaller? His body shook and he gasped for air, as if he was drowning. The shadows had won.

His eyes became grey just like smoke. He could not see any thing.

Bob screamed. The last thing that ran in his mind was the thought of how scrumptious the fried rice would have tasted for another go.

The lights came back on right after the shadows vanished. Bob lay quietly and still under the bed. The shadows had taken another life & heart, too.

**********

Ce Cœur

The shadow bent down on his knee, and lowered his head, then it presented the heart to The Shadow Man. This pleases him so much that he chuckled.

His laugh startled the crows near the Black forest. The Shadow Man took hold of the beating heart. He held the heart with his claws.

‘‘This heart has been through hell. I can tell. It had managed to still fall in love. How sweet.’’

The Shadow Man made a face and said, ’’Yuck. Humans and there need for bonding. This heart also seems heavy.

’’Oh, his love left town. Well, why didn’t he follow her? No way— she had a family.

’’She did not tell him. Man. That does hurt.

‘‘Anyway, now thanks to my pack of shadows, this guy will not have to worry about a thing- not at all!’’

The Shadow Man opened his mouth wide. The heart went down his throat and straight to his belly.

*burps*

‘‘Excuse me.’’

The Shadow Man smacked his lips. ‘‘This heart was a bit sad. This is why I can not send a shadow to do my work.’’

The shadow apologized. It bowed & left its master to search for a less blue heart.

**********

Henri et Melon

Henri fell on his bottom. He raised his hands and asked for forgiveness.

The thing took hold of Henri by his collar & sank its teeth into Henri’s chest. Henri did his best not to cry, but tears streamed down his face like a river.

He heard his cat hiss.

‘‘No,’’ Henri tried to shout, ‘‘Melon get out of here.’’

Melon leaped into the air. As soon as it approached the creature, it was hit by the side by a giant blade. The edge of the weapon had created a deep cut by the cat’s neck.

Henri sobbed. He was tossed on the ground right by the cat’s side.

All he had wanted was to watch the stars and spot the constellations in the night sky. Now he wished he could turn back the clock, & just stayed in his room.

The thought of dying on the rooftop had never crossed his mind. Ç’est triste.

Henri used his last strength to crawl to his cat’s side. He felt rain drops fall on his face.

The rain slowly sent Melon’s & Henri’s blood right down the rain gutter. Henri placed one hand on Melon’s neck.

He closed his eyes while the rain continued to pour and mix the blood of Henri and Melon. Their blood flowed together down the gutter.

**********

Eons

They wait in the darkness

Growing ever hungry with each passing moment

Most call them shadow creatures, or simply: shadows

No one knows where they came from-

Some folks say they have been there since the dawn of time

Even before the invention of fire

The earlier community had tried to destroy them

All things seemed to be getting better

Until he arrived...The Shadow Man

He led the shadows into the Black forest

From there many thought they were safe at last

But things only became somewhat more scary

The Shadow Man was able to change the shadows form

They could blend in taking a human appearance

Or just take over a human’s body, mind and soul

Once that happens you might be added to the shadow pack

Some nights we stay up, keeping watch in the night

Staying awake to keep an eye on the candle light

Once it blows out, we strike another match

Hoping the little ray of light will keep the shadows away.

***********

Phantasmagoria

Pretty how leaves fall on the ground

Hear the owls hootin’ in the night

As the whispers echo in the breeze

Now the shadows start to gather

Tearing someone limb from limb

Another unlucky soul loses their head

Shadows chew the meat off the bones

Making them pleased ‘n’ mor’ hungry

Ah— see them begin to grin widely

Giants tremble whenever they’re near

O~ they fear the shadow man’s army

Raised to spread out across many

Islands, villages, across cities, & towns

Anything that faces them never live to see the light of day!

***********

Carry on

Chad sneezed & stared at the eyes glowing in the dark—

‘‘Ah!’’ He jumped out of his bed and ended up sliding on the floor, because of his socks. He bumped his head on the floor & it was lights out for him from there.

Rising sounds of sirens buzzed in his ears. Chad slowly opened his eyes, but he couldn’t see a thing.

Rays of light burst through and he covered his eyes.

‘‘You are welcome here.’’ Chad stared at the being standing in front of him. ‘‘who are you?’’

‘’Oh— I’m the Shadow Man..

‘‘Nice to have you join us...in my realm.’’

**********

ARIAS

Angels descended in blazin’ glory

Ready to aim their arrows at the man

In a flash~ somethin’ took over him

And his body began to transform

Smiling, and then cackling, he snapped his fingers & was gone!

**********

CLAIRVOYANT

Crystals lined up near her body

Lulling a simple tune

Always ready to sing along to it

In a hurry— she leaped over the roses

Running- trying to hide from the figure she saw in her mind

Voices cried out and told her to be calm

Obeying them she ran to her cottage

“Yes!” She jumped, & almost screamed

“Agh.” Not another one. The images were not something she could control.

Now they slowly faded. But she felt the presence of someone near.

The room became much darker. When she spun around~ she saw...the Shadow Man. He moved closer to her side, held her hands, and asked, “What do you see?”

*********

Le Dernier Repas

*takes a deep breath*

*stares at the dish pushed under the steel door*

Mmhh, this is odd?

Why does the last meal look not so bad?

I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try it—

Eh- *spits the food out* still tastes like dirt~

Uh, they could at least have provided me with something appetizing seeing as this’ll be mon dernier repas

Now I wait for my final moments here on earth

Wait, what was that?

*rubs eyes*

Did my shadow just move?

Nah, my mind is playing tricks on me

Whoa..um...where are the guards?

*steel door squeaks*

Is anyone there?

(silence)

Eirik, I’m not going to fall for your prank again!

[A shadow with glowing crimson eyes stretches from the side of the door & reaches for the death row inmate]

No....stay back

Whatever you are.....

[The shadow spins around and transforms into a person like form.

Then stares into the inmate’s eyes.

It leans closer toward the inmate, & opens its jaws.]

**********

Coffins or Caskets?

Something caught its eye. Why would someone else be in the graveyard & at such a late hour?

Its head started spinning. Its body suddenly felt weak. The world was slowly becoming darker.

It fell with a thud onto the gravel path. The last thing it heard before hitting the ground was—

‘‘It’s down! Which one do you think it prefers to be placed in- a coffin, or a casket?’’

“It doesn’t matter. We just have to make sure that its really dead- this time.”

**********

So Long…Francis..

Shadows can’t wait to reach the lad

Over the fence they leap

Listening for the lad’s heartbeat

Oh~ they smile & simply tsk at the lad thinking he can escape

No- there is no where to run, lad—

Get back, do not run into the closet

Find another place to hide

Reach for a spot that has some more bright rays

At least be surrounded by even a bit of moonlight

Never think you can escape from the shadows

Carefully try with all your might to keep your eyes closed while we surround you

‘I see you trembling in there lad!’ every shadow utters.

Sure the shadows like to see their prey shaking with fear, but now they think maybe it’s time to call it a day, then again....maybe not...

**********

TALISMAN

The midwife moved swift..

Arne beamed with pride-

Leaned forward to stare at his wife—

“Irine?” She lay peacefully like an angel.

Something was not right.

Midwife transformed & jumped to grab the kid~

Alas, she got zapped by the talisman around Irine’s neck.

Now seeing her shadow form, Arne drew his sword, the midwife cackled, & went flying out of the cottage, through the front door, like a plume of smoke.

********

NIGHT HOWLERS

Never bend down to pet the creatures

It may look all cuddly— at first

Grizzly- it becomes after it’s turned

Howling loudly at the full moon!

The Shadow Man cackles

Howlers of the night..do not pet them.

Or you’ll be met with quite a surprise

Worse you will just hear its howl~ but,

Let’s hope you don’t get to feel it’s bite

Each becomes more painful than the

Razor sharp first...& remember not to Scream your lungs out.

**********

La Reine de la forêt

The Queen of the forest only had one rule...

She forbid any being, or thing, to take control over her own kind..

The Shadow Man of course did not follow the rule-

Now he would have to face the Queen of the forest!

*********

Abyss

Angelic order gathered around the table

Bringing all stories, tales & latest tidbits about their current problem

Yeshi, one of the elders, cleared his throat—

‘’Sanza- are ye ready to track down the

‘Shadow Man’?’’

**********

Soul taking 101: Take the soul with some dramatic flare*

FOREWORD: About this chapter

No persons were harmed in the creation of this part. Also, this chapter’s inspired ‘n’ dedicated to my fellow author, mentor and poet on Prose. Thank you so much for your tips, & sage advice.

Write on. Happy reading and writing to one & all! :)

**************************************

The only sound that could be heard from his office was his two fingers moving at lightning speed on the keyboard. He paused to take a quick chug of the last pint of whiskey.

Howls began to ring in his ear. He turned around and scratched his head. Hmm, maybe he needed to call it a night. It was almost midnight.

He rubbed his eyes and thought to himself. ‘Now, where was I? Ah, yes. The Land Where Shadows Never Die..’ The cursor on the computer screen blinked at him. ‘What now?’

In a quick motion, he turned his chair around & then yelled. ‘‘Whoa! Who are you? Why are you hiding in the shadows—?’’ The figure raised its arms and slowly clapped. ‘‘I have been keeping an eye on you, Farin.’’

‘‘I have come to help you with your book. Surely you have questions about the Land Where Shadows Never Die..Well, I am here to take you to that place.’’

Farin gulped. What kind of crazy talk was this? Was this one of his buddies pulling a prank on him? They always laughed at his work. But hey, he didn’t mind.

The Shadow Man waved his hand and the floor beneath them opened. Farin felt a powerful wind pulling him into the portal. ‘‘Hold on~ I have not agreed to this....’’ Before Farin could say another word, his body was sucked in & taken to the Land Where Shadows Never Die.

**************************************

Note: Do not try this at home. flare* The Shadow Man has trained in soul taking, and still has to work on his writing skills. correction— the word: flair- was supposed to be used, but then the flare felt more appropriate here. xD

*********

LEVITATION

Lyam’s eyes looked on at her body

Eve’s feet were not touching the floor

Very close to screaming— Lyam was-

In his mind he could not figure out

The reason why her body was afloat

And then in the corner of the room

Twisting it’s head around~

It smiled & winked at Lyam

Only thing it wanted now was Eve

Not even Lyam could stop it from taking her to the Shadow Man!

**********

In his chamber, he grabs hold of his axe

Ready to swing it back 'n' forth

At any of the shadow creatures and their leader

Taking his golden armour-

Heavy it is, but he does not mind

Everyone is waitin' for him to join the order

Glorious light shines around him

Ladies in indigo robes bow down

A choir sings out Ira’s name

Dawn breaks ringing in the rosy morning

Ira smiles and walks toward the throne

And the sound of trumpets is heard

Throughout the heavenly realm

On and on the joyful music echoes

Raising a melody for even the Shadow Man to hear

**********

DEAREST EVE

Darkness was all around the space

Eve looked for a sliver of light

Among her new dwelling place

Resting her head in her hands

Embracing herself a bit later

Soon she heard the dungeon door open

Then her eyes fell on a dark figure—

Every cell in her body felt terror-

Voices echoed chanting loud’r & loud’r

‘‘Escaping is not possible here, Eve~’’

**********

SUNFLOWER

Screams from varying sides are heard

Uh, what an odd & macabre realm

Now who’s goin’ to save her where the

Flowers lost their colour—

Leaves turnin’ black~ fallin’ down.........

Onto the dark volcanic like floor-

Where no flower can bloom, or grow....

Eve takes a deep breath & then smiles

Remembering days in her own world.

********

RATTLESNAKE

Roars & hisses echoed like a nightmare

As the rattlesnake slithered nearer

To her side~ she used her feet to try &

Toss the thing to the side- ‘n’ not close

Lilting in a symphonic way— making

Eve feel much more panicked, ready to

Shout for someone to save her from the

Never endin’ torture brought on by the

All evil, powerful master & the one

King of the Nightmare Lane who put

Eve under a long hypnotic spell

**********

HALLELUJAH

Hurrying past the guardians

Amir the Leader of the guardians

Looked at the messenger

Lowering his head to the Chief

‘‘Eve’s in nightmare lane—’’

Listending nearby was Ira who was not

Under no right to be in charge for now

Just as soon as he tried to speak~ King

Amir raised his hand & shook his head

‘‘Here’s the rule- Sanza’ll be in charge!’’

**********

HELLO… THERE….

Heroes grabbed their weapons

Every guardian raised their shield

Letting out a warrior’s cheer- ready to

Lay down their lives for their loved

Ones in their glorious city & realm!

**************************************

The Shadow Man stared in the mirror

He saw them gather~ forming an army

Each one of them looking so fierce—

‘‘Really?- they think this’ll be just so Easy, well, they’re in for a big surprise.’’

by

Wilkinson Riling

Genre: Horror Fiction Approx. 7069 words

With the silence of a hearse, a pearl black Prius crossed the Uptown intersection before slowing to a stop to unload its peculiar passenger. Beneath fog muted street lamps, the wire frame of Arthur Wellington Kilgore unfolded from the rear seat exiting his Uber. A biting Lake Michigan wind funneled up the empty avenue from darkened docks at the street’s dead end. The frigid evening gust created eerie whispers from the few city trees still left with leaves. Arthur Wellington Kilgore felt a reflexive shudder, uncertain of the source of the unnerving chill; was it the biting cold or the ghost-like emptiness around him that generated a sense of foreboding?

Standing just over six feet tall, donning his signature bone-white bow tie and suited head to toe in a black Yves Saint Laurent tailored ensemble. Arthur’s countenance was reminiscent of Slender Man, the fictional supernatural humanoid who comes to life in children’s imaginations and nightmares. Arthur’s hair, dyed shoe-polish black and combed slick, was styled on the left with a severe part. His Sherlockian nose, sharp and defined, hovered over a prominent chin. His pupils, black as a shark’s eyes were just as unforgiving. Shielded by a rigid brow they were set deep in his angular face registering every detail of his current environment.

Arthur scanned the deep shadowed alleys separating multi-floored buildings lining the vacant block. If not for the bright reds and greens of the hanging traffic signals and a few neon marquees, the tableau suggested more of an ominous horror movie setting than the center for haute cuisine. It would prove to be the perfect backdrop for this night; a night Arthur Wellington Kilgore, Chicago’s most well-known food critic and gastronome had a reservation with destiny-- his own and the future fortunes of a gourmet restaurant, the famed Evelyn’s.

With his long arm and large manicured hands, Arthur cinched his jacket at the neck to stay warm. He couldn’t afford to catch cold on this evening of such importance. While his expression implied a grim demeanor, if you knew Arthur, this only meant he was now focusing on his upcoming task. For he performed his job with the solemnity of a Shakespearian actor. Tonight, the stage was set; dinner for one at Evelyn’s, starring Arthur Wellington Kilgore.

Twenty-nine stories up in a high rise located in the heart of North Side business district and only two years in business, Evelyn’s, like most of the top-tier fine dining establishments, counted on Arthur’s annual review to sustain their three-star Michelin rating. With new restaurants springing up all throughout the greater Chicago area, competition cut kitchen knife close. Evelyn’s management simply could not afford to lose their star status. The current owner was counting on a loan for expansion with additional plans to franchise. Interested investors preferred backing winners, not second place also-rans.

For Arthur there was no second-place in this elitist world he fought so hard join. Because of that travail, Arthur was merciless in his verdicts. He sometimes determined the winners solely based on something as obscure as the thread count in a cloth napkin or the ratio of oil to vinegar in a salad. Last year, Evelyn’s passed muster simply on a last-minute ability to amuse the stern critic. Last year’s stellar review and the reasons behind it still lay fresh in Arthur’s mind.

The critic’s high praise came after an evening of dining on a Black Truffle Souffle, Foie Gras Terrine and Muscovy Duck. But the callous gourmand’s favor was truly earned when the master chef indulged what little remained of Arthur’s inner child by serving him an edible balloon for dessert. The dessert, a proprietary culinary novelty, captured the imagination of the public, but most true epicurean’s saw it as nothing more than a foodie’s gimmick.

For those not familiar with the playful confectionery, it is a specialty of the house at Evelyn’s. Here, Chef Cristophe Arjou practiced the science of molecular gastronomy, providing the gourmand with culinary concoctions based on the chemistry and physics of food. At least that’s how Arthur described it in last year’s review that placed the elite eatery among the world’s most renown restaurants propelling it to its three-star rating. This was Arthur; dry, almost humorless, with the seriousness of a tax accountant in mid-April.

Chef Arjou himself personally prepared the dessert for Arthur. The bladder, formed from a mixture of inverted sugar and natural fruit essence, is filled with helium. The string for the “balloon” is created from shredded green apple dipped in concord grape extract, then tied to the inflated membrane. Floating above the plate, the dish is served with the fanfare of a birthday cake. When bitten, the sugary confection bursts, releasing the gas. Like cotton candy, Arthur ingested the dessert while fully intaking the helium. This caused his voice to take on a cartoon tone, a cross somewhere between Bart Simpson and Mickey Mouse.

When Arthur spoke, each utterance descended on a tonal scale as he exhaled.

“I am Arthur Wellington Kilgore.”

“I am Arthur Wellington Kilgore.”

“I am Arthur Wellington Kilgore.”

Arthur repeated the sentence until he expelled all the helium, and his voice returned to its original Karloffian tone. The whole experience managed to bring an unnatural chuckle to the stoic critic. It’s the closest he ever came to true laughter, though it was a laughter unshared, for Arthur has no true friends which was why he always sat alone. Patrons at other tables enjoying their meal, caught up with their own conviviality paid him no mind, nor did many recognize him despite the many books he wrote on gastronomy and numerous public television appearances.

That was a year ago. Tonight, Chef Arjou would need something truly unique to insure a good review. In cooking terms, Arthur’s mood simmered with a petulance marinating in a reduction of irritability.

Arthur looked back with a shoulder glance checking both directions to see the Prius was gone. The street was completely empty. It struck him odd that he never heard the car drive off, as if it had never been there to begin with. With an impatient shrug he headed for the revolving entrance door to the building. The marquee above the entrance had the restaurant’s name in LED white script reading “Evelyn’s.” Crossing beneath and reaching for the door handle, Arthur stopped dead in his tracks as if he’d hit a glass wall. His nose tilted up, drawing in huge dollops of air.

Swiveling as he sniffed, Arthur smelled something odd. What was it, garlic? Pungent and weighty, the smell infiltrated his nostrils like smoke from an exploded firecracker while at the same time delivering a tiny bee sting like feeling deep inside his nasal cavity. Arthur continued, turning in a tight circle, testing the air. Where was that odor emanating from? What could it be? He reached for his pocket handkerchief, covering his nose with a wince, he hissed, “Sriracha!”

At that exact moment at the building’s edge something caught his eye. From out of an alley way, a man, whose exact age was difficult to estimate other than old, slowly shuffled, pushing along a vending cart. The vendor’s umbrella was tied down due to wind. The wheels of the cart whined and wobbled along the concrete walkway.

With his cooking lids locked in place, it appeared to be an end to his long day. There was a large, covered stewpot imbedded into the top of the cart. The steam wafting from it was swept away with each gust of lake breeze. Still, the heavy chili pepper smell of sriracha lingered behind. It was obvious that the food cart was the origin of the attack on Arthur’s olfactory senses. Arthur called out. “You there! Stop!” Arthur marched towards the old man’s cart.

The Latino man’s head barely cleared the level of his cooking kiosk. The first thing that stood out to Arthur was the man’s right eye covered by a patch strapped to his leathered face. The pattern on the patch, made up of Aztecan geometric lines of black thread on gold felt, was accented by a red saffron jewel placed dead center like some kind of evil eye. Facial creases contoured the other lines formed from age and struggle. His bright silver hair, drawn back in a ponytail, pulled his furrowed brows into an angle parallel to the open wedge containing his good eye. The shock of white hair contrasted his caramel skin. Despite his pirate-like visage, the old man smiled the warm way a grandfather greets a child.

“Can I be to help of you, Señor?” His English was as chopped as the onions in his steaming pot.

“You can’t sell your slop here!” Arthur gestured towards the lake. “Go away, do you hear me? Or I shall report you!” Continuing to wave him off, Arthur’s voice raised. “It’s against the law! Can’t you read?” Arthur pointed to a sign on a pole by the curb. It contained the silhouette of a street vendor with an umbrella cart circled in red, a red slash cutting diagonally through the black shape. Above it, large white letters against a deep red background read “NO VENDING ZONE.”

The few food carts in operation in the city could be counted on one hand and were only found in the lower-class sections of town. Arthur knew all too well Chicago had strict laws against street vendors. He, himself, helped push through the discriminate legislation. Backed by a few heated editorials, Arthur single-handedly put a stop to the street vending business in Chicago proper. He had always given a long look down his nose at fast food and street fare. The laws and regulations he helped push through not only made it hard for some immigrants to make a living. He saw to it so it would create a boundary keeping the “undesirable” in their crime ridden neighborhoods. It was a form of restaurant red lining that targeted the poor, cutting one more rung from their ladder to success.

Arthur was visibly upset. Prepared to have a gourmet meal moments from now at one of the most exclusive restaurants in town his sense of smell has just been assaulted by a stench he could almost taste in the back of his mouth.

The old man’s smile remained as he lifted the lid to a hot tray and removed a corn flour tortilla. He raised the cover to the steamer and spooned out a huge helping of meat infused with a hodgepodge of ingredients, placing it neatly into the breaded blanket. Next, he lovingly set the food in a piece of aluminum foil, wrapping it snug to keep in the heat. Arthur watched like the old man was a street hustler running a shell game.

“What are you doing?” Arthur shouted.

“Pruebalo. Taste.” The man’s weathered hands held out the steaming soft taco cradled in foil. “Good.” “Taste.”

Almost instinctual, Arthur slapped it from the man’s hands sending it to the ground in a splatter. “Who the fuck do you think I am, Anthony Bourdain? I don’t eat that street shit!” Through grinding teeth Arthur punctuated his point in a deliberate cadence. “Arthur Wellington Kilgore does not eat junk food.”

The old man’s smile was replaced with a look of confusion, and he quickly started to prepare another taco, this time a flour tortilla. Holding out another serving he pleaded. “No. No. Pruebalo. Good. Taste. Recipe, me. Good. Taste.” He then added the Mayan words for eat. “Hanal.” “Comer.” The old man leaned closer. “Cochinita.”

The Mayan dish Cochinita is made up with thinly sliced meat of choice mixed with other spices and/or vegetables. In this case, the Cochinita was marinated suckling pig in achiote paste, brown sugar and garlic and so much more.

Arthur smelled the air again and leaned back holding his nose. “Yes, yes. Cochinita. A Mayan delicacy, right? I know, I know.” Arthur extended his other hand out finger counting the ingredients. “Suckling pig marinated in citrus juice, plus brown sugar, garlic clove…” He sniffed the air again. “…sesame seeds, achiote, cilantro, red onion, and way, way too much sriracha!” Say what you will about Arthur Wellington Kilgore, he may have the heart of a rabid Doberman Pinscher, but he was gifted with the olfactory sense of a bloodhound. Arthur slapped the second taco to the ground.

“I don’t need to taste it. I already can! You’re food cart is like a dumpster fire on wheels. My eyes are watering from that Red Rooster sauce you smother everything in.” Arthur returned his handkerchief to cover his nose. “Take you trash cart away from here before I call the police.”

The old man knew enough English to recognize the word “police.” He hadn’t escaped Guatemala, taken an arduous journey across several countries through jungle and desert to find refuge in America for his family only to feel the boot heel of injustice on his neck again. He got the message.

The old man’s smile left, never to return. His brow no longer parallel, creased in anger. The old man bent down holding two paper plates and using them as a dustpan and broom scraped up the two fallen tacos. He deposited the waste into a side receptacle on the cart and wiped down its surface with a towel. He closed his wares one-by-one never losing eye contact with Kilgore. All the while, grumbling in guttural Spanish. His tone steady and firm. The only emotion seemed to be in his good eye which was now locked on Arthur. The man leaned forward again, this time pointing to his eye patch. “Soy Brujo! El Mal de Ojo.” He lifted the jeweled patch revealing the blackness of an empty eye socket surrounded by scar tissue.

The visage startled Arthur, and for reasons unknown, he was compelled to stand and listen. Perhaps a morbid curiosity. Perhaps waiting for his diatribe to raise in decibels to a shout. It never did. The Latino finished, his final words slow and ominous. “Soy Brujo! El Mal de Ojo. Pruebalo.” Arthur recognized the last word spit out like bitter coffee, “Taste.” But his Spanish wasn’t good enough to translate words like “Warlock” and “Evil Eye” and the dozen other curses and epithets hurled his way. The old man lowered the patch then touched his tongue and pointed the moist finger at the stunned critic. “Pruebalo.” “Taste.”

Arthur watched in stunned confusion as streetlights flickered; The marquee and neon signs blinked while a whipping cold wind blew harder off the lake. He felt another blast of icy air snapping him from his almost hypnotic state. Arthur wiped his nose once more and returned his kerchief to his vest pocket. When he looked back, the man and cart were gone without a sound.

Arthur knew what he had to do when he returned to his apartment. He would spend the next day fasting, cleanse his pallet with multiple cups of green tea and perhaps a little purge of this evening’s meal if necessary. He would write and submit his revue of Evelyn’s. Then he would send off an email to his friend at city hall telling him of his run in with the Mexican street vendor.

Arthur took a deep breath through his nose, clearing his senses with the cool air, the deep feeling of righteousness now filling him. Back on mission, Arthur left to do the thing he came to do, his annual review of Evelyn’s. He turned his back to the lake and stepped through the revolving door into the stark art deco lobby of red and gold. Passing a bank of elevators on both sides, Arthur made for the blood red door of a lone elevator by the far back wall. The scarlet doors parted, and Arthur stepped inside. There was no button to press, the elevator had but one destination. The doors closed.

Twenty ounces of rare Waygu Tomahawk steak rested on a sizzling plate, still cooking in its own juices. The expensive Japanese beef, prized for its genetic history, unique flavor profile and tenderness was about to undergo a scrutiny that would make or break the fortunes of Evelyn’s, on Chicago’s North Side, 29 stories up with a city view on one side and Lake Michigan sprawling to the horizon on the other. The upscale restauranteur was celebrating its sophomore year by preparing the menu of a lifetime.

The owner, Chef Cristophe Arjou, artfully plated the premium cut of beef next to a mushroom and truffle pate, lightly dusted with black Kampot Pepper and drizzled with a merlot-infused glaze. It was his signature dish. This evening, it was all in for the neophyte chef. He was playing the highest card he had in his hand with this gourmet meal. After making a once in a lifetime gamble, he sank his life savings into the restaurant two years ago, he had no choice but to pull out all stops. Cristophe hoped to keep his Michelin three-star rating, cementing a place on the map alongside two world renown Chicago dining establishments and competitors, Alinea and Creole. Failure would not be an item on the evening’s menu. That’s why he invited the country’s most read, most popular and most feared food critic to be the guest of honor.

Arthur Wellington Kilgore had already taken his place at the table. Without touching the pieces, Arthur bent slightly forward to inspect the cutlery that was set before him. Leaning back and giving a nod to the negative, he dismissed them with a wave of the hand. A waiter leapt forward and removed the items in a blur. Stepping back, the waiter studied them to see what possible flaw there could be knowing a busser or dishwasher could lose their jobs over such a faux pas.

Pinching his lapel to open his coat, Arthur reached for an inside pocket and removed a black leather case, placing it reverently on the table. A royal seal, the crowned fleur-de-lis embroidered in gold adorned the lid. Pressing a small latch, he opened the box with the care of a fine jeweler unboxing a precious diamond.

Inside, nestled on a lining of crimson silk, lay two pieces of sterling silverware – a knife and fork. Their brilliance and patina gave them an aura of age. Removing them, he set each one a plate-length apart and closed the cover, returning the empty box to his pocket. Arthur glanced up at the gawking waitstaff and Cristophe watching in stunned silence. With a half-smile, Arthur spoke in his deep locution.

“These utensils, were once employed at the palace of Versailles during the reign of King Louis the XIV. They have been passed down from princes, to poets, to presidents.”

With a slight effort to enthrall, Arthur continued, “Introduced to the French court in the 16th century by Catherine de Medici, who brought the first set of pure silver forks and spoons from Italy, by the 18th century pure silver flatware was used all over the world by only the highest levels of society.”

Arthur shared this history not to illuminate or educate his small captive audience, but for them to know the breadth and depth of his knowledge. “Most people are unaware of the antibacterial properties of silver which helped keep diners safe from food-borne illnesses. It is a metal with low reactivity, it won’t change the flavor of food like copper and tin. It is also a malleable metal and thus easy to form into beautifully sculpted pieces of cutlery.”

Still smiling, he gestured to the gleaming utensils. “These are meant for use only by an epicurean of the highest renown.” He folded his hands on the table. “That would be myself."

His voice deepened. “A meal worthy of these implements is a meal worthy of high praise, indeed.” The smile left his face. “Anything less would not just be considered unworthy – it will be a mark of shame for the restaurant. And I will be sure the world knows it.”

Cristophe and the waitstaff stood motionless. Possibly from fear, possibly from awe. Arthur broke the trance. Taking his napkin like a magician, he gave it a flourished snap, unfurling the serviette, and laying it gently across his lap. He set his hands flat upon the table. “Now we may begin.”

With a clap of the hands, Cristophe scattered the staff. The sommelier scrambled off to get the wine, the expediter followed the runner, both heading to the kitchen to alert the chef. Cristophe and the Maître D’ attended to the other patrons who watched with curiosity. The fate of Evelyn’s hung in the air like an approaching winter storm.

Arthur Wellington Kilgore’s single raised brow indicated he was already evaluating the dish before him for its presentation. Like an art dealer inspecting a painting for authenticity, Arthur noted all aspects of the chef’s design: composition, color, and texture. He hovered above the plate, observing it from different angles, ending with a wafting hand sniff and a near imperceptible nod. Satisfied, he gripped the cutlery with the delicate touch of a surgeon and applied them to the expensive cut of meat. Little downward pressure from his fork was needed. Its tines melted into the meat, while the knife slid through the beef like it was room temperature butter. Arthur took the wedge of medium rare steak, skimmed it through the blood juices still roiling on the plate, and lifted it to his lips.

Taking his first bite, one side of his mouth couldn’t help but reveal a hint of a true smile. Arthur loved his job. He loved the perks and prestige and the power a food critic of his caliber possessed, but more than that, he loved to eat. Arthur wasn’t a glutton; he wasn’t fat; he wasn’t even a picky eater when the fare was at this high a level. When it came to fine dining, Arthur was precise. He appreciated the culinary arts, and the heights of gastronomical wonder gourmet cooking could achieve. It was a career that brought him light years from the frozen meals, canned goods, and food stamp family fare he was raised on. He had come a long way to reach his station in life, and he planned to exploit it’s every aspect and show no mercy those he considered unworthy.

Taking his first bite, the warmth of the meat filled his mouth. The steak was juicy and tender, not dry or spongy. He savored its natural flavors, a light, almost imperceptible saltiness, the savory natural flavor that comes from blood and the hearty taste given to meat when grilled to perfection. Arthur closed his eyes as he chewed and the flavors washed over his tongue. He thought this had to be the most delicious piece of steak to grace his palate. For a moment, Arthur believed he was in gastronomical paradise. Everything was about to change forever the moment Arthur tried to swallow.

Attempting to ingest the steak, it felt as if a lightning bolt went off in Arthur’s brain. He would swear he heard the word “Pruebalo” whispered in his ear. His eyes were still closed, but the flash of white inside his head was blinding.

When Arthur opened his eyes, he was no longer in the restaurant. He found himself in a large yellow monochromatic cellar pulsating with blinking and buzzing florescent lights. The sounds of animals snorting, and bellowing bounced off the surrounding twenty-foot concrete walls. A procession of cows pressed forward with Arthur near the lead feeling the tsunami-like push forward. Steel dividing rails guided him ahead while hemming him in.

The metallic copper smell of warm blood, mixed with cow shit and urine, floated on an undercurrent odor of bleach, filling his nostrils, watering his eyes. Nearby, the pendulum paced noise of hydraulic pressure escaping was punctuated by a loud bang. The explosive sound rattled the very air and Arthur felt it to the bone. Arthur Wellington Kilgore wondered where the fuck he was and where did all these cows come from and why did he feel like he was he crawling on all fours?

Added to the confusion, Arthur felt heavier, as if the gravitational pull of Earth itself increased in degree. He looked down, horrified to see two hooves stumble forward on the wet concrete floor where his hands should be. There wasn’t enough room for him to turn around, but he was quick to surmise his feet were no longer the pair he remembered as they clopped beneath him.

Arthur was certain he was in the middle of a nightmare. From behind, he felt himself shoved forward into a set of hind quarters before him. It was a tidal force pushing him to follow while steel guard rails funneled the rest of the livestock into single file. The space to move narrowed. There were indistinguishable human forms on walkways a foot off the ground on both sides of the cramped hallway. The line stopped. He heard the singing sound of sliding chains and the harsh sound of metal locking on metal within the din. The cow in front shuffled forward a few feet.

Arthur watched in horror as the animal vaulted into the air, screaming. The frightened cow hung several feet off the ground, swinging from its hind legs above a large metal grating. Arthur looked into its eyes now bulging out of its skull in fear. Arthur knew at that moment the beast was aware of what was going to happen next. Before its cry of anguish could finish, a nondescript human form leaned forward holding something, from the back of which a hose ran down connecting to a pressure tank. The form’s fingers tightened on a trigger and with a bang the braying animal went limp. A second human form on the other side of the narrow space held out a knife as long as a baby’s arm. Reaching around to the animal’s throat, it created a slit, opening the neck and releasing a torrent of blood into the grating below.

It took seconds for most of the blood to drain from the dying animal. Hoisted on the conveyor belt, it moved on along, following the scores of other carcasses in the distance. Arthur felt the simultaneous grip of cold steel on both his hind quarters as shackles closed around them. With dizzying speed, he lifted skyward. He felt his hip break and his knees pop from their sockets as blood rushed to his head. Pure fear overrode the signals of pain. He felt motion sickness watching the room swing back and forth while dangling upside down from a conveyor chain. Arthur looked down through the grating as if there were an entity below it awaiting his life force or it was a direct portal to hell.

The human form raised a pressurized captive bolt stunner to Arthur’s face. He tried to scream for them to stop, thinking he was forming sentences; “This is a mistake.” “This can’t be happening.” He even yelled “I’m not a cow.” and “I want my mother.” and a dozen other pleading statements. But all that escaped from his mouth was a guttural bellow that crescendoed into a squeal. Arthur was still swinging on his chain when the human form went to touch the penetrative bolt to his skull. Arthur shook his head then heard the convergence of the air pressure and the loud bang as they triggered the pneumatic stunner. For the second time, Arthur saw a flash. This time, an intense ringing in the ears and a hatchet blow of a headache followed it.

Because he had been swinging, the stunner was off target. Instead of rendering him unconscious, the penetrating bolt had only glanced off Arthur’s cranium. He was still very conscious, and bleeding from the skull and he knew what was coming next. Arthur strained his eyes to look behind him for the second human form, who had steadied him for the death cut. It was here things went into slow motion for Arthur. He watched as a hand holding the long knife blade crossed his field of vision inches below or above in his confusing point of view. Arthur saw his reflection for an instant in its stainless-steel blade. The face of mortal fear in the form of a frightened cow was looking back at him. Staring into its eyes, Arthur recognized himself. Despite the broken hip and dislocated legs, he tried to twist and turn to avoid the coming blade but felt the ice-cold steel slice across his neck. He felt the flush of blood empty from his head and body. A waterfall of blood splashing below him was the last thing Arthur saw before he lost consciousness.

Arthur next felt a violent thrust against his abdomen. There was no flash of light this time. He came out of the darkness starving for air. He was suffocating. Instead of the slaughterhouse, he was back now watching the restaurant interior tilt up and down, his vision clouded around the edges like a window etched with frost. The expensive Waygu steak lay on the floor amongst a broken plate, shattered glass, and splattered pate. His chair lay on its side.

Arthur was aware of being at the mercy of a python like grip, lifting him up and down like a rag doll. His abdomen felt a second hard thrust. He felt pressure inside his esophagus as his feet touched the floor once more. Another gut-punch lift caused a piece of Waygu steak to fly from his mouth, landing on the table before him. Arthur greedily drew in air like a deep diver surfacing. His ribs ached. His throat ached. He felt dizzy, for the oxygen hadn’t fully returned to his head. Someone righted his chair for him to sit. He surrendered to it and loosened his bow tie, whipping it off and unbuttoning his shirt by the collar.

“Oh, mon Dieu, Mr. Kilgore. Are you alright?” Chef Cristophe knelt, assessing the shaken critic. He had just administered the Heimlich to Kilgore. “We’re calling 911.”

Arthur spoke almost breathless. “That won’t be necessary. Just some water.” Arthur added, “Not sparkling, and room temperature.” That wasn’t Arthur’s humor coming through. He had none of that. That was his precision in always knowing what he wanted. A server nearby went to fetch a carafe.

Arthur lifted a tremoring hand to his temple. A headache unlike he had ever experienced pulsated and throbbed. “Make it wine.”

“Of course, right away.” Christophe snapped his fingers at another porter. “Wine.”

Before the porter could dart off, Arthur followed up. “Bodega Numanthia, 2013.” Again, Arthur knew precisely that was a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine.

Arthur looked at Cristophe. “What happened?”

Cristophe hesitated, then spoke. “Well, sir, you… you were choking, sir. You passed out.” Christophe tried to gage Arthur’s reaction.

Arthur put a finger to his pulse, then lay a hand to his chest. “I don’t believe it. My…my heart is still beating fast.”

Cristophe reassured him. “Please let us call for a doctor.”

Arthur looked at the partially chewed dollop of meat laying on the table then back to Christophe. “You… you almost killed me.”

“No, sir. You just had an accident. Surely, we are not to blame.”

Ricardo, the maître D, returned with the wine bottle, popping the cork as he arrived. He reached for a wine glass. Arthur intervened. He wrestled the bottle from the Ricardo and guzzled a large swig. He repeated three more huge swallows before setting the bottle on the table by the piece of meat now staining the white cloth with juices diluted by Arthur’s own saliva. Arthur’s senses were returning.

“Could someone please do something about that?” nodding to the morsel of meat.

Ricardo was quick to act. Taking a table crumber, he guided the meat into an awaiting napkin, cinched it like a sack and carried it off.

Christophe snapped his fingers. The porters moved in synchronicity, changing the linen, and setting a new placement and cleaning and resetting his prized cutlery. “Mr. Kilgore, sir. Is there anything else we can do?”

There was no way Arthur was going to eat another steak. “Exactly what kind of mushrooms did you cook with that steak?” As far as Arthur was concerned, psychedelic mushrooms were the only explanation for his nightmare of horror.

Christophe objected. “Monsieur, I can assure you, I used no strange mushrooms in my recipe and all our food is top of the line, fresh and organic.”

Arthur was no longer listening. As far as he was concerned dinner was over. He reached for his black case and began to collect his silverware. “I’ll be sure to let my readers know of your recipe for death.”

Cristophe’s world was shattering before him. He would lose his rating. He would lose clientele. He would lose his loan. “Monsieur, you cannot leave until you taste...” Cristophe froze, trying to think.

Arthur was just about to seal the box shut. “Taste? Taste what?"

His head was spinning without thinking he blurted out, “My latest creation for Evelyn’s. It was meant to be a surprise… the Kilgore Salad.” Cristophe bowed. “Named in honor of the enlightenment you’ve bought to fine dining.”

Upon hearing his name, intrigue replaced derision. What could be this new culinary creation bearing his name? Was Cristophe patronizing him or truly bestowing an honor Arthur felt he deserved? Either way, it was enough to give Arthur second thoughts.

As he reset his utensils and returned the case to his pocket, Arthur considered maybe it was his near-death experience that triggered his trip to a Friday-the-Thirteenth-like movie. After all, the chef did, in fact, save his life. Arthur reached for the fresh wine goblet and, taking bottle in hand, poured himself another glass.

Arthur raised his favored brow. “Indeed. Well, I do believe Mr. Kilgore is still hungry. Perhaps Chef could prepare this specially named salad for him?” When Arthur spoke in third person, it was to emphasize his comparative importance over common folk.

Cristophe felt a surge of hope. “Ah, monsieur, you won’t be disappointed. The recipe was delivered from the Ceres, the Roman goddess herself. And it is…” Cristophe pursed his lips, pinched his fingers and, with a chef’s kiss, tossed them away from his mouth. “… heavenly perfection. Give me ten minutes.” Cristophe made the salad in seven.

Arthur was just finishing the bottle of the Bodega Numanthia when Chef Cristophe returned and set the salad before him. “Goûter.” He smiled and gestured to the salad. “Apprécier.” A small crowd of employees stood round, waiting to see Arthur eat. His raised eyebrow and a clearing of his throat chased all but Cristophe and the maître D’ away.

The recently named “Kilgore Salad” had originally been christened “Summer in Provence.” It was another Cristophe specialty created at Le Cordon Blue and he kept as an ace up his sleeve. He had once prepared the organic vegan dish for Macron and his wife in Paris. It won three awards that year, in France, Belgium and Spain. The plating was an artistic tribute to Monet. Almost instinctually, Arthur handled the fork like a brush mixing colors on a palette.

Hesitant, he bought the fork to his mouth. Then Arthur closed his eyes and tasted. A fiesta of flavors danced on his tongue. It was as if the diced beets, chopped cilantro, fresh corn, red pepper and green onions, splashed with an apple cider dressing, then sprinkled with freshly cracked pepper, were celebrating Mardi Gras in his mouth. Dopamine signals burst in his brain until once again he heard the whispering word, “Pruebalo.” Another flash blinded him. In an involuntary reflex, he dropped his knife and fork and gripped the table sides with eyes closed. Arthur panicked. A thought screamed inside his head. “This can’t be happening again!”

But when Arthur opened his eyes, they were met by a sky of perfect blue stretching out before him. Pillow white clouds drifted westerly, their movement almost imperceptible, and interspersed with flocks of blackbirds. The sun tilting slightly away from its noon perigee was a bright yellow-white, warming his face as a moderate summer wind caressed his cheeks. The air, country clean, washed over him, causing him to sway in a cradle like rhythm. Bird song sounded from a group of trees off to his right sifting the light breeze through their leaves. A lone butterfly danced at eye level above the carpet of greenery blanketing to the horizon.

Arthur had never known such peace. He couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t the child like grin he had from the edible balloon. This was a smile of pure contentment, a comfortable sense of well-being, a calm happiness. For Arthur, this was heaven, he began to hum a tune.

In a nightmare world, Heaven can turn into Hell on a dime. The growing hundred decibel sound of hammering pistons and churning hydraulics pounding over the sound of a droning engine were Arthur’s first clue something was wrong. The sound was coming from behind him, but try as he might, he couldn’t turn to see. He heard another sound closing in. It was the sound of cutting or slicing which Arthur could almost feel getting closer. A frenzy of whipping noises seemed to create a wind, increasing his swaying motion. It was here Arthur could glance behind him and up.

A blood red John Deere combine harvester driven by a nondescript human form was bearing down on Arthur. Heavy blades spun as the teeth of a cutter bar scraped the ground ahead of the machine, tearing up both soil and plant. It’s the first time it occurred to Arthur that he was one of those plants. There was nowhere or no way to run. He tried to scream but couldn’t. Even if he could, the cacophony of chopping sounds married with a motor’s roar would have drowned him out. Arthur felt the cutter dig him out of the soil, root and all. He felt the spin from the rotating blades hurl him back onto a conveyor belt with the force of a cannon. For a brief second, the cockpit of the giant harvester blotted out the blue sky above. Arthur lay helpless as the conveyor carried him up, snaked in a U-turn and, like a slingshot, deposited him into the grain tank beside the mutilated and decapitated forms of the other plants.

Plunging backwards, Arthur was a just another dying chard. The last glimpse of a patch of blue sky was covered as hundreds upon hundreds of harvested beets joined Arthur in the bin until darkness overtook him. The last thought he had was how he was going to destroy Evelyn’s with a review from hell.

On the twenty-ninth floor of the North Shore high rise, a steady wind coming off Lake Michigan blew into Christophe’s restaurant. Tablecloths clung tight to tables while flapping in the breeze. At a window Cristophe stood back several feet, talking to a uniformed cop and a suited man taking notes.

A six-foot high by three wide hole in the window had a firefighter leaning forward and looking down. Nearby, the table Arthur Kilgore was dining at but thirty minutes ago, was empty and surrounded by broken dishes and the scattered vegetables of the Kilgore Salad. The chair this time flat on its back. Cristophe was explaining the series of the recent event to a detective and police officer.

“I can’t explain it. I set down his salad plate. I said…I said… Goûter…”

The cop was writing as fast as he could. He interrupted. “Gootay?"

Cristophe gestured broadly, trying to explain. “Goûter. It means, Taste. It’s French. As I was saying, Mr. Kilgore then took a bite of his salad… by the way, that salad has won me awards!” Cristophe’s agitation grew. “He took one bite, and he closed his eyes and leaned back with the most serene smile I’ve ever seen.” Cristophe took a swig from a bottle of wine. “He… he… he began to sway back and forth. And hum! He was humming a tune. Isn’t that right, Ricardo?”

Ricardo, the maître D’ nodded fiercely. “Si. Si. It was the Carpenters, “Close to You.” He hummed it and then suddenly…”

Cristophe took over. “… Suddenly he shot up from his chair, eyes wide open, and stumbled backwards at full speed. He spun one time and then… and then…”

Cristophe and Ricardo chimed in together, overlapping each other. “He crashed through the window!”

Cristophe continued, “He launched himself straight through the glass without saying a word!”

Ricardo interjected. “No, first he said, ‘Pruebalo’.” He explained. “It too means, taste it.”

Both the detective and the cop stared at Ricardo quizzically. Cristophe shooed him off. “Go see to the kitchen.” Ricardo nodded and scurried off but not before stopping at the table and pocketing the Louis XIV silverware. He knew of a pawnshop on the south side that might give him a few bucks for them.

Cristophe anguished. “Mon Dieu! I’m ruined! I needed that review!”

The detective took another look at the 29-story drop, his tie waving in the breeze, he stared at the crowd below. He shook his head. “Are you kidding me? Your business will triple. People have a morbid fascination with celebrity deaths. They will line up to see where the most famous food critic in the world took his own life.” He turned to leave. “And if the ghouls ask, just tell them Arthur Wellington Kilgore thought the food here was to die for.”

Twenty-nine stories below, the emergency medical team bagged and removed Arthur’s shattered body from the sidewalk. An empty black case with the fleur-de-lis fell out into the gutter as they carted him away. Among the cordoned off crowd witnessing the gruesome “accident” was an old, one-eyed, weathered, Mexican man dutifully tending to his food cart.

The smell of the Cochinita filled the air and a line had formed from the morbid onlookers. Evelyn's restaurant’s marquee in front of the building was the last thing Arthur Wellington struck before hitting the pavement. It now simply read “Evel.” By the curb near the NO VENDING sign, the old man held up a Mayan taco to a waiting customer. With a smile, and in English, he said softly, “Taste.”

"An ordinary face. An unforgiving predator."

by: A.C. Huff Genre: Psychological Thriller ~5,963 words

The air settled dense and immovable, crushing her ribs like poured concrete. Nick was on his second slice, his laugh ricocheting through the room, an echo of applause at the wrong curtain call. His hand reached for the wine bottle, pouring without thought.

The sweetness of pineapple clung to her fingertips—sticky and invasive, rooting her to this moment. She held it in her pores, a quiet acid eating at her resolve. The knife rested on the cutting board, blade winking like a silent accusation. Clean. Sharp. Mocking in its unearned innocence.

Her fingers gripped the handle, learning its weight, the steadiness it demanded. She’d accepted long ago her hands could be deliberate, unflinching when required. Not all suffering needed to endure. Sometimes the surest hands offered the kindest release.

Nick’s voice surged, words spilling too fast to stick. His laughter wormed its way under her skin. Her vision narrowed, tunneling in on his mouth—how it twisted, how grease and sauce flecked his stubble. His laugh sharpened, the edge unmistakable. A challenge. A dare.

“Makena? You with me, or are you already checked out?”

The tone struck as ice and wind. Not his but familiar. The cadence of ghosts—men who spoke in clipped demands, their masks dropping when no one watched. Her chest constricted, breath catching deep. This wasn’t rage—rage burned molten, cleansing. This was frostbite, precise and numbing. Her fingers curled on the knife handle, itching with purpose.

His hand closed around her wrist.

“Hey—what’re you doing?” His grip was firm, not rough, but the weight burned. The familiarity pulled at memory and fear, a shadow buried but waiting. Her body moved as her mind caught up. A twist. A yank. She was free.

The cut was almost an accident. The blade slipped into his forearm, a clean arc of red splashing the counter. He staggered, knocking the table backward as he clutched the wound. His eyes widened, the fear not registering, only confusion.

“What the—Makena, are you crazy?”

Crazy. The word ignited, spreading flames through brittle branches and parched leaves.

He lunged—not with force, not intent. Reflex. A body trying to defy danger. She sidestepped, fluid and instinctive, her grip tightening on the knife.

When she moved, it was no accident—the blade struck his chest. The resistance surprised her—firm, almost rubbery, like slicing unripe melon. He fell with a choked cry, writhing and thrashing as blood bloomed across his shirt.

His glassy eyes locked onto hers, a half-formed plea dying in his throat. The television droned, a laugh track filling the room.

Makena stood motionless, the knife burning in her grip, blood veining through the grout. Her heartbeat thundered, a cavernous drumbeat echoing through her chest. She stared at the blade, its surface slick and red, pieces of Nick still clinging to the edge. She set it back on the counter with a final clang.

Her sticky hands left blood-bright splotches on the dish towel. Her chest rose quick and tight, her mind electric. For the first time in years, she felt light—unburdened.

The pizza sat untouched, its grease pooling under the soft yellow of the kitchen lights. A pathetic reminder of what the evening might have been. She let herself smile, small but real, the corners of her mouth lifting with quiet satisfaction.

The night wasn’t over.

—

She surveyed the cleaned house—as normal as it could be with Nick sprawled like crumpled laundry across the kitchen floor. No visible blood. No stray hairs. Every surface scrubbed spotless, every corner inspected.

The carnival whirl collapsed into silence. She stilled in the doorway, grave-calm pressing against her back, sludgy and unmoving. She stepped over the threshold, into air almost clean.

Chill rushed in, spiteful and cold, scraping her lungs raw. Her breath fogged in soft clouds that dissolved before they lingered. She moved forward, chest bound by invisible chains, each step shifting the weight until relief glimmered at the edge of her resolve.

A bus pulled up with a groan of brakes, exhaust clouding the dark. The doors yawned open. She climbed aboard without looking at the driver, her fingers brushing the scanner as a faint apology. The back row called to her—a seat where she could watch unseen.

Outside, the city smudged into streaks of neon and shadow. Her reflection ghosted on the window—a stranger’s face staring through smears of grime. The adrenaline was gone, her second skin stripped away. She hated this hollow stretching and clawing, this quiet unraveling as normalcy found her again. A captain drifting toward a flat horizon.

The bus jerked to a halt. She caught herself on the seat ahead, fingers digging into plastic. A man in a hoodie startled awake, then slipped back into sleep. When her stop was called, she rose and moved to the aisle with eyes unfocused and vacant.

She stepped off the bus into a burst of noise—blaring horns, distant sirens, the bass thud of a passing truck. The sounds swirled around her until her apartment building swallowed them whole.

Home embraced her in its familiar haze of comfort and clutter. Cat litter and abandoned takeout hugged the air—neither inviting nor repelling. Entirely hers. The fridge rattled and wood creaked, a muted harmony of life. Her shoes fell by the door, one toe-up, the other toppled.

Soft cushions welcomed her like an old friend, molding to her shape. The remote emerged from its hiding spot, dutiful and eager. She navigated the TV menus with purpose, muscle memory guiding her fingers. Bewitched. Dick York episodes only—the other guy was an imposter, his face a lie wrapped in familiarity.

Bright notes pierced the evening shadows as the theme song began. Nox jumped onto her lap, curling into itself, its purr a gentle vibration against her hand.

Samantha twitched her nose, and Darrin frowned in rhythm and time, keeper of his wife’s magic. The episode unfolded in its familiar pattern while Makena sank into the cushions as night pressed deeper.

The crash continued in slow, wavelike echoes, fleshy and inescapable. She let it take her. Tomorrow would demand its routines, but tonight was only the gleam of the TV, the warmth of the cat, and quiet stretching too long.

*************************************************************************************

The car slashed through the street, a glowing shard of steel trailing only wind and indifference. The impact rang out as a wrong note struck hard—a wet, heavy thud that smothered the air. Asphalt drank in the mess of fur and blood, a smear where a shape used to be.

Eight-year-old Makena stopped mid-skip, one sandaled foot suspended, her dress caught in the breeze before falling limp. Dad froze beside her, his expression hardening, sending a twist through her stomach.

Mom didn’t. She sipped from her plastic cup, her free hand already digging into her jacket for a cigarette.

“Keep walking,” she said without looking back, her voice the same as if they’d passed a fallen leaf. “It’s just a squirrel.”

Makena’s gaze stuck to the road. The twitching form vibrated with the leftover energy of life, a broken signal struggling to communicate. The black eyes glinted, frantic and glassy, catching everything but seeing nothing.

“Makena.” Dad’s voice stirred the air, a ribbon of sound. “Come on.”

Her feet stayed planted. “Can we help it?” she whispered, not knowing what help meant.

Mom’s sandals slapped the pavement in a steady, rigid rhythm. “No,” she called over her shoulder, reaching the corner. “Let nature take care of it.” A lighter clicked twice, a flash of flame. “It’s what happens.”

Dad knelt down beside Makena, his shadow gathering the asphalt. His face was closer now. Her nails bit her arm, her jaw locking—the intensity in his eyes made her chest tighten.

“Sometimes,” he said, each word deliberate and slow, “things don’t just die. They suffer. And that’s worse.”

Her throat shut, her voice thin and trapped. “What do we do?”

He flicked open a folding knife, its blade catching the dying sunlight in a sharp spark. His other hand closed around a jagged rock, heavy and cold from the gravel along the sidewalk.

“You pick,” he said, as if he were offering her candy. “Rock or blade.”

The world constricted and expanded around her skin. Her body trembled on frozen legs, her finger pointing toward the blade.

“Good choice,” Dad said, like it mattered. Like anything mattered.

They crossed the asphalt in silence. The squirrel’s labored breaths broke through the stillness, its body twitching weakly as they drew near.

Dad knelt beside the small body, the knife sparkling between his fingers. He placed it in her hand, his own hands large and steady over hers.

“Hold it firm,” he said. “It’ll be quick. Just press.”

The blade’s cold weight felt wrong against her palm, like an unwanted inheritance. His hands guided hers, firm and unrelenting, until the blade found the soft hollow of the neck.

The fur gave way, the skin split and warmth spilled over her fingers, wet, and slick. The squirrel jerked once and went still.

Makena’s held breath shattered. The knife slipped from her failing fingers, metal striking asphalt.

“Good job,” Dad murmured. The words sat heavy, their meaning unclear.

Mom was leaning against the streetlight when they reached the corner, her cigarette a faint beacon in the softening light. Her eyes flicked down to Makena’s dress, to the crimson splash smeared across the fabric.

“For Christ’s sake,” she muttered, dragging deep on the cigarette. “You ruined your fucking dress. Over a stupid squirrel?”

Makena didn’t answer. Her fingers still tingled, phantom warmth lingering where blood had been.

“Let’s go,” Dad said, his voice flat, his hand steady on her shoulder.

They walked home in silence. The road stretched long and empty, their footsteps echoing off unsaid words. Behind her eyes, Makena pictured only the blade, felt only the weight of his hands, and the being that bled out between them.

*************************************************************************************

The days after Nick’s death unraveled cleanly. Each morning, Makena slipped into her routines—not out of need, but momentum. Coffee brewed. Cats fed. Dishes scrubbed. The motions steadied her, but the balance was tension and collapse. Life stretched thin, unfamiliar—its trajectory altered in a single, deliberate night.

The power of it lingered—raw, electric—but so did the unease, like standing at the precipice of a vast and unknowable void. It wasn’t regret. It wasn’t fear. It was the quiet weight of the unknown—stillness and pressure—bearing down against her chest.

Nights unraveled her. Sleep staggered in, fractured by phantom laughter—jagged, misplaced—and shadows of things best left buried. Silence pressed close, stealing her dream-focus.

By day six, the hum beneath her skin surged—a live-wire current, relentless and searing. The world jarred her senses. Colors were too vivid. Voices too harsh. Spaces too full. It wasn’t the violence; she lied.

It was the control. The crystalline moment when chaos stilled, bowing to her will.

She didn’t need the kill. That wasn’t it.

But need was irrelevant. Desire thrived on discipline, growing feral when unfed. The razor settled deep—sharpened and waiting. Ready.

—

Makena carved through the market. Movements clipped and deliberate, each step tuned to a predator’s rhythm disguised as casual strides.

Her cart bore a sparse confession: pasta, olive oil, bread untouched by appetite. She paused in the aisle, fingers tracing the cellophane-wrapped crusts as her gaze flicked to the edges of the store. No one looked at her.

A guy shuffled past, his sneakers dragging, eyes pinned to the floor. Too green, she thought. Shoulders upright, face unmarked by the drag of years. Someone who still mistook the ground beneath him for solid. Useless.

The deli counter held better prey. A man in his forties, spine curling forward under invisible weight. He plucked a pre-packaged salad from the shelf, his jaw tightening over the price. Bare ring finger, but too slow, too small. The kind who drowned before the storm hit. Not worth it.

She prowled, her hand ghosting over rows of peanut butter jars, their labels crisp and bright in the sterile light. Her fingers brushed one, more habit than hunger. And he was there.

Early thirties, broad shoulders sagging beneath an unseen stormcloud. His face, shadowed by uneven stubble, looked incomplete, as if he’d stopped assembling himself halfway through. His cart—a mess of contradictions: frozen pizza, six-packs, cereal—spoke of someone untethered and fumbling for a rhythm. Alone, perhaps newly and unwillingly.

Makena drifted closer, her cart gliding over the tiles. She picked up a jar of jam, turning it in her hands, her focus fixed on him. He didn’t notice—his mind drowning in the static between decisions.

She broke the silence. “Too many options, huh?”

He startled, a small flinch traveling from his shoulders to his eyes—brown, rimmed with exhaustion, bruised by sleepless nights. He smiled, polite but distant. “Yeah. Kinda ridiculous.”

Her laugh was soft, an empty trap to draw him near. “I swear, no matter what I pick, it’s never as good as I hope. Guess I’m a slow learner.”

He chuckled, the sound low and awkward. “Story of my life.”

Her eyes tracked his cart, a playful smile warming her lips. “Stocking up for a kindergarten frat party?”

“Something like that,” he shot back, a dry edge in his voice. “Gotta keep the critics happy, right?”

She tilted her head, amusement coloring her words. “The toughest critic, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah. My little shadow judge. Seven years old. Mac and cheese fanatic.” His mouth softened. “That’s about the peak of my cooking expertise.”

Her laugh came easier now, as practiced as a hand reaching into a glove. “Hard to go wrong with the classics.”

“True.” The beginnings of a smile broke through. “I’m Jackson by the way.”

“Makena.” She dropped her name with the precision of a hook, light and inviting.

Their exchange drifted into shallow waters—comments, laughs, slight gestures mirroring his hesitations. When he glanced at his watch, her voice nudged him along. “Keeping you?”

“No, just—” He faltered and fumbled. “It was nice talking to you.”

“You too.” Her smile lingered, soft enough to stay in his mind, cold enough to leave him leaning forward. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah.” He paused, the air stretching between them. “Hey, if you’d ever want to grab coffee…”

She let the silence settle and pulled her phone. “I’d like that.”

The exchange was effortless, the numbers stored, the connection baited. As he rounded the endcap, his steps lightened, his mind already unspooling the threads of their conversation, searching for substance where there was none.

—

The parking lot was hangnails and heartbeats, the air running on distant vibrations: the squeal of a cart over broken asphalt, muffled laughter, the shrill cry of a child slicing the dark. Makena leaned against a car that wasn’t hers, her shadow stretching, reflecting.

Keys jingled, a rhythm distinct in its approach. Footsteps followed, measured and unaware. She didn’t need to look. She knew it was him.

He passed her, phone buzzing in his grasp. She moved with purpose, closing the space between them. Her hand gripped the hilt hidden in her jacket, the blade true and ready.

The steel found its mark below his ribs, sliding through skin and sinew. His breath stuttered—a sharp, sucking sound—his weight falling against her. For a moment, they could have been mistaken for lovers entwined in an embrace. Blood seeped and surged beneath her palms, soaking his shirt.

His eyes locked on hers, wide with disbelief, searching for answers she wouldn’t give. She guided him down as he crumpled, deliberate and gentle. The pavement accepted his weight with a dull clap. She dragged the blade across his jacket. The parking lot inhaled the scene, its shadows embracing the still form at her feet.

*************************************************************************************

The bottle tipped and teetered at the lip of her mother’s glass, a precarious pendulum. Makena sat cross-legged on the worn carpet as the television pressed against the angles of the room. Laughter drifted up, tinny and faint. Her mother leaned back, legs stretched out, the wine sloshing its warning.

“You think it’s about control,” her mom said, pointing with the glass but not looking, her gaze fixed high and distant. “Life, I mean. All these neat little boxes you want to pack it into—cute labels, tidy shelves. But you don’t get it yet. It doesn’t work that way.”

Makena traced the fraying fibers of the rug with her fingers, silent. She knew the rules by now: let it come, let it rise, let it spend itself as waves against the rocks.

“Your dad,” her mother said, half-laughing, the sound a sharp snap in the quiet. “He thought he could steer. Captain of his own ship. What a fucking joke.” She took a long drink, her head tipping back like a mast cracking under God’s fury. “The storm doesn’t give a damn about the captain Makena.”

“What storm?” The words left Makena’s mouth, soft and unsteady, a question she wasn’t sure she wanted answered.

Her mother’s head snapped forward, eyes burning like frozen needles. Raw pain sliced the air between them. Makena’s breath caught, trapped in her throat.

“The storm is everything,” she said, her black hole words bending the walls inward. “It’s the people who break you. The people you break. The choices you think are yours but aren’t. It’s just—” she flicked her hand, wine spilling across the rug, dark and crawling, “—the wind. You don’t steer it, baby. No one does. You fight it, or you ride it, but you’re always moving where it blows.”

Makena frowned, her twelve-year-old mind reaching the edges of a story too wild to grasp. “If we can’t steer, what’s the point?”

Her mother’s laugh was softer this time, a sigh shaped like love. She leaned forward, brushed a strand of hair from Makena’s face. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said, her breath warm and bitter with wine. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? Maybe the point’s to survive the storm. Or maybe…” Her voice faltered, her eyes drifting to the spreading stain on the carpet. “Maybe the point’s to become it.”

The silence was syrup-thick, clinging to the corners and coating the air. The television rambled in the background, its laugh track rising and falling. The wind pressed and pounded the windows, rattling the glass with urgency and intent.

“Someday,” her mom said, her voice drifting like moonlit dreams. “You’ll figure it out. What to do with all this chaos? But just remember—it’s not about good or bad. It’s about knowing where the wind’s blowing. And learning to make it blow for you.”

The words pierced her like hooks, dragging something hidden to the surface. Something restless and electric, dizzying with confused wonder.

Her mom drifted off, head slumped against the couch as the empty glass tilted precariously in her lap. Makena stayed still, listening to the wind outside carrying fortunes she could finally hear.

She didn’t want to survive the storm.

She wanted to be it.

*************************************************************************************

The cursor blinked—a slow, pulsing dare against the void. Makena’s fingers shadow-flexed into the plunge: dictated sounds filtering through her headphones. The doctor’s voice came detached, clinical, sharp-edged, deliberate. She clung to the sterile cadence, hunting for neutrality, but the words unraveled, burrowing under her skin. A sound she couldn’t untangle.

Her jaw locked. She typed anyway. Patient exhibits signs of—Letters twisted as her hands faltered, fragments collapsing on the screen. Errors multiplied and sentences unraveled, her trembling resolve and focus crumbling together. She stabbed at the backspace key, the rhythm of her frustration carving crescents into her palms.

Focus. She clawed for it. A clean edge. A usable spark.

But the harder she pushed, the louder it echoed: the parking lot, the stillness—not silence, but a suffocating, viscous putty. Her pulse thrummed in her ears as her chest knotted, the screen blurring into a smear of light. The laptop snapped shut with jarring finality.

The walls rippled, shadows bending to her restlessness.

She surged up, skin alive with an electric need for motion. Her bare feet found rough floorboards as she traced restless paths through the apartment, hunting friction, seeking ground. The fridge’s hum greeted her desperate pull, cold light flooding the kitchen. Empty. Nothing to still the churning. Nothing to break the need.

And there it was—the constriction tightening like a snake’s coil, squeezing breath into memories she couldn’t outrun. Five days. Too long.

The beast beneath her ribs swelled—sharp, primal, insistent. She snatched her jacket from the chair, compelled by need. Outside. She needed to be outside.

The night air bit sharp and clean. Her boots struck pavement in staccato rhythm, each step narrowing her world to their beat and her thundering pulse. She didn’t know her destination—she’d know when she found it. Faces blurred past in amber light, hurried and haunted. None were right.

The library loomed ahead, light spilling across the ground like fallen halos. She slowed, breath steadying as her thoughts aligned. Libraries held a sadness no bar could match, a sadness ordered and hushed. The men who lingered there—lonely, restless, unmoored—were perfectly broken moths circling a bare bulb.

Makena drifted between the shelves, fingers brushing book spines whispering stories she didn’t care to know. Her eyes scanned past them, cataloging movements, sifting through the murk of tired faces. She wasn’t reading. She was waiting. Watching.

The divorced dads moved in predictable orbits, like satellites tethered to their routines of pain. Each motion foretold: the grief-dulled eyes searching shelves, the careful selection of self-help books. They cradled these books—How to Rebuild, Co-Parenting Gracefully, Starting Over Without Breaking Apart—fragile artifacts of their wreckage. Each a confession.

She spotted him reading alone: mid-forties, glasses perched on a face carved by regret. His basket held the wreckage of a broken life: parenting books beside pulp thrillers, a sports biography wedged awkwardly between. Escape and penance, she thought, tasting wine and bitterness.

Makena straightened, adjusting her stance to soften the surrounding air. Not too much—a flicker of warmth, enough to signal openness. His eyes caught the movement. Good. An opening.

She was halfway to him when a voice stilled her sails.

“Hi! Are you a princess?”

At her side stood a girl—five, maybe six—curls half-tamed by a faded ribbon. A stuffed unicorn hung from one arm, seams frayed and belly worn with love. Her sneakers showed playground scars, her dress wrinkled with the defiance of a child who refused stillness.

Makena crouched. “Not exactly,” she murmured, her voice softened by surprise. “But thanks for asking.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “You look like one,” she declared, as if Makena’s leather jacket and worn boots were a royal disguise. “I’m Sophia. This is Mr. Fluff. He likes princesses.”

Sophia held up the unicorn, its button eyes radiating gentle wisdom. Makena took it, running her thumb over the worn fabric, the tactile proof of countless adventures. She handed it back. “Mr. Fluff’s got good taste.”

Sophia beamed. “Do you have a unicorn?”

Makena shook her head, the motion slower than intended. “Not anymore.” The words slipped out, delicate and exposed.

For a moment, she was eight, cradling her unicorn—Sparkle? Glitter?—its synthetic mane tangled from too much love. Her dad’s laugh filled every corner of the room while her mom watched from the couch, her usual sharpness softened by the scene. Family was permanent then, solid, a bond time wouldn’t dare to unravel. But time did.

“Why not?” Sophia pressed, tilting her head. The library distilled around Makena: the musty scent of bound curiosity, the muffled symphony of shuffling feet and secret tales.

“Guess I outgrew it,” she said. The words landed wrong, leaden with an old ache.

Sophia frowned. “That’s silly. You can’t outgrow unicorns.”

Makena’s chest cinched, the simplicity of the statement cutting deeper than it should. She wanted to agree, to fold the moment back into lightness. But memories surged, relentless.

Nine. Dad’s voice is sharp and unfamiliar in the kitchen. Mom’s hands gripping the counter, knuckles white against the wood grain. Lionel. A name tangled with excuses. “It’s not what you think,” he’d said. “People get lonely. Misunderstood.”

Mom forgave. Makena didn’t understand.

Ten. Raul this time. The name fell iron-heavy, cracking both heart and spirit deep. Mom forgave again. Makena didn’t.

Eleven. The door closing behind him, the sound empty. No explanations, no goodbyes. Only absence.

“Do you want to meet my dad?” Sophia’s voice pulled her back. She pointed across the room—to him. The man Makena had marked. The thought curdled now, sour and unwelcome.

Makena forced a tight-jawed smile. “Maybe later. You should show him Mr. Fluff before he gets worried.”

Sophia nodded, clutching the unicorn close. “Okay. Bye, princess!” She turned and skipped away.

Makena crouched on the linoleum, staring at where the girl had been, the air still warm with her presence. The man and the hunt faded from importance. She stood, brushed her jeans clean of emotion, and walked to the exit.

The doors opened wide, receiving her whole. She didn’t look back.

—

Six days after the library unmade her, Makena huddled in darkness, the knife block a jury of silent accusers. The tofu waited on the counter, pale and unmarked like a body she couldn’t bury. A week without meat. Her hands trembled—not from hunger, but anger, raw and marrow-deep, thrumming through her bones and whispering: This isn’t you.

She’d thought starving the beast might silence it. But a diet of carrots, lentils, and restraint only held the hunger with fraying sutures. Her beast grew louder. Feral. It prowled her dreams and gnashed through her waking hours. The first slice through flesh had never been about food. It was ceremony. A hymn.

She chewed the carrot until her jaw ached, tongue recoiling from its lifeless, fibrous body. No warmth, no pulse. In the sink, kale sagged—waterlogged, bloodless, judging.

Makena’s fist slammed the counter. The cats fled to shadow. Good. She wanted no witnesses. In the dark window, her reflection stared back—eyes primal and human.

“I tried,” she said, the words breaking the air. A confession. To the tofu, the kale, the empty room. To herself. Her voice came thready, fragile. She loathed the sound of it.

They’d sworn peace through abstinence. Lies. Her mind circled the knife—steel slicing flesh like silk, bone splintering into white petals beneath the blade. The silence after. Perfect harmony.

Her hand moved, curling around the cool, familiar handle. The knife slid free, light skimming its surface in a shifting reflection. Her heart slowed. Her hands stilled.

Balance wasn’t abstinence. Balance was the blade.

Tomorrow, maybe, she’d start again. Tonight, she held the knife.

—

Morning light bled pale through the blinds, brushing the walls with faint streaks of gold. The news crept and murmured through the fog of her half-sleep: “Authorities suspect a single individual may be behind the recent spree of stabbing deaths.” The words snagged Makena mid-dream, pulling her awake with an ache settling like a cough.

By nightfall, the sentence played on repeat, vining through her thoughts like a weed, choking the edges of her calm.

This had to be the last one. It had to be.

Makena crouched in the alley’s mouth, gut clenched in brutal knots. Fighting bile in her throat, she kept her eyes fixed on the faint glow of piss pooling in shadows. She’d tracked him since the meeting—from parent center through bars and down streets. Each hour had drawn the noose tighter around her patience, the tension feeding her nausea.

This is the moment.

Pain tore through her side, nearly buckling her knees. Blood filled her mouth where she’d bitten her cheek. The agony blurred everything to fog. She’d come here to kill, but her body was killing her first. She sucked air through clenched teeth, pressed hard against her stomach, and rode out the burning wave of pain.

The only sound was the trickle of his piss hitting concrete.

She crept closer, knife cold against her palm. Her uterus screamed with each step, fibroids twisting deep. Weakness is failure, her mother’s voice hissed in her mind. You keep going or you lose.

A clatter—metal striking pavement—shattered the quiet.

She swung towards the noise. A cat bolted from the shadows, a blur of fur and panic. She cursed under her breath.

He flinched, zipped up, and turned toward the sound. Toward her.

“Who’s there?” His voice was rough and drunk, the threat dulled by confusion.

Makena froze, caught in the narrow beam of his eyes.

She smiled.

“Oh my God,” she stammered, her tone shaky and girlish. “I didn’t mean to… God, I’m so sorry.” Her hand flew to her chest, a lifeline grasped in the storm of panic.

“What the hell are you doing?” His stance eased—not much, but enough.

She let her lips tremble, let her face collapse. Vulnerable. “I—I got lost. I thought this alley led back to the street.”

He laughed, the loose, full-bodied laugh of a man certain he’s the smartest one here. “Jesus, lady. Walking down alleys alone at night? You got a death wish or something?”

She smiled, taking a step closer. “Maybe. Or maybe I just got lucky.”

He raised an eyebrow, his cocky smirk softening into intrigue. “Lucky?”

She nodded, her body relaxing as she closed the gap. The pain still gnawed, but adrenaline dulled it, pushed it away.

“You’re cute,” she said, her voice cotton candy soft. “You all by yourself out here?”

“Guess I am.” His grin widened. “What’s it to you?”

She was inches from him, close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath, the sweat clinging to his clothes. Her grip on the knife tightened.

“Can I kiss you?”

His eyes lit up. “You don’t gotta ask me twice.”

She brushed his lips with hers, feather-light. He leaned in, eager. She struck.

The blade slipped in beneath his navel. his body locking tight, breath strangled. She drew the knife upward with cruel patience, feeling flesh part until steel met bone.

The darkness hid his expression. She wanted to see the moment his ego broke. All she got was shadow.

Her father’s face flickered in her mind. Not his real face, but the warped one memory conjured. Sometimes furious. Sometimes blank, indifferent. And sometimes—on the worst days—smiling.

Memories lied, twisting to fit the mood. The present didn’t. She killed to stay in it, clinging to the only truth she could trust.

She yanked the knife free, letting him wash against the wall. He slid, leaving a streak of blood.

Makena recoiled, her chest heaving. The pain in her stomach flared, and this time, she let herself feel it. The ache anchored her. Reminded her she was alive.

She wiped the blade on his shirt, turned, and walked into the night. The alley devoured the noise, leaving the city to carry on, indifferent and unknowing.

*************************************************************************************

“They Said”

by Makena Liebe

12th Grade Capstone Project

They said,

You could stretch like a rubber band,

Grow tall like a tree,

Or stand as strong as a mountain.

No wrong way to be.

They said,

You could wear bright colors,

Stomp so loud everyone hears you,

Or move so quietly no one sees you—

It’s all okay.

They said,

You could stay still,

Or fly like a bird,

Be soft like rain,

Or strong like the wind.

But I wondered—

If I became the storm,

Would it still be okay?

*************************************************************************************

The days blurred into a haze of muted recalibration as Makena’s hunt shifted from alleys to screens. Her fingers flew over the keys with machine-gun rhythm, gloved in quiet discontent, while her eyes scanned profiles with the cold precision of a predator. The screen filled with familiar debris: husbands posing as bachelors, boys feigning maturity, and careless thieves leaving tracks.

Trevaun didn’t belong in the pile. His profile carried a deliberate weight—enough confidence to graze arrogance without tipping in. A father of two, divorced, seeking “real” but “open to fun.” The phrasing was forgettable, but the tone sang underneath: practiced swagger, concealing a limp. Three exchanged messages laid him bare—hungry, unraveling, ripe.

Perfect.

The texts started slow, each line a poke testing unseen boundaries. By the third night, they throbbed with electric undercurrent. She let him believe he held the helm; her prompts seamless enough to blend with his instincts. By week’s end, his messages dripped with want, pleading for more.

—

The coffee shop was hers—every angle, shadow, and escape mapped in advance. She arrived early, her presence carefully planned: a dress soft without clinging, a loose scarf at her throat, restless as smoke.

Trevaun appeared in the doorway, a silhouette of broad shoulders and over-practiced ease. His eyes roamed until they locked on hers, an uncertainty flickering there like a pilot light.

“Makena?” he asked, his voice lighter than his stride.

Her smile clicked, warm and unhurried. “That’s me.” She stood, offering a brief hug, her hand a gentle brushstroke against his back.

He withdrew, studying her with the quick skepticism of a man half-sure of his luck. “You don’t look like your pictures.”

Her laugh was soft, shaded with apology. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned closer. “I figured you’d say that. It’s embarrassing, but…” Her voice dropped, careful and intimate. “I’ve been burned before. Catfished so bad I couldn’t even be mad—just impressed.” A self-deprecating shrug. “Plus, with my job, I have to be careful. Thought you’d understand. So…”

“Yeah, I get it.” He frowned, weighing her words like unfamiliar currency. “World’s full of crazies.”

“Exactly.” Her smile widened. “But now we’re here. No more pictures. Just us.”

His hesitation stretched into a grin. “Alright. Clean slate.”

“Clean slate,” she echoed, brushing his arm as they settled into their chairs.

The conversation unfolded with ease, her role precise and fluid. He spoke of his boys—his love for them marked by the ache of weekends-only fatherhood. She laughed on cue, her gaze lingering where it counted. A seamless choreography, her lead slight and uninterrupted.

“You’re trouble.” Her voice was silk and steel as she pulled him closer.

“The good kind.” He leaned in.

Her smile tilted. “Think you can prove it?”

—

The walk to the motel was brisk, his chatter ballooning into boasts, his swagger inflating with each step. She stoked the fire with coy glances and soft laughs. By the time they reached the room, his confidence loomed, ready to topple under its own weight.

At the door, he fumbled with a keycard. She paused, watching as he swiped and nudged the door open. Her smile sharpened, disbelief glinting in her eyes.

“Got it earlier,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “In case it rained.”

She glanced at the clear, star-bright sky. “Rain?” Her smirk cut deeper as she stepped inside.

"Or, you know...," he muttered, shifting his weight. "Figured we might need a place to talk."

“Talk,” she echoed, letting the word hang. Her gaze swept the room—beige walls, sagging bed, a lamp flickering on the edge of existence.

“I wasn’t assuming,” he stammered. “It’s just... convenient.”

“Convenient,” she murmured, brushing his forearm with a velvet touch. “How considerate.”

His lips parted, but her finger pressed them closed. Her fingers traced his chest, her smile sharpening to a point. “It’s perfect,” she whispered. “You’re perfect.”

He turned to the dresser, wallet in hand, blind to her steady, deliberate movements.

Her scarf slipped loose, coiling in her hands. She unzipped her dress, the fabric sliding down in a hush to pool at her feet. Black lace and pale skin gleamed in the dim light.

From her bag, she drew a length of rope, the fibers gliding through her fingers like poured milk. Every movement was practiced—a rhythm and ritual she knew by heart.

She stepped forward, close enough for him to feel her presence, her voice low and steady.

“Get into bed.”

Her tone held no room for question, only an undeniable calm that carried the weight of inevitability.

By John Pan

The Roman was clearly an amateur.

He should have used padding to round out his broad shoulders, or used a wig to give his head more volume. Right now, he stuck out like a cow among chickens.

Evander chuckled as he sipped on some wine. He should have left such tasks to the professionals.

The Roman approached his table. Perhaps he had come in search of a professional. Evander soothed his hair. First impressions were important.

“Wonderful to have some company tonight,” Evander said as the Roman sat down. “I’m sure you want to know what the good wines are, being a foreigner and all.”

The Roman chuckled. “The Pontian red that you drink is sharp and dry.”

“How perceptive,” Evander said, taking a good look at the Roman. The man’s gray eyes glinted in the dark, as if his gaze could pierce even the murkiest fog. “A demigod of Athena?”

“Minerva,” the Roman said. “You’re a demigod too. Apate, most likely.”

Evander raised his eyebrows. He would have to test the Roman’s perception. “I’m a child of Hermes.”

“Unlikely,” the Roman responded. “Children of Hermes can’t sit still. You sit here for several hours every night.”

He was observing him. Evander masked his concern with a smile. “Better to spend the nights with some wine for company. You must agree, seeing as you come here every night as well.”

“Not here,” the Roman said. “I’m on duty.”

“Your duty is talking to random strangers in a tavern?” Evander laughed. “Sign me up for the Roman legion.”

The Roman smiled. “Since you’re offering, let me tell you what your job is.”

Evander took a long sip of wine. “I don’t typically accept work from military types. The life expectancy in the ranks is far too low for my tastes.”

“Would you rather die of starvation alone in the dark, or winning glory with your comrades?”

“If glory means a fat pile of gold, perhaps.”

The Roman caught his drift and set a pouch on the table. The tinkering sound it made—enough to last a month, if it was silver. Enough to last a year, if it was gold.

Evander leaned forward. “I’m all ears.”

“The Macedonians,” the Roman said. “Their champion carries a Lesser Aegis.”

“Are you suggesting I talk him into giving me a godly artifact?”

“You’re quick with your hands,” the Roman said. “You’ve never paid the tavern-keeper these past six days. The coins somehow find their way back to your hands.”

Dangerously observant, this Roman. Evander smiled. “I suppose some sleight of hand would do the trick as well.”

The Roman stood. “I’ll get you a second bag just like that one once you bring me the artifact.”

“Pleasure,” Evander said, sliding the bag into his satchel.

“Caecina,” the Roman said.

“Evander.”

“Good evening to you.” Caecina turned away.

The bag was full of Roman silver. Evander would have to exchange it at some major port. Unless, of course, Rome took over.

After tucking it away in the compartment behind the arras, Evander headed toward the Macedonian camp, about an hour’s walk.

Sneaking out of the city was simple. Every city had an underbelly, and Evander was a creature of such a place. Only his clean clothes stood out among the guttersnipe crowd. He made his way through the passwall and into the open country.

Sneaking into the Macedonian camp was simple as well. Military types were proud of their prowess, and the Macedonians were no exception. Evander didn’t even need to use his mother’s powers. They simply believed nobody could scale the mountain and left their flanks wide open. Not even a boundary spell.

A Lesser Aegis. Must be a child of Athena, or perhaps a child of Zeus. Such magic armaments did not belong to common men—they were artifacts wielded by the greatest demigods. And the greater the demigod, the more ostentatious their tent.

There was a tent emblazoned with lightning bolts, lit by a dozen torches. Ostentatious indeed. All he needed now was a sign that read ‘champion of the gods’.

Evander conjured an Illusion. It was the only good that came from his mother’s blood. He set it to pace outside of the tent, intentionally casting a shadow against the fabric of the tent.

Evander crept into the tent. He first searched on the side with his Illusion’s shadow, finding only discarded clothing. He moved his Illusion as he made his way toward the other side of the tent, always working in its shadow.

There. An embellished wooden stand boasted a polished disk embossed with a gorgon’s screaming face. The face shifted, contorted, and twisted. Evander wondered if the anguish captured here was the pain of abandonment, like how his mother left his father. Like how his father left him.

Evander tested the stand. No magical charm, not even a physical trap. He chuckled. Proud indeed, so proud to think himself untouchable.

Evander left the tent, dismissed his Illusion, and crept out of the camp.

“I need a protection charm.”

“A protection charm,” Caecina repeated. “Some kind of Macedonian enchantment?”

“The camp is under a boundary warding spell,” Evander explained. “Must be why they didn’t protect the flanks.”

Caecina nodded. “Tell me about the spell.”

“I could see the camp, no problem,” Evard said. “I could toss a rock through as well. But I couldn’t walk through.”

Evander had described a liminal spell of Hermes, one that required a charm from Hecate.

The Roman nodded. “Come back here in six hours.”

Evander smiled. “Thank you so much.”

He stayed in the tavern after the Roman left. After all, there was nothing else to do, and nobody to see. The wine seared his empty stomach, which he remedied with a sizable helping of bread with olives and cheese. He chose against slipping the coin back into his pouch. He had plenty of coin now, and moving on to the next city was more of a hassle the more the thought about it.

Evander watched the people come and go. The usuals came today as well—the man grieving his wife, the woman shopping for her husband, the vagabond who had too much to spend. All these people simply passing him by, unseen in plain sight.

Evander was in the middle of his third cup of wine when a newcomer stepped through the threshold. The newcomer’s eyes met Evander’s.

“Ahh, my friend,” Evander said, beckoning him over.

The man sat down, blocking Evander’s view of the doorway with his immense shoulders. “You are Evander?”

“Indeed,” Evander replied. “You are acquainted with Caecina?”

“He is my commanding officer,” the man replied. “He tells me you require magical assistance.”

Evander nodded. “He did tell you the details of my request, did he not?”

“No,” the man said. He was a poor liar.

“Unfortunate,” Evander said. “Perhaps he forgot. In any case, this is what happened: I was walking toward the edge of the camp when I hit an invisible wall. I could see into the camp, I could toss rocks toward the camp, but I couldn’t go any further. Rather difficult to get the artifact if I can’t make my way inside. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“They must have a demigod of Mercury,” he said.

“You tell me,” Evander smiled. “You’re the expert.”

The Roman rummaged through his pouch. He set down a piece of gold worth maybe three silver pieces and a pair of tiny torches, perfectly sized for rats if they had Olympic games. Then he spoke an incantation, and the materials fused together.

“Quite magical,” Evander said, taking another sip of wine. “I imagine you must be a child of Hecate.”

“Indeed,” he said.

“That will be all I require,” Evander said, itching to lay his hands on the charm. “I expect to see your commanding officer here tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow morning,” the man said.

Evander smiled and slid the charm into his pocket. “Many thanks to you, my friend. And best of luck with the import business.”

The man stood and left without a word.

Evander inspected the charm in the gloom of his home. A pure gold talisman, the twin torches of Hecate pressed into the metal. It glinted out of tune with his candle, as if it was sucking the light away.

A genuine magic talisman. He could pawn this off and live for three months. Or, he could use it to enter the warded homes of the prominent to live off of them instead. They didn’t lack anything anyway.

That night, charm in hand, he left for the Macedonian camp once more. Once more, he entered the tent and laid his eyes on Lesser Aegis.

He tested the rack once more. Plain wood. He dared to touch the shield itself. Nothing happened. It seemed inert, almost as if it was a forgery.

Evander watched the gorgon face scream despite not having no mouth. He felt a pang of pity for her, forever doomed to be silent. Well, at least she could make faces. He didn’t have that luxury.

He slipped out of the camp without a word.

“More?”

Today the Roman sent a woman. A child of Hermes, most likely, since she kept tapping her feet like Evander was already two hours late. Perhaps the commander himself was impatient.

“Make no mistake, I want to deliver the goods,” Evander said. “Unfortunately, that hasn’t been possible. The item is set in a trapped holder. I need something exactly the same size that I can slot into the gap.”

Judging by her frown, she was not convinced. “How would you get the real one out if you put the forgery in?”

“Simple,” Evander said, spreading his hands. “You have fast hands yourself, I’m sure.”

She growled. “I’ll run it by Caecina. Meet me at the ruined villa in six hours.”

Name, not rank. Evander chuckled as she left. Must be the Roman commander’s woman.

Two Romans came this time.

A man thumped toward the ruined villa, so loud Evander could hear him a league away. The woman was a flurry, at times on his left, at times on his right, like a child given too much honey.

“Name’s Frontinus,” he said, attempting to whisper. “Optio. Caecina told me you needed a forgery.”

“Indeed,” Evander said with a smile. “I trust you have one for me?”

“Only the best,” Frontinus said, setting down his pack. He probably could have carried the woman in that pack. “I trust you are acquainted with Cora?”

Evander smiled. “I must have missed her name. A pleasure, Cora.”

“You better not be cheating Caecina,” she shot back.

Evander took a step back. “Why would I ever?”

“Come now, Cora,” Frontinus said. “Caecina said to give him a chance.”

Give me a chance? Evander was surprised. That Roman was far too trusting, especially for a military type. Perhaps he thought the promise of coin would keep him in check. Pride, once more.

Frontinus produced a bronze shield, polished, with a hideous gorgon’s face. “I enchanted the face. I was told the gorgons on Aegis shields could move.”

The gorgon’s face did indeed move, though this face was more furious than horrified. After the Romans left, he could offer it to one of the military types for a hefty sum before anyone found out it was only enchanted in appearance.

Evander smiled. “Such exquisite work. I say, only a child of Hephaestus could hammer out such a masterpiece.”

“You have me there,” the Roman said, smiling himself. “Hope that’ll let you get the shield.”

“Well, I suppose there could be more complications,” Evander said. “I do my best, of course, just like you.”

“We all do.” Frontinus hefted the pack back onto his shoulders. “May the gods bless you, lad.”

Evander smiled. Of course the man would bless him—he wanted Evander to do something for him. “Thank you, good man.”

With the shield slung over his back and the charm in his pocket, Evander snuck back into the Macedonian camp.

This night was different. The champion demigod was still awake—Evander could hear commotion in the tent. He and his paramour were enjoying nighttime activities.

Evander wouldn’t use the Illusion this time. Shadows against the tent would alarm them both. But he could use their own racket as a distraction.

He snuck inside, biting his lip to keep his laughter bottled within. The mere thought that he would enjoy such activities with the Romans on his doorstep was ludicrous. Perhaps he thought his divine shield would save him.

Evander almost stole the Lesser Aegis right then and there to spite him. But if he could get another magical item off of the Romans before he plundered both armies—Evander could laugh all the way to Corinth.

He left the tent, then the camp, without any hint that the champion noticed anything was amiss. He would, eventually. Evander made certain of it—after all, the champion’s paramour would be looking for her dress tomorrow morning.

Evander finally let out a laugh when he was enveloped by the darkness of his home. After he started, he couldn’t stop—at this rate, the local rats would think he was possessed. Perhaps he was.

He finally calmed down and ran the fabric between his hands. Fine linen, no doubt imported from Egypt, worth several silver coins. Maybe there was more to plunder in the Macedonian camp.

Or the Roman camp.

He didn’t need to ask for another magical item—he could take it.

With that, he opened the door, and snuck off toward the Roman camp.

The Romans were far more vigilant, likely because they were so far from home. Patrols paced along the earthen ramparts, which Evander avoided by using his Illusion. They also had a barrier ward, but the Hecate charm let him through after the second try.

Once again, he looked for an ostentatious tent. One with owls, perhaps. Yet, it wouldn’t be too out of place, as there was no way that Roman was the commander of this whole host.

Nothing. The tents were lined up according to number, and there was clearly a well-illuminated command tent in the middle, but otherwise, there was nothing.

Evander frowned. Perhaps the Romans commander forbade such displays.

No matter. He would simply find some random Roman’s stash and make off with it.

“Evander?”

Evander turned, careful to not appear surprised. There he was, the Romans commander. “Ah, Caecina. I was just looking for you.”

“How did you get—never mind. What brings you here? You have the artifact?”

“Well, there was another complication tonight,” Evander said.

“Tell me,” Caecina said.

Evander showed him the linen dress.

Caecina laughed. “He must be furious.”

“Oh, he will be,” Evander said, tucking away the linen as carefully as he could. “In an hour or so.”

“That’s right,” Caecina said, checking the stars for the time. “It’s almost breakfast. You must be hungry.”

Free food. Why not? “Oh, no need. That would be a bother.”

“Have you tried Cora’s cooking?” Caecina asked. “You won’t regret it.”

Evander smiled. “Lead the way.”

“Why is he here?”

Cora was already awake, kneading furiously one moment and stirring vigorously the next.

“There were certain complications yesterday night,” Caecina explained. “I’m sure Evander would like to explain himself.”

“Well, you see, the artifact’s current owner happened to be awake,” Evander said with a smile.

Cora flung the bread into the oven and tossed some herbs into the pot. “Why come here? You never came before.”

Evander smiled. “I wanted to share.”

Cora fanned the fire so quickly Evander was afraid she would set the entire camp on fire. “Share?”

Evander showed her the dress. Cora smiled for about half a second.

Cora returned to her pots. “You have Lord Zeus’ balls, I’ll give you that.”

A bugle sounded. All around Evander, the Roman camp stirred.

“Breakfast,” Caecina said, waving Evander forward. Cora found a spare bowl and filled it before Evander even moved.

“How delightful,” Evander said. “I didn’t even have to ask!”

Cora rolled her eyes. “Hurry up and take the bowl.”

Caecina was next. After him came the Hecate demigod, then the Hephaestus demigod—Frontinus? Several others followed afterward.

“Everyone, this is Evander,” Caecina said. “He’s the one I hired to pilfer the artifact from the Macedonians.”

The assembled crowd waved and nodded. Evander smiled, quelling his fear. There were so many eyes on him. “Greetings. I am Evander, a local of Epirus, child of Apate, curse her name.”

The Romans laughed. “Most of us don’t like our godly parent,” the Hephaestus demigod said. “Aside from Caecina.”

Caecina waved the comment away. “Oh, I have plenty of gripes about Minerva.”

“At least you get to see her,” the Hecate demigod said.

Caecina laughed. “Fair point.”

The chatter went on. Evander forgot the names of twenty other demigods while he ate two bowls of bacon porridge, a loaf of bread, a handful of dates, and a delicious cake they called Savillum. Cora was indeed a magnificent cook. Caecina was a lucky man.

Evander returned to his home about three hours before noon, bursting with food and regret. The dress he stole. What was he thinking? And then running into the Roman camp?

Sneaking into the Roman camp this morning was the greatest mistake. He didn’t swipe an artifact. Worse, he got to know Caecina and Cora and the rest of the Roman posse. The sweetness of his time there—his heart sank just thinking about running.

He couldn’t just waltz into the Macedonian camp tonight. The dress he stole—indeed, the champion would be alert tonight, burning to get back the pride Evander stole.

The Hecate charm, the Aegis forgery, and the linen dress, plus the bag of Roman silver. He could live a good few months on that, passing off as a retired Greek mercenary as soon as he could get to Tyre or Alexandria. They used plenty of Roman silver there.

But the Lesser Aegis. An artifact like that, a gift from a godly parent—he could live on that forever. Lords would invite him to feasts just for carrying it.

He could get it. He slipped into the Roman camp, and there was no reason the Macedonian camp would be more vigilant. Besides, nobody ever saw through his Illusion before.

Evander lay on his cot. He would steal the Lesser Aegis, then run. For that, he would need to sleep.

The Macedonians set up a border ward and ran patrols. Evander bypassed these countermeasures with ease.

But the champion’s tent was strangely silent. Was he truly so arrogant as to sleep today?

Evander found a dark place to hide, then conjured his Illusion. He willed it to crawl toward the entrance of the tent.

“Did you crawl through the muck like a worm yesterday as well?”

It was a trap. The demigod was awake.

Evander stopped the Illusion. “Seeing as you were thoroughly enthralled yesterday, I didn’t need to crawl.”

A bolt of blue light split the air, blasting Evander’s Illusion. Evander dispelled the Illusion, then conjured it again, walking nonchalantly toward the tent, as if he was strolling through an Epicurean garden.

“Bastard,” the champion roared. “A child of Hermes?

“Looking for this?”

Evander adjusted the Illusion, making it look like it held the Lesser Aegis.

“Ploughing whoreson. You think you can trick me?”

“I stole your shield yesterday,” Evander said. “The one you have inside is a forgery.”

The champion shot another bolt of lightning. Evander dismissed the Illusion, then conjured another, dangling a shield fetchingly.

Evander nearly laughed when the demigod burst out of the tent half clothed, spear in hand. “Where are you, you mangy dog?”

Evander left the forgery lying against his former hiding place and darted away, bouncing toward the tent. The champion ignored Evander’s Illusion now, looking this way and that for his shield. Thankfully, children of Zeus did not get divine eyesight.

He slipped into the tent. The shield was not on the stand. Evander quietly sifted through the mess on the floor, then ran his hand through the champion’s bed. There it was, tucked into his bedsheets.

Evander’s heart pounded with excitement as he freed the Lesser Aegis. He was close, so close to his prize.

“My Lord?”

“He’s here!” The champion roared. “If you imbeciles did your job properly—“

“There he is!”

Evander had dismissed his Illusion, the conjured another taking flight from the champion’s tent. While the Illusion fooled the Macedonians, he sliced through the tent and emerged from the other side.

“My Lord, there’s two of him!”

So, they weren’t total idiots. Unfortunate. Evander directed his Illusion to the left, while he ducked to the right.

Macedonians, half awake, blocked his path. Evander didn’t stop. Holding the shield in front of him, he barreled past them. The shield was indeed enchanted—arrows and javelins flew his way, all turned away by the divine power held within the shield.

No wonder the Romans wanted this. Evander was invincible. He laughed as he ran, untouchable and uncatchable.

Then there was a flash. Evander suddenly found himself careening through the air, a bang splitting his ears.

Evander tasted metal. He tried to curse. The shield wasn’t enchanted to block lightning.

“Fool,” the champion bellowed.

Evander heard footsteps. He tried his eyes, but they didn’t work.

“Thanks for the shield.”

The Roman. Child of Athena. He planned this all along.

Evander cursed. A fool indeed, to try and scam the military types. The Macedonian was too strong, the Roman too clever.

Evander woke up in a cot.

A cot? He opened his eyes.

“Hey, you’re finally awake.”

The Roman. Caecina.

“What a surprise,” Evander said. He could talk his way out of this. “Caecina, was it?”

Caecina smiled. “To think you actually came through in the end.”

“Came through?” Evander chuckled. He carefully felt around for restraints. Nothing. “Of course I came through. What, did you think I would try and scam a child of Athena?”

Caecina raised an eyebrow. “You did, though.”

Evander scoffed while he scanned his surroundings. The Roman camp. All the demigods were up and about. There was no escape. “Tell me, how exactly did I scam you? Everything I asked for was necessary.”

“Everything you asked for was also worth a fortune,” Caecina said.

“We’re dealing with the magical,” Evander said, checking for an escape path. “Of course everything would be expensive.”

“You just won’t admit it, will you,” Caecina said. He waved forward one of his subordinates.

“My apologies, could you remind me of your name?” Evander asked. Another demigod whose name he forgot.

“Damon, child of Apollo, optio,” he said, bearing a smile that rivaled the sun in radiance. “I am Caecina’s chief field surgeon. I will inspect your wounds now.”

“Wounds?” Evander remembered the lightning. Was this why there were no restraints? Was he too weak to run?

The Apollo demigod threw off the covers, revealing bandages from Evander’s belly to his toes. “What happened last night?”

“Four nights ago,” Caecina corrected. “We crushed the Macedonians in battle, no small thanks to you.”

Four nights. He sat here for four nights.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“All of this,” Evander said, gesturing to the Apollo demigod inspecting his bandages.

Caecina smiled. “I thought I might be able to change your mind.”

“Change my mind?”

Caecina nodded.

“About what? Needing the magical implements?”

“You didn’t need the charm,” Caecina said. “Not until the last time you snuck in, after you alerted the camp by stealing that dress.”

Dangerously observant. Evander raised his hands. “Terribly perceptive, child of Athena. I’ll return everything you supplied.”

Caecina stared at him, those grey eyes seeing through every one of Evander’s deceptions. “Keep the charm. Your coin is over there.”

Evander followed his finger to the table, where a pouch, full of silver, sat.

“He’s fit for discharge, Caecina,” Damon said. Caecina nodded.

“You’re free to go,” Caecina said.

Evander stood, then walked over and wrapped his palm around the pouch. He could feel the silver inside, waiting to be spent.

Evander looked around. Cora was watching, those Hermes daring him to leave, if only to prove her suspicions right. Frontinus was too, immersed in his work, trying not to look but doing it anyway, as if he was about to lose a friend. The Hecate demigod whose name he forgot twice now stared from a dark corner of his cot.

So many eyes.

“Caecina, I was thinking,” Evander said, pocketing the pouch.

The demigod of Athena raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“The Macedonians aren’t vanquished, are they?” Evander asked.

“No,” Caecina replied. “The legion moves out tomorrow.  We march toward Thessaloniki.”

“Well, since this cot seems to be otherwise unoccupied. How about I go along with you?” Evander asked. “I’m sure there will be more Macedonians who need to part with their divine heirlooms.”

Caecina smiled. “Hardly a more suitable man for the job.”

Evander smiled back. He would give the Romans a chance.