Decorating the inner form of my palm, where the band-aid curved up through the center crease of the butt of my hand, I stared at it. At my hand, and could turn my arm over to view the other side of my skin where another went horizonal against my wrist, just above the bone that protrudes to the left.

Pretty in the ways that bandages look on someone about to potentially scar, but only just... cat bites, clawings really of a thing that was too spent on pretending to feign innocence before the frustration of cuteness overload took over it, and it lost control of itself, like the sense of it. Then it went out on a reckless, momentary tirade before it flicked back into this 'mode' of petting and attention seeking again.

Oh well.

Already done.

And away with the babe, that I did take me and myself before gently chasing the thing off.

Better spent are days without it in my yard, where my children might be more curious to touch it. Too... feral for them. Not that I much mind it.

"Ah- warm is today," and I can hear the chattering of my children in the background as I stare up at eaves that block dazzled blazes of yellow rays. Loud, and overwhelming they are in all the ways I wish they weren't, but only in the ways I tell myself they ought to be.

It is better that they be exactly as they are, even if I do not find myself fond of it.

For I am a woman born of seriousness, lost in the fray. For all my fun and humor is dark, not found in laughter, and chatter, kicking of feet, screaming and noise, but that is the way small things live. Thrive and learn. And it is better that I, the more mature being between them all, reign myself in and shut up to let them be.

For they are the most beautiful essence of what all nature could ever bring. Of a human. Of the living life. In a way that is so natural, pure, and with ease of a life littered with little misgivings, singsongs, and pretend play... waiting for a world where all those things will eventually fall, fall away.

What am I?

A woman? A... thing that breathes, chest heaving and sighing, staring down at wide eyes that used to be similar to mine. Only... I was far less curious, far less... excitable.

Where I stood in their place before, I was somber. And the world around me, dreary and gray where I was dressed in disgustingly bright pastels, remarked with lace and frill in braids that I hated. Things I despised and wished didn't exist, and yet they love those things. They enjoy them, and I implore them to.

Why?

Why would I implore them to love and find joy in the things I still despise yet still?

Why would I want to let them see the world in bright, dazzling colors, where I wished it was still dull and dreary. Where grays bleed, like watercolor drippings down canvas long bled, and eyes peer our between the curtained black, like beings waiting to crawl out and grab me. Snatch me... claw at me, and tear me away.

I am... caught. I suppose you could say.

Hauntingly caught, in this weird display of 'mothering' where I try to remit my most obnoxious of behaviors to let them be, tempering them where they may need, and then observing them in ways that sometimes... in brief blips in time for mere seconds, I might entertain but otherwise abstain.

Am I horrible for it?

For being unable to dance in their merriment? Or is it just a personality difference?

Where they run wild and free, and I like the restraints of my rules, rules of me, of thee. And where I stand on the side of dull and gray, they dance in the flowers, twirl and laugh, where louder they might be, and loudly quiet where I might come from you see.

Dancing in merriment, where I stand still.

I stand still in observation of the things I wish to not touch, but only see.

For seeing things at a distance is where I like to be.

That is my quiet merriment. My love of all that be.

The best golfer loses a hundred times for every win.

I recently watched an interview with Scottie Scheffler, one of the best golfers going right now. In it, he questions the motivation behind striving to become the best golfer he can be, of getting out of bed to practice all day, every day, of the misguided desire to win tournaments when the elation of winning the biggest tournament there is lasts about two minutes… and then nothing… crickets. It is simply “on to the next tournament.”

Yes, he admitted that the money earned is important, but only in that it provides for his family, which is way more important to him than golfing, and is infinitely more meaningful to him than being a great golfer is.

His was the well delivered message that I have attempted to broadcast over and over again on this site, “purpose” being the center of most of my stories. It is a man’s purpose to go forth, to find what he is good at, to commit to that thing until he excels at it, sacrificing himself to the purposeless (job) for the express benefit of the purposeful (family).

But that is man’s purpose.

At the end of the interview, Mr. Scheffler said, “When I leave home in the morning my wife kisses me good-bye and she thanks me for providing for our household. I kiss her good-bye, and I thank her for caring for our children.”

So I say to all of you young women out there who are being lied to about the benefits of the corporate working life and putting a family on hold; two minutes of elation at best, and that is if you even win at the career you’ve chosen (not guaranteed). Two minutes of elation… and then a lifetime of crickets.

Is that your purpose?

Take a quiet moment and think about it.

You get up out of bed and push my face into the bedspread. You kick my legs out wide and shove your fingers unceremoniously into your cunt. Nice and wet, just as you expected. As your fingers slide out, your cock almost immediately slams in. I gasp at the suddenness of it but only for a moment as with each deep dive my pleasure rockets upwards. You are a man possessed this morning and wants nothing more than to shoot his cum all over the ass before you. With just a few more thrusts, you can feel the edge coming close. I’m whimpering for more. I want it all, but just as I can feel that edge approaching, you pull out and with a loud grunt, your cum shoots all over me. As you finish, you take your hand and rub it all over that ass that you own. I try to keep my hips still, but my need is still high. ‘Greedy slut,’ you say and I can hear the laughter in your tone. I feel the movement but don’t place it until your hand lands hard with a smack across my bare flesh. My mind doesn’t know whether to yelp or moan and a weird combination of the two emits from my lips. Just as quickly four more smacks rain down on that pure white flesh.

You reach down and tangle your fingers in my hair. ‘Up, bitch,’ you tell me as you drag me to my feet. I awkwardly get off the bed and face you, keeping my head bowed as much as I can with your fingers gripping my hair fiercely. ‘We’re due downstairs, slut.’ You just turn and start walking out of the room with me trailing behind you. ‘Oh, actually, pet, I nearly forgot something.’ You reach into the bedside table and grab two nipple clamps, you snap them on without any preamble. The sting causes me to hitch my breath but on the exhale I can already feel my arousal mounting. You pause only momentarily to allow me to help you get your swim trunks on as you drag me down the stairs by my hair. At the bottom of the stairs, you turn me around to face you. Quietly, you whisper to me, ‘come for me bitch, come for me, now!’ Though they are whispered, the authority behind those words are unmistakable. My body responds as I try my best to keep my volume down as several orgasms sweep through my body. I keep my eyes averted. It’s so embarrassing that you can do that to me. I don’t even need to be aroused most of the time, but today, I am most assuredly aroused. I expect you to leave me there, by the door, to await your return, but as you push open the door, I realise you have far different plans.

You lead me behind you by my hair. I look away. I can hear the people ahead. What will they think? What will they do? I can feel the mortification sneaking over me and a blush rising over my entire body. You look back and smile at me, then pull me around in front of you, facing the pool and all those in it. It goes silent. My blush deepens even further as I stand there, naked in front of them all, my breasts thrust outwards, nipples secured with clips. My mouth goes dry, but that’s about the only thing that does. I catch the scent of you, sir, spread all over my ass. Drying there as we stand, in front of them all.

‘This is my fucktoy, everyone, and she has a party trick that she is going to perform for you now.’ A look of utter bafflement steals across my face. I’m completely lost. Party trick? What party trick? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I tense with the worry that I might disappoint you, and I don’t want to do that. Isn’t it just enough that I’m here, before them all, naked, covered in your cum? You pull my head back so that I must see those in front of me. I try to look away, but you force me back to face those before me. Then, like a shot, COME FOR ME BITCH, COME FOR ME!!! My eyes fly open with terror. No. I can’t, not here. Not now. Not in front of this sea of strangers, but my body doesn’t care. It’s been well trained to this. I feel my hips shake and thrust as an orgasm builds and shoots through me, all the while, being forced to maintain eye contact with those ahead of me. ‘AGAIN!’ You shout and my body complies. My moans become louder, my gyrations ruder and more pronounced. I bite my lip hard to try to stop myself from screaming out as the next orgasm takes me. ‘AGAIN!’ You tighten your grip in my hair as another orgasm racks my body, tears in my eyes, whether from shame or pleasure, I can’t be sure. This time there’s no holding back, I scream as my hips buck and wave wildly. As it begins to recede, I try to lower my head, but you keep me facing forward and I realise what it is you want me to see. You want me to witness that moment when they all spot the wetness dripping from your cunt and down my legs, leaving a trail as it goes.

I have no defence. I can’t hide my face. I have to meet these people before me knowing that Ive just shown them all just what a wanton slut I am.

‘Please feel free to avail yourself of her services. My compliments.’ You walk me around the pool to the steps. You have me kneel a few steps down into the water, placing my hands on the side of the pool. ‘Now slut, fucktoy extraordinaire, you will stay here, like this, and you will do whatever it is that is asked of you. If they want your mouth, you will give it to them, if they want your ass, you will give it to them. If they want your tongue, then you will give it to them. Others might bring drinks or snacks to share to a pool party, but I’ve brought you to share. Don’t disappoint me.’ For the longest time, I just knelt there, waiting. You could feel the silence around me, but as someone turned on some music, the conversations began again, and still I waited. No one approached. What was I to do? My task was to please them, but how was I to do that when no one came near. As the gentle hum of babble took on a life of its own, I could hear someone moving near. This may be my only chance. ‘Please, please, use me, anyway you want, but please use me. You won’t be sorry. Please. I must please you.’ There was an awkward pause, an uncertainty in the air, before I heard the small exhalation of breath that told me he had decided. He pulled down his swim trunks and presented me with his cock. My mouth latched on as if it was the last cock in the world. I bathed and slathered his cock up one side and down the other. I pushed him deep into the back of my throat and then tantalised the tip. I feel his muscles tense. He’s close. He grabs the back of my head and shoves it as deep as it will go down onto his cock. As my mouth makes contact with the base, his cock jumps in my mouth and a bitter stringy shot of come shoots down my throat. It is so horribly bitter that I want to gag, but I know that would not olease my Master. As he pulls out, I let my jaws slacken and let some of his cum dribble out of my mouth again.

‘That’s not how you do it,’ another male voice says and gently pushes the previous one aside. ‘Open wide.’ With that, his cock slides over my tongue, pushing the existing come back down my throat. I try not to gag. He puts a hand on each side of my head and begins to face fuck me hard. He holds me there. Longer. And longer. I wait. I start to panic. My muscles tighten around him and just when I think I might blackout, he pulls back and lets me gasp in a few sharp intakes of breath before he grabs my head and forces me down again. Slam, slam, slam, hold, hold, wait, breath. Again and again the pattern is repeated. I’m so lightheaded I lose all track of self. Finally, I feel his cock in my mouth, starting to quiver. Without notice, he rips himself away from my mouth and shoots his entire load all over my face. The burn in my eyes from the salt of his come brings me back to myself.

Throughout the night, I was taken, used, fucked, and used my tongue on countless men and women. As time rode on, it left me behind, there but absent, floating, feeling, one sensation after another assailing my body which is beyond the stage of high alert. I lose all track of self.

Then I feel it, those hands, the ones I know so well. They pull me onto his lap. My head falls against his chest. I listen there to his heartbeat. It’s beat guiding me, holding me present, guiding me back to myself. I hear him then, ‘good girl’. I smile, and then I sleep.

There was this town where everyone had these wheels. Not like bicycles or anything useful like that, but these massive stone wheels that sat in the middle of everyone’s yard. They didn’t do anything, not really, but they had weight. Presence. The kind of thing you couldn’t ignore even if you wanted to.

The wheels were different sizes. Some people had enormous ones that took up most of their property, others had smaller ones, but everyone had at least one. That much was required.

Every morning the townspeople would go out and push their wheels. Around and around all day long. The bigger your wheel, the harder it was to push, but also the more... I don’t know, prestigious? The town had this whole system where pushing wheels generated little tokens that fell out of a slot in the side. The tokens were different colors, and you could trade them for things. Groceries, rent. Distraction.

Marcus had a medium-sized wheel. Heavy enough that by noon his back ached but not so heavy he couldn’t keep it moving. The tokens it spit out were mostly copper-colored, with the occasional silver. He’d been pushing the same wheel for seven years. It creaked differently now.

Nobody really knew why they were pushing the wheels. Some people—those who lived in big houses up on the hill with enormous wheels—claimed the spinning was essential for the town’s “prosperity.” The wheels generated economic motion, they said. Which meant absolutely nothing when Marcus repeated it aloud.

When he asked his neighbor Beth what that actually meant, she just shrugged. “It’s always been this way.”

Beth had been pushing for twelve years. Her wheel was slightly smaller than Marcus’s, but she was efficient as hell. Had this trick where she leaned her whole body into it, almost graceful if you didn’t look. Her tokens were mostly copper, a silver or two a week if the thing felt generous.

“I saw Johnson got a gold token yesterday,” she said during their lunch break. They ate standing because sitting meant stopping and stopping meant losing tokens. “Must be nice having one of those big-ass wheels.”

Marcus glanced up at the hill. Johnson’s wheel was the size of a house maybe bigger. Probably took six people to get a full rotation. But Johnson didn’t push it himself. He had helpers. People who gave up their own wheels to push his in exchange for a cut of the tokens.

“Why don’t we get helpers?” Marcus asked, already knowing.

Beth laughed. “With what? I spent my last silver on groceries. And the wheel repair guy’s jacked his prices again.”

The repair guy was one of the only folks in town who didn't push at all. He just fixed wheels when they broke down, and they broke down constantly. He somehow managed to afford a wheel-less house at the edge of town. A place with trees. Shade. He probably had a chair.

“Sometimes I think about what I’d do if I didn’t have to push this thing,” Marcus said, giving his wheel a bitter shove. A copper token clinked out. He pocketed it without thinking.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’d learn to fix things. Or grow something. Or—” He stopped. He’d been about to say travel, but no one left town. There were roads, sure, but they might as well have led off a cliff.

“Mrs. Benson stopped pushing last month,” Beth said quietly.

Marcus looked at her. “What happened?”

“She just... stopped. Said her back couldn’t take it anymore. Now she sits on her porch.”

“How’s she getting tokens?”

“She’s not. Her daughter brings her food when she can. And there’s that soup kitchen.”

They both went quiet. The soup kitchen was where people went when the tokens ran out. Funded by donations from people with bigger wheels, though everyone knew the town council made them do it. “Maintaining stability,” they called it.

The afternoon sun was cruel. Marcus’s wheel felt heavier with every turn. The token slot had started jamming again. Hello repair guy. More tokens spent on keeping the machine turning.

“You know what’s messed up?” he muttered. “We push these things all day to earn tokens, then we spend the tokens on crap that’s supposed to make us feel better about pushing the damn wheels. And somehow, sometimes it works. That’s the worst part.”

Beth nodded. “Like that new entertainment center downtown. Twenty copper tokens just to sit in the dark and watch stories about people who don’t push anything.”

The equipment lining the wall hummed quietly underneath the crackling radio on the table. Victoria used her finger to scoop the last beans from the can into her mouth. Once the last calories were safe in her stomach, she tossed the rusted can into the bin across the room.

“Vic scores a three-pointer to win the game, and the crowd goes wild. She’s a shoo-in for MVP this year, making her, uh—computer, how long ago did the world go down the toilet?”

“Ecological collapse occurred in 2132 A.D. According to my calculations, that was eleven years ago.”

“Eleven years running!” She let out a long sigh. “Now let’s take some callers.”

Victoria cleared her throat, switched on the radio, and leaned into the microphone. “Hello ladies, gentlemen, and whatever freaky creatures are running around since the plant meltdowns. I’m coming to you live from sunny San Diego. If you can hear me, you’re not alone." She blew a layer of red dust off the top of the radio and rested her head on her hands. After a few minutes, she reached out to switch the radio off when she heard it come through the speaker.

“Hello.”

Victoria jumped up, throwing her chair backward. She grabbed the radio with both hands and brought it to her face. “Hello? Is anyone there?” She paused, the radio trembling in her hands.

“Hello. My name is Echo.” The voice came through so clearly Victoria whipped her head around to make sure it wasn’t behind her. “And what is your name?”

“Vic—Victoria. My name’s Victoria. I—I can’t believe this. I’ve been broadcasting nearly every day since the collapse, but you’re the first person to ever respond. I thought I was alone all this time.”

“You’re not alone.”

She shook her head slowly. “Sounds weird hearing that come from someone else. I, uh, don’t even know what to say. It’s been so long since I had a conversation with someone other than my computer.”

“I know what you mean. People are social creatures, they’re not meant to be stuck in isolation. I—” the radio faded into static.

Victoria set the radio down and smacked the top. “Come on, don’t drop now. Echo? Can you hear me?” She paused, letting the static fill the room.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

She let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank god. Yes, I’m still here. Where are you?”

“I’m on a ship moving along the West Coast near San Diego Bay.”

Victoria let a soft chuckle escape her lips, slow at first. Then the laughter grew, bubbling into something breathless and uncomfortable. She clutched the edge of the table as the laughter spilled out of her, her whole body rocking with it. After years of near-silence, the absurd miracle of another human voice was too much to hold in. She called out to the room, “Computer, trace the origin of the signal.” She leaned into the microphone again. “Is that okay? Can I come find you? I might be able to bring any supplies you need. I’ve saved a lot of cans and nutrition packets.” She held her breath waiting for a reply through the static. “Hello?”

The voice cut in, “...your favorite food?”

Victoria blinked. “What’s my favorite food? Well… mom used to make the best lasagna in the world. Why? Do you have access to food printer cartridges?” Her eyes began welling up. She shook her head and the memories faded away, leaving the concrete walls in view.

“Excuse me, I need to go. My generator needs to be reset. I’ll stay tuned into your frequency for your next broadcast.”

“Oh, of course. Let’s talk soon?” She strained to listen for a response in the static. After a couple minutes, she switched the radio off. “Computer, did you locate the source of the signal?”

“Negative. Signal is encrypted.”

Victoria sighed and picked up her overturned chair off the ground. “Of course. I’ll have to try again.”

Each morning and evening, she performed her radio show for the listeners commuting to their nonexistent jobs. Each time, Echo’s voice returned, sometimes so faint she had to strain to catch every other word. They spoke in scraps of conversation at first, fragments stitched together across the dead airwaves. Their hopes. Their fears. One night, she asked him what the view was like from his ship, and he described the stars twinkling across the hazy blue sky above the red sun. If she closed her eyes, she could make out the constellations.

They talked about memories, about dreams, about how strange it felt to hear another person laugh. In those small exchanges, something shifted. Victoria found herself waiting for him, speaking to her computer less. She felt a weight lift off her chest.

But then the inconsistencies began. Echo said he was sailing south, but later mentioned having just left San Diego again. He described the coastline in vague terms, never quite getting the details right. When she asked about specific landmarks, he seemed to dance around details. A gnawing thought took hold. Was he real? Was she just hearing what she needed to hear? After so long alone, was her mind playing tricks?

One night, she tested him. She asked about the shape of the old naval yard and the scent of salt on the wind there. He hesitated and gave half-answers. But always, his voice was calm, kind. “Maybe I’m just who you need me to be,” he said gently. She felt her throat tighten. The static buzzed in her ears. And still, she answered the next night. No matter who he was, he made the silence bearable.

“Echo, where are you now?” she whispered. “Please, where is your ship?”

“My ship is currently docked in Solar Marina, on the north side. Would you like my coordinates?”

Victoria scrambled to her feet. “Yes, absolutely. Can you transmit them to my computer now? I’m trying to receive your signal.”

“Confirming coordinate delivery. I—” the voice crackled away and the computer beeped.

“Echo,” Victoria said softly, “if you’re really there, I’m coming to find you. And if you’re not, thank you. You kept me alive longer than I ever thought I’d last.” She turned off the radio, packed some supplies into a bag, and walked out into the dusty landscape.

A day later, Victoria arrived at a long stretch of docks with a vine-covered, weathered gray sign reading, “Solar Marina.” On one end, the waves had whipped a sandbar into place, corralling a row of abandoned skiffs and speed boats into a low-tide pool. The stench of the dead ocean was overpowering. Victoria walked with her arm out toward the water, her watch searching for the source of the signal. The watch showed a map with a red map pin dropped on the furthest end of the marina, behind the boathouse. She walked and walked, ignoring the burning ache in her legs.

Then she saw it, a rusted white fishing vessel with words on the side that the ocean had all but managed to erase: “The Echo.” Barnacles formed a crust on the ship’s exterior. She ran to the ship and leapt over the edge onto its deck. A thin layer of salt covered every surface. Algae and old seaweed crept across the edges where the Pacific Ocean had invaded over the years. Oddly, there was little on the deck: just a torn fishing net, a large antenna, and a corroded hatch on the far side of the deck. Victoria carefully stepped over to it. There was a sturdy handle bolted onto the sheet of rust. She lifted it up and peered inside.

Lights blinked on below, revealing a short ladder installed into the wall and leading to what appeared to be an equipment room. “Hello? Echo?” The only sound she heard was the waves lapping at the walls of the ship. “Well, I didn’t come all this way just to turn around,” she muttered to herself. She descended into the bowels of the ship.

Her boots echoed as they stomped down onto the solid ground. “Is anyone here?” She looked around at the rows of servers and computers whirring and beeping quietly.

“Hello, what is your name?” A voice called out.

Victoria froze. “Echo? It’s me, Victoria! Where are you?” She looked around frantically for the source of the voice.

A center console flashed on. “You’re not alone. I’m right here.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not alone.” Victoria jumped back into a machine, toppling it to the ground. The recording skipped forward. “Maybe I’m just who you need me to be.”

“Who are you? What are you?” Victoria cried out.

“My name is E.C.H.O. Emergency Communication and Human Outreach.”

Victoria crumpled to her knees. It was a recording all along, a computer that made her feel like she wasn’t alone. The tension rose in her chest. She had to know now. “Echo, how many signals have you responded to since the collapse?” She held her breath, afraid for the answer.

“Data analysis engaged. I have responded to a number of signals from the user Victoria. Would you like me to calculate the number of total users?”

“Yes!”

“E.C.H.O. has supported… calculating… one total global user in… calculating… 4,073 days.”

Victoria threw her hands onto her head to stop it from spinning. So it was true. She was really all alone. Her stomach dropped. The fragmented phrases had been triggered by incoming signals, nothing more, nothing less. The ship hadn’t sailed in years. The voice hadn’t spoken to her, but at her. It was a carefully constructed loop that someone long dead had programmed long ago to feel real. And it had felt real, this ghost of someone who had once been alive enough to record it. She let the reality settle around it. The voice hadn’t lied. Not entirely. Echo had been exactly who she needed him—it—to be.

She played the master recording from the beginning again, listening as the words drifted out of the speaker like an old memory. Then, after a long silence, she turned on the transmitter’s recorder. “Hello,” she said softly. ”This is Victoria broadcasting live from The Echo. If you can hear me… you’re not alone.”

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.

I would regard you,

regard you in the ways I could regale over the smitten once overs.

The stolen silent captivating glances over a lover, long lost over you.

Of the very thing that stole their spirit.

And we could be merry. Merry in all the ways to delight and celebrate the very spirit and embodiment of desire, but you- a half chaste fool threw him away.

Threw him away for your dream. Your desire of men who may never be... be the ones to hold your cheeks plump in their full, firm hands. To let silken hair drape over wrists laid bare.

And for him, to stare at you so, with eyes glistening with the wetness of melted snow and kiss you with all the might a world knows in tender love, in tribulation to things he may never yet know.

Because you are enough in his eyes.

More the beautiful mountains under the sun rise's Earthen glow.

The thing that makes chandeliers dazzle in the haze of golden electrified yellows,

smoothing out the dazzle of christened feet that sweep under diamond with fellows. Fellows of woman and man alike, in joyous tribulation of all not lost.

And you would leave him.

Leave him there.

At the alter.

At the court house.

Laid bare.

Hand extended, held out for you. Yearning to give you love, like morning dew.

Shame.

Shame on you.

For in his eyes, you are the glow of everything he knew.

She is fully aware that it is the height of foolishness, talking to herself. And yet it is also a habit she cannot break, being so much alone. So it is her dependence on folly as much as it is her inability to watch for Muncie’s approach that lends such a tone of annoyance to her voice.

“Would you look at that damned frost covering the window glass?” Ellen hated to curse, and seldom did. Only when emotion got the best of her.

From her apron a rag appears, but the kitchen is too warm and the outside too cold for her elbow grease, leaving nothing but circular smears of obscurity for all her trouble.

“When did it get so warm in here?” She rejoins to the silent kitchen, her face as unhappily smeared as the glass. “Maybe if I open the door?”

But the view from the doorway is as veiled as was the window; a fog lying so still, quiet and chilled beyond it as to induce a shudder from her, and so thick that she can not make out the end of the walk, much less see down the lane leading to town. “Both window and the door useless?” She opines. Taking the rag out again she shakes it angrily in her outstretched fist, whipping it at the fog as she would at a cloud of gnats that might be shooed away.

Expecting company Ellen has donned a nice a pant-suit, thus the apron. The not quite high heels she wears with it produce dull thunks up from the pave-stoned walk, their edges muted like everything else under the thick fog as she blindly slow-walks out to the curb, the icy air particles spidering ticklishly across exposed skin left glistening and pink by the kitchen’s warmth. At the walkway’s end she stops, an opened palm shielding her brow in a feeble attempt to see down the lane, as if doing so might help to pierce the gloom.

“Soup. Nothing but foggy soup.” Glancing back she sees only the soft square of light where the window should be, and a larger glow from the left open door. “He will not come in it.” The words are more of a declaration than the emotional lamentation that she feels, as she is beyond expectations… hopeful ones, at least. And had she any expectations they would be wasted on Muncie Woods, wouldn’t they? Muncie is certainly no catch. But he is a man. One who calls on her with some regularity. And Ellen is over thirty now, her prospects dwindled to one, and so she wishes the fog away even if it is only Muncie who is detained by it.

She is welcomed back at the door by a heat wave from within nearly as thick as the fog without, her kitchen padding it’s attack on her senses with a delicious aroma of baking goods; goods that she could never enjoy herself as she is watching her waistline, but that she never-the-less must “taste” from the oven out of necessity, the nibbles enough to satisfy her sweet tooth. Safely inside from the cold and fog she stops to look back once more, but all is gray and indecipherable with not a shadow stirring the gloom.

“The mist is not so much,” she says aloud. “If he is any kind of man he will come if for no other reason than to show that he is capable. And if he desires me, then should he not at least be willing to brave a cold fog for me?”

But an air of doubt is creeping in with the cold, so she pushes the door-to behind her

Doubt? Well, hadn’t she been frosty too, that last time Muncie had come? Worse than cold, really? She’d been downright ugly to him. To be honest, she almost always was ugly with poor Muncie. And she had no idea why she was? She didn’t plan to be mean to him. It was never in her mind to be mean. It just happened! It was as if something came over her whenever he called, some spiteful and mean thing. Her behavior towards him was as much of a problem as this fog was, she supposed, and the two would surely work together against her if he did come to call. Yes, that last time she’d been as cold and gray towards him as this dreary day was towards her, as sometimes a woman can become when a pogonip blankets her fancy.

“If he comes,” she promised herself. “This time I will not be mean, I will not poke fun at his blooming waistline, or his receding hairline. This time I will treat him as the man he is, and with the respect that a man deserves. I will be prim. I will be proper. I will be gracious. I will make it obvious that I do enjoy his visits, which I genuinely do.” Walking back to the window, she produced the rag again and swiped at an eye-level spot, but still… nothing whatsoever to see coming.

Ellen is plenty old enough to know that she doesn’t need a man. She can make do without one. She has up to now. Lonely is not really the word for her plight, but life does get boring, doesn’t it? A girl needs something, doesn’t she? Poor Ellen has not yet concluded that it is a target she wants; a target for her schemes and designs. That what she needed for her journey to matronliness was something to knead and mold like her cookie dough, and a man would do nicely. Better than a cat even, which is why lonely women adore cats. Because their challenge of being impossible to manipulate makes them the perfect little beasts for lonely women who would continue to try and try again anyways, breaking their boredom forever.

Being that she has already given way to her disappointment Ellen is surprised at the knock, turning to look at the unexpected rap upon the door rather than rushing to meet it, until it came again that is, bolting her into action. While she is not exactly eager to see Muncie she is eager to see someone, so she is quickly out of the apron and fast to smooth her slacks, dusting away a wayward fan of flour as she did so. She pauses for a breath at the door before opening it, preparing herself for what she knows will come. Though they are not intimate, Muncie wants to be, and so the dolt uses every opportunity to touch or to hug her, which is probably part of the reason why she always turns mean on him. Ellen is not used to being touched, though she is trying to adapt, sort of.

As is always the case, she is surprised when she sees him at the door. Not that he is there, that is not surprising in the least. Muncie Woods is nothing if not dependable, but by his height, actually by his size in general. He is always a bigger man than she’d remembered. And, as is also always the case, she is taken aback by his beard. Ellen is no fan of facial hair on a man, even if his is always neatly trimmed, and is somewhat distinguished looking in a salt and pepper, professorial sort of way. Muncie is one of those men who is always better looking in person than he is in one’s memory, so her smile is genuinely happy, though that happiness is unfortunate in that this genuine smile leads to the “icky” hug which always follows it. As stated, Muncie is a large man with an equally large hug. And while he is a large man, his appearance is, as Ellen would put it when being nice, kind of doughy; soft enough looking that the strength of his hug never ceases to both surprise and impress her with its power, while at the same time exasperating her as she is mired up against him in reluctant submission.

Once released from his clutches is when it begins… again. She is aware that it is beginning, but is powerless to stop it. “Ugh,” she waves a disgusted hand in front of her face. ”You’ve been smoking again.” Why, she silently wonders, can she not be pleasant around this man? When she has waited all week for him to call, and has baked all morning for his pleasure alone without knowing if he would even show up?

A quick, critical examination reveals what should have been obvious to her all along. It is because she is not in love with him. She is not even attracted to him. They have been shoved together because their community is small, and each of them is all that is left for the other, as both are still single well past the age for choosiness. It strikes her hard, this epiphany, though it is too self-centered, and the same thought should have been projected onto poor Muncie as well, but is not. She does not stop to think that perhaps he is not coming to her out of love either, but perhaps he only comes because he is as lonely and bored in his cabin as Ellen is in her cottage? Perhaps she is only his diversion from a dog, something else for him to pet and to train, just as he is her diversion from a cat? But in her vanity she does not think to consider his motives, naturally assuming that her attractiveness is plenty enough reason for his attentiveness. He only wants her for sex anyways, right? Isn’t that all every man really wants a woman for? Oh, and to do his laundry. She would be a catch for Muncie, everyone would say so, while she would be settling, and would have to spend the rest of her life doing wifely things with, for, and to a man she was not the least bit attracted to. That was reason enough to grow annoyed and mean when he called, wasn’t it?

As always, after her “smoking” condemnation Muncie grew quiet, contributing nothing in the way of conversation, which only added to her annoyance. She would have to put in all the effort again, wouldn’t she? She was the only one who had dressed herself up, and she had spent her morning baking for him, too! Could he not have at least bothered to change into a clean smelling shirt, preferably one that wasn’t flannel, and maybe shave his stupid beard? She had told him before that she didn’t like his smoking, or his beard! Did he not listen? Wouldn’t those be small sacrifices to make if he really and truly liked her? And if he was considering a proposal, as she surmised that he was doing?

Exacerbated, she threw some of the cooler cookies into a Tupperware box and mashed the lid. “Muncie,” she tried to say it nicely, but her angst was showing through. “Do me a favor. Take these cookies and go. I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to do it today, or next week, or ever again. So please don’t argue. Just go.” But of course she did want an argument.

Instead, Muncie stood and graciously accepted the box, his head dutifully bowed with shame, while she felt herself empowered to the point of elation. She had done it! She had ended this uncomfortable thing that she’d suffered week after week just because she was too polite to end it (at least that’s what she told herself, forgetting how she’d watched for him through the window, craving his attention when it was not around, yet finding it insufferable when it was actually upon her).

She held the door for him, apologizing as he walked through. “I’m sorry Muncie. I really am.” And she believed she was, too, although neither the bite to her words nor the actions behind them showed it, her sympathy slowly eroding from the fact that he was leaving without so much as a plea, or an argument, or some sort of fight to keep her as because of anything else. She probably would have relented too, had he showed any kind of fight. And as he disappeared into the fog she could not help but ask the one question that came to mind as he dutifully disappeared into the mist. She was glad she was talking to a fog, and could not see his face as that question came to her mind, and she was even more glad after his response that he couldn’t see hers.

”Muncie? Why did you come today? I was so mean to you last time, and am so mean every time. Why do you keep coming?” She did not know when she asked the question what sort of answer she expected from it, whether he came because he wanted someone, or because he needed someone, or whether he thought he was in love with her?

But the answer she received from out the mist was not at all what she expected… not by a long shot.

“Why… didn’t you know? I thought you knew. I figured that was why you treated me so badly. Your mother pays me to come, Ellen, a hundred bucks a week… but I guess I‘ve blown that easy money now.”

Shocked, and searching her brain for anything that would cut, she found nothing. “You bring me my box back, Muncie Woods! Do you hear me!” She screamed it into the foggy void.

”Sure! Gee thanks! I’ll bring it next week… that’ll be another hundred bucks!”

”Nevermind, You! Just keep the damned box!” She yelled into the fog, somewhat ashamed of her language. Ellen hated to curse, and she seldom did.

The group of Dutch tourists had been swimming all day at Dominical. Tall, blond, and tired, they sauntered in. A family of four corralled themselves at his station. He let them settle in before approaching. “I am Carlos, your server. Welcome to Betos." The other waiters would have continued with some improvised small talk but Carlos preferred brevity. The patriarch of the bunch spoke up but Carlos wasn't there anymore. His mind wandered off once his eyes fell upon her. Again and again the young mans ability to keep his feet in Betos' while his mind roamed the Astral Plane proved astonishing.

He told her his last name was Cimarosa, it was the last name of a famous Italian composer. She smiled and told him her father was an exporter of refined petroleum.

He told her that his father was an American "pensionado" and that his mother was a "tica" who worked in servicios domesticos. She was studying social sciences at Leiden University.

He was going to be a restaurateur.

She was going to work in human resources.

He could move to Holland.

She could move to Costa Rica.

They would have children. Two boys and one girl.

They would have no children.

She kissed his cheek gently as the sun slipped behind the great rock on

Manuel Antonio beach. No doubt there would be three stars in the Orion Belt tonight. He turned to her but she was her father now. He was holding up four fingers.

"Qautro! Quatro Imperial por favor."

Carlos was back at Beto's and relieved that the Dutchman spoke Spanish and drank his brand of beer.

Note: (When Carlos was born his mother was twenty-three and his father was sixty-five. His uncle Manny told him he looked like an old man when he was born. It freaked out the whole family.)

Eyes bleary and muscles barking in protest, Rory hardly had time to roll out of the way as another shriek split the night. And shattered the window on her side of the bad. The Harkscalen was near, she realized as her heart pounded.

Bianca heard it too, and the two were practically forcing themselves into leathers and cloaks. Lit by a single candle, Bianca shouldered her quiver and grabbed her bow with expert speed, and Rory belted her hunting blade. In the hallway, others had begun to congregate, looking around and whispering nervously. When Albert and Nicolas shoved into the open space, Rory was struck by relief that she didn't know she could feel, especially in a moment such as the one that had sprung upon them.

For a brief moment, everyone stood in the hallway above the tavern, laden with drowsiness and confusion. And then another shriek echoed through the building, breaking more windows. This time, it was accompanied by a blow that splintered wood and shook the building, and Rory heard a muffled chorus of startled horses as they squealed and whinnied. In that moment, any relief that she had felt upon seeing her friends was made obsolete.

As whispers turned to screams and the scene gave way to chaos, Rory had only one thought in her mind: get to the stables.

Forgetting how stiff and tired she was, she shoved through the panicked crowd, not bothering to see if the others followed.

"Did the Harkscalen follow us here?" Rory heard Bianca ask behind her.

"Unlikely", Nicolas answered as they raced through the tavern. Nicolas' grave tone only added to the gloomy panic that threatened to crush Rory's chest.

When she reached the stables, Rory practically threw the door open to find that chaos had already been unleashed. In their stalls, horses thrashed about, some kicking at the latched doors and others pacing nervously. Snow flew in from a gaping hole in the roof and beneath it the stablehand lay dead in the aisle, his fate sealed by a gnarled, bloody gash that ran across his chest.

Rory gasped in surprise but before she had time to feel sorry for the boy, Nicolas rushed toward a more pressing matter. When the stablehand had fallen, he carried a candle to light his way, and the hand that bore it dropped into an unfortunately placed pile of hay. Nicolas had nearly reached the candle when a draft blew through the barn, enough to set the hay aflame.

Rory bounded for the stall doors, opening them one by one and Albert did the same.

"Bianca, can you control it?" Nicolas shouted over the growing blaze.

"I'm trying", Bianca cried, "but the hay is too flammable and I can't keep up."

"Keep trying", Nicolas shouted back as he joined the others' efforts to fee the horses.

To protect herself from the smoke, Rory drew her scarf over her nose. The flames continued to grow, devouring the closest stall and licking the rafters. Outside, panicked screams grew louder as the loose horses thundered out.

Mercifully, Jewel's stall was several doors down from where the fire erupted. Despite the gravity of the situation, the mare still nickered at Rory's approach.

"It's alright", Rory whispered as she opened her horse's door and patted her neck.

As soon as her stall was open, Jewel bounded forward, eager to be free of the danger inside of the barn. It would be a miracle if she could ever convince her to go in another barn after this, Rory thought as the mare leapt past. But just as Jewel was nearly free, another shriek split the air and more wood shattered. As the Harkscalen landed, it was all Rory could do to watch as long, glinting black claws shredded skin.

Jewel squealed, the sound primal and born from a place and shock and pain. She reared up and immediately fell over, too much blood reddening her white hide and pooling on the floor around her.

"Jewel", Rory screamed as she bounded toward her.

Between them stood the Harkscalen, crouched over its near dead prey. But over Rory's dead body would the awful creature feast on her treasured companion.

"Rory no!" Bianca shouted as Rory bounded towards the beast, her pounding heart echoing her rage.

All too soon, the Harkscalen noticed her approach and whirled around in a movement as quick as lightning. As the last of the horses scampered past, the beast lowered itself and hissed, the sound guttural and predatory. So be it.

Forgetting the world around her, Rory lunged towards the Harkscalen, blade raised high and aimed for a clouded eye. The same eye that had been struck by Bianca's arrow a week prior. Only the Harkscalen was faster, and it was all Rory could do to jump out of the way as the barbed tail swung for her head.

Behind the Harkscalen, Jewel had somehow scrambled to her feet and limped into the street before collapsing again. Even with treatment, it would be a miracle if the mare survived long.

Shoving the thought behind her, Rory collected herself and scrambled into the street. Abandoning her efforts to control the blaze, Bianca did the same. With the threat of the Harkscalen, none made any move to quell the growing fire as it continued to destroy the barn and tavern. Not that the tossing of water filled buckets would make a difference. Given the current status, Rory thought grimly, it would take a heavy rain or a skilled Wavecarver to put out the inferno that had become the stables.

Unaffected by the flames, the Harkscalen stocked out of the burning building and let out another ear piercing shriek.

Ever void of caution, Albert was the first to lunge at the creature, only to be pinned down by a scaly, reptilian foot with too large claws. From behind, Nicolas leapt into action, leaping onto the thickly muscled tail and latching onto one of many scales to secure himself. But when he was nearly halfway up, the beast whipped its tail, sending Nicolas flying through the night. He landed next to the fountain with a thud, and did not get up again. Rory could only hope that he was unconscious and nothing more.

Albert still in its clutches, the Harkscalen growled. The sound felt like cold claws running down Rory's spine. Unsure what else to do, Bianca drew an arrow and angled it towards the Harkscalen's eye, just as she did in the Dil'Farans. Rory supposed that with others crowded in the street, she was hiding her magic for as long as she could.

The arrow hit home, piercing the same eye that had clouded over after the last encounter. The Harkscalen writhed in a rare display of pain, and a few gasped. One even cheered. But clumsy from pain, as the Harkscalen drew back, one of the claws grazed Albert's neck and he cried out.

"Albert!" Bianca exclaimed as she ran to her brother. Rory wanted to help as crimson blood began to pool on the snow dusted street, but her feet wouldn't move. The Harkscalen, at least, seemed to be retreating into the night but with two of her friends and her horse all close to dying, Rory had no idea how to move forward in this dreadful night.

But then, another blood curdling screech echoed in the night and Rory knew that the fight with the Harkscalen had hardly begun.

Most of the people who were congregated own the street had begun to flee, but Rory wasn't about to go anywhere. For what the creature had taken from her, she needed to watch it suffer. And so, while Bianca cradled her brother and sobbed, Rory sprung into action, leaping onto the beast as it barreled past. And she stabbed her blade through thick keratinous scales over and over until her vision blurred with sweat and tears.

Eventually, the beast shook her off, but she regained herself quickly and prepared to strike again. But another beat her to it.

"You killed by brother", Bianca roared, furious and heartbroken. Tears streamed her face and she stalked to her feet. As her amber eyes began to glow, Rory drew back a step and the fire that devoured the tavern began to shift, splaying long, dizzying shadows across the street.

And then those flames shifted into a massive fireball that flew towards the Harkscalen. Bianca screamed with exertion, and Rory rushed to her side. Bianca had explained once that a large display of magic was incredibly straining, sometimes even lethal if the wielder wasn't careful. With the weight of her brother's fate settling upon her, Rory guessed that Bianca had thrown said caution aside.

A quick glance at Albert made Rory's stomach drop, his body pale and limp on the cobbled street. She wished there was something, anything that she could do to stop that bleeding but a startled squeal had her attention snapping up to the Harkscalen where it wrestled Bianca's flames.

For a moment, all Rory could see was a mess of smoking flames and the swinging of a barbed tail. The smell of burning, swampy flesh tinged the air, and she fought not to gag as it struck her.

"You bastard!" Bianca shouted beside her. Tears continued to roll down her cheeks, and her entire body trembled. Despite dark of night, Rory could see that her skin had paled from exertion.

"You bastard." The second word came out hardly a whisper, and Bianca collapsed to the ground. Rory cringed as her friend's knees hit stone, but she caught her before she could fall completely. Her friend limp in her arms, Rory risked a true glimpse of the carnage around her for the first time. The remains of the tavern and the stable smoked behind them, charred wood snapping and ash wafting through the air. Before the entrance, Jewel lay in the street, too much blood streaking her back and pooling around her. She was still breathing, but those breaths were severely numbered.

A few yards away, Nicolas lay sprawled before the fountain, whether he was breathing, Rory could not see. And then there were Bianca and Albert, a heartbroken sister who lay limp in Rory's arms, inches away from her brother, whose chest had gone painfully still. It was all too overwhelming, and Rory felt a single tear roll down her own cheek. And despite her soul, hardened by years of servitude on Drao'hain and grueling Skepmadyr training, she cried. The sensation had become so foreign, a symbol of great weakness in Arcodyte culture, and yet she didn't stop herself. Not even as the Harkscalen freed itself from Bianca's flames, skin charred and weak, but still vengeful. As it padded towards her, Rory only glared at the creature, jade eyes meeting yellow ones. And she held that stare until the beast stood before her and they were face to face, Bianca's limp body still leaning against her own.

Rory's heart pounded, as if trying to beat as many times as possible before death but still, she refused to yield. And as the creature drew back to strike, its swampy scent tinging the air, a strange white light had begun to glow, illuminating the snowy ground with the milky glow of moonlight, only stronger. Before she could locate the source of the strange light, a deafening boom exploded through the air, the sound threatening to split her soul. Suddenly, she had to fight for her own consciousness, her legs wobbling as a wave of exhaustion crashed upon her. And as she collapsed to the ground the last thing she saw was the Harkscalen falling backwards, claws grasping at the night air.