“They’re here!” someone shouted. Bells began to ring throughout the island, causing the room to erupt into chaos as people scurried about carrying weapons.

Two hurried men with gray, bushy eyebrows unraveled the painting, but the woman with the wooden necklace stopped them.

“We’ll do it. It needs to sense us,” she said with certainty.

Even with footsteps thundering around us, we unrolled the canvas as if it were an artifact thousands of years old. Once it was stretched out, we pinned it to the wall. Without hesitation, the woman stepped into the painting.

“Don’t you want a weapon?” I asked.

She continued without answering.

I looked around at the frantic movements of the resistance, took a deep breath, and then stepped inside. Just like before, it hit me; my senses flared like sparks off a live wire. Colors danced in front of me.

When my senses finally settled, I looked around. Up ahead, the woman moved quickly through a meadow of unnatural neon grass. With every purposeful step, the blades parted and sealed shut behind her.

Above us, a warm breeze lifted pollen into a spiral. It hovered for a moment, as if it too sensed the urgency, then sped off toward a towering elm tree in the distance.

Within minutes, we were under the ancient elm. I looked up at the impressive branches as my companion pressed her palm to the cracked bark.

The elm responded: “Red shapes will show you the way.”

I stumbled back. “That thing just talked?”

She nodded but hurried forward. I wanted to listen to the elm again, or lie down beside the clouds that slept on the grass. But we had a mission. We had to keep moving.

Eventually, we reached a long vine-covered wall. Red shapes pulsed across its surface like cells in a living organism. The mysterious woman leaned in and whispered something I couldn’t hear. The shapes shifted, merging into a doorway.

She turned to me. “Beyond this door is the State’s broadcast headquarters,” she said. “All screens. All frequencies. Across every city in your world. Show them the painting.”

I hesitated. “What if—”

She touched her necklace. The wooden carvings shifted under her fingers. “Let me handle any resistance.”

I nodded then jumped at the crackling roar of fire. We both turned to witness the largest inferno I’d ever seen. Flames leapt like whipped horses, torching everything in their path.

“The State has taken the island. We will not have a way back,” she said, sadness flickering in her voice.

She stepped through the door. I followed. As soon as I entered, gunshots rang out.

Detective Mertens. Final entry.
Do not destroy transmission.

Our boat struck land today.

When it did, I looked up to watch thick fog roll back as if by an invisible hand, revealing what I thought couldn’t exist. Color. Everywhere. Buildings painted in reds, greens, and blues filled my vision. Sunlight bounced off windows and spread over rooftops, a crown of photons on top of the city.

Then, I noticed them. Thousands of people. Some moved with purpose. Others strolled, unhurried, as if the State had never controlled their lives. Maybe it never had.

So this is where the rebellion lives.

Back in the State, I’d heard rumors about this place. Tales passed around by bored coworkers over shitty coffee. We treated them like fun fairy tales. We were wrong.

To my right, a woman coasted by on a bike, groceries in front and a toddler in the back. To my left, children raced across the street, laughing, while two men inspected a sunhat, judging its quality.

In my thirty-two years on Earth, I had never seen anything like this place. The sense of freedom was unbelievable. No cameras overhead. No one looked over their shoulders. No hushed voices. It felt strange and magnetic.

I stepped off the boat. The silver-armed people said nothing to me, only pointed up the hill and began walking. I followed, the painting still tucked under my right arm, a precious artifact I would guard with my life. Even in a place like this.

At the top sat a yellow building. It looked simple, forgettable. Like a town hall forty years aged. Modest and quiet. But the way people moved around it, you’d think it was a temple.

When I walked inside, people stood and nodded, smiling. At the center of the room, a youthful-looking woman with long silver hair sat cross-legged on a carpet. Her necklace of strange wooden carvings nearly brushed the floor.

I studied her. She felt ancient, as if she’d lived several lives. The same kind of ancient I saw in the woman who had painted the original. I wondered if they were related.

“Detective Mertens,” she said. “Nice to finally meet you.”

I held my breath. “How do you know who I am?”

She smiled gently, “We’ve been watching you for years. That crude sketch you found during your inspection wasn’t placed there by accident. You were chosen.”

“Chosen?” My voice cracked.

“Your curiosity. Your rank inside the State. You were the perfect conduit.”

I shifted. The rolled painting suddenly felt heavier in my arms. “So this was all just a way to get the painting? What if I had turned you in?”

“We knew you wouldn’t,” she said. “We needed you to, not deliver the painting, but to feel it. And you did. Now you understand.”

She was right. Dammit.

I set the canvas against the wall carefully. My hands shook like the criminals’ hands I had interrogated over the years. “Well… here it is.”

“You’re not done with it yet. You’re going to help us restore what the State erased. Emotion. Art. Humanity.”

“How?” I glanced down at my Vox-Coil. “You think I can take on the entire State with this?”

She laughed. “Not with weapons, but with truth. We don’t need a soldier. We need a signal.”

“You want me to go back there?”

“Yes,” she said carefully.

I looked at the painting, then at her. I was afraid. I wasn’t a hero. Or a rebel. Most of my life, I lived by the Chinese proverb: “The bird who sticks his head out gets shot.”

“You’ll enter State headquarters and broadcast to the world what they’ve lost through oppression, control, and fear,” she said.

“But I’m wanted. Cameras will spot me the second I step foot inside.”

“No. You won’t go back the way you came.” She turned to the painting. “You’ll enter through that.”

I didn’t speak. I just stared at the canvas, still rolled, leaning silently against the wall. Its frayed yellow edge pulsed in the dim light, like it was breathing. Like it was alive…because it was. Sort of. This was my door back into the State.

She stood. “And I’ll be going with you.”

That's what I remember. Detective Mertens. End entry. Destroy transmission.

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Friends always told me I needed to make sacrifices for love. I never thought that meant packing myself in a bag and traveling from L.A. to Paris in the belly of a plane.

The person of my dreams is patiently waiting for me in the City of Lights, but nothing seems to be working for me in the City of Traffic. It’s the bag he sent me. It’s small. I asked if I could travel in a regular seat, but he said no. The bag was the only way.

So, I discarded clothes at the Goodwill, sold my blue hatchback, and teared up as I said goodbye to a childhood train collection. I never thought I’d get rid of those trains. The child who took them promised to cherish the railcars forever. I reasoned she would abandon them in a year.

With possessions gone, I stepped in, legs first, but that left my chest exposed. I tried curling into a fetal position, but my knees wouldn’t bend to my chest. I went in head first, but pulled a muscle and had to call out of work for a week.

Then it dawned on me. I could leave behind ambitions of becoming a writer, toss nagging feelings of doubt, and discard advice from close friends. But that still left my head poking out. Determined to fit in, I put aside my sister’s discontent, handed my best friend Kerry to another friend for safe-keeping, left my brain with a coworker, then placed my soul in a box and buried it behind a 7-11.

I’m mostly in the bag now! Damn, there isn’t enough room for my nose. Not to worry. C'est la vie, I will keep trying.

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It’s on the lapel of the detective’s tactical suit. He triggered it. Shit. More will come. I unpin the painting and roll it fast, careful not to let it touch the wet floor.

I scan the room. There’s no clear exit, just an instinct to protect the piece. Protect humanity. Wait. There. A door. I enter. Inside, a family kneels on the floor, praying. They don’t look up as I pass. Not even a flinch. It's eerie.

At the back, a screen door creaks as I push it open. I slip out and into a narrow alley, walking fast. The sky above is pitch black. Soot rains down from the State’s production lines. It’s always fallen over the Well.

I cough. The air’s thick. Bitter, chemical. How do people live like this? I want to leave, but I can’t risk stepping into the State’s world. Up ahead, a passageway that may lead me out of the Well and away from the city. I approach. Then, I see her.

A girl with bright messy orange hair, like a crayon melted over her skull. She stares, then points to a camouflaged opening in a long rocky wall.

I follow. What choice do I have? I enter a room filled with others like her. They all have orange hair, silent stares, and silver colored arms. A cult? No, a rebellion. No one speaks. They just point to a hatch in the floor. I step forward and look down.

An underground river, fast and dark. There’a a boat tied to a small dock. Minutes later, I’m in it. Four others climb in after me. Then dozens of gunshots echo above. It sounds like the State has mobilized a small army against me.

A man no bigger than a bar stool starts the engine. It sputters once, then twice, then catches. Thank god. The boat jerks forward. Soon, the city fades behind us.

Ahead: Open water and zero chance I’ll survive.

Entry 006. Private voice log. Not submitted for review.

I hate the State. Now I understand why they kept this from us.

Then joy hits. Pure. Immediate. This is what the old lady felt while painting. I’m riding the same current that moved through her hands. It’s like I’m there with her. It’s a rush. A drug. I’m addicted.

For the first time in my life, I’m alive. Switched on. The world flips from gray to chromatic overload. It’s almost blinding.

But I still hear the outside world. Faint. Bleeding in. Gunshots. What is that? Then screams. Death. Silence. Shit.

A hand breaks through. Then a body. A detective. I don’t know him. He’s rage wrapped in a dark tactical suit. A Vox Coil hangs at his side. His eyes burn with hatred.

He yanks me out of the painting. I hit the floor. Bodies surround me. Even the old lady.

“No!” I scream. “She was the last…”

He kicks me and yells, “the punishment is execution!”

“This is for the courts to decide!” I snap.

He growls. Moves to kick again. But I’m faster. I grab his boot. Twist. A hundred ninety pounds slams to the floor.

I’m up. My Vox Coil aimed at his skull. What am I doing? Too late. I fire. He’s dead.

I will be hunted. I will be tried. I will be hung.

But the painting survives. Even if I don’t.

Entry 005. Private voice log. Not submitted for review.

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Detective Mertens. Status: Recorded post-capture. Private. Not submitted for review.

I’m going to die.

Someone throws me across the room and yells, “he’s with the State. Kill him!”

“No,” says an aged voice. Calm. Dangerous.

I look up. It’s her. The Painter. She looks ancient and new. Like a child wearing time. She reaches for me. I take her hand.

“See for yourself,” she says. She turns me. I face the painting. It shifts. Breathes. Waits.

“Go in,” she whispers. The canvas swallows me as I step forward.

A wave crashes through me: joy, grief, rage. It’s too much. It’s everything. I think I’ve forgotten who I am.

That’s what I remember. Entry 004. Private voice log. Not submitted for…Destroy…

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Ropes secure me to a pipe. I’m in a warehouse. Flames rise from the center of the room. The air smells like burnt electrical cords. My captors huddle nearby.

A woman says, “Let him see it.”

“No,” a man snaps back. “He’ll kill us, then report it. We need to get rid of him.”

To the left; my Vox Coil. Resting on a table. Out of reach. Then I see it. On the far wall. The painting. I’d only heard whispers…what one might look like. But this…this is something else. It spans the entire wall. Large. Beautiful. Alien.

Bold red, yellow, and green shapes pulse across the canvas like ripples on water. The colors are intoxicating. Then the shapes begin to shift. I focus harder. First geometric, then something else. Animals? Humans? Neither. It’s familiar, yet foreign.

And then a man steps out of it. The painting goes still. He turns, looks at it and then to his friends. Smiles. Then laughs.

Holy shit.

That's what I remember. Detective Mertens. End entry. Destroy transmission.

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A shuttle drops me ten blocks from the target. No closer.

I descend fragile steps. The smell of decay hits: metal, sewage, rot. I’ve entered The Well. Once a sewer runoff. Now a dumping ground for the unstable. The State doesn’t fix it. It forgets it. They call it human sludge. They’re not wrong. But they’re not right either.

Shacks teeter, stacked like bones on paper. Alleyways made of trash claw upward. I stand out. My clothes too clean. My scent too fresh. People stare. A pod of three follow. Tight. Silent. Sharklike. I keep my hand on the Vox Coil; state issued.

I’m not sure how to find the painter. Only lead: she’s old.

Then a red light catches graffiti. A sign? I move to investigate, but something cracks against my skull. Everything goes black.

That’s the last thing I remember. Then…nothing. End entry. Destroy transmission.

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They trained us to forget. Trained us to overcome emotion. To become less human.

Every morning, I pass a mural; painted over, sterilized. But I still see a piece of it. Don’t look. That’s the rule. But last month, during a sweep...I found something. A piece of paper, duct taped under an old stove. Real paper. Soft. On it, a drawing of a horse. Crude. But beautiful. I should’ve incinerated it. Instead, I kept it.

That night, I unrolled it again. My hand shook. I could go to jail. Art’s been banned for years. It makes people unstable, they say. Really, it’s to keep us in check. In ten years with the state, I’ve destroyed: sixteen paintings and three textiles. I thought this week would be more of the same. But now... They say there’s a painter still out there. Alive. In The Well; a dangerous part of the city. She’s made something new. A painting you can walk inside of. A painting where you can feel again.

I will find her and destroy it. But first, I want to see it. To feel it. To immerse myself within. Just once. Then I will follow protocol.

Detective Mertens. End entry. Destroy transmission.

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Through faded pink lines whipping in front of her eyes, Jasmine forced her head to the left to look at her partner of five years. Lindsay Tzurk’s face was twisted and drained of color. Vomit spilled from her mouth.

The Twin Otter should have been reliable. Instead, it scraped along like a metal sled riding on a bed of nails. The sound in the cabin was excruciating. Jasmine—a highly trained Silencer—screamed, but her shrieks were swallowed by the crunching of wood on metal.

She shifted her focus forward just in time to see a thick tree limb impale the pilot’s chest and lodge into the seat behind her. With that, the plane’s tail end jolted forward, a gymnast executing a difficult somersault.

With the nose facing the canopy and the tail in the air, Lindsay’s seat belt snapped. The tanned, muscular Silencer tore through the window, shattering it on impact, and then flew off in the distance.

After several more flips, the plane came to a creaking stand still upside down. Knocked out, Jasmine dangled lifeless, held precariously in place by a belt of black polyester webbing strapped around her waist.

Moments later, the sound of a pine siskin chirping nearby finally awoke the Silencer. She blinked. Holy fucking shit. Red faced, she scanned her surroundings.

With effort, she reached for a knife clipped to her belt. Using all of her strength, she hunched forward and cut furiously until the taut polyester belt snapped. Her body dropped like a weight.

“Fuck!” Jasmine yelled as she hit the ceiling of the wrecked plane. She looked down. A metal shard had impaled her right heel. Adrenaline had finally worn off, leaving in its wake sheer pain.

Unfortunately, Jasmine couldn’t do much about the wound. She needed to get out of the plane quickly. The Twin Otter creaked. It was going to come down soon.

The highly trained operative reached for Lindsay’s bag a few feet away. She knew her co-worker would have enough gear to keep her alive until she could locate the target. She knew because she had packed it for Lindsay. Packing each other’s bags had become a lucky ritual for the two. Jasmine firmly believed the superstitious ritual was what had kept them both alive for so long.

Next, she grabbed a Remington 700 tactical rifle. Their target was a corrupted male; a human man infected by the invasive, deadly alien species known as Cilomites. As Silencers, they were specifically trained to track and eliminate these threats before they could multiply and spread.

The door to the plane would not budge when she applied pressure. No matter how hard Jasmine tried to force it, the exit door stayed put. She looked around and spotted the window Lindsay had been ejected from. Okay. The busted window was her only way out, so she carefully moved toward it.

A sea of green needles filled her vision as she scanned the treetops for the safest way down. A yard away gave her hope. A large, sturdy branch was just in arm’s reach. With luck, she could reach it and shimmy her way out down.

Jasmine pushed the backpack and weapon out. They tumbled to the wet ground below, barely making a sound. Next, she reached for the secure branch and death-gripped it. Soon, she was able to grab it with both hands and heaved her battered body to it, clinging on for dear life.

Little by little she inched her way down the sitka spruce until she was close enough to jump. With a soft thud, Jasmine hit the ground and rolled over on her back. The wet earth was a welcomed feeling as she looked up at the wrecked plane above her.

The Silencer exhaled a stressed breath and stood as best she could. A dozen thoughts raced through her head, but she needed to find a safe place to rest first. Standing underneath a precariously perched DHC-6 Twin Otter was utterly foolish.

A rocky area with a sideways tree snag fifty yards away was as good as any, so she grabbed her gear, and hobbled over, sitting down on the dewy surface. The next pressing matter was the metal shard sticking out of her foot.

As she prepared to tackle the wound, Jasmine found herself thinking about her mother's death seven years ago. That pain had altered her life far more dramatically than any physical injury could. The tragedy had caused her to rethink everything; trading a dead-end data entry job under fluorescent lights for sunshine, snow, and rain outside with the army.

It was her emotional resilience and intellectual capacity to work in highly stressful situations that had caught her superiors' attention. That, combined with what her team called her "don't give a fuck attitude" toward danger, had fast-tracked her recruitment into the Silencers—the special ops unit trained to kill these horrific creatures. Now that training would determine whether she lived or died in this wilderness.

She pulled Lindsay’s backpack to her lap. It was filled with two weeks of food, a radio, and first aid kit. Jasmine always packed a first aid kit in Lindsay’s bag. Only once before had they needed it, and that was for a gash on Lindsay’s face when they had to run during a raid against a group of Corrupted.

The first thing she noticed when opening the bag was the smashed radio, destroyed during the crash. She shook her head in disappointment and tossed it near a grouping of ferns. Then, she yanked the zipper down hard, tearing the fabric. Rummaging through, her hand finally hit the red cross container.

Gingerly, Jasmine lifted her right leg, undid her boot lace, and then cut the sock off around the metal piece. Gritting her teeth, she yanked on the metal, freeing it from her foot. Her vision went white. A scream ripped from her throat as her hands trembled. She curled over, gasping, clutching at her leg.

With shaking hands, she poured water onto the bloody wound, cleaning it as best she could. She then reached into the first aid kit and pulled out alcohol wipes. The next wave of pain was even stronger than the first. A guttural scream exited her mouth as she dabbed skin flaps and inner flesh with alcohol.

A small stitching kit for such an emergency proved to be a life saver as she sewed the fleshy parts together. After it was done, Jasmine yanked a bottle of ibuprofen from the bag and discarded the recommended maximum amount printed on the bottle, downing a handful of pills.

Finally, she looked around at her surroundings. Densely packed forest as far as she could see spread out in front of her, a formidable fortress of trees. “Lindsay!” Jasmine called out. Even though she was not expecting an answer, she called again, “Lindsay!” Her close friend and colleague was likely dead.

Getting to and then killing the deadliest creature on earth with a painful injury, no radio, and without Lindsay was going to be difficult. But Jasmine had no other option, if she did not pursue the corrupted human, he’d infect hundreds more, sealing humanity’s fate.

Conventional tactics were useless against the Cilomite's ability to detect male pheromones from miles away. Thus, the Silencer Program was born from desperation. Only women could get close enough to eradicate the threat, so they recruited female candidates who could handle extreme stress, had quick decision-making abilities, and possessed what evaluators termed "calculated risk tolerance."

#

A clear plastic tarp covered Jasmine’s tattooed body from head to toe. Lying morbidly still, breath condensation marks on the inside of the tarp were the only indication that she was still alive. Unlike other Silencers on her team, Jasmine always dressed in a loose heavy metal band t-shirt, tan hoodie, and dirty jeans. Lindsay joked that she looked like she was going to a concert not on her way to kill the deadliest creatures on Earth. Jasmine laughed it off and said she liked being comfortable.

She pulled a warm down hunter green jacket closer to her chilled body and thought about Lindsay. She missed her friend. Lindsay was by the books but offered moments of humor during dark periods, while foul-mouthed Jasmine was better at improvising if plans changed.

After several long seconds, she stirred, blinking sleepy grey-green eyes up at a sky that was shifting from black to golden as the sun started its crawl over the horizon. Exhausted, Jasmine slowly removed the plastic tarp that had protected her from last night’s thunderstorm.

As she packed away the tarp, she noticed the unnatural silence of the forest. No birds called out, no small creatures rustled in the underbrush. Even the insects seemed absent. In her two weeks trekking through the Tongass, she'd never encountered such complete stillness. It was as if the forest itself was holding its breath. I must be close.

Jasmine stretched and looked around. The thin yet muscular Silencer had been hiking the Tongass National Forest in Alaska for two weeks without seeing a single soul, that she was glad for. She didn’t want to get into a conversation about why she was hiking one of the most remote places on earth alone with just a backpack and a tactical weapon slung over her shoulder.

With little effort, she lifted Lindsay’s backpack and sat it on her lap. A side pouch revealed a brown banana, but not much else. Most of the essentials were gone, including ninety percent of her food rations. If she was unable to locate the Corrupted individual soon, she’d have to start hunting for sustenance. Even though she was trained to track, capture, and skin game, the tediousness of doing so annoyed her. She just wanted this mission over with.

Jasmine lifted her tactical weapon from the ground and examined it carefully. The barrel of the gun was dented and scratched in several places from the crash. She hoped it would still fire, but had a backup pistol holstered around her thigh in case it didn’t. She’d rather the long-range weapon work, though. Getting close to what she had been sent to kill was a frightening thought.

The easiest way to kill a Cilomite was once they infected a human. However, after the corruption, they were extremely dangerous. The six inch long translucent creatures, about the size of a titan beetle, quickly took control of human males by cutting their way into the stomach and then burrowing through the body before finally attaching to the brain stem.

The controlled men became ungodly creatures with morphed, strange appendages that jutted out of their bodies like needles in a voodoo doll. Under the control of a Cilomite, the infected men were clever, deadly, and multiple fast. It was estimated that if left unchecked they could wipe out everyone on earth within a few years. Thus, time was of the essence.

Jasmine was part of the Northwest Team headquartered in Seattle. Women were sent into the field to search and destroy. Pheromones protected women Silencers to an extent. Corrupted had a hard time sensing them, so they went in pairs to minimize their footprint and often caught their foe by surprise. Jasmine’s team, made up of scientists and military personnel, predicted that this was going to be a quick mission. They were so wrong.

Tired, injured, and frustrated, Jasmine slung the Remington around her shoulder and looked around for signs of life down in the valley below. Based on what the tracker had said before the flight started—destroyed during the crash—she was close to the location where an ultra-sensitive antenna had picked up a corrupted male.

Expecting to see nothing, she yawned and thought about coffee. She imagined sitting at home in her two-bedroom apartment back in Seattle and drinking the dark, bitter liquid with her on-again-off-again boyfriend Kyle. If she were home, they’d probably be arguing about something as stupid as washing sheets twice a month vs waiting months. They argued a lot which annoyed Jasmine, but right now, she welcomed a heated discussion with Kyle over the current situation.

She was just about to hobble down the mountain when a structure in the valley below gave her hope that she had finally found what she was looking for. Scanning the area with her sight scope, she spotted a large wooden home that looked more like a dilapidated barn than an inhabitable place. Early morning light creeping over the horizon created a thin yellow line that swept over the house, exposing aging paint, wood rot, and a giant hole in the decaying roof.

Movement in the canyon below caused the trained killer to tense and pull her pointer finger closer to the trigger. Next to a row of pine trees, a fast moving man with a rabid expression on his face and several bloody grotesque fleshy limbs jutting out of his torso as if he’d been stabbed with swords made of skin quickly moved toward the ruined house.

Finally, lets get this fucking shit over with. Jasmine lay flat on the wet earth and adjusted the rifle’s scope. Come on. Keep running bitch. That’s it. Piece of shit.

A strong breeze brought chilly air to Jasmine’s tired face as she pulled the long-range weapon tighter to her body ready to make the kill. The man wore a large brown robe hung over his back that flapped in the wind like a cape. With his otherworldly figure and frightening eyes, he stood in stark contrast to a patch of wild, purple fireweed next to him.

Gotcha. Jasmine fired. Nothing. She fired again. Silence. Shit! She pulled the trigger several more times. Still, nothing. Fuck!

Eventually, the quick-moving deformed human reached a chain-link fence that encircled a muddy area in front of the home, ran inside, and climbed up rickety wooden steps that led inside. He was gone. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Jasmine tossed the weapon.

The last thing she wanted to do was to enter the house. The species could sense men at a distance, but if she got close enough, it would kill her. Jasmine tugged on the pistol holstered around her thigh and stood. Goddammit.

Standard Silencer protocol for a failed long-range attempt was clear: retreat, report, request backup. Never engage in close quarters. But it would take her weeks to hike out for help. Jasmine knew a retreat meant the Corrupted would multiply and spread before any backup could arrive. Images of entire towns turned into breeding grounds flashed through her mind as she checked her pistol's magazine. Six rounds.

"Fuck protocol. It’s just one," she muttered to herself, ejecting the magazine and slapping it back in place. She'd rather die trying than live knowing she hadn't. This calculated risk was exactly why her supervisors both valued and feared her methods.

Lindsay, the rule follower, would have told her to fall back if she were here—that she was as brazen as a drunk ass girl at Mardi Gras. The thought almost made Jasmine laugh as she chambered a round and started down the slope toward the house, pain shooting through her injured foot with each step.

Cilomites first arrived ten years ago when an asteroid went down near Stewart, Canada. The small translucent species had numerous razor sharp small legs, resembling centipedes on steroids. They quickly infected males in Stewart who in turn killed everything living in town: women, children, and pets.

Eventually, all of the men in Stewart had been consumed, resembling a terrarium of aggressive grotesque spiders. They started building a tower of sorts using dead Corrupted. Some scientists theorized that the structure was some sort of shelter, but no one really knew. It took a battalion of four-hundred to finally kill them. Not all had been killed, though. Various populations kept emerging in the surrounding areas which is why teams of Silencers like Jasmine’s were created.

She was a great pick for the team as she had a recklessness to her that was helpful for such dangerous missions. Most assumed she was unafraid to die, which was far from the truth. As a former boring data entry employee, she kept up the facade with her team because she liked being labeled a badass.

The trained assassin bit her bottom lip while moving down the hill toward the house carefully. Multiple times she stumbled and nearly fell as her thoughts were more on the Cilomite and how she’d escape if it detected her.

Eventually, she reached the chain-link fence and slipped inside the muddy area quietly. Out in front were a few mounds in the mud that looked like grave sites. Something about the raised patches of earth made the hairs on her arms stand up.

Hesitantly, she reached the opened door and paused. Brazenness over rode caution as she entered the home. She immediately gagged. The smell of rotting flesh overwhelmed her senses. She swallowed back vomit and took slow steps forward.

The only light in the home came from the sun filtering in through dirty windows. Rays of golden yellow hit dusty shelves filled with books and dead potted plants. Off to the left sat a large ancient table with claw feet. A dusty table setting for two proved that the ornate table had been unused for some time.

Slipping past the ancient table and into the kitchen, the Silencer noticed a pile of rotting flesh littering the ground. Jasmine had never heard of Cilomites collecting flesh so she carefully pulled a rotting piece closer as if seeing it would give her a better understanding of what they were using the flesh for. It did not.

Jasmine was on high alert as she crept along the wall with her pistol trained forward. Her heart felt like it wanted to leap out of her chest and run for cover as she crossed into a wood-paneled living room just ahead of the kitchen. It was empty.

The rock band that was now her heart thumped loudly as she pushed open a creaky door to a back bedroom. Shelves of books and dusty furniture greeted her as she peered inside. The Corrupted was likely on the second floor.

Suddenly, a clicking sound caused her to shake the pistol in her hand. After a few moments, she settled and moved to a set of stairs that led to the second floor. Enclosed in by walls on either side of the staircase were dusty photos of a happy couple. The woman was smiling. Next to her, a man leaned against a rusted truck giving a peace sign; happier times.

Continuing past the photos, Jasmine moved up the stairs and into a hallway fed by a sliver of light from a small window above. She inched forward and into a bedroom, pistol first.

Jasmine was instantly assaulted by a sulfur smell, but it was the sight of an old woman that freaked her out the most. In front of her, on a four post bed, stood a very old woman. She was barefoot and wearing nothing but faded jeans and a cream-colored bra. Blood seeped from an open wound in her abdomen.

“Don’t move,” the woman whispered.

Around her, a dozen corrupted men with pincers for mouths and claw-like appendages jutting from their torsos stared at Jasmine. Some held sections of decaying human flesh with their many arms while others a yellow sticky substance in their mouths.

Women were not infected. This was new. They were only killed by Corrupted. Jasmine was not prepared for this. The Cilomites had changed tactics. Other than the wound in her stomach, the woman was not disfigured like the men. That however was not the most surprising thing. The group of morphed men were feeding the old woman something.

After a few moments, the disfigured men continued their actions, carrying what looked like an intestine onto the bed and forcing it into the woman’s gaping stomach wound. Piece by piece they fed the internal organ into her body until it was gone.

Jasmine watched as a steady stream of yellow sticky substance oozed from the old woman’s mouth. Tiny cream colored ovals could be seen inside the yellow substance. The ooze was collected by another set of infected who gathered it in their mouths and scurried to a tall structure.

A wave of nausea hit her as she watched the old woman's body being used as an incubator. She'd seen countless horrors, but there was something uniquely disturbing about this perversion of the human form. The way the Cilomites took control of human bodies had always revolted her, but this was different. The men were weapons, tools—but this woman was a factory. She swallowed. Death would be preferable.

Covering the walls of the structure, was a mess of jumbled infected males who were dead. Frozen in place. Linked together by their ungodly limbs, clay, and the strange yellow substance. Like contractors reinforcing a wall with cement, the morphed men covered the dead with the substance.

Jasmine leaned closer, her eyes scanning the grotesque tower. Her breath slowed as she traced the looping yellow ooze climbing its sides. What the hell are they building?

In her numerous missions, she had never seen Cilomite act like this. Except for the old woman whose body was being used as a birthing chamber for the yellow sticky substance and oval shapes, the Corrupted did not seem to care that she was there. But unlike them, the old woman stared at Jasmine wide-eyed.

Jasmine turned back to the men again and watched them patch the yellow ooze on the walls of the thing they were building. She looked up, suddenly noticing the entirety of the room.

The liquid itself acted like veins, moving the cream colored ovals towards the top of the tower. A burst of cold air caused Jasmine to look up even further at a giant gaping hole in the ceiling exposing the cloudy sky above.

The structure they were creating in the center of the room, resembled a termite cathedral mound. It was tall and was actively growing taller by the second. Jasmine had never seen anything like it and had certainly not heard about it during her briefing on the species.

With gentle steps, she began stepping out of the room with every intention of hiking to the nearest town and reporting back to her team as soon as she could find a way to communicate with them. But, before she could take a backward step, the woman’s words stopped her.

“Help,” she whispered in a raspy, hoarse voice, yellow secretion flowing from her mouth.

Jasmine’s heart stopped. She glanced at the old woman and mouthed “I’m going to get help.” She knew a bullet to her head was the only way to help the woman, but shooting her would bring certain death to herself. She was outnumbered.

Jasmine took a step backwards. The ancient looking woman narrowed her eyes and then leapt into the air. Instantly, six foot wings that had been hidden behind her back unfolded and began to beat extremely fast. A rush of wind filled the room, blowing Jasmine’s faded pink cotton candy colored hair back. She covered her eyes and looked up. The old woman hovered like a majestic, disfigured hummingbird in front of her.

Dust rose then fell as the old woman flew toward her and settled inches in front of her face. With eyes bulging, she spat, “stay.”

Jasmine turned to run but was held in place by the woman’s bony hand clenching firmly around her neck. Her feet dangled inches off of the ground.

Looking at the tower, she continued, “It’s stunning, isn’t it?” the old lady said in an alien voice that sounded like it had clawed its way out of the grave.

Jasmine choked, unable to respond.

“Tower to the gods.” With wings furiously beating behind her she smiled. “As it grows, so do we.”

“Watching your kind convert to loyal followers has made the Greatness pleased.” The morphed woman turned to watch as a group of corrupted men cemented the tower with the yellow substance. The small ovals traveled toward the top, a river of yellow defying gravity. “Eggs. Beautiful life giving eggs. Our mission here is simple: build a temple of worship, birth more, and convert others.”

Jasmine could barely breathe. She continued to look at her captor while on the edge of death. There was no way out. All she could do was listen.

The ancient looking woman turned back to Jasmine and hissed, “spreading is the only way to show honor the Greatness. Your men are choosing to make the ultimate sacrifice by building the tower. Your women offer a far more precious purpose. The old woman I’m inhabiting, necessary in our growth and communication efforts, offered her body. An incubator. To that, we thank her.”

Jasmine diverted her eyes to the tower. It was now a hundred feet above the roof. Hundreds of oval eggs kept moving toward the top. Numerous infected dead men and clay helped hold its shape. Where are they finding all of these men?

The winged creature in front of her finally released her grip. Jasmine fell to the ground with a thud. “Now it’s time for you to serve your purpose,” The infected woman said, lacking expression. Jasmine looked up just in time to see the old woman slam a lamp into the side of her temple. She blacked out.

#

Coming in and out of consciousness, Jasmine could see several infected men dragging her across mud. Instead of words, they used strange clicking sounds to communicate. Cold air hit her face while pain in her stomach caused her to wince. She blinked, taking in the sun’s waning light.

The Corrupted stopped then rolled Jasmine into a large hole they’d dug. Moving quickly, they covered her with wet earth. Within seconds, she was buried. Unable to breathe, she tried to turn, but couldn’t move. She was pinned on all sides. The clicking sounds finally stopped. They had left her to rot, a decaying body that would be fed to the ungodly woman inside.

Jasmine screamed but dirt rushed into her open mouth. The inability to move and lack of oxygen caused her to panic. She tried to focus on anything else but the present, but couldn't. Then she thought about her mom and a calmness came over her.

She thought about her mom’s laugh. It was a strange thought to have moments before death, but she remembered her mom’s warm laugh and smiled. Her mom loved laughing about things that make others angry. Things like traffic, tipping, or slow computers. Her mom found a way to turn bad into funny. Jasmine’s heart slowed, she was passing out. It was time.

The sound of scraping dirt kept her barely conscious, though. Someone or something was above her digging. Within seconds, her mouth was uncovered. She took a deep breath and coughed out dirt. A gentle hand lifted her head. Jasmine wiped dirt from her face and looked at the person who held her. It belonged to Lindsay. Her face was mangled and caked with dried blood from the crash.

Lindsay removed more dirt and tugged, freeing Jasmine from her grave. For a moment, the two hugged. Lindsay pulled away first and looked at her friend. “Fun day at the office, huh?”

Jasmine spit dirt from her mouth and forced a smile, “yeah.” Her head was throbbing and her stomach was in knots. “We need to call headquarters,” Jasmine said with strain in her voice.

“No shit.” Lindsay looked at the house and paused as if considering going in herself to check. “Can you stand?”

“I think so,” Jasmine replied while moving to her feet.

“There’s a line of Corrupted entering the back of the house. They’re coming from a town to the east a hundred miles away.”

The two Silencers turned west and started their slow hike up the mountain. Every once in a while, Jasmine looked back. Dozens of morphed half human half creatures were running to the house. The tower being built was now hundreds of feet in the air—a grotesque mound of interlinked dead infected humans, yellow ooze, and eggs.

“What the fuck are they building?” Lindsay said.

“A place of worship.” A worried expression flashed on Jasmine’s face as she eyed the structure once again. Toward the top, hundreds of nest like structures were being built. “We should hurry.”

#

A week later and surviving on wild game, the two Silencers finally made it to a road. They spotted a parked truck and frantically called out.

“Help!” Lindsay yelled.

As they moved closer, they heard the engine. It was still running. However, the driver was nowhere to be found. Lindsay scanned the area. All around them were densely packed trees and an empty two-lane road.

“Where did the person go?” Lindsay said.

“I don’t know.” Jasmine hobbled to the passenger’s side of the truck and maneuvered her injured body inside. “But let’s go.” Fear tinged her command.

The drive to the nearest town took two hours. When they arrived, dozens of vehicles were stopped in the middle of the road with engines still idling. Jasmine turned to Lindsay. She was about to tell her friend to keep driving when a dazed looking woman ran up.

The lady stood in front of the truck with outstretched hands. “Stop!”

“Stay in the truck,” Jasmine blurt out, putting her hand on Lindsay’s arm.

Lindsay leaned out of the window, “What happened?”

“I don’t know. It’s the men. They all left.” The woman stopped to look around. She seemed worried to share the next bit, “Some had extra…like extra body parts.”

“Do you have a phone on you?” Jasmine quickly replied.

The woman dashed over to Jasmine’s side and handed her a cell phone. Seconds later, Jasmine dialed a number. “This is Juniper 569. Patch me through.”

“Look at that.” Lindsay pointed to the sky while Jasmine waited to be connected.

A giant dark cloud resembling volcano ash was moving in from the direction they had come from. Soon, large floating pieces of what looked like spores dropped down from the sky, blanketing the city. Next, came hundreds and hundreds of tiny Cilomites. One of the creatures crawled up the woman’s leg and burrowed into her stomach. She screamed in pain and fell to the asphalt.

Lindsay smashed her foot down on the gas. The back tires spun trying to get traction. Finally, they connected. The truck lurched forward. Jasmine rolled up her window as they sped away.

Hundreds of Cilomites landed on the truck, making it sound like they were driving through a hail storm. The creatures scurried about, trying to make their way inside. Lindsay spun the wheel to the left and right. Eventually, the translucent species fell away as she sped forward. They were now ahead of the Cilomite cloud.

Jasmine looked back, hundreds of Corrupted were chasing them, disfigured monsters. “Holy shit!”

Suddenly, a distant voice startled her. She looked down. The cell phone.

A concerned male voice spat out, “Juniper 569. This is headquarters. What happened?”

“They’re everywhere,” Jasmine said.

“Everywhere? What do you mean?” The man replied.

“They’ve built a tower. A mound thousands of feet tall. They’re spreading fast.”

Suddenly, their truck swerved off course and was heading toward a row of trees at high speeds. Jasmine looked at Lindsay. Her friend’s body was completely deformed. A Cilomite had made its way inside the cabin and taken control of her partner.

The sound of metal warping as it impacted the tree was deafening. Jasmine’s head hit the dashboard then flew back to the seat upon impact. Barely conscious, she looked over at her disfigured friend.

Lindsay eyed her greedily. Before she could think, Jasmine shot her in the head. Her partner of five years slunk down, blood oozing over the steering wheel.

Jasmine pushed open the truck door and slid out. A hoard of infected humans were running toward her. In minutes she would be dead or worse, corrupted.

“Strike!” Jasmine said out of breath. “Order a strike!”

“What town?” The person on the other end demanded.

“Alaska.” The Corrupted were now within a hundred feet and closing fast.

“Alaska? That’s not a town. What town?” the man replied.

“All of Alaska! Order the strike now!”

Jasmine looked up. The group was upon her. Instead of attacking, they paused and knelt. Her brows raised in confusion. What the hell are they doing? Then, she noticed something. Blood soaked her shirt. She ripped it free from her body. A hole showed her what she feared.

Jasmine screamed in pain as wings began to sprout behind her back. In front of her, hundreds of Corrupted began clicking with excitement.

“Juniper 569. Are you still there?” The man’s voice cracked through the phone.

“Strike!!!” Jasmine’s voice cracked like a whip as she began to change. She quickly brought the gun to her temple, took a breath, and then.

Twenty-nine-year-old David looked from the rain to the older man in the corner of his living room and grimaced. His grey-haired father, Wade, sat in a wheelchair facing a large window trimmed in black. A green tank fed life-giving oxygen through a tube spiraling up to the man’s nose. Wade watched with vacant eyes as the rain hit the windowpane with force and slid down. His stillness was eerie, and looking at him always made David uncomfortable.

David spent his life hating the man in the corner of his home. Years of processing, therapy, and journaling had done nothing to help him forgive Wade. Once he was eighteen, David moved as far away from his father as possible: New York City. Now, the man he despised lived with him, needing his care. What a cruel twist of fate, David thought.

Rain continued to batter the streets below as David turned to his thoughtful husband. Parry shifted uneasily knowing what was coming next. “It’s time,” David said softly as he moved away from Wade and kissed Eva, their three-year-old on the cheek. He then turned to his dark-haired husband and held his face in his hands. “I promise I’ll be safe. Don’t worry about me.” The two embraced for a long moment. David pulled away and smiled confidently. Parry returned the smile, but there was worry in his eyes. “I promise.”

The bathroom door made a gentle click as David shut it behind him. He didn’t want his daughter to see what was about to happen, so he hid from her view. It would be too confusing for her at this age. He planned on explaining his strange abilities when she was older, once her mind could fully comprehend the impossible.

David picked up a small book from the white marble counter. The cover showed a boy scaling a tall mountain with a vibrant red coat dangling from his backpack. David opened the book. Inside was a picture of himself at a younger age and his dad in an average-looking Park in California. He tucked the picture back inside and held the paperback tightly. Banner in the Sky was the book Wade had given him as a child. A seemingly sweet gift that would be used many times to guilt David into helping his father later in life.

The cold white-and-black metro hex tile made David shiver as he lay down on it. His summer outfit—a faded grey t-shirt with a useless pocket over his chest and black jean shorts—was not ideal for chilly spring floors. Still, it was appropriate for where he was going. 

Two yellow lights hanging at different heights from the off-white ceiling caught David’s attention. He focused on the golden glow the bulbs emitted, quieting all thoughts but one. The memory of his father on a hot Los Angeles day was painful to relive, but necessary. The sound of rain hitting the roof was replaced by the sound of an airplane. The plane’s jet engines hummed in his ears for a few seconds. Then, with the speed of a camera flash, David was gone, leaving only the white-and-black hex tiles behind

Hot air blew over David's face as he blinked and looked around. The twenty-nine-year-old was laying flat on his back inside of an LAX parking garage, ten years in the past. The first time David time traveled he was a child and it had frightened him to the point of tears. One moment five-year-old David had been playing with his Matchbox cars, the next, he was a week in the past at a beach in Central California.

David didn’t understand how he was able to do it, but he eventually realized that to travel back in time, he had to concentrate on a painful memory, and today’s memory was particularly painful. David placed a hand on the dirty ground and stood. He tried to take a step but stumbled. Time travel was not kind to his body. He needed a moment to recover, so he stood still and collected himself.

The sound of a passenger jet vibrated off the reinforced concrete walls. David used the recovery time to wipe bits of dirt from his black shorts and to think about his daughter. He loved Eva’s spirit, humor, and laugh. After little Eva arrived, he lessened his hours at the firm and spent as much time as possible with her. David was determined to be an amazing father.

Feeling a little better, David walked toward the busy four-lane road ahead. Shuttle buses, cars, and SUVs crowded the LAX U-shaped road, dropping off passengers in front of awaiting airline terminals. It was unrehearsed and chaotic, a dance of vehicles narrowly missing each other.

A large silver-painted number three on a pillar on the north side of LAX drew David’s attention. The Delta drop-off location was where he needed to be. David wiped sweat from his olive-toned forehead and took a deep breath. This day reminded him just how much he disliked Wade.

As a child, his dad spent hours lying sideways on the couch asleep or watching TV. There was little interaction between the two. His father was there, but not really there. A father who didn’t want to be a father. David longed for a dad who had his life together. A dad with a savings account. A dad who loved him.

The day was impossibly hot so David rolled up his faded grey sleeves in the hopes of cooling his overheated body. In an instant, nausea washed over him. He grabbed a nearby pillar for support. He felt his cream cheese and bagel breakfast rising in his esophagus and fought hard to swallow it back down. Time travel was like waking up from a night of excessive drinking. 

David glanced at his watch. It was 1:03 pm. Any minute his sixty-year-old father would be dropping off a younger version of himself in a beat-up, plum-colored Saturn. They would fight. His dad would ask him for money, and David would say goodbye forever, only to be reunited years later when his father was just a body with a defunct brain.

David squinted. Finally. Let’s get this over with. An ugly plum Saturn pulled up and parked near the silver number three. Its weak engine sputtered as it idled by the curb. David watched as a younger version of himself angrily stepped out of the car. 

“I just need to pay off this last card!” Wade called out. 

“No.” David forcefully grabbed his bag from the backseat.

“This will be the last time,” his father pleaded. 

“We are done!” David shouted, seriousness in his tone.

Wade looked around. A family of three looked at the scene as if this were a fun L.A. moment. “Can we talk about this at a café or something?” 

David ignored his dad.

“Can you at least give me directions back? I can’t remember how to get home. I know that sounds crazy, but I just can’t.” His father looked worried as he asked for help.

“I’m not falling for one of your tricks!” Younger David slung his bag over his shoulder and stormed off toward automatic sliding doors. 

Wade looked around, confused. David’s fists clenched as he watched the scene, a pit forming in his stomach. At the time, he felt justified, but looking back at it now, he realized he should have stayed and figured out why his dad’s mind was slipping. His father had forgotten where he was multiple times during that trip and David had ignored the troubling signs.

No. David shook off the feelings of guilt. This is exactly what my fucking dad does. Even during time travel, he makes me feel guilty for being the sane one. He had to stay on point. David wanted his dad to know how much he hurt him. 

David rushed to the car and opened the passenger door, sliding in quickly. Wade turned to his older son and jumped, not recognizing him. “Uh. Who are you?”

“Dad, it’s me, David.” Wade was visibly shaken. David noticed the older man’s worn-out wallet on the center console. Probably empty, David thought.

“We need to talk.” His dad opened the driver’s door in a rush, ignoring him. David reached for his frightened father’s arm, but the older man began to fade—first his hands, then his torso, and finally, his entire body. Like a dandelion in a breeze, Wade was gone in seconds.  

“No!” David yelled. Honk! A loud horn startled him. David looked behind him. A cop was moving toward the vehicle. Shit. Shit. David needed to act fast. He had to go back further in time. But where? When? David thought quickly. A knock on the window broke his concentration.

A pissed off cop with large glasses yelled, “Move your car!” 

Got it! David closed his eyes. The smell of dry grass instantly filled his senses, then, in a blink of an eye, he was gone. 

David, reappeared on a dry hillside in a seated position and fell to the ground. He looked around at the landscape. This part of California was stunning. Rolling hills of brown grasses, grapevines, and aging oaks. He was in Los Olivos, California, a small town on the Central Coast. The town of his childhood. 

A light breeze moved over brown grasses and through the aging green oak trees. David tried to stand but couldn't. His stomach churned. He had never had to travel back in time so quickly. Parry is going to be pissed.

Since he could barely move, David stayed on a patch of brown grass and looked around. In the distance, he could see a figure pulling something from a large oak tree. It was his dad—a younger version of his dad. David had traveled back seventeen years from the airport fiasco.

David remembered this time well. His dad was desperate for cash and had tried numerous odd ways to survive, like selling mistletoe during the holidays. This was also about the time David started to lose respect for the man. He never understood how Wade couldn’t figure his life out. To him, his dad was an embarrassment.

Wade had demanded that his son come with him on these money-making trips. But when David wanted him to attend one of his high school tennis matches, or have a proper sit-down meal together, Wade was never there.

David took a breath. Childhood memories were starting to flood him with anger again. He had worked hard to find ways to move on from the past; one way, was to think about Parry, so he did. David was happy he had found a life partner opposite from his dad in every way. Parry was stable, had a savings account, communicative, and never held back his love.

David slowly pulled himself to his knees. His whole body ached, but he was able to stand, barely. The ground felt unsteady under his feet, but with each step, his movements became easier. Parry was right to be concerned; he knew how sick David got with each sequential jump back. He didn’t approve of David jumping back multiple times in a row. However, David was determined. He wanted closure from his estranged father.

There was no telling how long his dad would last in this current timeline, so he needed to keep moving. Wade’s memory was fading faster than David anticipated, and that meant each time David jumped back in time, his dad would be further away. Eventually, he would not be able to reach him at all. 

The leaves shook a little as another light breeze passed over the hillside. Wade was standing high on a metal ladder in a thick oak tree when his son approached. David watched as his father placed a bundle of mistletoe into a canvas bag. His faded blue jeans had holes in them, not the trendy kind. “Hi, Dad,” David said. 

His father jumped and nearly fell from the ladder. After a moment, he steadied himself. “I’m sorry… I thought. I… I didn’t mean to intrude on your property.”

“It’s okay, it’s not my property.” David looked at his dad. Wade’s green eyes were the same color as his, but Wade’s twinkled and moved as if dancing on a stage. They seemed so alive in this moment. It had been a long time since David had seen Wade cognizant. He was slightly amazed. Wade grinned innocently and started to climb down the ladder toward David.

Once his father placed two heavy brown boots on the ground, he dusted off his green-and-tan plaid shirt, and looked at David curiously. “I’m sorry, these” — Wade pointed to the mistletoe — “are for my son’s class project.” A clear lie.

“I don’t care about the plants, Dad,” David said as he eyed his father.

“Dad?” Wade looked at David, confused. “I… I think you have the wrong person.” Wade’s brown curly hair delicately bounced as he spoke.

David sighed, then lifted his right hand, revealing Banner in the Sky. “No. I have the right person.” The determined child on the cover seemed fearless as he scaled the cliff. “I don’t know how to say this, so I’ll say it: I’m your son. I traveled. Traveled in time.” 

Wade paused and scanned his surroundings as if searching for a hidden camera crew. Once he could find nothing out of the ordinary, he looked at David with wide eyes, walked to his ladder, and began collapsing it.

“I know this is strange, but...” David searched for the right way to proceed. “You would read this book to me every night for five years until Mom died. I think you read it ten times through. Your name is on the inside cover.” David opened the inside flap. Inside the words read: To my son. Let this book give you the courage to pursue your dreams like it gave me courage. I love you. Love, Dad. “This is proof that you are my father. How would I have this book with your note?” 

Without fully listening, Wade tucked the ladder under his right arm and, with his bag of mistletoe slung over his shoulder, began walking to his car.

David followed a few steps behind the six-foot-tall man. “Dad, I’m here because we will fight at an airport in the future. It’s the last time I will see you with your memories intact. In a few years, dementia will start to take hold.” Wade looked back, his face twisted with confusion, then turned and picked up his pace.

“Nidia is my mom,” David said using a stronger, more determined tone.

Wade’s car was parked under a tree a few hundred feet away. David noticed that his sixteen-year-old self was in the passenger seat with his legs hanging out the window, playing a video game, oblivious to the strange event occurring on a brown, grassy hill nearby. Wade stopped and turned to David. “You need to leave me alone.” 

“I'm your son.” David’s face turned red with frustration. “I don’t have time to explain further, I need to know: why were you such a terrible father?” With a crash, the ladder dropped out of Wade’s arms. Before David could continue, Wade’s hands vanished, then the rest of his body. Within seconds, he was completely gone. 

Fuck! I’m losing him too fast. How do I find him in a steady place? David looked up. Wisps of thin white clouds stretched across the mostly blue sky. He took several long breaths. His father vanished every time he started to explain who he was. Did fear and confusion cause his mind to slip faster?

After a moment, David perked up. He had an idea. The further back in time he went, the less likely his dad would fade away, at least not as quickly. David did not want to reappear standing, feel unsteady, then fall over and hurt himself, so he lay flat on his back. The dry grass itched as he settled his body.

This memory was tricky to locate because he had been so young, but since it was distant, he had to try. The sound of tires on a road alerted David that he was about to travel further back in time.

David blinked a few times as a blue sky filled his vision. He sat up and looked around, finding himself on a grassy parkway between a large cemetery and a two-lane road. David would need a few moments to recover, so he stayed put.

Soon, a line of fifty to sixty cars, cruising through red lights as if attached by a long rope, caught David’s attention. A motorcycle cop raced ahead to block traffic and wave them on. David watched the vehicle centipede as it passed. He was impressed by how many people had come to his mom’s funeral.

David’s grandma had told him that his mom was well-liked when she was alive. His grandma said that her fire-red hair was a perfect match for her fiery personality. Apparently, when a patron visited Nidia’s nail salon, she told them how it was, but always with a smile. David had inherited her brand of honesty, sometimes to a fault. Nevertheless, people loved supporting her business in an outdated strip mall. So, when the news of her death spread, the community was naturally upset.

David looked to his left, examining the cemetery. It was guarded from the wind by a row of tall eucalyptus trees that swayed back and forth. Down below, twenty-four-by-twelve-inch gravestones dotted the land, little concrete reminders that life was finite. 

The twenty-nine-year-old still felt terrible, but he needed to get to the funeral before it was too late. His brown sneakers treaded lightly as he passed through a small gate and walked along a path, looking at the names on the ground as he went. Some headstones had fresh flowers while others appeared to have been forgotten.

Nidia’s funeral was taking place on a small hill up ahead. David felt weird standing off to the side, an outsider at his mother’s funeral. He didn’t want his presence to cause confusion, so he stayed back and studied the attendees. It did not take long until he spotted his younger self sitting quietly on a chair. Young David seemed oblivious to the sadness around him. It made sense, at five years old, it was impossible to comprehend the weight of the moment.

It wasn’t until the sun turned red and started to dip that the priest said his final words and attendees started to leave. David’s aunt, a short, plump woman with over-dyed blonde hair, picked up five-year-old David and led him away. After a time, his father was alone. 

David stayed back and observed Wade for a moment. He looked lost, or rather, doomed as he sat at the edge of his mother’s grave and tossed dirt inside. He’s handsome, David found himself thinking. David wasn't sure how he was going to start the conversation, but he couldn’t afford to wait any longer, so he made his way toward his grieving father.

Two crows took to the sky at the sound of a guttural scream. David scanned up ahead and watched as his father fell to his knees and screamed again. Wade had snapped, he was having a nervous breakdown. David remembered his dad joking about this event years later, but watching it unfold in person was fascinating.

Wade screamed for a third time, changing the mood of the once peaceful cemetery once again. His father abruptly kicked dirt into Nidia’s grave. Mounds of earth shot into the air as Wade turned up the heat on his aggression. His stressed father then raised his hands to the sky as if willing a higher power to help him. No help came.

Moments later, Wade took off at a sprint. David thought his father looked odd running in a nice suit. His tie flipped about in the wind and his pants fluttered as he sped to a small red sports utility vehicle parked nearby. Once inside the SUV, muffled screams could be heard.

The SUV’s engine revved loudly. Then, as if race gates lifted, the wheels squealed, and the red vehicle sped forward. It launched over the curb and onto the freshly cut grass. The sound of tires hitting gravestone after gravestone almost sounded musical in a way. 

Just as quickly as the chaotic scene had started, it was over. The red vehicle struck a giant eucalyptus tree at the edge of the property head-on. The sound of metal bending to unfamiliar shapes filled the graveyard while white smoke billowed into the air. David stared, mouth agape.

He felt like a stone on a beach as he watched smoke rise into the air. He wanted to move but his feet stayed planted. Maybe he wants to be alone? The sound of moaning changed his mind. Using what strength he had left, David sprang into action and hobbled to the mangled mess. His body fought him with each step, but he ignored the pain.

David wasn’t sure how receptive his dad would be to a tough conversation right now, but he wanted to get this over with so he could let his body recover and, more importantly, return to his family in the present. He had been traveling back in time too long. Everything hurt.

“Are you okay?!” David huffed out of breath as he rushed to the crash site.

Face bloodied, Wade turned to him. “Yes, just scratches, I think.” 

The door screeched as David pried it open. Once inside, he noticed a picture of himself at five with his mom and dad tucked next to the odometer. He turned to his dad, unbuckled the belt with care, and then gently pulled him to the grass. 

“Thank you,” Wade said. “Didn’t break anything, so there’s that, I guess.” His bloody father laid flat on the ground and touched his face. “Nothing deep.”

“Your car could use a tuneup, though,” David, still out of breath, replied. 

Wade laughed; an eternity seemed to pass before his father spoke again. “She was everything to me.”

David placed Banner in the Sky between them. It was now or never.

Wade looked at the book. “I read that book to my son every night.”

“My dad read it to me, too,” David replied. 

Wade smiled. “A story about determination.”

“And about a boy who would do anything to fulfill his father’s dreams.” David didn’t know why, but he was crying. Perhaps it was the weight of the moment, his mom’s funeral, or because he was about to tell his dad how much he despised him. Or, because the stupid book Wade gave him was a farce. He did not love his father, nor did his dad love him. Whatever it was, David was in tears. 

Wade looked at him. “I’m sorry. Today is hard for all of us.”

“It is.” Words seemed to escape David as he searched for the right way to start the difficult conversation.

Before he could start, Wade put his arm around his son. To him, David was a stranger; to David, this moment was everything. He never remembered his father touching him; his embrace was warm and affectionate. David wanted to curl into his father’s arms even further but resisted. 

“My son will grow up with loss always on his mind. How can I protect him from that?” Wade seemed to be talking to himself.

“He’ll have you, though,” David replied. 

The wind moved over the hillside, causing blades of grass to bend sideways. When Wade spoke again, it was, once again, to himself. “It’s not fair.” Wade’s eyes looked hollow.

His father removed his arm from David and tried to stand, but stumbled, so he stayed put. “It’s funny how we don’t fully value something until it’s gone. Ya know?” Wade looked at David, as if finally noticing him for the first time. “I’m sorry, I’ve been going on, and we don’t even know each other.

David was worried that his dad would fade soon, so he began: “We do know each other.” David glanced down at his book, thinking, I have to do it now. He opened Banner in the Sky and pulled out the photo. He showed it to his father.

Wade looked at the picture of himself and David. Even though Wade was older in the picture, they were unmistakably the same person. Confusion washed over his face.

“You are my dad,” David said. Wade stared at the picture, then back at David again. “I don’t know a better way to say this, but you were not a good father growing up; absent, but then financially needy later in life.”

Wade nodded slowly, unsure about what was truly happening. 

“Mom died when I was five. With her, you died too. Essentially, I lost both parents today.” David watched Wade’s reaction; it was flat and confused. “Dad, why write in a book how much you love me but never show it?”

Wade was at a loss for words. After a few moments, he cautiously stood up. David stood too. David didn’t know why, but he pulled his grieving father in for a hug. It was as if a force were pushing him towards the man he despised. Wade did not resist, nor did he embrace David. Strangely, David felt better. Years of anger seemed to melt away in an instant.

Wade awkwardly patted David on the back. “It was… it was nice meeting you.”

David let go of his father as his tears fell unchecked to the ground. “I don’t hate you.” David turned to the mound of dirt covering his mom. “I just wish my childhood had been different.” 

His father stayed glued in place, looking at David with a slight understanding in his green eyes. David returned his gaze. After a long moment, Wade’s mouth twisted from sadness into a gentle smile, and then, like a match reaching the end of its burn, he faded away.

David let the wind blow across his body. It felt cool on his skin. He turned to the eucalyptus trees, watching as their leaves rustled in the wind. For the first time in a long time, he felt relieved.

The sound of rain hitting a roof pulled him away from his thoughts. Knowing what was coming next, he lay on the grass and looked up at the blue sky. Within seconds, he too disappeared.

The cold hex tiles startled David as he reappeared on the ground. His body shook, taking up most of the floor. David looked up at the soft lights. The sound of rain could be heard as it hit the building. He was back in the present. A gentle knock shifted his focus from the lights to the door.

“Honey, are you back?” His husband’s voice was soft. 

“Yeah. I am. I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute,” David replied. 

“I think you should come out now,” Parry’s voice seemed slightly strained. 

David opened the door slowly. “It’s your dad,” Parry said, pointing to the living room.

David moved down the hall toward the living room, passing photos of his family along the way. Wade had been sitting straight up with a vacant stare when David left. Now the older man was slumped over in his wheelchair. 

David put his hand on Wade’s neck. There was no pulse, but he kept his fingers under his dad’s neck for a long time. Parry shifted uneasily in the corner of the room, breaking David’s concentration. David removed his hand and reached for a pen on the coffee table.

He opened Banner in the Sky and began to write a note directly under his dad’s note. When David was done, he paused, then eventually closed the inside flap and gently placed the book on his dad’s lap. He looked at his dad, and then kissed him on the forehead before turning to Parry. His husband met his eyes and nodded, reassuringly.

By Kevin DeBacker

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With so many beings on a narrow parcel of land, you would think it would be easy to make friends. That was not true on the micro planet. People kept to their own. That was due to the fact that citizens of Kamen were busy trying to stay alive. With such a small place to live, the citizens had to constantly produce food, maintain equipment, and build shelters. They needed to be on the go or they would die. So they worked. And worked. No time for friends. 

The star was high and hot that day. The smell of salt water and rotting fish filled the docks in this part of town; an oppressive stench that stayed with you days after leaving the area. 

S’nai walked to one of the docks towing several large trash bins behind him. He heaved the first heavy one into the ocean. The mixture of biological and inorganic waste floated away, connecting with other large floating piles of trash in the ocean.

S’nai’s job was waste removal, a job he did not choose, but one that was chosen for him. Citizens were assigned jobs at birth and had them for the rest of their short lives. Most did not make it to their twenty-eighth birthday, which meant he only had this job for a few more years. 

S’nai was in his head daydreaming, as usual. He liked daydreaming. It was a way to escape reality. He liked to daydream about living on a new planet with a small yard for his plants and a friend to laugh with. He felt like a friend would be great for bouncing off some of his crazy ideas with or just to laugh with. He giggled in his head at the thought of talking to someone. Funny. 

He shielded his eyes from the burning star as he looked out at the ocean. He had started to daydream about a vegetable garden when his robe buzzed. It was his communication device buzzing in his pocket.

S’nai TempleMouth the II was intelligent. He had created a device that could communicate with nearby star systems. So, he began to look outside Gleason for friendship. That’s how he found Craiglist on a planet named Earth and placed an ad to connect. A simple ad for companionship led to the friend of his dreams: Kyle. 

S’nai dropped the trash bin he had been holding. Feces and urine spilled out and dribbled into the sea. Gross. He lifted his white flowing garb to keep the bottom edges from getting stained and moved to a cleaner area to stand. He pulled his device to his face and read the following message:

Yeah. I’m interested in being your friend, but first, I have a bit of an awkward favor to ask. I have two children who are in need of serious medical treatments, but I do not have insurance, and the cost is astronomical. I’m afraid I won’t be able to pay for the treatments needed. Can you send me money? A thousand dollars would really help. I can send you information on how to send me the thousand dollars if you’re willing to help. Then I’d love to meet! - Kyle

S’nai could barely contain his excitement. He paced around until he was positive he had the best reply. He didn’t know what Kyle was talking about with the medical treatment part, but he did understand what ‘meet up’ meant. 

Yes! Let’s meet! I have your location. I’ll see you in four years! -S’nai

The roar of four ion engines quieted S’nai’s mind that warm day. He was glad for it. All he could think about was Kyle. In fact, that’s all he thought about for the past week while he packed for the four-year-long trip. What was he like? He wondered. Would he be okay with my extreme cleanliness? Does he like to talk? I hope so!

Kamens were eager to lower the population and offered to give free rides off of their small planet. No one ever took the offer because starting over in a new place scared them. Life might be bad on their small sliver of land, but at least it was familiar.

And so here S’nai was, about to leave the only planet he had ever known to travel to Earth to meet his first and only friend. His mom and dad would be so proud of him. Too bad they never spoke to him while they were alive.

S’nai arrived in front of Earth exactly four years and one week later. He was one day from his twenty-eighth birthday. He would be dead soon. He looked out of the window at his new planet. He had heard horror stories on the news about Earth and the primitive life forms that inhabited it. Wars. Famine. Cats. But there was land. A lot of land. And nothing was going to stop him from meeting Kyle.

S’nai was not good with words. And he never had a chance to develop his personality because no one had ever talked to him other than to order him about. He had no idea what he was like as a friend. 

What if Kyle doesn’t like me? The thought chilled him. After all, I don’t look like a human. S’nai looked more like a straw with a plum on top. His head was big and purple, and his body was rail thin all the way down to his legs. It’s a wonder he didn’t tip over. S’nai’s two arms were the closest thing he had to looking human. Except they were used to balance his large head, requiring him to flap them like a bird just to stay level. 

The hum of the ion engines quieted. Moments later, a dreary stewardess with a side ponytail on her large plum head turned to S’nai, “We’re here.” 

Their craft slowed to a stop. Whoosh. The door slid open. Bright light from the nearest star poured into their ship, nearly blinding both of them. S’nai put his hand in front of his face to look out at his new surroundings. All he could see were rows and rows of single-story houses.

“This is where my soon-to-be friend lives, the suburbs of Las Vegas!” S’nai said with a smile.

“That’s nice.” Before he could think too much, S’nai was pushed out of the ship. The stewardess snorted as the doors shut. And then the ship was gone. 

S’nai looked up at the dilapidated home in front of him. Its sun bleached blue door hung slightly askew. There were three cars on the brown lawn. Two of which were missing wheels. A 92’ green Chevy Blazer was the only vehicle in working condition. Faded paint and bullet holes made the vehicle look like it had been through a war. A long red rope tied to a broken antenna and the door frame kept the thin radio receiver from falling over. 

A sprinkler attached to a dying garden hose sprayed the cars lazily with water as S’nai walked up. He took a deep breath hoping oxygen would help him grow in confidence. It did not. S’nai looked around. It’s odd that humans aren’t out and about. Maybe that’s an Earth thing. So much space, he thought. Either way, the thought of others not filling the streets excited him. It’s peaceful here. 

On the front door hung a sign, “Beers n’ Bitches. In that order.” S’nai pondered those words for a few minutes. Beers n’ Bitches? S’nai tried to recall information from the Animals, Insects, and Rare Creatures of the Earth book he read during his rocket flight. He couldn’t remember anything about Beers or Bitches. Oh well. I’m sure Kyle will explain. 

The door swung open. A nervous looking balding man with three wispy brown hairs and a mustard stained shirt almost bumped into S’nai. 

“Kyle?” S’nai said with excitement. Water hit S’nai’s face. The sprinkler made a delicate arc as it swept back to hit the cars behind him. 

The man darted back inside and slammed the door. 

“I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m S’nai. We communicated on Craigslist. Please forgive my appearance. I should have dressed in a going out robe. My apologies,” S’nai said calmly. 

Inside, Kyle was panicking. He had been abducted by aliens three times so far. Each experience was more unpleasant than the last. How the fuck am I going to escape this one? Kyle thought. He turned to an end table on his right. A small gun sat atop. He hastily grabbed it. The gun danced in his hand as he tried to gain control of it. Finally, he steadied his nerves and held the weapon tight. He doubted a gun would do much, but it made him feel better, slightly.

“What do you want?!” Kyle yelled from the door. 

A muffled reply came back. “I’m here to be your friend.” 

Shit. Kyle figured that fake profile would haunt him someday. He needed the cash but knew there would be risks involved.  

“I’d very much like to come in to meet you and hang out.” The alien's voice made Kyle wince with fear. 

“I don’t live here!” Kyle shouted back. Fuck. Why did I say that?!

“My device says that our communications came from this exact location. The device can locate an ant in a landfill. That is to say, it’s very precise. Please, let me in. I’d like to hang out. I’d love to be your friend.

Kyle shifted uneasily. That’s exactly what the last alien said, ‘hang out.’ That experience was something Kyle tried to forget but the nightmares kept coming back. He told his pals at the bar but they thought he was insane. He told his psychiatrist. She prescribed him an antipsychotic medication. 

Nothing worked. The visions of aliens probing him like a prized pig at a fair would never leave his mind. He was isolated. He was alone. Tap. There was a knock at the door. Kyle jumped. 

“Not to be impolite, but I’ll probably just enter soon. It’s hot here.” S’nai’s words stabbed at Kyle causing him to shake.

Kyle’s brain swam with thoughts. He usually didn’t have many thoughts so this was a new experience. He was in awe of the sensation. That’s it! He needed to kill this alien. And by getting rid of this one, he’d send a message to all other aliens to stop fucking with him. 

Aha! The idea was forming in his head. His brain hurt from the exerted energy. He stopped thinking. The rest of the idea, he figured, would come later. For now, he needed to get this alien drunk. 

“Okay, I’m letting you in, pal!” Kyle croaked out the words as he slowly opened the door. “But keep your distance!” 

The door opened revealing a filthy house. S’nai was immediately disgusted. It was a farmer’s market for rats and fleas. Pizza boxes and fast food bags littered the ground. Used clothes hung on furniture. Cigarette smoke had stained the walls yellow. Is this how Kyle lives? S’nai thought. It’s okay, accept your friend for who he is. S’nai walked into the house. His plum sized head barely fit between the door opening. 

Kyle hastily threw dirty clothes onto the ground to make room on the couch for S’nai. S’nai bowed his head in appreciation and sat. He immediately regretted his decision to sit as a stench filled his nostrils the moment he plopped his thin butt onto the faded tan cushion. 

Kyle stood at the far corner of the room, cautiously. S’nai wondered what he was so nervous about. Gleasons were not dangerous. They had short life spans. They all died before they had a chance to think about killing. From what S’nai could tell, there were plenty of resources on Earth. “So, what should we talk about?” S’nai said patiently. 

Kyle fidgeted. “Uh…” 

“I know. Have you ever wondered if there are exact duplicates of us on distant planets in another galaxy? As if duplicates were created as a backup, “S’nai smiled. “It would be funny if there was a me and you out there.” 

“No.” Silence filled the space. Kyle had no idea what this thing was talking about. He hesitated then, “So, drink?” Before S’nai could respond Kyle rushed into the kitchen and returned with six blue bottles with the word Bud Light written on the side. He rolled one toward S’nai. S’nai did not know what to do with the gift so he let the glass bottle stay at his feet. “It’s called beer.” S’nai looked at him with his big eyes. 

“You drink it. Just open and drink! It’s a thing here on Earth. Makes the stress of life go away. If you drink all day then you’re never stressed. Trust me.” Like this. Kyle twisted the top off of a beer and took a drink.

“Ah, I see.” S’nai said. “So this helps you unwind? Kyle shook his head yes. “I like that. Life can be hard at times. Nice to have something to wash it away.” S’nai pulled a bottle to him and opened it. Within seconds the liquid inside was gone. “That was good. I’ll have another.” Two more bottles rolled to S’nai’s feet. He brought those to his mouth, as well. 

Moments later, Kyle and S’nai were laughing. S’nai had no idea why everything Kyle said was funny, but it was. He was a bit odd, but they were friends. 

“You’ve never heard of drag racing?” Kyle smiled. “NHRA, baby! It’s like these badass cars go at it. Head-to-head. No fucking electric cars though. Those things can suck my ass!” Kyle took a sip of beer. “Beers, bitches, and cars. Man, it’s a good time.”

“Sounds like fun. I’m in.” S’nai looked around. “How many people live in your home with you?” 

“Just me.” Kyle gulped down more beer. 

“Wow. We sleep ten to a room where I come from. In a room smaller than this. And no one talks to each other.” S’nai sighed. 

“No talking. That’s insanity. I’m all about talking.” Kyle replied with seriousness in his voice. “If I had no voice, I’d kill myself.” 

“Yeah. It’s just silence. We’re all exhausted after working twelve hour days.” S’nai downed another beer. 

“That sucks ass big time. I don’t work. I’m on disability,” Kyle replied. 

“I’m sorry. About your disability.” S’nai looked concerned. 

Kyle tossed him another beer. “No need to be concerned. It’s just war shit. Fucks you up. Honestly, I’d like to work a little but everything freaks me out. I’m on meds.” 

“To be honest, a war would have been a nice change from the monotony of life on Gleason. Wish we had one of those.” S’nai chewed on his inner lip as he thought about what war was like.

Kyle frowned. “Oh no you don’t. Wars suck ass. I’d much rather have had your life, pal. Dumping shit into the ocean. That sounds like a dream. Something to do. A purpose. The ocean.” 

This is nice, S’nia thought. A friend. After a few hours of talking, the room swirled in front of him. The more the two friends drank the more they hugged. The more they high-fived. The more they laughed. Soon, S’nai’s vision blurred. He was asleep. 

Kyle looked at his alien friend. His tall lanky figure stretched out across the couch. He walked to his room then returned with a blanket. Trying not to wake his outerworld friend, he gently covered up S’nai’s body. This is nice, Kyle thought. I haven’t had a decent conversation in years. Kyle pulled a pillow to the ground. Within seconds, he was snoring.

Kyle was the first one to wake up. The sun was low in the sky. He looked around and held his head. What the fuck happened? He looked at S’nai and jumped. How in the hell? Not again! Dammit. These fucking aliens. They act friendly then they probe. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me — I won’t get fooled again! Kyle pulled on a jacket and walked outside. 

For the first time in his life, S’nai TempleMouth the II was drunk. His head pounded. The vehicle he was traveling in was going very fast. He came to and tried to move his arms to steady himself in the bumpy fast car, but they were bound behind his back. Alanis Morsette’s Hand in my Pocket was playing. Kyle was singing to himself.

The city faded behind them as they drove. The sun’s hold over the land waned as it set over the mountains. Kyle was focused. He was determined. 

The outdated SUV came to a screech as it parked. The night was darker than usual. Other than a few stars peeking through scattered clouds, the desert was ink black. If it wasn’t for Kyle’s 92’ green Chevy Blazer’s headlights, S’nai TempleMouth the II would not have known where he was going.  

S’nai’s arms were bound behind his back with a long piece of red rope. The other end was tied around the waist of his best friend. Skates shoved onto his large feet propelled him forward.

S’nai looked at Kyle. The balding man’s faded gray t-shirt was stained with mustard, something that had bothered S’nai the moment he met him. S’nai did not like dirty things. Call it a quirk. Call it what you will. He just didn’t like it. Dirty clothes made him think of laziness. He didn’t like lazy people and didn’t want to think of Kyle as lazy. However, he most likely was. He thought about bringing up the stain earlier, but S’nai disliked confrontation worse than stains, so he let it go. Friends let things go, he thought.

The sound of rushing water filled S’nai’s ears as Kyle jerked his skinny frame forward. The edge of the Hoover Dam looked exactly how he thought it would: Tall and concrete. S’nai looked back at his handler; his friend. Kyle did not smile. His face was determined.   

Kyle gave the alien one strong push. S’nai’s body plummeted towards the bottom of the dam. Gravity is weird. S’nai thought. 

S’nai TempleMouth the II was falling fast. The weight of his head caused him to tip over. His large head would be the first to make contact with the ground. The wind rushed past his plum face. He sort of enjoyed the sensation. Cheeks flapping. Wait, this isn’t good.

The slack started to go out of the long red rope fastened around S’nai’s arms. It stretched to its max and pulled on the other end. The other end was still attached to Kyle’s waist.

Kyle flew over the edge with a yelp. His lumpy body shot toward S’nai in a rush. Instinctively, S’nai maneuvered the human in front of him. Kyle would take the full impact. If anyone was watching, they’d think the two were tandem skydiving and had failed to pull the parachute. Kyle screamed but no sound came out.

It was over with a splat. There wasn’t much left of Kyle’s body save a few wispy hairs that floated away in the wind. S’nai leaped into the air and flapped his arms to balance his long body. He felt bad. Even though Kyle had tried to kill him, he didn’t want to send his friend to his death. Maybe real friends killed each other on this planet. He had made a real friend. The thought comforted him. He smiled. 

S’nai looked around. He was about to turn twenty-eight and knew he had only a few moments left. He glanced at the sky. He estimated that it was nearly midnight. Placing his head on a rock, he gazed up at the stars, letting his thoughts drift to Kyle. What a friendship that had been. He looked over at Kyle’s flattened body. So glad I got to know him. S’nai closed his eyes, accepting his fate. In his final moments. As he lay there, he found a strange sense of peace. Then he exploded.

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Light swept across the empty office. The yellow beam showed flecks of dust floating in the air as it traversed across desks and chairs once occupied by small town real estate agents. It then carefully scanned the corners of the room, the faded cream-colored walls, and durable nylon carpet, nearly catching the tips of Jacob’s worn-out High Tops along its way. Jacob had to cough but he held his breath. Stop breathing, stop breathing, he thought. The light will pass.

After a few seconds, the beam continued on its path, scanning the rest of the space with purpose. The photons caught the edge of an abandoned spider web and paused on the intricate design, illuminating its full beauty. Jacob had looked at the same spider web when he had rushed into the room only a few minutes ago. Its protein fibers seemed to have been woven by a master artist in her prime, he had thought. 

He looked up to see the source of the light; an older man about his height, badly bleeding on the right side of his body. The man gripped a red plastic flashlight in his left hand and a semi-automatic pistol in his right. His weak hands shook, nearly dropping both items. Since this morning, Jacob had been running to survive. He considered his options. If he made a run for it, he’d be shot. If he stayed put, he might be found and then shot. Worst of all, he had to cough again and his skin felt hot all over his body. It took a lot of concentration not to scream.

Jacob slowly pushed further into the corner behind a pile of boxes marked “contracts,” willing his sixteen-year-old frame to become invisible. With a frustrated sigh, the man clicked off his flashlight and shut the door. The room became black once more. Jacob waited for several seconds until he could no longer hear his heavy boots thudding on the other side of the door. Once he was sure it was safe, he coughed quietly into his dusty jean jacket. The man was gone and Jacob was alive. For now.

This far north, California looked nothing like its southern sibling. Everything was cooler, deep green, and covered in a thick layer of dew. All around the hiking trails, trees reached for the sky. Jacob had never seen trees so big. He was a shy city kid and these Coastal Redwoods were not shy about showing off height. Their branches, the size of regular trees where he lived, splintered off in various dazzling directions. He wondered how long it had taken them to reach such colossal heights. He liked to consider more than the exterior of something he admired. His mom said he excelled at making the boring interesting. That he could look at a wall clock and wonder who made it, why they made it, and how long before it ticks its last tick. To him, it was the lens in which he viewed the world. How he’d always viewed things.

The midday sun heated Jacob’s back as he walked a damp trail through the forest. The heat was getting quite uncomfortable. His skin itched too. He thought about taking off his jacket but he had developed large sweat stains under his armpits and was not about to give anyone a reason to single him out. He hated being the center of attention. He could still remember the time when a kid in fifth grade pointed to his red Nike High Tops and yelled, “This guy is a blood killer!” Jacob was equally terrified and mortified. Even though gangs were not a thing where he lived, the media made him fear them. He kept to himself, preferring to stay in the middle of classrooms and the edges of the schoolyards. He had even perfected an effective slouched walking position to avoid seeming tall or threatening. Anything to keep kids from talking to him.

Jacob checked his watch; Monday morning, eight o'clock. First period would be starting soon and Mrs. Wren would be taking roll. It’s okay, calm down. You can miss one day, he thought. For as much as he was shy he was a follow-the-rules kid. When his short and frazzled-looking teacher came to his name, she’d look up with a puzzled expression and then notify the principal after class. From there, a call would be placed to his grandma Beatrice in East L.A. His BeeBee, as he liked to call her, would say thank you with a gentle voice but be seething inside. Likely, when Jacob got home tomorrow afternoon, she would start the conversation with a yell, but end with a cry. 

Beatrice often used tears and legal guardian guilt to get her way. It always worked. She’d ask him why he had lied about going on a school trip. That she should have known he’d make up a story like his mom always did. “Why would you make my life harder than it needed to be? Lord knows I’ve been given a heavy burden caring for you in my old age. Now this,” She’d say as she pointed up to the sky to ask God for help. God never answered back. 

Later that night after a bath and 2 glasses of boxed red wine, she’d want to know how he found his way six hundred and forty-seven miles north. It was not a conversation he was eager to have, but the eventual scolding was worth it. Jacob had something more pressing to attend to. He needed to figure out the meaning of his recurring dream. 

For the past seven months, Jacob had been having the same dream. It always began with him standing in front of the South Fork Elk River Trail sign in Northern California just outside of Eureka. His feet would carry him forward down a path surrounded by giant redwood trees. Soon, he’d come across a sequoia snag leaning sideways on the ground. From there, his body turned right and went off trail, pushing its way uphill past Mesozoic Era-looking ferns. Eventually, he’d come to an opening in a deep red tree, redder than any tree around. 

Once entering the mouth of the tree, he’d immediately go down a series of dirt steps that lead underground. Finally, he’d reach the bottom where the replica of his mom’s kitchen in Red Hook, Brooklyn would be found. In the dream, he examines the space closely until he hears a kid crying. He tracks the noise. It’s coming from behind the fridge. He heaves the fridge forward and finds a grotesque version of himself huddled in the corner in tears. His mangled and disfigured body barely recognizable. 

Jacob had been fascinated by this dream from the start. He had not lived in that Brooklyn home for more than five years now. However, once it had been three weeks of the exact same dream, he started to get scared. Very scared. His fear eventually turned into curiosity when he received a letter with no return address. The letter simply said: 

Come to the tree.

After much deliberation, he finally devised a plan to visit the scene in real life. 

It was not hard to locate the trail online and getting the money would be easy. He had inherited a small sum. But deceiving BeeBee was a bit tougher. However, with some careful planning, he managed the situation quite well he thought. All he had to do was convince her that he was going on a weekend trip to Mt. Wilson to study the stars. After all, he was enrolled in the after-school program, Astronomy for Beginners. Luckily, his BeeBee had no idea that they would not take a trip like this so late in the school year. Her age and general naiveness played to his advantage.

He only had to talk to two people during the trip north: The Amtrak ticket guy and some lady with blonde frizzy hair and a frazzled expression who asked where the cafe car was. And so here he was, hundreds of miles away with pit stains for days, itching like crazy, and standing in front of the South Fork Elk River Trail. Christ. What the hell am I doing? he contemplated.

After walking approximately 3,408 steps, according to his step tracker, he finally reached the felled sequoia snag. He had learned that a snag was a dying or dead tree while reading a Smithsonian article. The snag was much larger in person, and for a tree that had likely been dead for fifty-plus years, it still looked impressive; powerful even. Jacob examined it with his fingertips. The grooves caught the sensitive flesh on his fingers. He imagined the life it must have had; the stories the tree could tell. He imagined the pain it felt when the tree died. He imagined how it was no longer in pain. He pressed his face against the tree and listened. The world around him was quiet. This is nice, he thought.

Suddenly, a twig behind him snapped. He jumped and looked around. The area was void of hikers. No one on the trail that he could see. Nothing but the occasional sound of a Green-Tailed Towhee fluttering from one branch to the other. Jacob reasoned that it was just him being easily spooked by the culmination of the last few months leading up to today. After a few more glances around the forest, he turned right and walked up the mountain with purpose. 

After thirteen hours and ten minutes, he was finally in front of the deep red tree from his dreams. Jacob wanted to run; forget he ever came. But shock kept his feet planted. How could this be real, he thought. He sat on a nearby rock facing the mouth of the tree. Maybe I am seeing things? Jacob contemplated. He rubbed his eyes multiple times but each time he opened them he saw the same thing; the exact tree he’d dreamt about for months. 

While sitting on the rock, the sun at his back, Jacob thought about a book he once read. Emma, the lead character, faced a surreal experience by shooting at it. She fired a single bullet at an orb that had appeared in her room. The bullet pierced the orb and caused it to shrivel and disappear. Perhaps… Jacob picked up a small rock and threw it at the tree. Nothing. That was dumb. After ten minutes and twelve seconds, Jacob willed himself to stand. He hadn’t traveled thousands of miles to be a coward. 

He stepped cautiously through the opening and started down the dirt steps. With each slow step, he watched his feet make small impressions in the damp earth. Everything was unfolding just like he had seen it. Every bit of him had doubted that any of this would be real, but now that he was actually at the location following the actions from his dream, he was blown away. 

Standing in the replica of his childhood kitchen was an experience like no other. Every detail was the same. From the chipping white paint on the loose cabinet doors to the creaking floorboards, to the mismatched china, it was all there. Then there was the refrigerator. The dreaded yellow rectangle in the corner. The same one his mangled body had been behind for the past seven months. 

He paused in the room and listened. Nothing. Not a sound. He got closer. Still silent. He moved the refrigerator but stopped when he heard a faint noise behind him. Creek. Creek. The slow walk of someone’s weight on the floorboards. The hairs on his arms stood tall. “I’m glad you came.” A middle-aged voice from behind him cut through the surreal moment. Curiosity replaced fear as Jacob turned to confront the source. 

Green eyes peered at him from between dirty cloths wrapped around his face. The wraps looked like a series of bandages. His body slouched as he leaned forward. “I did not think I could get you here.” Jacob wanted to run, but the man was blocking the only path out. “Please don’t go,” The man sensed Jacob’s energy. Jacob stared at him wide-eyed. You don’t recognize my voice do you?” Jacob shook his head. After a thoughtful pause, the man said, “I am you.” Upon those words, Jacob backed up as far and as fast as he could, never taking his eyes off the madman in the room. His back pressed against the wall behind him, but he still tried to go further. This man is insane, Jacob’s brain spun as he searched for an out. This was the most scared he had ever been. More than the time when he thought he saw a mythical creature in his room at the age of eight. That creature turned out to be his coat. This was no coat. It, or he, was real. There was nowhere to go and a freak with bandages was slowly pressing in on him. “Your final transition is happening. Please, come with me. We don’t have much time,” he finished. 

The man insisted on taking them to his house a few miles away. There he would explain it all. He also told Jacob to call him Shed 2022, the year he was shed. “Or 22 for short. This would make it easier,” he said. Jacob resisted going with him at first, demanding an explanation, but each time 22 repeated the phrase; “You’re in danger. We must go now.” 

I am you? During the bouncy truck ride to Ridgewood, Jacob pondered those words. 22’s dated truck took a turn down a small muddy road. I guess he has my eyes and nose but he’s so old. Jacob studied the man’s face while he drove. Every time he thought about it, Jacob felt uneasy, but not as uneasy as he was examining the man next to him. His black curly hair was roughly the same length as his. Him. Jacob. Me. Us? Transition? It was too weird. 

The street light turned from yellow to red. The bouncy truck slowed to a stop. Its brakes squealed as they strained to reel in the weight. 22 looked at Jacob and smiled. “I miss being your age,” he said. “The freedom. The carelessness. Anything is possible.” Jacob didn't respond. He didn't know how to respond. Silence filled the car. Was the traffic light stuck on red? “You’re going to get through this.” The older version of him smiled again. The light turned green. Finally.

The truck drove on. Minutes passed. Neither he nor the other version of him spoke. Then Jacob finally said,“I don’t feel free.”

“I know.” 22 looked at Jacob with soft and caring eyes. “It hasn’t been easy. This has not been easy for any of us.”

Jacob coughed and tugged at his damp shirt. He was burning up. His lungs were on fire. He wanted to escape his body and return it for a new one. He wanted to run. Why did I agree to go with this crazy person? he thought. He scanned the area for a place to run to. A thick blanket of forest covered the area. Trees for miles and miles. Nowhere to go.

“You know how a flower cut from its stem can keep looking okay for a few days? How it can be placed in a vase with water and survive on its own for a bit? But without access to the host, it loses vital nutrients and eventually withers and dies. That is me. I’m a piece of you. Some pieces were cut earlier than me but have died.” Jacob stared straight ahead taking in every word. 

“I don’t like..cut myself if that’s what you mean,” Jacob replied. 

“You are dying.” 22 looked at him. “One more shed and you will –” 

Suddenly, the back window exploded. A sharp ringing filled Jacob’s ears. Glass shards fell to his lap like deadly confetti. Jacob turned to look at 22. His right ear was completely gone, replaced by a bloody gash. A white Ford Escape revved its engine and pulled to the right of them. The window rolled down revealing a vile-looking human with a semi-automatic weapon. The man’s face looked like a dried riverbed; cracked and exposed to the sun too long. He trained his weapon at Jacob.

22 slammed on the gas. The rusted truck heaved forward with effort. “That shirt! There!” 22 pointed to a dirty shirt on the ground. Jacob quickly picked it up and handed it to him. Shed 2022 held it to his bleeding face as they sped away. Jacob turned. The Ford was directly behind them. Another shot rang out. This one hit the passenger side mirror causing it to shatter and fall to the ground. That was close! Jacob thought.

Bam. Bam. Bam. The Ford rammed the rear of their truck several times. The old rusted vehicle swayed this way and that but stayed the course. “Who is that?!” Jacob screamed in terror.

“Your first shed. 2019!” 22 swerved into a large grassy field and plowed down a small barbed wire fence. The wooden fence posts splintered under the stress. Both Vehicles raced through a wide open meadow filled with dewy grass. 

Another me? Jacob was about to pass out. The time to think more about what 22 said was cut short. A jolt on the side of the truck caused him to fall sideways into the older version of himself. 22 pushed him back upright and cranked the wheel to the right, ramming the Ford. Jacob wanted to be anywhere but here. He tried to imagine being in outer space to keep his mind off of the current situation. I’m surrounded by billions of stars, he thought. BAM. Another hit. I’m floating in the void. BAM. Jacob wondered how long the old truck could stay intact. 

“Hold on!” 22 screamed as he punched the gas hard. The truck bounded over a small hill and back down with a crunch; the shocks pushed to their limits. Miraculously the truck still ran. “Grab the door! Tight! Three! Two!”

“What!” Jacob shouted.

“One!” Shed 2022 spun the vehicle around to face their attacker. Their bodies moved in the opposite direction of the steering wheel as the tires slid in the wet grass. Once the truck settled, it charged forward. The vehicles raced toward ultimate destruction, neither willing to back off. Jacob gripped his seatbelt and squinted. He yelled, or at least he thought he did. He was unsure if any words came out of his mouth. The Ford was the first to make a move. It swerved to the right. The small SUV couldn’t handle the g-force and flipped several times before landing on its side. Black and gray smoke rose from the engine. 22 sped past the scene without letting off the gas. Jacob looked back at the wrecked vehicle behind them. He felt both exhausted and excited by the moment. He had never been in a car chase before. Not that he wanted to repeat this, but it was thrilling. Thrilling in the way that a scary ride at a theme park is.

Shed 2022’s home was modest. It had a small bedroom with red pinstripe wallpaper on the south-facing wall, a cramped bathroom with prescription painkillers on the counter, and a view of a large Jefferey Pine from the kitchen window. To Jacob, the house was sort of miserable, but there was a collection of Scientific American magazines along the wall in the living room that excited him. There must have been two hundred. Each stacked as high as a person. This is how I live in the future…or now? Jacob pondered as he picked up a magazine called The Origins of Space and Time. He started to read the headlines on the cover when 22 came into the room.

22 carefully closed the living room curtains and locked the front door. His bandages looked worse and his ear was still bleeding. “Pretty cool, huh?” He called out as he walked around the couch. For as bad as he looked, 22 was in a jovial mood. Jacob looked at him. “The magazines! I started collecting them when I was your age.” I have reread each twice. Maybe three times. Hard to do when you age as fast as I do, but I did it. Cool, right?” The older version of himself sat down on the couch with considerable effort. Jacob inspected him. His wrinkled skin looked like it had been sitting in a bathtub for hours. Shed 2022 looked around his home then back at Jacob. “How are you feeling?” 

Jacob coughed and then removed his coat. “I’m fine.”

“Your body can’t handle another transformation. The coughs. The high temps. You must feel like you want to drown in ice,” 22 said.

“I’m sorry, I don’t…” Jacob couldn’t think straight.

“You have been shedding. I’m one of those sheds. That thing is another. We are pieces of you left to wither on our own. Like being starved of water, we are as good as dead once we detach from the host, you,” 22 said. 

“A shed? Jacob looked at his arms and hands for answers. 

“Yes,” 22 confirmed. 

Jacob turned to the small television in the corner. The TV was likely 32 inches. Small, Jacob judged. “So you’re like a clone?” 

“Sorta. We were created when your memories got too painful to handle,” 22 replied.

“And how many of me are there?” Jacob looked to 22 for answers.

“Two left. Me and him. I think.” 22 confirmed.  

“Why does he want to kill me?” Jacob replied. 

“Being a shed is not a walk in the physical park. The body becomes weak quickly. It’s painful. When you age as fast as we do it’s like tearing your organs apart from the inside out. It’s worse if you’re an earlier cut like he is. At times, you want to scream. It’s…it can be tough. Death is the only mercy we have. 19 can’t handle it anymore.” 22 dabbed his ear with the shirt. The blood had already soaked deep into the cotton fibers. “But what happened was not your fault. You should not have to die for it.”

“Happened?” Jacob interrupted.

“When you heard about the incident you were in the Brooklyn kitchen.” Off Jacob’s look. “The tree. It reflected back your strongest memory. That’s what it does.” 22 replied. 

“And you were…” Jacob didn’t know how to articulate his thoughts. 

“I was shed while you were in San Francisco with BeeBee. Do you remember?” Jacob shook his head no. “You two were at Caffe Trieste when a woman came in with Mom’s exact voice. The pain was too much so you rushed to the bathroom to hide. You hid for more than an hour. The maintenance team had to unlock the door and pull you out. Once I arrived a few hours later, I knew I needed to get close to the tree as it was the only way to eventually find you. Unfortunately, Shed 2019 knew where to look too.”

Jacob looked at 22 with a confused expression. “I helped bring you to the tree so you would stop shedding.” 22 looked at Jacob intensely and shifted to a more serious tone. “Just as we will die without you, you will die if you keep losing more of us. Your body will continue to become more painful, then eventually, it will wither to nothing.” He paused then looked back at Jacob. “I have to give you something.” Shed 2022 dabbed his ear then stood up. He reached behind one of the stacks of Scientific American magazines and pulled out a small item delicately wrapped in a brown sack and tied together with twine. He handed it to Jacob. Jacob examined it closely. The sack was made of burlap, an odd choice, he thought. “Open it.” At that moment, a loud crack vibrated through Jacob’s eardrums. 

From that moment, life seemed to go in slow motion. Jacob saw 22 drop slowly like a heavy pillow falling from a bed. He looked up. Shed 2019 stood in the doorway holding a menacing weapon. The man was mangled from head to toe. The car accident had done a number on his body. How much of that was already there to begin with? Jacob thought. 

He didn’t have much time to keep pondering. The mangled version of himself aimed his gun at Jacob’s face. But, before he could pull the trigger, Jacob found himself running. He had no idea how or when he started moving, but he was running. Running fast. Faster than he’d ever run. A shot splintered the wood next to his right cheek causing small pieces of wood to embed into his flesh. Jacob grabbed the back door handle. Locked. On instinct, he ducked. Another shot hit the door above him. Wood shavings rained over his body.

From his crouched position, he unlocked the shattered door and yanked it open. He ran down the dirt driveway that led to the main road. He had seen an abandoned Remax real estate building on the drive in. It was approximately 1,000 yards away Jacob had calculated. If only he could make it he might find a place to hide. Another shot caught the dirt near his feet causing him to trip. He found his balance and continued to run.

Seven minutes later, and completely out of breath, Jacob arrived at his target. He slowed to a trot and looked behind him. He could not see 2019. He turned to the building and looked at the glass front door. It read: “The Right Agent Can Lead The Way!” He turned the knob. Locked. He found a sizable rock and returned to the glass door with a smash. The glass fell to his feet. Thousands of shards reflecting the sun’s light in different directions. Seconds later, he climbed into the abandoned real estate building.

Inside were numerous doors. He found one down a long hallway that was left ajar and stepped inside quickly. He paused. Inside was a massive spider web. He looked at it then quietly shut the door behind him. The blackness of the room surrounded him. 

Jacob stayed silent for a long time. He knew 2019 must be gone by now, but fear drove him to sit quietly. He had pinched the sensitive skin under his tricep two times but it only caused severe pain. This was not a dream. While hunched in the corner he had time to contemplate what Shed 2022 said. To try to make sense of it all, he went back to when it happened. To the event. The day his mom died. 

His mom had always been his favorite person. He could not remember a time when he was ever mad at her. She was both his mom and his best friend. He could still remember her face — happy and full of joy. 

Up until he was eleven years old, they had done everything together. She would take him to the movies, let him pick out sugary cereals, and include him on lunch dates with her gossiping co-workers. In the evenings, he would hide and scare her by darting out into her path. She would scream with surprise then chase him down the hallway with a laugh and a smile. Eventually, she would catch and tickle him on the couch until he said no more. She even let him build elaborate forts in the living room constructed out of sheets and bedroom pillows. Life was good. And then she was gone.

He was in his Brooklyn kitchen when the news came. It was nine am on December 9th. 2019. The weather was decent that day. 42 degrees. Sunny skies. He loved remembering details. It was his favorite thing to do. His mom said he was going to be an engineer or run a small city someday. He liked hearing her say those things. It made him feel special, different from the other kids in some way. 

Tiffany Turt, his 17-year-old babysitter with straight chocolate hair and tortoise glasses perched on her head, told him to take a seat. He pointed out that there were no chairs in the kitchen to which she sighed heavily. Something she did often when he found a flaw in her commands. At first, he thought he was in trouble, but when he saw her staring at him with concerned eyes, he knew it was something else. 

Tiffany told him that she was supposed to wait for the cops to come and tell him, but she was unable to wait. She said that there had been an accident. A bad accident. Two people were racing each other and had hit his mom head-on. To try to make things better, Tiffany said it was fast. Really fast. That his mom didn’t feel a thing, at least Tiffany hoped. As if that would make him feel better, but Jacob didn't blame her. She was a teenage babysitter delivering terrible news. 

It was after the move to California when strange things started to happen to him. He’d wake up at his grandma’s on the East Side of Los Angeles sweating, itchy, and in tears. His grandma tried to calm him but nothing worked. He began to retreat that first year. Kids his age would try to befriend him, but he wasn’t willing to let them in. And soon, they stopped trying. 

The following year, at twelve years old, his grandma enrolled him in an after-school program hoping he’d make friends, but Jacob would ignore everyone and sit at the edge of the yard and count small insects on the ground. The years after were much the same. In high school, he got all A’s and was even invited to a luncheon for honors students, but still, he was alone. 

He could hear footsteps down the hall. That thing out there, Shed 2019, I can talk to him. I can talk to us. I know myself. He’ll listen. I’ll listen to reason…. No, that’s stupid. He’s going to shoot me. Jacob could not figure out how to rid himself of the man. He didn’t have to think much longer as a shot rang out. He slowly pulled himself from the ground and walked to the door. He opened it a little and peeked out. “Sir!” He shouted. “Sir! Me! Hello!” Jacob looked around. Nothing. 

Jacob slowly moved down the hall. Dusty “Top Sales Agents” of the month pictures lined the wall. Realtors dressed to impress with phony smiles. Down the hall, he saw the 2019’s dirty boot. It was on the ground near the corner where the hallway made a sharp right. He slowly approached. As he got closer he saw the other boot and then 2019’s leg than the other. Soon, a trail of blood. Shed 2019 was on the ground. A slow moan could be heard. Jacob carefully rounded the corner. The mangled man’s gun was off to the side. 2019 had shot himself in the chest but was alive, barely. No longer a threat, Jacob leaned close. 

The first thing Jacob noticed was his skin. It was shriveled and brown around the edges like a rotting apple. The older version of himself turned slowly and looked up at Jacob. His face was mangled and bleeding. “Make it stop,” he spat out in pain. 

“I think it’s ending soon… Sir.” Jacob replied as he looked at the bleeding wound. Jacob wasn’t sure if he should comfort him or walk away. He didn't have to contemplate much longer because seconds later 2019 drew his last breath. 

Burying both bodies was exhausting, but Jacob couldn't leave them there. He felt it was his duty to give them a proper burial complete with a pile of rocks. It’s what he would have wanted, he thought. He would have liked to make a fancy cross or something, but he needed to get back home or his grandma would call the cops and that would make things bad for him. Worse than the trouble he was already in.

His train ride back home was uneventful, minus the pain. No matter how many layers he removed, he was still hot. He couldn't be naked on Amtrak so he sat there deeply uncomfortable as the train traveled south. To keep his mind off of the pain he counted telephone poles. When that got boring he fiddled with his shoelace. Then it dawned on him. The package, Jacob remembered. 

Jacob reached into his jean jacket and pulled out the wrapped item. He delicately pulled the twine and unraveled the bag. Inside was a small faded blue notebook about the size of his palm. His mom’s notebook. The same notebook she would write notes to him in. Before he opened the notebook, he cried. He cried for what felt like ten minutes. Once he felt he could keep it together long enough, he opened it to the first page. 

Hi son of mine. 

Today is going to be a brilliant day at school. You are on your way to being an astronaut, elevator operator, or whatever it is you truly want to do. I believe in you. I wanted to give you a sneak peek at tonight’s menu. It’s going to be a perfectly baked pepperoni pizza (no olives) from Sal’s followed by twisty garlic knots. The chef recommends root beer to be paired with this meal, and I completely agree. 

Be safe, have fun, and make friends. You are brilliant. 

I love you,

Love mom.

Jacob read a dozen more notes before he finally closed the faded blue notebook. Tears filled his eyes as he watched the Pacific pass by. Ocean ripples grew bigger and bigger as the sea water drew close to land. Eventually, the ripples turned into small waves and crashed into the surf. His mind drifted to his mom. He saw her sitting on the couch smiling at him. He wanted to hug her but his body would not move. He wanted to say I love you but no words came out. He wanted one more note in the notebook but he knew that was not going to happen. As the memories rushed in he started to feel better. Much better. He had blocked her from his mind for so long. One day had turned into a week, a month, then years went by and he had not thought about her. Now, as he thought about the past, he missed her. He missed every part of her, but the emotions were manageable this time.

Cool air hitting his face interrupted his thoughts. He looked up at the overhead vent. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t burning up. He wasn’t itching. He was not in pain. He placed the notebook in his pocket and watched as sunlight swept across the ocean. The yellow beams danced with brilliance as the photons reflected off of the water.

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Youth flashed before us, determined to arrive at middle age on time.

Every time I run against the wind I keep flowing with it.

Koreatown, Los Angeles

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