Another wave breaks on the shore of mankind's greatest longing. A wave of resonance, as the fractal elements of the outer world fold in on themselves, annihilating the dissonance of matter into an expansive harmony of energy. The beating of the eternal heart, the standing wave of time, of which we are only half-conscious, promises mankind a backwards-awakening - the realization of negative time.

From our precarious perch in the positive timeline, we see a causal framework based on the monotony of time. We never stop to consider whether this time might be in harmony with itself, with it's opposite. A fish never knows what air's like until it crosses the surface - it can only observe the effects of that air on the water, which also confuses it about the nature of water.

Clarity is to be found in infinity, the infinite occilations of time, what we all unconsciously know.

I fed the words of a tantalizing new challenge into AI. In seconds, it created a work of prose better than my mind could comprehend. It gave me pause. Made me question the purpose for my existence.

My one small skill to manipulate words into satisfying forms communicating my feelings, immediately diminished. Once you lose your self to a formless creation of 0s and 1s, of what is left to redeem my entire life?

I write this knowing if I fed it into AI, a better verbal expression would emerge.

The object drifted silently on its course through the starry, silent vacuum of the cosmos. It was a metallic hulk of gray panels and oversized thrusters out its south end.

It was unceremoniously nicknamed a moo because it was shaped like a huge milk carton, the windows of the bridge forming the “tabs.” The ship was nothing fancy and it didn't need to be. It was a vessel for moving freight or prisoners. I was of the latter. I sat in my seat, a guard in beige camo on either side. They looked like turkey buzzards and I was roadkill. None of us wore space suits, for they were not needed in the pressurized hull of the moo.

I knew where I was headed. It was a planetoid on the far end of the Milky Way. It had been terraformed many years ago. I'm sure it was an interesting process and I'm sure it involved a ton of scientific jargon, but I'm not Isaac Asimov or the other guy that wrote about threesomes on the moon; I therefore will not attempt to give an exposition of the process.

It had been made into human worthy habitation and a penal colony. Its name was Grifter's End & had become the rug beneath which society swept its dirt.

The colony on the planetoid, just a tad bigger than Earth's moon,was the solution to that glaring issue political devotees on all sides could agree needed fixing: prison overcrowding. This was where low level offenders were dumped,your prostitutes, druggies, and petty thieves. Your big bads like kiddy touchers, serial killers and rapists stayed on Earth. Well in time the prostitutes did what they did best and the men did what they did best and soon everyone was breeding like rabbits and an entirely self-sufficient society had been carved out.

The “moo” touched down, shaking us all up and for that brief instant I had something in common with Elvis Presley. I straightened my suit and tie as the hull depressurized with a pwoooshhh sound. The ramp lowered with an annoying mechanical groan and I was escorted off the hunk of junk and onto the platform and subsequently to the care of two more guards wearing the same uniform as those on the ship except with the addition of gas masks and red berets. The gas masks were for pure intimidation factor. The air on this rock pile was breathable.

“Do you know what brings you here?” One asked in a brusque tone.

“Of course I do.”

“Let's move it along then.”

My former escorts were handed a clip board with a bunch of papers they hastily signed off on as though I were a parcel they had just uncaringly dropped off. Once the ship had lifted off and pierced the night sky I was handed a tablet with a list of instructions staring at me from the glowing screen.

The gates to the colony proper flung open and I walked inside, swallowed by the neon boa that this place was.

Under the watchful eyes of the guards and their bullpup rifles I followed each instruction carefully. I was documented, checked in and given my assigned job, and the address to my apartment where I'd live on this penal colony space rock.

Given the low level nature of my criminal offenses I got a cushy but tedious job as quality control in the factory that towered like a colossus over the low rise cityscape. This colony was designed for total self-sufficiency. Food, metal hardware, software, light bulbs all of it was manufactured right here. The most reformed of this place's denizens even owned farms away from the congestion of this city. Surplus was exported off world back to Earth. Every few months or so a ship would arrive from the Mother Planet bearing care packages of sorts. These contained the few things we wouldn't have access to here. It gives us toilet paper to wipe our butts and the Earthlings some superficial peace of mind about shooting us into space. A win win situation don't you see?

There was well constructed social order about the colony too. You had your low level menial workers like me, the people in the factories and the farmers and stuff. Then you had the shop owners and bartenders, the staff like the stuffy suit who checked me in. Then above all of us were the guards; their iron grip had loosened over the years as the criminals reformed with the construction of the colony but they remained ever vigilant….up to a point.

They had a don't bother the bee approach to their policing. If you walked down the wrong alley and someone did shank you which was rare there'd be an investigation and the perp would be punished in some manner if caught the key word is IF.

The truth is this: what's the point of imprisoning a crook when he's already in prison? Basically everything short of open prostitution or mass riots got a blind eye turned toward it. If I had tobput it a simpler way I'd say the authorities at this point in the colony's history were mainly for decoration and making sure that the reformed stayed that way. If let's say some factory workers were gambling on their breaks not a problem it was free time. If on the other hand a bunch of the thieves that got sent here continued the practice they'd be dealt with.

My apartment was spartan and painted a very sterile white. That was fine. I'm a simple man. The lighting cast an ambient blue pall over the interior. I wasn't sure if this served a practical purpose like calming workers after a shift or if it was for pure aesthetics. I found the fridge fully stocked with locally sourced foodstuffs of all sorts. The living room had a couch with a light strip built into its bottom portion. There was a radio built into the wall for music from a selection of thumb drives housed in a little cubby next to the radio.

There was no T.V.. A cineplex played selected films on the weekends and that took care of visual entertainment; though as I learned later there were other forms of entertainment on this planetoid that people indulged in even they weren't supposed to.

The bedroom had a full wardrobe waiting for me in the closet. For a convicted criminal I had it pretty good. A box on a night stand contained other things for me including a list of eating places and something that looked like squished pennies,musk coins the physical equivalent to the USA's universal cryptocurrency. There was another item that made both my eyebrows raise in bemusement.

There was a small pistol in the box. The citizens had no rights to firearms (though I expected a black market existed). So what was this doing here?. Oh well, a problem for another day.

I picked out a pajama set from my closet and showered. I placed the mysterious gun under my pillow. The bedroom had no windows. And was bathed in the soothing illumination of the holographic clock projected onto the wall. The colony ran on civilian Earthtime. 7:00 PM.

I would be working day shifts for the rest of my life here so I shut my eyes and didn't open them until I was brought out of slumber by the sound of demonic hornets buzzing into my room. The alarm was automatically set for Six in the morning.

Cliche that I tried, cared and tried. Tattoos permanently on your thighs. Marilyn Manson the guise. Gay. Lame. Fake. Fruit flies. Sweet yet nasty. At the split you devise, the right life, you have comprised, transition, reprise. You're married now but where am I.

It's great to grow and behold. Feed and grow old. It was never in what I knew for you. You wild little screw. But trust im happy, maybe, fuck me. What I've seen is dirty, messy, and skitzy. Doesn't change a thing, I miss thee.

You are chubby, pink, and stinky. But you chose everything but me. Sour days in bed talking to mom. Her fly trap over flow-ed. You're dad drums of gold. I tried, you saw some value in a beat persistent as a nuclear mossad.

We shared good taste in music. You showed me Gun Ship. NO² fits. With our agressive addiction fit. Happy songs I never thought were congruent, with you. With me. Yet you let it be, with no commitment at this vanishing point.

Years later I wrote this, thunk this, hate this. Not at all worried you can dissect this. Attack this. And. Trivialize this. My only hope is you never see this.

In a forgotten lighthouse that leaned toward the sea like a tired sigh, there lived a man who mapped places that no longer were. His name was Luke, and his world was parchment and silence, shelves bowed beneath scrolls of lands erased by time, and a table where he traced lost borders with trembling hands.

No one came here unless they had nowhere else to go.

The air inside was laced with dust and salt, and the scent of old ink clung to the stones. His maps were not made with ink and compass alone. No—Luke mixed pigments from ash, from soil gathered where cities had once stood, and from crushed flowers left behind in places no longer found on any map. A drop of seawater to bind them. A whisper, to awaken the memory.

And the maps shimmered faintly. Not with light, but with recognition—as if the paper remembered being earth once.

He worked alone. Until one night, as twilight spilled like oil across the horizon, there was a knock at the lighthouse door. Soft. Almost afraid to be heard.

She was no older than eight, her boots soaked from the marsh below, eyes too large for her face. In her hands: a wrinkled piece of paper. A map drawn in crayon and charcoal.

“I’m looking for my home,” she said, holding it out like a fragile truth. “But it’s not on any map.”

Luke did not speak at first. He took the paper with careful fingers and studied it. The lines were crude. A crooked hill. A crescent-shaped lake. Four houses and a willow tree with blue leaves.

“This place,” he murmured, “does not exist.”

She looked at him then—not with anger, but with an ache older than her years.

“It did,” she whispered. “It did.”

He should have sent her away.

Instead, he lit a lantern and cleared the table. He laid her map beside his own. Then, from a tall, narrow drawer, he drew out an empty sheet—fine as moth wings, stitched with veins of gold. And he began.

She watched him for hours. Told him the shape of the hills. The sound the wind made near the water. How the tree whistled at night. He listened. Drew. Adjusted. Not with disbelief, but reverence.

As the days passed, the lines grew sharper. The village took shape.

And with each stroke of his pen, something stirred inside him. A name he had forgotten surfaced on his tongue. The curve of the lake—he had seen that before. The willow tree—he had once sat beneath its branches.

He didn’t ask her name. And she never asked his. But they worked in quiet togetherness, and the lighthouse began to feel less empty.

Until one morning, he awoke to find her gone. Her boots no longer by the door. Her paper left on the table, weighed down by a smooth stone.

Only one thing had changed.

The map they had drawn together was glowing.

He touched the lake—his hand trembled. Not with fear, but with memory. He had lived there. That village with the crooked roofs and blue-leaved trees. He had left as a boy during a flood that no one remembered. It had been erased. From the world. From his own mind.

Now it was back.

Luke stood in the lighthouse doorway, staring at the horizon. And for the first time in a lifetime of maps, he didn’t want to chart it. He wanted to walk it.

But he knew the cost. To map a vanished place fully was to release it. To let it live again, and in doing so, forget it once more. He had brought back so many towns, so many islands, but had always remained the keeper of their ghosts.

He looked down at the glowing map. The lines now pulsed gently, like a heartbeat. The child had given him more than memory.

She had given him home.

So he made his choice.

Luke did not archive the map. He did not seal it away.

He rolled it gently, tied it with twine, and carried it to the tallest window of the lighthouse. There, as the first stars blinked above the sea, he held the map to the wind.

It caught like a bird set free, unraveling as it flew, its glowing trails scattering into the night.

And somewhere, far from the lighthouse, a village with a crescent lake and a blue-leaved willow tree began to return to the earth.

Luke felt the forgetting begin, soft and painless. Like mist. Like sleep.

He smiled.

And sat down to draw once more.

© 2025 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

John watched the böxenwolves’ fight and the stand-off with morbid fascination. Wayne filmed it on a camcorder, and when Olsen asked him to stop, Kevin defended him. Olsen searched them and confiscated Wayne’s revolver.

Olsen and the human half of the K9 team helped Corey onto a stretcher and brought her to the befuddled EMTs. Kevin rode with her to the hospital. John hoped she survived regardless of her innocence or guilt.

As flustered EMTs loaded the böxenwolf into the ambulance, Sheriff Jordan told Wayne and John not to mention anything about the scene to the wolf response or authorities in Wolftown. John considered it vaguely suspicious.

Sheriff Jordan left Chief Deputy Swan in charge of the Happy Howlers crime scene. They insisted every deputy reported exactly what they witnessed, whether or not they observed crazy things. Through his tenure as sheriff, Jordan said that their observations would not affect their careers negatively unless the deputies were incompetent, and he knew they were competent.

The wolves quieted once the ambulance departed. The deputies calmed, and the K9 dog stopped barking.

The deputies questioned John and Wayne.

Soon, the deputies removed the sharp implements from the wolf pen and let Wayne move the wolves into it, and also, he and John cared for the wolves. Wayne positively identified all wolves as residents of Happy Howlers, and none resembled Abel, Barker, or Charlie, the three wolves that roamed Wolftown.

The deputies allowed Wayne to collect evidence for the wolf response once they finished working in a particular area. He thought the paw prints matched Abel and Barker’s.

Most deputies left, but Olsen remained until Nancy, Wayne’s wife, picked up Wayne and John. Sheriff Jordan worried the third man might attack them.

John said, “You’ll probably have to say böxenwolves exist now.”

Wayne sighed. “I know. I already had to say they weren’t wolves.”

“They legitimately look like wolves, or, at least, Corey Brown does. I guess the böxenwolf did.”

“I’m fine with misidentifying things if I have to.” Wayne sighed. “They will find out sooner or later. Data that böxenwolves exist will attract cryptozoologists, plus other people who make cryptozoologists look like real scientists.”

“Cryptozoologists find real animals once in a while, like platypuses and coelacanths.”

“The other people think intelligent alien life visits Earth. If I say böxenwolves exist, cryptozoologists and other people will want to talk to me, and I don’t want to talk to them.”

“Would you consider hanging up a sign saying that Happy Howlers employees cannot discuss the subject?” Olsen asked.

“That will bring conspiracy theorists. I won’t let Happy Howlers be a shrine for weirdos.”

“Why conspiracy theorists?” John asked.

“Cryptozoology, other people’s hypotheses, and conspiracy theories overlap anyway. It’s so annoying.”

“You might attract fairy tale people instead,” the deputy said.

“That’s as bad. Maybe it’s worse because it reduces science to fairy tales. I don’t think we can even call this scientific evidence because who would want to be in an experiment to replicate it?”

“Not me. It was very uncomfortable,” John said.

“Nancy hates the paranormal.”

Wayne also called the University of Wisconsin Health University Hospital ICU to ask Adam Giese about Suzanne’s condition. She lost some of her intestines and one kidney, and her damaged liver had begun to fail, and she had septicemia. Suzanne felt well enough to say hello to Wayne, and she asked if anybody had caught the wolves yet.

“Maybe we’re getting close,” Wayne said.

John left a message for Paula: “Wolves haven’t been attacking people. Criminals have been looking like wolves and attacking people, but their method requires killing wolves. Maybe the criminals committed an environmental crime.”

Sheriff Jordan and Schuster sped to the Oneida Community Hospital, the closest one, but in a different county. Wilde County law enforcement regularly took patients to it, and the Oneida sheriff always allowed Wilde County law enforcement to guard violent patients.

“Well, that was a gross arrest, but at least there weren’t maggots,” Sheriff Jordan said.

Schuster dozed off for a few seconds.

“Maggots,” Schuster said, and yawned.

“How much have you slept?”

“I had a nap yesterday.”

“What about at night?”

“I’ve been on duty since Friday night.”

“Take a nap.”

Schuster did.

“Wake up.” Sheriff Jordan shook Schuster, who jerked.

“I’m awake. I’m listening,” Schuster said.

“Come on. We’re at the hospital.”

As they walked across the parking lot, Sheriff Jordan asked if Schuster had been drinking enough water (yes), had eaten at least one meal that day (in Sheriff Jordan’s opinion, the granola bar he always kept in his pocket and a thermos of hot chocolate did not qualify as food), and how much blood he lost the day before (approximately a pint to a pint-and-a-half, probably closer to the latter).

“After we get the wolf strap situation in hand, you’re going home,” Sheriff Jordan said.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“The road and bridge are still flooded.”

“How did you get out?”

“In a canoe.”

“There was a county-wide flash flood warning all night. There was a flash flood at 11:20 this morning.”

“It was too far to walk. I told Ms. Brown I wouldn’t leave until the suspect was in custody. Her aunt reported her as a missing person, so I want to tell her how Ms. Brown is. And if the suspect is Dennis Laufenberg, I want to tell my fiancé she doesn’t need to worry about him. He scares her.”

“Intentionally?”

“Not more than we told you earlier. I will tell Stephanie that he won’t be released from police custody, but she might not believe it unless I see it.”

“All right, after the böxenwolf becomes human, you can observe but not participate. However reliable and competent you seem, a brain can’t function properly under your conditions. You might make a mistake that hurts somebody or gives a judge or jury a reason to release the böxenwolf. You’ve been overusing your arms, rolling around in the mud, guarding your shoulder, and bleeding again, so have your arms looked at, too.”

“Okey-dokey.”

In four minutes, Sheriff Jordan and Schuster told the staff on duty to expect a deformed patient who, after the surgeon removed the wolf strap, would turn into a patient with normal anatomy. He warned that even major trauma healed quickly, and ketamine had little effect.

Sheriff Jordan, Schuster, and Deputy Murphy, who had accompanied the böxenwolf, watched the staff muddle through their disgust and anxiety. They each wrote down everything they heard the böxenwolf say, including that he complained about an invasion of privacy, and that he felt threatened by Schuster; he had said he intended to kill the böxenwolf.

The nurse bustled them out and drew a curtain.

“You were the one biting and threatening people, asshole,” Schuster said, accidentally aloud.

“Didn’t I say we were trying to de-escalate the situation?” Sheriff Jordan asked.

“Sorry, sir,” Schuster said.

“Were you trained not to argue with criminals?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’m assuming you’re sleep-deprived this time. Did you intend to kill him?” Sheriff Jordan asked.

“I told him if he moved towards us, I would kill him,” Schuster said. “It was a warning because I thought he was going to attack us. I actually shot him. He started cooperating, and he started acting threatening again, so I told him if he moved towards us again, I’d kill him. I think he believed me because he started cooperating again.”

“Are you going to kill him now?”

“No, he’s cooperating. I’m not even holding my weapon.” Schuster wanted to, but Sheriff Jordan wanted law enforcement to de-escalate the situation.

“Any other times?”

“If he was the wolf that attacked me and Officer Foster, while he was attacking us, I was trying to kill him. But if he was, I thought he was a wolf at the time.”

“Any other times?”

“No. I don’t have a reason now or other times.”

“Get your arms looked at. Everybody who survived the wolf attacks have gotten infections.”

Schuster realized how hungry, thirsty, and tired he was, and he went to the restroom and drank from a water fountain. He showed his arms to the triage nurse, and she asked him to wait, and so he leaned against the wall to stay awake. A few minutes later, a nurse called him. Waiting, he fell asleep on the table.

The doctor woke him to briefly examine his arms, vaccination status, and antibiotic prescription. He told the nurse to wash and re-bandage his bite wounds and give him a sling and told Schuster to eat a large, beef-based meal in the cafeteria.

While Schuster waited for the elevator to the first floor, the böxenwolf roared on the third floor, faintly. Schuster rode the elevator up and, by listening to the böxenwolf and following a security guard, he found the correct operating room. A nurse stopped the security guard, but Schuster barged past her.

A surgical tray had been knocked over. Sheriff Jordan, Murphy, the anesthesiologist, and two nurses held the böxenwolf down.

“The anesthesia, laughing gas, and painkillers aren’t working,” Sheriff Jordan said.

The böxenwolf told the surgeon, “Cut out the wolf strap!” Then glared at Schuster. “Not him!”

“Switch with the security guard and the surgical nurse,” Sheriff Jordan said, which annoyed the surgeon.

Schuster watched through the window. A nurse blocked the böxenwolf’s view. A minute later, a nurse left and returned with two orderlies, who replaced Sheriff Jordan, Murphy, and the security guard.

“He told them to cut the wolf strap off without drugs,” Sheriff Jordan said. “If this doesn’t work, I’m calling a priest.”

Everybody unnecessary for the operation filed out a few minutes later, with one orderly jogging to the elevator. Another, mumbling orderly shoved a basin and tweezers into Sheriff Jordan’s hands and bolted for the elevator.

The nurse said, “They cut that off. He told them to. The nurses had to hold the incisions open because he healed so fast. He healed around their fingers. Can I go?”

“Yeah. Thanks for your cooperation,” Sheriff Jordan said, and the nurse hustled before he finished speaking.

With tweezers, Sheriff Jordan picked up a small, roughly circular piece of wolf strap, human skin, and fat. “The leather part got fused to his skin. It looks like the fused part is about as big as a 9mm bullet. Did anybody shoot the böxenwolf where he wore the strap?”

“Maybe I did, but I’m not positive where I hit him,” Schuster said. “So, the leather healed with his skin, and he was stuck halfway between transfigurations?”

“No idea, but investigate your theory if you want, but not today.”

“Can I ask why you believed it was a böxenwolf?” And why did the surgery bother you more than seeing the böxenwolf?

“My church supports a missionary to Zaire, and he says he has observed magic. I don’t see why Americans couldn’t use it, too, maybe in a different way,” Sheriff Jordan said.

Schuster suggested he tell Sheriff Jordan everything that Corey Brown told him and what he remembered from the wolf hunt. From the back of his shirt, between his shirt and undershirt, Schuster extracted a crinkled, yellow legal pad waterproofed inside an evidence bag labeled, NOT EVIDENCE. Kevin had torn out the top, used pages, and given him the remainder. He filled it with erratically organized notes, supplemented by his pocket-sized Dennis Laufenberg notebook and his normal police notebook. Also, Schuster had recorded some of his conversations with Corey Brown on cassette tapes.

Since Schuster had nowhere to sleep, and spoke from notes instead of memory, Sheriff Jordan listened, but only after Schuster ate and after Sheriff Jordan called a few people. He exchanged or repaid a handful of quarters from Schuster, Murphy, and Kevin.

Sheriff Jordan called the University of Wisconsin Health University Hospital’s ICU ward and asked Adam Giese for Suzanne’s medical records. He agreed to send them.

Stephanie and Foster’s wife, Megan, had said they would remain at the University of Wisconsin Health University Hospital’s morgue until a medical examiner autopsied Foster’s body—Schuster, Foster, Stephanie, and Megan worried the Wolftown Police Department could interfere with autopsies conducted in Wilde County. Because none of them had a cellphone, from a payphone, Schuster called the morgue, then asked Stephanie to find a payphone and call back.

“Okay. Why are you calling from Oneida?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you later. I’ll probably be at my parents’ farm,” Schuster said. “Sheriff Jordan has questions for you, but he thought a phone call from him first would make you worry.”

“I’m already worried.”

Schuster tried to reassure her.

“What does he have questions about?” Stephanie asked.

“Who missed work during the wolf attacks?”

“A lot of the information is in the office, but I can try.”

“He has a question for Megan, too.”

“Wait, Megan asked if we can be godparents.”

“Foster asked me, too, on the way to Dr. Groves. I told him I would if you agreed to it.”

“We should be, especially since it’s a boy.”

“Are you sure?”

Stephanie and Megan liked each other, but each had other best friends.

“Yeah,” Stephanie said.

“Okey-dokey,” Schuster said.

“I’ll get Megan.”

Megan agreed to send Foster’s autopsy results to Sheriff Jordan.

Schuster found Kevin in the cafeteria, and they ate together. Schuster caffeinated himself, but he almost fell asleep.

Kevin said, “Regarding Dennis Laufenberg, you will need a new lawyer. Ms. Brown needs one familiar with böxenwolves, and it’s a conflict of interest. Try my partner, though.”

“Okay,” Schuster said. “Can the male böxenwolf be charged with murder?”

“It would require very solid evidence that does not rely upon böxenwolves existing. If he is tried once for murder and found not guilty, he cannot be tried again. The evidence must be very strong.”

Part 21 coming Friday, July 25, because I was overenthusiastic and wrote too much.

The wind overhead felt like a tornado rushing past my body, which caused me to look up—part curiosity, part survival instinct. I saw dozens of Young Pops—the name given to twenty-forth-century humans aged 15 to 30—zipping through the sky like they had somewhere very important to be, which they probably didn’t.

A female Young Pop had a pink jetpack strapped on, with matching pink hair highlights. Fashion clearly still matters at 30,000 feet. This wasn’t one of those 200-year-old, fuel-burning relics of old. No—her suit and jetpack moved like an elegant dance, a whisper against the air currents. She flew past without offering the optional two-finger community greeting. Rude, but maybe she was texting mid-flight. That generation does love their mid-air multitasking.

Nearby, a male had bionic tattoos that enhanced his strength. It wasn’t just added power; it was like his willpower had Bluetooth. Each muscle flex triggered a lift surge. How it worked—and his smug defiance of gravity—annoyed me. I smiled anyway and gave him the community greeting from the ground, surrounded by folks my age—thirty-five years past the Y-Pop maturity date and one bad back away from retirement.

He didn’t return the greeting either. Of course not.

My great-great-grandfather once traveled on the ground in a gas-thrust propulsion device that polluted the air and had to be manually driven over rough, uneven, jarring roads. Historical records say the ride was uncomfortable—like getting massaged by a sack of hammers. But at least it was on solid ground. And hey, back then, people regularly gave each other the one-finger greeting—that tradition, apparently, was alive and well.

Today, we’ve got flying shuttlecraft gliding through the atmosphere—clean, silent, smooth, and smug.

No more steering wheels. The AI system handles air traffic like a cosmic butler, catering exclusively to Y-Pop passengers.

I get it—the thrill of aerial freedom is intoxicating. But sometimes I wonder if the Y-Pop generation even remembers the scientists, engineers, and astronomers who made this freedom possible. Probably not. They’re too busy perfecting their mid-air selfies and neon wing upgrades.

Before the sky became freedom, Earth’s terra firma was the prize. Back then, people felt the ground was a chain. Ironically, they were right. One day, gravity on Earth shifted so drastically that anyone not tethered risked floating off the planet entirely. Turns out “down to Earth” is no longer a personality trait—it’s a survival requirement.

The flying suits are designed for Y-Pop only anyway. My wings were officially clipped around 2358. Budget cuts, age limits, and a minor incident involving a wind turbine. As more Y-Pops sail over my head, I grip my tether and offer them a historical one-finger greeting—a gesture passed down from my great-great-grandfather’s era.

Artificial intelligence is quietly transforming the way we live, work, and connect — but how often do we stop to notice it? Join the 7-Day AI Awareness Challenge and discover the invisible role AI plays in your daily life. For one week, pay attention to how your phone predicts your next word, how your shopping feed seems to read your mind, or how your health app offers personalized insights. From smart playlists to AI-powered maps, every day brings a new way to reflect on this powerful technology. At the end of the week, share what surprised you most and what you think the future holds. Use the hashtag #AIInEverydayChallenge, tag your friends, and let’s build awareness about how AI is reshaping life in 2025 — not just as a buzzword, but as a reality we live with every day.

(Bishop's POV)

I just went to sleep 2 hours ago, and it’s already time to get up for work. I can never sleep anymore. Can never get to bed at a decent time. I have nightmares—haunting ones. About the night my brother was killed in the car crash. I can’t help but blame myself. Surely there was something I could have done.

Fucking drunk drivers. All he wanted was to go to the store to pick up a new video game. He was a good kid. I promised my mom I wouldn’t let the death of Elijah turn me bitter, but he was only 10 for fuck’s sake. I grab my phone and turn off my alarm, finally. As I always do, I clear all the bullshit social media notifications to check my email. Swipe, swipe, swipe. Bah! Nothing, but marketing emails, and some ol’ other bullshit. Oh! But what’s this? FINALLY! I'm waiting to hear back from someone about a job opportunity.

Oh, but wait…

It’s another rejection—false alarm. I put my phone face down and head to the shower. Letting the water run a bit so it can warm up, I go back to my room and grab my phone. Gotta have some music playing while I’m in the shower. Maybe it’ll help wake me up. Hmmm..

What am I in the mood for this morning? I scroll my Spotify for what seems like forever and still can’t come up with anything. Ah! Kendrick Lamar-Feel. That’s about how I’m feeling today so far. Once the song is playing, I click the button to repeat it. Before getting in the shower, I make sure the water is nice and hot before I step in. Ahhh. The water feels extra good this morning. It’s making me realize more and more, though, that I need a haircut. I’m growing quite the afro. Not like Huey Freeman big, but it’s getting to the point of annoyance.

Any time my hair gets this long, I know life is kicking my ass. I do not care right now. Luckily, I have good hair so it doesn’t look like a sheep’s ass.

“I feel like a chip on my shoulder.

I feel like I’m losing my focus.

I feel like I’m losing my patience.

I feel like my thoughts in the basement.

Feel like, I feel like you’re miseducated.

Feel like I don’t wanna be bothered.

I feel you may be the problem.

I feel like it ain’t no tomorrow.

Fuck the world.

The world is ending, I’m done pretending

And fuck you, if you get offended.”

I rap along with the lyrics of the song as if I wrote them. I feel these words so much. The burden of having to carry others’ burdens, others’ feelings, and praying for other people. No one cares enough to extend that same courtesy to me, though. Yet, I continue to do it. I let Feel play 2 more times before getting out of the shower. I always leave plenty of time to just sit around and bullshit before work. I would rather air dry after a shower. I also hate my job. I try to remind myself that it’s temporary until I get done with school, majoring in Journalism.

Until then, I’m at this retail job, dealing with these dumb, entitled, idiot ass customers. I love my coworkers, but that’s about the only enjoyment I get out of going to work. I’m over this shit. I’ve been working in this field for so long and got so good at it, but my drive was killed to be a top salesman and performer a long time ago. Money is no longer a motivator. I know, I know. Money should be everybody’s motivation, but I cannot bring myself to care at this point. We get hourly and commission here so that’s good, but when I graduate, I’ll hit six figures easily. Only two years to go. Two years of me restraining myself from slapping the fuck outta somebody.

But anyway, I brush my teeth, rinse with mouthwash, and go back to my room in my towel and just sit. I don’t even know what time I get off today. I open my work app to check my schedule. Nice! Off at 1:30 today. Easy work. Guess I’ll head out so I can get an energy drink to help me wake up. My clothes are on and I’m out the door. Black pants, almost a blend of track and cargo pants. Definitely not within dress code, but they look close enough so the manager lets it slide. Only good thing about that job is the coworkers. I just grabbed the first work shirt I saw.We have a lot. This one, in particular, is a shirt with a hood attached, short sleeves, and our company logo—a giant red S for Sonic Mobile. Alright, out the door. As soon as I walk outside, the sun slaps me in the face harder than inflation hit the country. Damn, this Texas heat. Here I am with leather seats and no tint like a complete dumbass. I love my car though, a white Lexus. The beeping noise on my car greets me as I place my hand on the door. Ooooh shit! It’s a hotbox in here and not the kind smokers make. So for me, a sauna is a more appropriate term. I stop by the store and grab a Mountain Dew energy drink. It tastes great and it actually does make me alert. It isn’t one of those gimmick energy drinks. At least in my case. Now I’m finally pulling up to this red hellhole. I put my left earbud in and press play. When I walk in, I pretend whatever song I’m listening to is my theme song.

“What’s up, Bishop?” Jose greets me first. It’s pretty slow today. Hopefully, it stays that way. Less idiots to deal with. Unless you’re buying something. Then come one, come all.

“What up, fam.” I give the up motion with my head.

“There go Bishop walkin’ in like he coming in to fight,” the assistant manager, David mocks the way I walk in. I walk in that way because I don’t wanna fucking be here. My music and my walk is my way of trying to prepare myself for the dumbassery that’s sure to come.

I reach the door to the employee hall that leads to the break room. When I enter the code to the door, I see Diego and some other girl I’ve never seen. I shot her a quick glance. She has long hair. Looks Hispanic, or Native American maybe? I don’t know. She’s cute though. She has on headphones sitting down at the computer, probably taking trainings. I motion “Who’s that” silently to Diego.

“New girl. Starr,” Diego says.

“Ah. Got you. Let me grab my tablet,” I respond. I wasn’t really interested in talking about her further.

“Oh, yeah, I need some sales today or I’m gonna have to ship you off,” Diego says, followed by a small laugh. I knew he was serious, but we have a way of hiding harsh topics behind jokes.

“Fuck you. I’m ready to leave this ho anyway. Please fire me,” I respond, jokingly of course. We share a laugh behind the banter. I hope the new girl couldn’t hear that. She wouldn’t know that’s just how we are.

I grab my POS tablet and head out onto the floor. Still no customers yet.

Guess I’ll sit on my phone and scroll on TikTok to pass the time. About 10 minutes go by and Diego comes over to me.

“Ey, you think you can let the new girl shadow you?” He asks.

“Negative,” I shoot him a quick, dry response.

“Thanks. You the best,” he replies, basically showing me that the question he asked was rhetorical. That motherfucker.

“Motherfucker.” I crack a smile and shake my head, still looking down at my phone.

On cue, the new girl comes out.

“Hey, this is Bishop. He’s one of our vets here. You can shadow him today. Any questions you have, let him know,” Diego says.

I’m not uninterested in helping her. I’m not annoyed at her, but I can’t really explain to her how burnt out I am here. So now I have to be all helpful and shit because she needs to see how to properly do things.

“What’s your name?” I ask just to make conversation. I already know her name.

“Starr,” she says. She has the cutest voice. Now giving her a second look, she’s a little more than cute. She’s fine. Pretty face, long hair, beautiful skin, and she actually does her makeup well and not super caked on. She’s petite. The kind of body that you can have fun with. Not that I’m thinking of any of that. I’m just about done with women and their bullshit.

“Oh ok. Nice to meet you. Have any questions so far?” I ask.

“No, I think I just need to get out there and start doing it, ya know?” She looked up at me with intent. Like telling me with her eyes to let her do the interactions so she could do a hands-on type shadowing.

I just nodded my head in agreement. A customer walks in. Someone gets them. Another walks in, it’s—it’s my ex. What the fuck?

I let out a sigh. “Bruh, why is she here?” I say out loud, but I was talking to myself.

“Who’s she? You know her?” Starr asks.

“My ex.” I grab my tablet and head up to her. Starr stays behind. I look back at her and she shakes her head indicating that she doesn’t want to shadow me on this one.

Chump! But it’s understandable.

“What you want, Kali?” I lean over on the display table and try to keep my body language tame. I really don’t want to look at her, let alone talk to her.

“Dang, what type of customer service is this?” She’s being a smartass.

“Fam, what you want?” I’m already irritated.

“Dangggg. Now I’m just fam? Does this look like fam to you?” She does a 360 slowly so I can see her outfit. She has on short jean shorts. Tight ones. Some shit she used to only wear around the house. This is how I know she’s on bullshit. She has on a black tank top. I’d be lying if I said she didn’t look good, but she’s a lying, cheating, jezebel. I can forgive, but I can never go back to that…I don’t think. I deserve better than that. Do I not?

“You here to buy something?” I’m still trying to figure out what she’s doing here so she can leave.

“No. I’m here to get my man back. Duh.” She gets louder. Other than the music playing on the overhead speaker, it’s quiet. I turn around, everyone is looking up at us.

How embarrassing.

“Come outside, bruh.” I motion for her to come out the door with me. Thankfully, she does without being argumentative.

“Why you coming up here starting shit? At my place of work?” I get onto her immediately when we get outside.

“I’m not starting nothing, baby. I just miss you is all. You don’t miss me?” She asks in a seductive tone, getting closer to me.

I’m annoyed because yes I miss her, but I am also annoyed because it’s this ho’s fault that we are even broken up. She cheated!

“You only miss me because you and the muthafucka you were screwing behind my back didn’t work out. Fuck outta here.” I never talked to her this way before. Like she is a dude who is getting on my nerves. There is no sense in being nice about anything at this point.

“Ouch. You’re being rude.” She touches my face. Her hands are so soft. That one gesture brought back memories. Ones that I missed, but also that I wanted to forget. I moved my head back to escape the obvious trance she put me in.

“I’m not being rude. I’m being smart. I wasn’t good enough for you to not fuck some other guy while we were together,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.

“I told you that didn’t happen!” She tries pleading her case. Giving me puppy dog eyes.

“Oh, it didn’t? Then enlighten me on what did…actually don’t. I have to go,” I try to push past her to go back inside.

“Let’s talk later?” She steps in front of me.

All I can do is roll my eyes and try to avoid looking at her. I’m pissed at myself because how the hell does she look this good to me when I want to hate her guts.

Fuck…

I look at her with a defeated look. She knows it too. She gives me a “gotcha” smile in return. As if she can hear that my silence is words of affirmation.

“I’ll be waiting,” she says as she steps aside. She walks to her car, slowly and intently. She wants me to look at her. And if you think I didn’t watch that ass, you’re crazy.

I place my hand on the handle of the store door, my head tilted back, and I take a deep breath. I yank the door open with purpose. It feels so heavy walking back in. I can see the wandering eyes and greasy smiles. I am about to get an earful from my coworkers because this is a tight-knit group, like a family. They are definitely gonna ask questions and talk shit.

“Well, well.” Gordo has a smirk on his face. Asshole. As I look around the box store, everyone else is as well. The only one who isn’t wearing a douchebag smile is Starr. She has never seen Kali before since she’s new. Everyone else knows her.

“I don’t wanna hear yo shit, Gordo,” I snap back. Not being entirely serious. That’s just how we talk to each other.

“I thought you said you’ve never been to Cali?” Carson makes a pretty good joke. I can’t be mad at that one.

“Ohhhh look at you with the jokes. Okay, that was pretty good. I can’t lie,” I just laugh it off. I knew this was coming. I go back to standing beside Starr.

“Don’t get too close, she might come back and beat me up.” This little smartass joins in on the fun.

I’m not that tall standing only about 5’6. She has to be like 5’1. “Oh, ha-ha. You too?” I sarcastically roll my eyes.

I catch a glimpse of her hand. She’s wearing a ring. Oh! She’s married.

“You’re married?” I ask.

“Yep,” she quickly replies.

“How old are you?” Now I’m being nosey, but hey, curiosity killed the lion, ya know?

“21, why? Are you going to tell me I’m too young to be married? Because I’ve heard that a thousand times already. Be original.” She got a little sassy with me. I can tell she was annoyed with that whole thing from hearing it over and over. So, I didn’t take it personally. People are always telling others what they should and shouldn’t be doing. I never understood it.

“I actually was not gonna say that. What does age have to do with anything? Calm down. Danggggg.” I put my hands out as if to give a ‘don’t hurt me’ motion. Try to ease the tension for a bit and show her that I was genuinely curious and not trying to rip on her marriage.

“See! Perioddd. I am totally happy with my decision and marriage,” she says.

Damn Gen-Z’ers and their lingo.

I hear the door ding—the sound that the sensor makes when the door is opened. Finally, an actual customer and not any cheating ass exes.

(Starr's POV)

Bishop seems to be unaffected by that whole ordeal. I don’t think I could go and talk with a customer after that. Part of me is nosy and wants to know what happened between him and his ex. I may ask him. He asked me a question about my marriage, so it shouldn’t seem too out of line.

We finally get a customer, though. I'd better listen to how he does things. As I am watching Bishop and listening to his pitch, I realize that he is really good at this. Why are his numbers so low, then? Once his pitch is done and he gets this guy to go from paying his prepaid phone bill to still getting a new account postpaid. That’s insane.

“Hey. So you are really good at this, huh?” I say to him as we are walking to the back.

“You thought I was trash, huh?” He is such a smart aleck.

“Noooo. They just stuck me with Rocko because he was top salesman in the store, but since he left, now I’m with you.” I hope that doesn’t come off as rude. No one here seems to like me as is. I have been here at this job for about a week now and this is my first time ever seeing Bishop because of how the schedule has been made. I’ve heard of him, though. He’s very well-liked around here.

“Dang, well I guess it’s a good thing we got the sell then, huh? Since you just called me ass cheeks at my job,” he says to me, clearly joking.

“Oh my God! You’re soooo dramatic,” I reply with a little laugh. I can see why he’s well-liked. He takes nothing seriously apparently. He’s funny.

He just laughed back, not responding to my claim of him being dramatic.

The transaction took about maybe fifteen more minutes then the customer was out the door.

“So, if you’re so good at this. Why aren’t you top in the store?”I ask, curiously.

“Checked out. Not trying to ruin the experience for you. It’s a good job, but my desire to move up in this dumbass company has been long gone. So, I don’t care about the ranker, the top awards, and blah blah blah, who gives a shit. I’m just waiting to get outta here. As soon as I get done with school, I’m outta here.” He has such a calming, deep voice. Not like super deep, but even when he’s going off, he has a very mellow demeanor.

“Oh, okay. Well, what are you going to school for?” I ask. Maybe I’m being a little too nosy, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

"Journalism," he says.

"Ah, okay. That's cool. So you're good at writing and stuff. How much longer do you got?" I am suddenly drawn to asking him questions like magnet.

"Bout two years or so. Too damn long," he playfully rolls his eyes a bit.

"It'll go by before you know it," I reply. I feel my phone vibrating in my back pocket.

Oh, it's hubby just checking on me. He's so good to me. People were so against us marrying. I lost my best friend over this relationship. She liked him. He and I got close and that was that. He married me as soon as I turned 18. It's been 3 years so I don't understand why everyone was so up in arms about it. I consented. He legally didn't do anything wrong. The consenting age to date is 17.

It was slow today, but we're anticipating it picking up as the holidays come up. Work has been largely a blur. I'm going to be working full-time hours while I'm in training, but down to part-time when I'm out of training. May as well milk the clock while I can.

Before I know it, it's 1:30. I see Bishop leaving. "You're leaving already? Dang." I give him a disapproving shake of my head slowly with my lips pushed to the side of my face, making a funny expression.

"Ey, man. I did my time. See ya later alligator." He holds up a peace sign and walks out. He's so funny.

Right after Bishop leaves out, a customer comes in.

"Hey, welcome in. How can I help you?"

"Someone was helping me before, but I don't see her right now. Can you help me?" He's an older guy. Maybe not like, ya know super old, but maybe in his 40s.

"I'm fairly new here, but I'm sure I can still help you out. What's going on?" I throw that in there in case I need to call for backup. Chances are, I will do that anyway. We all have commission codes and I need to see who was helping them initially to give them the credit for the sale, but I just want to practice by myself so I can get better at this.

I guide him over to the table and everything is going well. Now I'm stuck on something. I need to ask a question. Diego is in the back. I can ask him.

I excuse myself from the interaction with the customer and head to the back room. In there is Diego and Amber. I ask Diego a question and he begins to help fix it.

The door opens and it's Shaun. "Hey, Diego. We need you on the floor real quick."

"Alright, I'll be right there." He looks over at Shaun. "Hey, can you go over this with her while I take care of whatever fuck up they did on the floor?" He looks over at Amber this time.

Diego leaves. I didn't think anything of it, but Amber immediately got hostile.

"I know you just got here and all, but when we help people, we expect you to hand them back off. You know this job is commission." She gets an attitude.

I just stand there, dumbfounded. Like girl, he didn't give me a name and I was going to give the credit to the proper person anyway. I don't understand where all the hostility is coming from.

"Well, he didn't give me a name. I was going to find out who helped him. I just needed to practice and get better at using the system. I don't understand why you're so upset considering I'm doing everything for you and you're getting paid. So can you get out my face?" I got hostile back, but I tried not to keep it somewhat civilized. I'm new, I don't want any issues with these people, especially being the youngest one here.

"Don't let that shit happen again, bitch!" She storms out.

What the hell? If I cussed at all, I would have lit her butt up. That's wild! These people are crazy. I'm getting emotional. I take a few minutes to get myself together before going back out there and facing that customer.

After composing myself, I go back out and finish with the customer. I did not give Amber credit. I got Bishop's commission code instead and gave it to him.

"Yo, Starr. You can go for the day if you want," Diego says. It's slow, I need the money, but after that little interaction with Amber, I'd rather go home to the love of my life, Cesar.

I hastily get out of the store and into my little blue Kia Soul.

I put on my favorite song, Expresso by Sabrina Carpenter. It’s so catchy and such a great song. As I have a full-blown self-concert, I realize I hadn’t eaten all day. I’ll just cook something for me and the hubby when I get home.

And there it is. After about 10 minutes, I am finally home.

I walk in and I just feel the tension ease from my shoulders.

“Hey. How was work?” Cesar’s on the couch playing the game.

“Heyyyy. It was okay, I guess. Had a little run-in with one of the girls at work.” I plop down beside him and lay my head on his shoulder.

When he’s on his game, he’s completely neglectful.

“What do you want for dinner?” I ask.

“I don’t know. What did you have in mind?” His eyes remain locked on the TV.

“I’ll look at what we have in here.” I’m not gonna get anywhere with him right now. May as well just go in the kitchen and get to cooking.

As I’m taking things out of the counter, Cesar comes behind me and hugs me.

“Oh now you want to pay attention to me,” I say playfully but I really was annoyed.

“I’m sorry, babe. You know we can’t pause online games.” He kisses me.

He’s about 5’10 so he towers over me.

“Hey, can you put those blinds up in the guest room tomorrow?” I ask.

“Thought your dad was coming over to do it. I don’t wanna mess it up.” At this point, I’m not sure if I married a complete idiot or he is the laziest man ever, but I love him so much. Guess not every man can be good with their hands. At least he works and comes home to pay the bills.

I settle on making chicken alfredo for the night. I am an excellent cook if I do say so myself.

I fix Cesar a plate and take it to him, then I fix myself a plate. While he’s in the front playing the game, I go to our room to eat and watch TV.

I hear a phone vibrating. I thought it was mine, but it’s not. I look over on the nightstand beside the bed and see it’s Cesar’s phone. He’s getting messages. Probably his friend’s group chat or something.

I never look through his phone, but I want to see who’s blowing him up.

Fully expecting to see his group chat with his friends, I open his phone, preparing to be annoyed.

But no, it’s much worse. There’s a girl sending him nudes. What the heck?!

My heart sinks, my mouth drops, and my stomach is balling right now. I’ve lost my appetite. I feel like I’m about to throw up.

This girl is everything I am not. She’s all of my insecurities. She’s pretty. She’s blonde. I have small breasts, A-cups. Her breasts are big, and Cesar said that he likes mine. He's clearly lying. I had light brown hair before. I didn't think he liked it. So, I went darker. I don't know what he wants anymore.

“Hey baby, have you—

Cesar walks into the room and stops in his tracks when he sees me crying.

I hope you enjoyed the snippet of my Romance entitled Dear Summer that focuses on the intertwined lives of Bishop and Starr.

title, genre, age range, word count, author name, why your project is a good fit, the hook, synopsis, target audience, your bio, platform, education, experience, personality / writing style, likes/hobbies, hometown, age

Title: Dear Summer

Genre: Romance, Erotica

Age Range: 18+

Word Count: 50k and counting

Name: Shadrick Holloway

My project is a good fit because it tackles a lot of issues within the love lives of many. It is relatable, but also spicy in some parts. There's something in this story for everyone and the focus on two different point of views makes the character's tie-in well with each other.

Hook: Older man-younger woman become lovers due to a combination of their growing work relationship and troubles within their own relationships.

Synopsis: Bishop is the disgruntled employee at work who is tasked with training the new girl, Starr. Despite being 11 years apart in age, they become good work friends. While Bishop deals with his troublesome ex-girlfriend, Starr is living the good life in her marriage...or so she thought. She finds out that her husband has been cheating on her for quite some time. After he apologizes and promises to stop, Starr forgives him only to continuously catch him messing around with other girls. This leads Starr looking for love outside of her marriage. With Bishop and Starr working together more, it becomes all too easy for their lives to become intertwined in chaos.

Target Audience: Women

Bio: Shadrick Holloway is an American author, poet, gamer, and tech enthusiast born on August 2, 1992, in Jackson, Mississippi .

He writes in genres spanning literary fiction, thriller, and Christian-themed speculative fiction, and has published several books, including:

Leaving Heaven (paperback, 2020), a speculative story set in a dystopian future

Urijah (2021), his third major title, featured in his interview on The Zach Feldman Show

2030 (2023), a novel about a global population crisis and a young savior figure

His online presence includes an Amazon author page and a personal author website, where he shares poetry, blog posts, and updates on his work. On Goodreads, his existing titles—2030, Leaving Heaven, Urijah, Trust No Love, and a children’s workbook—have earned strong ratings (often 5 stars) from early readers. Holloway describes himself as someone who uses storytelling as a way to escape and offer messages of hope and transformation, often informed by his Christian faith. He’s shared plans to adapt his novels into a cartoon series in the future

Beyond his writing, he is active on social media platforms like Instagram (username @godslight0802), where he publishes poetry and personal updates—like attending local wrestling events in Waco—demonstrating a creative and engaging personal brand.

Platform: Instagram(godslight0802)

Amazon

Goodreads

Education: Callaway High School(2010), The Los Angeles Film School- Writing For TV/Film(2026)

Experience: Experience in SEO writing in Sports, Gaming, and music. I've done work and articles for publications such as the CHRD Magazine, Jersey Column Sports, and Apex Media. I've also published multiple books in multiple genres and mediums.

I have a decade in writing, storytelling, and creative writing.

Personality/Writing Style: My personality can be seen all over my writing style. I try to keep my writing style as real and authentic as possible while also keeping it clear for others to read who may not understand the way I speak. I am introverted, but also an open books of vulnerability and that's where my creative process and writing prowess comes from.

Hobbies/likes: Gaming, working out, writing, streaming., video editing, cell phone enthusiast

Hometown: Jackson, MS

Age: 32