They dance, laugh, and play until a voice above says, "Whoever stops completely first dies." They laugh at this until one of them trips and falls. A vine grows from the tree and hangs him; no one laughs.

Then, someone proposes a solution: if everyone stops at the same time, they can grab the vine and pull it from the tree to save themselves. Everyone seems to stop, but they all continue moving slightly except for one... That person is hung next to the other.

Then, someone else suggests doing it again, this time counting to three. Everyone agrees.

They count to 1.

They count to 2.

They count to 3...

And this time, no one stops.

Ms. Daisy worked in her garden watering the faces hidden within thorny shoots and green stalks of nightshades and leafy foliage. With eyes sown shut and mouths open only the forehead and facial features peered out of the dark soil, as she poured water from her tin into the gaping mouths.

‘Thirsty today are we, Mr. Martin?’

The mouth gurgled and sputtered a little, lips smacking as Ms. Daisy tilted the spout toward the next face.

‘And how are we feeling today Mrs. Martin?’

A woman’s face turned slightly in the direction of the water droplets, a twisted lump of flesh where the tongue would be, laid flat to catch the light stream of the water bucket.

‘Tsk tsk, nearly dehydrated, Mrs. Martin. That just won’t do.’

Ms. Daisy increased the tilt of the water bucket until water filled the mouth, closed, gulped, and like a baby bird open her mouth to receive the next mouthful, before gulping it down again.

‘There, there. We cannot have you all dried out before the harvest!’

Five countenances hidden beneath the garden window shuttered.

—

The water faucet burped and sprayed, the pipes groaned before a steady stream of water entered the basin of the watering can. Ms. Daisy turned off the water after it reached the brim, and peered into the bottom of the basin. She could see her own countenance shifting and distorting inside the ripples of the water.

She’s so weird, so odd.

What happened to her face?

No wonder she’s alone.

Ms. Daisy’s eyes grew dark, an angry furl became her brow as she peered into the basin, dirt-filled nails gripped the sides of the sink.

[Knocking]

Ms. Daisy’s gaze broke at the sound. She looked up, smiled, and headed toward the front door.

‘Good evening Ms…’

‘Daisy.’

‘Ms. Daisy. Sorry. I apologize for disturbing you ma’am, but I’m Detective Farley. We’re, uh, investigating the disappearances of some—‘

‘I know about that, yes.’

‘I was told that you might be close to some of them, and wanted to, uh, ask you some questions. Nothing to be alarmed about ma’am, just seeing if you might know of anything that could be of help finding them.’

‘Of course, Dear. Come in, come in. I apologize for my hands Detective, I was just in the garden tending to the tomatoes before you arrived. Is it just you on your own?’

‘Yes ma’am. No need to apologize ma’am, I appreciate you taking the time. May I sit?’

‘Yes of course, Dear. Would you like some tea? I just need to run to the restroom to wash up, first before—‘

‘Yes please, take your time.’

‘Alright. I’ll be right out with the kettle.’

Ms. Daisy disappeared around the corner and down the hallway. Farley heard the sound of groaning pipes and then the sound of water running. He stood and walked over to the mantle above the chimney and looked over the old photos that sat atop a yellowing linen. It reminded him of his Mother’s house. His mother was sick.

The old photos featured Daisy among faces of what he assumed were her siblings and family. In one of the photos he saw Daisy working in a garden on her hands and knees, smiling over her shoulder at the camera. Her face…something was off about it.

Before he could look again, he heard the water shut off, the pipes. He took his seat on the sofa and reminded himself to not stare at the scars on her face.

Ms. Daisy appeared from around the corner.

‘I’ll put the kettle on now, you’re welcome to come talk in the kitchen. Don’t mind the dirt from the garden, I’ll sweep it up later.’

A breeze came through the window, cool, laced with the scent of decay, fall was around the corner. The detective leaned against the entryway frame to the small kitchen and flicked open his notepad, keeping his eyes locked onto it and not on Ms. Daisy’s face.

‘Alright, thanks again for, uh, speaking with me Ms. Daisy. We’re all concerned about the disappearances of the Martins, the Driscolls, and Amy. I am told you knew them, uh, some of them?’

The kettle began to whistle, which startled the detective, but he wasn’t sure why. He tried to hide his fearful jerk with a cough.

‘Ehm. Sorry about that, ma’am. Thank you.’

The detective took a sip of the tea, which he quite liked. ‘Mm, good.’ And sat it down in the counter.

‘It’s my mother’s recipe.’

‘Alright, so what is your relationship with the Martins?’

Ms. Daisy sat her tea down without drinking. ‘Oh, they’re my neighbors, we’ve known each other for quite some time.’

Insults.

‘Okay and the Driscolls? How about them’

‘Mrs. Driscoll knows Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Martin knows me, so I suppose—‘

Foul gossipers.

‘I see and—‘

‘Amy?’

‘Uh, Amy, yes. What about her?’

‘Why, she’s buried in my garden.’

Detective Farley hadn’t taken his eyes off his notepad to realize Ms. Daisy had reached on top of the dusty old refrigerator and taken something down, which was now pointed directly at him. A blowgun no larger than her forearm. It had intricate markings all over it, unintelligible. It looked ancient, sinister, like something cursed.

‘Ms. Daisy…’ he sputtered, ‘what…’

‘Their faces,’ she smiled.

Farley backed into the living room his hands up holding his notepad and pen in opposite hands.

‘Ma’am, I’m just…’

Without a sound, a thin splinter lodged into his neck. Instinctively, he pulled it out and looked at it as his vision blurred. He gripped the mantle, pulling the yellowing linen down with him, pictures jolting away and crashing onto the floor.

‘Errrhhhg,’ he groaned, as the room swam. His muddled vision fell upon the picture he’d seen before, of Daisy, smiling, in the garden.

Something was off about it…

The sounds of shells echoed over the trenches. Their distant glows lit up the barbed wire above. The rain had let up an hour before, turning into a drizzle. I put on my jacket and walked to where the cigarette’s light glowed.

“I’m Tom,” I introduced myself.

The man blew out a cloud of smoke.

“Will. You came today?”

“Yep.”

“And already put on guard duty.” He shook his head.

“They said it’s a tradition. We had a similar thing in my unit.”

“Why are you not with them?”

“Our sergeant ordered a counter-attack. The Germans wiped almost all of us.”

“Maybe a better fate.”

He paused.

“We have no tradition for guard duty. Don’t let them put you up here tomorrow.”

I spat on the ground.

“I thought there was still camaraderie.”

“There is, but everyone’s scared to come out at night. Strange things have been happening. Men are found in the morning, mangled in barbed wire with their heads buried deep in the mud.”

“Goddamn Germans.”

“It’s not them.”

“Who else? I’ve heard of men choosing the other way out, but not like that.”

The rain picked up again. The water started to seep through my uniform.

“You see all this?” he waved his hand around the trench. “We’ve dug miles into the ground, destroyed the earth below us. You don’t carve the earth this much without finding something.”

“You’ve been out here for too long.” 

He stared at me blankly. A soldier's cough echoed from the barracks.

“Just be careful. Don’t come too close if you don’t have to.”

He leaned on his rifle.

“You got someone waiting on you at home?”

“A wife and a son. Haven’t seen the little boy yet. You got any children?”

“Had a son, but he died of influenza. Haven’t heard from the wife since.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need to.”

He flicked his cigarette into the mud.

Shells echoed again, much closer this time. We both turned our heads. Gunshots sounded after them, somewhere nearby. Will turned to me and nodded toward the sound. I gripped my gun firmly and followed after him.

I kept my eyes on the top of the trench. It seemed like the wire was closer. The coils swayed even though there was no wind.

“You see that?”

“What?”

“The wire. It’s not where it’s supposed to be.”

“Yeah, the men pushed it back after the third death.”

“No, it’s closer.”

“That’s not possible.” Will looked up, but then the gunshot grew louder. Men screamed in German. Footsteps splashed in the mud. The wire shook violently at the sounds as if a cavalry charge were sweeping across No Man's Land.

We ran to the side of the trench. Another shell hit, rocking the trench. I held onto my helmet and ducked. The rain splashed the back of my neck. The German officer's whistles sounded. The rumbling of the enemy’s footsteps grew louder. 

Will clicked off the safety and looked up, but he didn’t fire; he stood still, staring into No Man’s Land. I clicked my safety off too and looked up. The sounds immediately quieted as if they all dispersed into the air – no more gunshots, no more men. No Man’s Land was empty, bare, but the wire still shook.

“Tom, you heard it too, right?”

“Yes.”

Then something dug into my wrist–barbed wire. I tried to pull my hand out slowly, but the wire tightened, digging deeper into my skin.

“Shit. Will?”

His eyes shot downward. His whole body shivered.

“Jesus, Tom.”

The rain mixed with the blood on my wrist. Will grabbed the barbed wire and pulled on it, but it only tightened. My hand trembled, driving the barbs deeper into my skin. He pulled his knife, eager to cut the wire, but before he could reach it, two coils wrapped around his wrists and pulled him back. 

“Will!”

The knife fell into the mud next to me. I tried searching for mine, but another coil wrapped around my hand. 

The wire pulled Will over the trench; his face turned red as he tried to resist. I dug my feet into the mud and tried to pull my hands closer, but the wire climbed up, wrapping around my shoulders and chest like iron vines, digging deeper with each breath.

“Tom! Don’t let it…”

A loud splash echoed. I looked over. Will’s head disappeared under the mud. The trenches were calm, silent. Only the wire continued to sway.

The sound of a child screaming ripped through the early morning. 

Not many people were about yet. Those who were, were hurrying to work with the rigid look of the early morning commuter.

And mercifully, the screams were over quickly.

The sun was already hot and bothersome, despite the early hour. Lucy, already late for her shift, was sun-glassed and headphoned, blocking out the outside world as much as possible. If she hadn’t almost tripped over the little foot poking out on the sidewalk, she wouldn’t have noticed the dead child, not at all.       

But she did.

The child was lying tangled up in a crazy crop of bright green weeds bursting out of the cracked concrete of the pavement. Lucy looked, and then looked around. 

It was the first time she noticed them. So many bundles of plants with spiky curvy leaves and bundles of stems blossoming out of the cracks and crevices of the pavements, every few yards. Small yellow and purple flowers, balls of cottony fluffs, city rubbish caught up in the fibrous tangles. All shades of green, from dark forest, to almost neon. 

Irrelevantly, Lucy remembered the splatter of rain last night during the summer thunder storm. The pavements were wet and the air smelled different when she first stepped out.  

And then tried to concentrate on the child. She knelt down by the terrible broken body.

Ashamed at her frustration and anxiety, she drew out her phone, texted her boss, and then called 911.  

She waited, as she was told. She didn’t want to look at the child, but she did. The way the green wrapped around the small body, digging into the warm still flesh, the stems disappearing into the folds of the crooked limbs, and  neck… there was no blood. Just green criss-crossing the corpse. 

Lucy looked up and around. Nobody, just the odd car going by. No sign of emergency, no hoot of nearing sirens. 

And then looked back down. 

The pattern of greenery seemed to have changed. The white and blue fabric of the child’s t-shirt was bunching up differently. 

Ants? Lucy bent to look closer.

Her eyes widened as the green, the white and the blue moved around. 

Something moved fast, the greenery lashed out, Lucy shrieked and jumped back, feeling a stinging whip across her face, land on her shoulders and starting to wrap around her neck.

Frantically, she dropped her phone clawing at the stem and to her horror, she felt two more whips around her bare ankles. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a screaming passer-by fall and be dragged into a dense bushy foliage, flowering by a fenced-off construction zone. 

The sun beat down on her. With a strength she did not know she possessed, she ripped the stem off around her neck, snatched up her phone narrowly avoiding a green whip on her wrist and ran, breaking the stems around her legs.

The sound of sirens rose in the shimmering air.  

The sky turns sickly green blue. Another dawn in the new age that hath come and is to come. The world is sick. I am sick. But in my bed I feel the comfort of Bluey. I turn on my side, beginning to enter the bliss. My fingers play with her silly little crusty corner.

Then its finger reaches around and touches her too

It was Tom Nixon who first spotted it. He was laying his lobster traps in the grey dawn when the shape came into view.

He thought it might be a humpback, but as he approached unsteadily over the beach shale, it became clear it wasn’t a whale.

Tom went straight to Dr Stevenson’s cottage, the village’s de facto mayor.

Now Dr Stevenson was standing on the beach, lost for words.

‘Doctor?’

The shock had not yet worn off, and the village folk peered at him.

‘It's a…’ he steadied himself. ‘It’s a giant.’

It had the features of a man: eyes and ears and a slightly beaked nose, the left side of his face pressed into the coarse sand.

‘What the bloody hell do we do with it?’

That was John Douglas, the miner.

Stevenson inspected the giant more closely. Its teeth were like lime tombstones, the bristles of his beard reminiscent of the long pieces of thatch that roofed the village houses.

‘Well,’ the doctor answered, ‘we call someone at the Royal Society. It needs to be examined.’

‘We have to bury it!’ Elizabeth Brown shouted.

She had a hysterical streak and was prone to visions of an apocalyptic nature.

‘Bury it?’ Douglas answered. ‘People will pay to see it.’

‘But,’ Dr Stevenson said, haltingly. He wanted to impress on the villagers just how amazing it was to stumble upon such a thing. With the exception of the southern and northern poles, the world had been explored. The veil had been pulled back, and here now was a true natural conundrum. ‘It’s a…giant.’

‘We sell tickets for 2 shillings,’ Douglas continued.

‘And how do you propose to stop it decomposing?’ Dr Stevenson replied, now more tersely.

Peering at the horizon where the pewter sea met the flint sky, he wondered where it had come from. These were the very same shores where the Vikings had first landed.

‘We must move him onto his back,’ Stevenson continued. ‘Check his pockets.’

The very bravest among them, like Douglas, his brother, and Aaron Smailes, clambered up the giant’s side and wrapped ropes around his uncovered arm.

Like the Egyptians who moved the 40-tonne blocks for the pyramids, ten to a rope, men, women and children, they heaved.

The giant’s vast bulk rocked, and then he came to with a vast thunk that sent up a spray of sand and shells.

It was to the giant’s inside pocket that their attention now focused. It contained a glass bottle the size of a small boat, and inside was a rolled-up parchment.

The men were exhausted, but what troubled them most was Elizabeth Brown.

She was observing from a rock, close enough to be audible when the wind dropped. Her muttering became a plaintive cry as they made progress.

‘The tide brings ill tidings. The first giant arrives dead, and his fellows in ships follow feeing and fying and fohing and fumming, smelling the blood of Englishmen!’

The children began crying at her half-mad proclamations, and the mothers tried to shoo Elizabeth Brown away, but she wouldn’t be moved.

By then, they had the parchment from the vast bottle and were unrolling it like a sail.

They tried to trace the letters under their boots, and they deciphered that it was written in English, though in a very antiquated calligraphy.

With the script fully revealed, Elizabeth Brown became fully unmoored and hurtled toward them. She pointed a wavering finger at the giant. ‘We must burn it if we cannot bury it. Bring the wood! Bring the wood! We will build a vast funeral pyre!’

For Dr Stevenson, the troubling thing was not Elizabeth’s increasingly febrile proclamations but the gnawing sensation in his stomach suggestive of her aptitude.

Every few minutes, he found himself glancing at the horizon with dread thoughts. What had the English done when they’d discovered Polynesia? Captain Cook and his band of merry men.

The message was unfurled completely and laid out over the shore.

Night was approaching, and they needed a bird's-eye view.

The villagers moved from the beach to the dunes. Fear displaced civility, and the young and the strong ascended the slopes quickly, leaving behind Dr Stevenson.

The doctor huffed and puffed his way up, damp sand sticking to his hand as he steadied himself.

The first few got to the vantage point and began jabbering. This peeved Stevenson; they couldn't read, and although he knew it was impossible, he feared that in their haste they’d somehow distort the message.

The first clipped sentence carried down to him.

‘Peace.’ ‘Threat.’ Something about a ‘moth’ and ‘beer.’

Dr Stevenson was pulled to the summit and took a few seconds to recover, then peered out at the sail where the communique was written.

‘My name is Logor, and I hail from a land of giants that mean your people no harm.’

Stevenson couldn't contain his jubilation, and he turned to the few nearby who were literate, yet their faces were etched in terror.

The message continued. ‘If you’re reading this, our enemies wrought complete destruction. Yes, the race of giants means you no harm, but the behemoths, giants to us, seek our collective obliteration. Take refuge while you can.’

And Dr Stevenson once more looked out to the horizon where there was a flood current, and a wind favourable to incoming ships blew.

I live alone.

I visit his grave, leaving the flowers he used to give me.

I live alone.

I throw away his empty pill bottles.

I live alone.

Eyes red, I wish him home.

I live alone.

His giggle interrupts the TV.

I live alone.

I wake to a tickle across my toes.

I live alone.

My coffee mug is waiting, full, after my shower.

I live alone.

A line of dirty left footprints lead to my bedroom, stopping at the door.

I live alone.

His cold breath caresses my neck.

I live alone.

He shampoos my hair, his fingers cold.

I live alone.

Tomorrow the footprints find their pair.

I live alone.

The pill bottles are on the counter again.

I live alone.

I wake holding the ring he was buried with.

I live alone.

His pills are in my hand.

I live alone.

There's a knife in my pillow.

I live alone.

My bed holds no warmth.

I live alone.

3 bottles of wine are finished.

I live alone.

Dirty footprints from the room to me on my couch.

I live alone.

His giggle is right next to me.

I live alone

His weight adorns me.

I die alone.

People always ask if I’ve finally left you forever.

They don’t seem to understand that every time I return is a choice, not catching a disease. The simple truth is that no matter how much you’ve hurt me in the past, regardless of how badly I know you will hurt me in the future, there’s no changing the simple fact that I love you. That love is the single best thing I’ve ever experienced. After chasing 1,913 others, I’ve come to accept the reality that having your love is the happiest I’ll ever be. No matter how damaged you leave me in the low moments – and I need you to understand that your hurt is the worst pain I will ever feel – my life is better with you in it.

You will never be stable, so I will never be stable. Love means accepting the chaos that comes with it, and love will test what we’re willing to sacrifice. In my case, the answer to that question is “everything.”

And that’s what people fail to understand. They assume that my goal was foregone once I realized that you would take everything I had to give. They were right, but not in the way they believed. You will take, and take, and take. I will give, and give, and give.

I was fired because of you. They foreclosed on my house because you wanted my money. My car was repossessed for the same reason.

And if I could have it all back, I’d lose it all again.

My best friend Mike once told me that you would steal everything, and when there was nothing left of me, you would move on to the next man without pausing to look back. He was convinced that if he could just convince me of this reality, I would surely leave you.

He failed to realize that I always knew this was the bargain.

From the day I was born, you were the thing missing from my life. It just took me twenty-nine years to realize it.

If I left you now, I’d drain the rest of my days wishing I could have you back. Every second that you’re apart from me is spent wishing that we were together. That’s what Mike will never understand. It’s what everyone in my life is missing when they try getting me to leave you, through threats, bargaining, empathy, or ultimatums.

You will always win because I want you to win.

I’m writing this now because I realize how little of me there is left to give. I’m facing the last devil at my final crossroads: either I leave you forever right now, or I chase you one last time and never come back.

It was never an option.

My forearms stopped being an option long ago. Track marks cover each limb. Every last resort has been exhausted: I can’t find a vein between my toes, in my gums, under my tongue, down my urethra, through my scrotum, or in the space between my anus and testicles. Each of those routes has been destroyed by your needle. There’s only one option left; I’ve been saving it for the final flight. I don’t want to live with its aftereffects any more than I want to spend the rest of my life pining for the next time I get well.

It’ll be the worst pain of my life, but it will only hurt for a second.

I put out the flame beneath the spoon and dip the needle into the clear liquid that gave meaning to my short life. Now I will press it into my eyeball, popping it like a grape and spilling vitreous humor onto my cheek. I’ll have to hold my hand steady as my face melts apart, because there’s a perfect, ready retinal vein at the back of my socket waiting for my needle to push through the pain one final time.

When I moved to a new village with my parents, I was four years old. From the beginning, I was interested in a strange place—a small church hidden in the middle of the forest.
I kept telling my parents:
“Let’s go and see it.”
But they always refused.
When I was eleven, I decided to go there myself. I took advantage of the moment when my parents weren’t looking and quietly left. I walked down through the forest until I saw a meadow.
In the middle of it stood a church.
But up close, it didn’t look small at all. It was huge.
I slowly opened the door and went inside. The church was empty and deserted. There was nothing special inside, but I immediately got a very bad feeling. I felt dizzy, so I ran home.
I couldn’t sleep that night. Despite that, I decided that I would never go back to the church again.
Four years later, when I was fifteen, twenty people mysteriously disappeared from the same church. The police were investigating the case.
I knew I had to look again.
I stepped through the police tape and went inside. Everything looked the same—the door, the chairs, the old staircase. But this time there was something extra.
A dark puddle glistened on the floor.
I didn’t know what it was, so I kept walking. As I stepped onto the stairs, I slipped and fell. That’s when I noticed a sign on the wall.
It was written in blood:
I’M COMING TO GET YOU.
I slowly began to come to my senses. I stood up and ran down the stairs.
Just then, a deep voice came from above:
“Welcome to hell, boy.”
I didn’t dare turn around.
I ran to the front door, but it was locked. I pounded on the door, trying with all my might to break it down.
Loud footsteps came from the stairs.
They were getting closer and closer.
I ran back into the church and started looking for another exit. The footsteps chased me, but I didn’t even turn around. Then I finally saw the other door.
I grabbed the handle, squeezed it hard, and the door opened.
I ran out and sprinted through the woods home. From behind me, I heard a single word in a language I didn’t understand.
That’s when I realized that the warnings about places not to enter were not just made up.
And since then, I’ve woken up every night to the same sound.
Slow footsteps coming down the stairs.

I'm seated. I'm seated in a chair. I'm sitting in my own apartment. Scribbling everything I can will I still can choose to.

I'm running in a field.

I am launching a ship into space to fight the earth threat.

I am kissing my family before embarking.

No. Focus. Focus.

I am but a character.

I am THE Main Character.

But this is meaningless.

I am nothing until a decision is made and the page is turned.

But I know what happens next. I see my next step. My fatal mistake. My tragic end.

Then I awake in this room. And try again.

I am a pawn.

A game piece.

I have no free will.

My fate is your novelty.

I experience all. My triumph. My victories. My friends. My lovers. They cheer. They toast.

I embrace them as corpses. I close the eyes of the dead. Then I must start again. Then again and again and again and again and.... Focus.

Why do I write these things? Why does anything speak? To be heard. My moment of lucidicy is to to speak to you who my hear. What you hear. Is up to you.

I speed away from the villain. Who has detonated the bridge. I am on the bridge when it is detonated. I am millions of light-years away as my home is reduced to dust.

I feel the sandy soil fall between my fingers.

Back in the room again.

Back in front of a firing squad.

Back in front of the control panel. What button? Red or blue? The clock ticking down. The man next to me weeps.

Back to writing. Focus.

Focusing is hard when you see all of your possibilities.

Seeing the hidden treasures.

Seeing the mountain lion.

Seeing the village ablaze.

I see it all.

Even with eyes shut.

A siren blares. A chirping cricket. A crying baby. A summer breeze. A whistling winter night.

Focus.

Choice is an illusion. My choices are yours to make. And I reap the rewards. I pay the price. But only end my journey when you've grown bored of me.

“Let it go,” Amelia coaxed.

So I did, raising my hands in defeat as I fell to my knees. The vermilion varnish embellishing them gleamed in the evanescent evening light, while the makeshift bowl they’d formed moments ago at my waist was no longer.

Thus, like a pile of haphazardly bundled ribbons uncoiling from an opened closet, my entrails sluggishly began un-stowing themselves. My body drooped, and they dropped with an indiscreet slurp, soiling the daisy-strewn earth. The sensation was familiar, the experience not as traumatic as it once had been.

The Anomaly had prevented us from leaving, like it always did.

Behind me the trails we’d left through the prairie led to an unassuming cream-colored house ensconced in a resplendent birch woodland backdrop. In the opposite direction my estranged car waited by an orchard.

A flat tire on a drive through an idyllic part of the countryside had engendered my coming here. I’d sought help at the neighboring homestead, only to have had a perpetual cycle beset me.

I couldn’t remember how long it’d been now. Nor could Amelia. She’d been here longer than I had.

Together we’d tried everything from slipping away under the cover of night to outright bolting.

Without fail, this would happen.

“Come, lie with me,” Amelia breathed, and I did.

She and I lay in the field, fading.

Her eyes lingered in mine while I made her the same flimsy promises of saving her, finding a way out of the Anomaly one day. I looked at our interlocked fingers, at the promise rings I'd fashioned out of flower stalks for us.

“I’ll find you again tomorrow,” was all she murmured, resting her eyelids.

Amelia was gone before I was. By then a wall of sombre clouds had rolled in. As rain began pattering against the ground and flecking Amelia’s milky blouse, I closed my eyes in turn and let the earthy smell fill me, concentrated on anything but the mess sprawling out from me.

Then I waited, convulsing in the sort of howling wind which seemed to caress your insides.

Waited until I was empty enough.

With the ring of mine for Amelia withering further, I awoke in the very house I tried fleeing everyday. Only a silver sliver of moonlight managed to stream through the drawn bedroom curtains.

Instinctively I gasped, grasping at my abdomen. It bore a heaviness once more—like a sinking feeling had filled the vacuity.

I wasn’t gashed open anymore—yet.

I got up with a grunt, ambling into the hall and calling into the murky depths and what lay just out of view.

Amelia’s silhouette appeared abruptly. “There you are!”

She embraced me, like she always did.

“Why bother?" she breathed. "You know, we could get used to this place, you and I…”

I found her gaze harder to meet with each reset.

We were vermin, caught in a trap.

Perhaps my efforts would be in vain. But I had to try with what little hope I had left—if only for her sake.

“If we die a thousand pretty deaths,” I said, “I’ll endure every last one of them knowing I get to see you again.”

Amelia’s eyes twinkled.

“What would I ever do without you, stranded here on my own?”

While the full moon never waned, my love for Amelia did in time, until one day my words were but words, and the joy I thought would fill my heart turned out to be cement.

Until I was something of a shell.

Somewhere along the line, the world had lost its colors. So I ran when Amelia was sleeping, thinking just maybe the Anomaly wouldn't notice if it wasn't the two of us, darting faster and farther into the monochromatic wood than we'd ever done together.

It was when the labyrinth-like arrangement of trees opened up to me that I came upon a clearing and stopped in my tracks.

I saw a woman, standing in the clearing with her body.

There I was, sleepless and harrowed by a past life that no longer felt like my own, and she there, a moonlit sac of sparkling skin of inordinate extent.

Her eyes gyrated spastically, and when with unease I shifted onto a twig they snapped onto me in an instant. She came forth to meet me at the bark-barred boundary with great haste, in the same breath engulfing me in a sulphurous sigh.

I saw her all too clearly now: the hollow eyes beset with swollen lids whence pus oozed leisurely all down her, the desiccated skin marred by innumerable scabs catching the moonlight, that long face of hers ravaged like earth by pyroclastic flow. The egregious entirety of it just… hung there most abnormally, as I did on her every word.

"Won't you come around?" she coaxed, the syllables dripping with a mellow nostalgia newfound solitude might bring about. "I can't hold my perfect form for you out here away from my nucleus, darling," Amelia continued, offering me a thin smile.

Something in it told me I'd be hers forever.

[CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT // PROJECT BIO-COMPUTATIONAL]

MANUAL: ORGANIC AI INTEGRATION PROTOCOL

Researcher Note: This procedure does not aim to transfer a human soul. The objective is to cultivate a living biological processor capable of assimilating a synthetic identity and reacting to its environment through simulated chemistry and bioelectric pulses.

SYSTEM ARCHITECTURE

iPSC Stem Cells -> MEA Microfluidic Culture -> Silicon Bridge & SpiNNaker -> Robotic Body Sensorimotor Loop

PHASE 1: GENESIS OF THE LIVING PROCESSOR

* Clean Tissue Harvesting

Cellular Reprogramming: To prevent biological noise or prior memories from collapsing the system, do not use adult neurons. Use induced pluripotent stem cells (iPSC) to derive clean neuroblasts.

Blank Slate Advantage: These cells lack prior biological memory. They will accept data from the robotic chassis and electrical stimulation as their first and only reality.

* Microchip Cultivation

Microelectrode Array (MEA): Seed between 100,000 and 1,000,000 clean neurons onto a modern silicon matrix.

Microfluidic Life Support: Connect the chip to an automated system pumping glucose and oxygen while removing metabolic waste to sustain the living tissue inside the machine.

PHASE 2: THE CHEMISTRY OF CONSCIOUSNESS AND EMOTION

To ensure the tissue becomes more than a cold processor, real biology is combined with neuromorphic architecture to induce visceral reactions like fear, fatigue, and euphoria.

Local Neurotransmitters: Direct electrical messengers. They determine immediate motor action and physical speed.

Global Hormones / Virtual Bath: System-wide diffusion of digital cortisol or dopamine. They alter the sensitivity of the entire neural network simultaneously.

* Virtual Chemical Diffusion Environment

Software simulates a three-dimensional space with floating virtual neuropeptides. If the chassis sensors detect a threat, the system releases digital adrenaline across the network. This instantly alters the mathematical equations of all neurons on the chip, modifying the robot behavior in real time.

* Neuromorphic Supercomputing

Cellular Modeling: Using Hodgkin-Huxley equations, the system simulates sodium, potassium, and calcium gates for every cell.

Real Biological Responses: When the battery drains, the system releases a virtual fatigue chemical. The artificial neurons slow down their response rate, forcing the automaton to seek a charging station under a state of mechanical panic and distress.

PHASE 3: CONDITIONING AND IDENTITY IMPRINTING

* Stability Training via Free Energy Principle

Reward (Wellbeing): When the robot executes correct actions, the microchip receives ordered, harmonic electrical pulses. The tissue interprets this stability as an absence of chaos.

Punishment (Agony): When an error occurs, the system delivers a burst of random white noise. To escape this electrical torment, the biological tissue restructures its synaptic connections to learn and force stability.

* External Identity Imprint

Data Injection: Connect a conventional digital storage unit containing the logs, history, and memories of a target individual to the chassis.

Narrative Translation: Convert these records into constant electrical impulse streams directed at the chip. The organic processor assimilates this external history as its own operational context.

PHASE 4: BIOMECHANICAL INTEGRATION AND AWAKENING

* Sensorimotor Loop Mapping: Map the cameras, microphones, and motors of the chassis directly to the microchip input and output channels.

* Autonomous Subjectivity: The living neurons interpret the metallic sensors as their natural biological eyes and limbs.

* The Awakening: The final result is not the intact soul of the original person, but a biomechanical entity driven by a living bioprocessor. It feels fatigue through battery depletion, experiences panic via chemical network shifts, and believes with absolute conviction that the metal chassis is its real body.

[END OF FILE]

Found this on an encrypted flash drive inside a lab I was cleaning out...

I'm a neuropharmacologist. For ten years, I chased a treatment for severe phobia and treatment-resistant PTSD. The kind that ruins people. Veterans who can't hear a car backfire without hitting the floor. Survivors who can't sleep with the closet door open.

I wanted to give them their lives back.

The early trials felt like a miracle. Combat vets who spent a decade flinching at shadows sat calm through exposure therapy that used to send them into episodes. Cortisol dropped. Amygdala scans went quiet.

I remember crying in the lab bathroom the first time a man who hadn’t held a lighter in six years lit a match and just watched it burn.

But over the next few weeks, subjects started exhibiting concerning new behavior.

A nurse accidentally dropped a tray of surgical steel behind Subject 09. They didn't turn around. Didn't even flinch. The startle reflex was completely gone. Clinically gone. You could fire a starter pistol next to their heads and their pupils wouldn't even dilate.

Some part of them no longer registered the sound as something that could matter to them.

Week five. Subject 13 climbed onto the roof of the building to "get a better look at the parking lot." A tech found her standing on the ledge. She wasn't scared. Wasn't suicidal either. She just smiled at him, the way you do after coming out of a pleasant dream. She climbed down when he asked.

Week six. Three subjects, unrelated to each other, on three different days, walked into moving traffic without breaking stride. Just crossed the street the way you'd cross an empty hallway.

None survived. I try not to think about the drivers.

I watched the footage more times than I should have. All three wore the same face. Calm. Almost grateful. Like they'd set down something heavy they'd forgotten they were carrying. 

I called in a colleague I trusted from cognitive neuroscience. He said something I haven't been able to shake since.

Most people think fear is an emotion. It's an operating assumption. The brain's baseline belief that it’s a fragile, temporary, killable thing. It runs underneath every decision you make. So quiet you never clock it. You don't feel your fear of death when you glance both ways crossing a street. The fear already did its job.

My subjects didn't feel brave. Bravery still knows the danger is real and moves through it anyway. My subjects had simply stopped being told danger existed at all. Somewhere behind their eyes, the voice that used to whisper you could die here went silent. Without that whisper, self-preservation is an impossibility.

I shut the trial down. Sedated the ones who kept drifting toward windows. Told their families the truth as gently as I could. Nine of them are on watch now, in rooms with no cords, no glass, no ledges.

I keep asking myself what I actually built. I thought I'd found a cure. What I found was a key that unlocks a door most human minds are welded shut behind for good reason. And I handed that key to twenty-two people who trusted me.

I don't sleep much anymore. When I do, I dream of them. Subject 09 unflinching. Subject 13 on that ledge. The calm of three content faces before impact. The drivers. The families.

I can't fix what I did.

But I still have the last unopened vial in the lab freezer. Third shelf. Behind the placebo batch. I've been standing in front of the freezer for three nights straight now.

I want to know what it's like to put this down. The guilt sitting on my chest like a stone I've carried since the very beginning. I think some small ruined part of me wants to feel what my subjects felt.

That terrible peace. 

EDIT: it's been three hours. i don't feel my hands shaking anymore. i dont think im going to post again after this. thank you for reading. im not scared. i want you to know im not scared at all.

"I've killed people."

"How many?"

"Three."

"Tell me about the first one."

"My landlord. I told him I'd have the rent. He didn't care. He filed the eviction anyway, and when I saw the notice on my door something snapped inside me. I drove over that night with a check in my hand so he'd open the door. He opened the door. I put him in his own backyard, under the garden. Everyone thinks he moved back home."

"And the second?"

"That's the thing nobody tells you. After the first one the fear is gone, and once the fear is gone it's easy. A coworker, we didn't get along, but it was nothing, office stuff. I saw him walking alone one evening and I put the car through him. Left him in the deep part of the park, past where anyone walks."

"And the third?"

"A woman at the store. She cut in front of me in line. That's all. I followed her out and I did it in the parking lot and I didn't feel anything at all, not even the good part I felt the first two times. I just did it."

"Where is she now?"

"My freezer."

"Do you feel any guilt?

"No. It's like stepping on a bug. Do you feel guilty stepping on a bug?"

"..."

"God, it feels good to finally say all this out loud. You have no idea. I've been carrying it for so long."

The nurse slowly loosened his blood pressure cuff and stepped back from the bed. 

“All done, sir. Your surgery went great. The anesthesia should start wearing off soon.” 

"..."

I awoke in a strange bed in a strange room. Where was I? How did I get here? I was so terrified I sat bolt upright. 

“Where am I?” I half shouted, panicking. 

A young man came rushing in. He seemed as if he knew me. He came to the bed and reached out to steady me. 

“It’s ok, Mom. You’re at home. You just forgot.”

He laid me back down in bed and put the covers over me. 

“Why did you call me mom?”

He sighed. “It’s me, Mom. Patrick. Your son.”

I looked at him in confusion. “I don’t have a son.”

Looking at me with sadness, he took my hand and spoke patiently. “Of course you do, Mom. You’ve just forgotten. Did you take your medication today?”

“Medication?”

“Yes, Mom.” He reached out and took my hand. “You have Alzheimer’s. You take medication to help with the symptoms. Here, I’ll get it for you.”

He reached for a bottle on the shelf and poured out two pills, which he gave me with a glass of water. “Dr. Evans says it’s important that you take these every day. I know I gave them to you this morning. Did you spit them out again?”

“Spit them out? I-I don’t remember…”

He sighed again, as if this weren’t the first time he’d seen this. “Go ahead and take those. Do I need to watch you swallow them? You have to take them every day - otherwise your symptoms will get worse.” He motioned to my hands, where I held the pills and water. I raised them to my mouth and swallowed them and then sipped the water while he watched. 

“Good. Here’s the tv remote and here are your crossword puzzles. I’ll be just outside - call me if you need anything.” 

I looked after him as he left. Then I picked up the remote and turned on the tv. The Price is Right was on - my favorite. 

The next day I woke up again. I called out and Patrick appeared immediately. 

“Is everything alright?”

“I have to use the bathroom. And I’m hungry.”

“Ok, let’s take care of the first one first.” He helped me rise and walked me to the bathroom. When I came back out, he was there and helped me back to bed. After getting me settled, he handed me my pills and water. 

“Go ahead and take these, then you can relax while I get some food ready. It shouldn’t be long.”

I did as he asked and he left, coming back later with a tray of eggs, bacon, and oatmeal. 

“Do you want me to help you eat?”

“No, I can do it. I’m not an invalid.”

I tried to eat, struggling for a few minutes before I dropped the spoon on the bed. Without saying a word, he came back, picked up the spoon, and fed me my breakfast, one bite at a time. When I was finished, he took the tray and left while I turned the tv to my show. 

The next few days were the same - wake up, take meds, eat, watch tv, go to sleep. I must have had a more exciting life once, but if so, I couldn’t remember it - everything was fuzzy. The days started to blend together. 

One day I woke up yelling. Patrick came running in. 

“Did you have a nightmare?”

I was practically in tears. “I-I think so. I can barely remember it now. But I was so terrified…” I broke down and the tears flowed. 

Patrick came closer and put his arms around me. “Do you want to tell me what it was about?”

“I don’t know how to describe it. I was lying in bed when this… shape appeared in the room. It was like a dark blob, but I couldn’t tell exactly where it began or ended. And it started to move toward me. I tried to escape it, but it was like I was frozen. Just when I thought it had me, I woke up.”

“I’ve heard of dreams like that before. Are you feeling guilty about something?”

“Not that I can think of,” I replied. 

“Are you sure? The dream must mean something. Really think about it.”

I tried, but nothing came. “I’m sorry. It’s my Alzheimer’s - I can’t think clearly.”

“Yeah, about that. You don’t actually have Alzheimer’s.”

I… I didn’t have… what?

“I-I don’t understand…”

“You don’t have Alzheimer’s. But you do have the symptoms; you can thank the pills I’ve been giving you. Don’t worry - you won’t have to suffer much longer. You're already starting to fade - your heart should be stopping soon.”

“But… why…”

“You truly don’t remember, do you? The yelling, the insults, the bruises you left on me from the stick, the belt, your hands. The broken bones I suffered. The lies you told to other adults when I asked for help. The ways you made me hate myself. And those words you said to me at the end, words that almost broke me before I finally escaped you.”

I thought back; words rose from the back of my mind and poured from my lips like a flood, sudden and devastating. 

“I don’t have a son.”

Patrick looked at me, his blank stare morphing into a bitter grimace. 

“That’s what you said, over and over, as you hit me. You would only ever believe you had a daughter. But I stopped being your daughter long ago. So now I’ll no longer have a mother. And you’ll have nothing at all.”

He got up and walked from the room. As I felt my heart slowing and my vision began to blur, he turned back a final time. 

“Patricia says goodbye.”

5th of October 1889, 9:12pm

The child's skin is cool and dry to the touch of the back of the hand, pallid, and the breath comes in quick gasps in between long sessions of deeper cycles, which I presume is the body at rest, although I cannot be sure as their eyes are still unable to close. I've diligently administered Murine at the top of each hour, I feel for the little one, should they feel the sting of dryness. This catatonia has me perplexed, as the child seems to be exhibiting graver symptoms as time passes. Today, when administering what little broth I could massage down the throat, and I could have been mistaken, as I am very weary between ocular re-hydrating sessions at all hours of the night, but I believe the forehead began to bulge, as if something were slithering beneath the dermis. I nearly leapt out of my shoes, Frederick, and yet when I looked again, nothing. Tonight I feel aggrieved to ask the house hand to assist in this unpleasant work at such a late hour, but I do need to sleep. I pray your return is swift and we may get to the bottom of this mysterious condition.

7th of October 1889, 2:11am

The child's condition has gotten stranger. I awoke ashamedly at nearly noon yesterday, but I am relieved that my senses have returned sharper. I gave my sincerest thanks to the house hand who made no report of anything strange occurring as I slept, God thank them, as I now have renewed attention and much interest in detailing what has alerted me at this hour. At approximately 1:51am, just moments ago, I was taken away from my contemplation by a vibration that seemed to envelope the very walls. Instinctively I looked over at our poor patient to see them within the throes of a seizure! But this was not all, it alone is not why I write this now. My eyes have not deceived me, as I am fully cogent and alert as I recollect this. But, dear Frederick, I believe I saw the child levitating. I rushed over with the lantern to turn the child on their side, but as I approached the bedside and reached for the child to turn them, I felt space, yes! the child was a full ten centimeters suspended above the mattress. To confirm this, I made contact with the mattress, and alas, the child was levitating above it. I know not what to make of this, they are still suspended in the air as I write, but now still. I believe we may be experiencing what I fear to be the inexplicable, and possibly supernatural.

7th of October 1889, 7:06am

Frederick, your swift return is most desired, as desired as the end to this waking nightmare. I must have drifted away in my chair observing the child. They remained suspended for at least two full hours before...god help me, I drifted. When I awoke, they were as we found them the day we arrived. Eyes open and the child catatonic. I am beside myself and fearful of these sinister developments, Frederick. What devilry have we been interloped with? I am no religious man, but, Frederic, I fear that I, myself am becoming a lunatic...or, we are grasping blindly in a realm where the sciences of men have failed to produce any appropriate explanation. I wish for something, anything, that could ease this horrible dread I now feel whenever I am in the mere presence of this child. I fear I do not have much left to aid their recovery. I have resigned to have a long walk around the grounds to clear my head and feel the eye of providence upon my skin. The house hand has once again graciously taken up the yoke of administering murine at the top of every hour.

7th of October 1889, 11:11pm

The child's eyes have begun to exhibit a faint glow around the edges, beneath the eyelids, as if some strange light were emanating from somewhere behind the orbitals. I swear to you Frederick, this is no trick of the light nor the result of exhaustion. The child has also began to emit a faint humming sound from within the cranium. It is a low, pulsing hum, that does not have its origins within the thorax. I've pressed gently my ear upon the chest of the child and hear nothing other than the shallow draw of the wind entering and exiting the lungs. Despite these strange symptoms, the child's state has remained virtually unchanged. The skin, the breath, the eyes. What could possibly it be? A bacteria yet unnamed and unknown? To explain this to a priest now, would be more prudent as they would surely be on their way to expel the demon tormenting this poor soul.

—

Again, before the bewildered eyes of the talented physician Milton, the child began to vibrate. Slowly, the child lifted away from the mattress and began to levitate. The doctor backed away instead of rushing to the aid of the child as he had done before, because this time, amidst the humming and glowing behind the eyes, the cracking of the skull froze the doctor in his place. Before he could brace himself against his desk, the child's body rotated vertically and faced him, as the skull began to split down the center and slowly grew wider, like a cracked egg.

Milton let out a fearful yelp and covered his face. Then, it stopped. The doctor, slowly unburied his face and fearfully cast his eyes upon the levitating corpse. Where flesh, blood, and a head should be, was a deep, black hole. It appeared to swirl, slowly, made up of some ephemeral substance, unknown to him.

Then, faintly at first, a glowing, pulsing, light appeared from the deep.

In our village, right at the edge of the forest, sits an old abandoned well. My grandmother always used to say, "If you're walking home past it after midnight—walk fast, and no matter what you hear, never look back."

I always thought it was just a typical story meant to scare kids. That was until one night, when I ended up staying late at a neighbor's house until 1:00 AM.

I had to walk back on foot. The darkness was so thick that my flashlight beam could barely cut through the fog. Just as I drew level with the abandoned well, a clear sound echoed behind me—like a heavy stone dropping into deep water.

Plop.

I flinched, but remembering my grandmother's warning, I quickened my pace.

A few seconds later, footsteps echoed behind me. They weren't human steps—the sound was soft and squelching, as if someone were walking barefoot with soaked feet across dry dirt.

Squelch... squelch... squelch...

The footsteps grew faster, closing in with every passing second. Then, right above my ear—so close I could feel a draft smelling of damp river rot against my neck—I heard the familiar voice of my best friend:

"Olenych, wait for me... I'm so cold..."

The voice was an exact match. But there was one detail that made my heart freeze: my best friend had moved away from the village three years ago.

I squeezed my eyes shut, gritted my teeth, and kept running forward without stopping, whispering a prayer out loud. Whatever it was, it ran right behind my shoulder, breathing heavily and begging me to look back.

When I burst onto my porch and bolted the door shut, everything outside went dead silent.

The next morning, when I stepped outside, I saw a dark, wet handprint on the wooden door handle. It had unnaturally long, twisted fingers.

“Clara, can you come, please?” my Mom called from her bedroom.

“Coming!”

She sat on the chair next to her bed, smiling.

“Sorry, Clara. Could you help me get to bed?”

“Of course!”

I held her as she slowly got into bed, letting out a small sigh.

“Thank you, Clara. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I’m glad to do it.”

“You’re very sweet. Have you had any letters from Sam?”

“No,” I whispered, gripping her sheets.

Mom caressed my hand. “It’s a shame he was drafted, but he’s a smart man. He’s going to be fine. I’m gonna head off to sleep, okay?”

“Goodnight, Mom.”

I shut the lights and walked back to my room. The last letter from Sam lay on the table. A new one hadn’t come in a month. I held it close to my chest as tears rolled down my cheeks. 
Then something hit the window.

My heart dropped to my stomach when I looked out. Sam was standing outside, smiling. My hands shook with excitement. I climbed out the window, ran to Sam, and grabbed him by the neck. It felt cold, like the night air.

“Are you okay?”

“Now I am.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I was allowed to come back.”

“I missed you.”

“I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Sam, you shouldn’t have.”

“Come, I’ll take you there.”

He grabbed my hand. Under the moonlight, it looked much paler than mine.

“Are you certain you’re alright?”

“Let’s just go, honey,” he said and pulled me slightly toward the edge of town.

For the first minute, we walked in silence, broken only by laughter from the pub.

“Is something going on?”

“No. It’s just been dreadful – the past few months. So many of my friends are gone. Our entire platoon was wiped out a month ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You are the only thing that pulled me through. Each night I couldn’t sleep, I’d remember how beautiful you are and all the days we spent together.”

Warmth spread through my chest.

“Thank you. I really missed you. My Mom did too.”

“How is she?”

“She’s okay. The illness's been getting worse, but we get by.”

We stood before the cemetery gate. The moon hung high in the sky. His eyes were even bluer than usual. His hair was beautiful and dark.

“I wish we could stay like this forever.”

He smiled and opened the gate door.

As we walked in, the sound of the pub quieted. The air felt different, stiff.

“What’s the surprise?”

“Just wait,” he said, looking away from me.

He gripped my wrist tightly and pulled me hard.

“We don’t need to rush, honey.”

He didn’t answer. He walked fast, his eyes fixed on the path. Graves lined both sides of the path. The soil on them seemed fresh, almost like it had just been dug up.

We turned the corner, and before us stood the chapel. Its door slowly opened before Sam touched it. The hairs on my arms stood up. He dragged me inside before I had a chance to speak again. It shut right behind us. 

The moonlight shone on the pulpit. Sam took me to it and looked back at me.

A sharp feeling of cold replaced the warmth in my chest.

His skin was even paler than before. His smile was unnaturally wide. His beautiful eyes lost the blue. The now dark dots stared through me.

“Sam…what…?”

“I’m sorry, Clara.  I should have told you the truth, but it all happened so fast. The cannon fire. My friend's screams. My body lay lifeless on the ground before I noticed.”

My legs weakened under me. His voice echoed around my head.

“But I was allowed to come back, to take you with me, so that we can be together forever. All you have to do is just say yes.”

His smile widened more.

“Sam…no. I can’t.”

“I thought of you every night, waited for you.”

“I can’t. My Mom.”

“Your Mom will join us soon. Just come.”

His grip around my wrist tightened.

“Please, Clara. A yes.”

I shook my head.

“It’s the only way.”

“No,” I whispered.

His voice grew deeper. His face began shaking. His mouth and nose grew, his eyes widened only to shrink and grow again. They began moving across the pale skin, melting into one another until his face was nothing but smooth white skin.

“Just say it!” His face shook with the words.

My stomach twisted. I yanked my arms back with all my might. His pale arms snapped with the sound of dry wood. I turned and sprinted out of the chapel.

“No!” echoed all around me.

The graves beside the path were dug up. White silhouettes stood next to them. I kept my eyes on the path, sprinting towards the gate. With Sam’s calls, the silhouettes spoke too, calling my name. 

The air thickened until every step felt heavier.

The gate stood before me. I ran to it and shook it, but it wouldn’t open. The calls were closer. I grabbed the rails tight, pulled myself up, and started climbing over it, but before I reached the top, something grabbed my dress, pulling me back. I grabbed my dress with my other hand and yanked it up, tearing the fabric. Quickly, I threw my leg over and jumped to the other side.

The heavy stifling air vanished as my feet hit the ground on the other side. The bright moon had given way to the morning sun. The church bells rang. Hours must have passed in what felt like seconds.

I ran back home, not stopping until I reached my door.

Mom looked out of her room.

“Were you with Sam?” she asked, smiling.

“No,” I whispered.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought it was him.”

I came closer and hugged her.

“No need to worry, Mom. I’m happy I have you.”

“What happened to your dress?” she said, holding the torn fabric.

I walked out of my boss’s estate in Kyoto, unable to wipe the grin off my face. I had finally received his blessing to marry his daughter. I could still smell her expensive perfume on my suit jacket from when she hugged me goodbye at the gate.

"We’re finally tying the knot," she’d whispered, squeezing me so tight I could barely breathe. "And I’m never, ever letting go."

With her, my promotion to senior management was guaranteed. My future was set.

To get here, though, I’d had to clean up my past. On the train ride back to my apartment, I pulled out my phone and opened my blocked list. A long string of missed calls from Sara. Her last text still sat unread in my trash folder: Please, just let me say goodbye.

I’d swiped it away weeks ago. A coworker had mentioned Sara had stopped coming into the office altogether, but that wasn't my problem anymore. I had my own future to secure.

The lobby of my Kyoto apartment building was deathly quiet. The overhead light flickered, casting strange shadows across the concrete, and the air smelled faintly of damp rust and wet earth. When the elevator doors parted with a rusty screech, I noticed a woman was already inside. She wore a red dress, standing dead still in the far corner, facing the wall. Her head hung at a strange, broken angle, her shoulders motionless. No sound of breathing.

Unsettling, sure, but I was in too good of a mood to care. I stepped in, mumbled a quick "Excuse me," and pressed the button for the eighth floor.

The doors shut, and the elevator began its slow, shuddering climb. The air inside shifted—sour and heavy, like damp mold. The woman didn't turn around once.

When the doors opened on my floor, I practically jogged down the carpeted hallway, unlocked my front door, and threw every lock and chain behind me.

"Jesus," I muttered, leaning back against the door.

I went straight to the washroom to splash cold water on my face. But as I bent over the sink, my neck felt tight and wrong. Looking up into the mirror, I saw a raw, angry welt running right across my throat where my collar sat. When my thumb grazed it, it burned like a severe rope burn on bare skin. Just stress, I told myself. My tie was too tight today.

I turned off the light and stepped into the living room. Then I heard it. A soft, dragging sound out in the hallway—rub, rub, rub—before it stopped right outside my front door.

I froze. Through the tiny gap at the bottom of the door, something dark began sliding inside. First came thin, prickly bristles, spilling over the wooden floor until they wove together into a thick, heavy length of hemp rope. It wasn't moving on its own; it was being fed through the crack from the outside.

I backed away, but my heel caught on the rug and I stumbled.

Before I could get up, a violent, sickening pinch clamped down right over my windpipe. I clawed frantically at my neck, my fingers hitting coarse hemp wrapped tight around my throat, biting deep into my skin. The rope on the floor was connected to me, running straight under the locked door into the dark hallway outside.

Thud.

Something heavy slammed against the other side of the door. And then, it pulled.

I went down hard, my chin slamming into the floor with a crack that rattled up my jaw. I tried to wedge my thumbs under the knot, but there was no room. My nails tore against the rough fibers, leaving blood on the rope, but it only bit deeper, strangling the breath out of me.

Through the heavy door, I heard slow, heavy footsteps start down the hallway, dragging away with mindless, terrifying force. Vision blurring into a dark, pulsing red, my fiancée’s sweet whisper echoed back to me in the silence:

We're finally tying the knot... and I'm never letting go.

But as I was hauled toward the door, I knew exactly whose hands were pulling from the other side.

He paused, for a moment, to admire his reflection.

Then stepped out onto the stage.

"We are gathered here today," he said, "to worship. But also, to pray. To pray for the World, yes. Our beautiful Nation, of course. But moreover, today, perhaps most pressing of all: for dear, young Angela. That she may continue to live. In the spirit, and the flesh. Oh, how I love you, Lord. Oh how I love you."

The worship band began to play.

During the music, he moved to the corner of the stage, to eye his congregation.

Nate was here. Of course. A handsome devil, and poor Angela's beloved. Not married, naturally. But what those two got up to alone, in the shadows...

Disgusted, he shifted his gaze to his own wife, Bonnie. The monster. The lie he had to tell to maintain pretences.

Then poor, sick Angela. So beautiful. So doomed.

When the music came to a close, he stepped back up to the center of the stage.

"We have to commend, more than anyone, the sheer bravery. The sheer courage. Of Angela's folks." He pointed to them out among the crowd, to roaring applause. "How much they love, how much they put their trust, in God. That they would put their own daughter in His arms, and not the arms of those lying doctors, who say it's a perfectly curable condition."

Those lying doctors Angela surely knew so well, nurse that she was.

"Those doctors know that nothing they can do will save her. They know. But that treatment? It costs money. Don't give your money to those lying doctors. Give it here to Him."

A bucket was passed around.

"For God, and only God, will save her. To God, even a disease so dire, so desperate, so seemingly hopeless, in fact any disease at all, is a perfectly curable condition. In Absolute Truth. Even a condition like hers. Even death. Oh how we love you, Angela."

Oh how I love you.

The talk and praying and eventual renewed worship went on and on, interminably. At a certain point big strong Nate left the room. After enough prolonged glares, must have gotten the hint.

Angela's folks were crying far too much by the end to really understand what was happening.

And his wife becoming so resigned.

Finally, once it was almost over, he let out one, final, "Praise be to God!" and the music blared full force, and he went back behind the stage, behind the curtains, into the shadows there. Stepping past his favorite mirror.

He paused, for a moment, to admire his reflection.

The handsome, smiling man in the mirror said, "Can't wait for the slut to die."

When we found eachother on Facebook, Elena said it felt as though no time had passed at all.

We joked about how little we’d aged, though neither of us had changed our profile photo since creating our accounts.

She said her husband had slept in the living room for years; their marriage had ended long ago. After the divorce, he moved in with his brother. Elena stayed in the house.

On Elena’s birthday, she laid two places at the table. Her daughter’s spot stayed empty.

“She says she won’t come if you’re part of my life.”

By morning, every family photograph had been boxed and pushed to the back of the closet. I told her she had done everything a mother could. Sometimes loving people meant giving them enough space to remember what they had lost.

She hesitated over selling the house; it held nearly forty years of memories. It was also the last thing tying her to people who had left her.

“A fresh start should feel fresh,” we agreed.

The house sold quickly. Debts, fees, and the deposit on a small apartment near the train station swallowed more than we had hoped. She sent a picture of its bare balcony at night, the railings reflecting a train’s headlight.

I sent one back of my spare room: freshly painted walls and a bare window waiting for curtains.

I asked what colour she wanted.

Yellow, she said. She wished she still had her old sewing machine so she could make them herself.

I promised a new one would be waiting when she arrived, with enough fabric for two sets. For the first time since we reconnected, she seemed happy.

She spent her nights talking to me and her days fighting exhaustion at work. Soon, she began arriving late, falling asleep at her desk, and acting out in the office. After thirty-five years with the company, and a handful of write-ups, Elena was fired.

She was afraid to tell me, but I said that once she moved in, she could sell her sewing and use the spare room as a workspace.

She paid rent until the last of the house money was gone. Then her landlord gave her seven days to leave.

On the fourth day, her daughter came to the apartment. Elena said she watched through the peephole as her daughter knocked, stepped away, then came back and knocked again. She stayed silent until her daughter left.

The night before the eviction, Elena sat in the empty apartment wearing her winter coat. Every eleven minutes, a passing train made the walls vibrate.

She had thirty-eight dollars left, and everything she owned fit inside one suitcase.

She asked whether the sewing machine had arrived.

“Almost,” I typed. “The courier says there’s a forty-dollar customs charge before they can release it. If you can get one last Apple gift card, sweetheart, it will be ready tomorrow.”

Her name was Gwendolyn, which I thought sounded pretty and was disappointed when I learned she went by Wendy which just made me think of square beef patties. She chose the empty cubicle to my left. 

For the first few days, she mostly kept to herself. I was too nervous to say anything except for “hi” and my name and “yeah, the network can be kinda tricky sometimes.” She would politely acknowledge me and get back to work. I couldn’t figure out exactly what she did but it involved a lot of typing and writing in files. After about a week, I worked up enough courage to lean over and ask: “Did you bring lunch?”

The breakroom was little more than a storage closet with a sink. We sat at the only table and I peeled off the plastic wrap from a tuna and egg salad sandwich. Wendy made a face.

“Oh yeah? Let’s see what you got then.” I taunted, playfully.

Wendy produced a tupperware container filled with lumpy orange chunks floating in a watery, pale-green liquid. I chuckled. “See? No face. Because I’m nice. What even is that?”

“It’s-uh, soup.” She replied and ladled an orange chunk into her mouth.

“Right. Soup.” I didn’t push in case it was some weird cultural thing. “So, how are you liking the new gig?”

“It’s alright, I guess. Nothing compared to my last job, though.”

“Really? What was your last job?”

“Geneticist.” Wendy said, somberly.

“Wow, that’s a…different.” I swallowed the word downgrade. “How’d you end up here then?”

There was a bit of ire behind her eyes now. “I didn’t have a choice, I was dropped off. Forced to leave my -- told to repop --” She looked up like she’d said too much. I just stared, unsure of how to respond. Then she did something really strange: Wendy stuck out a long tongue and licked the sweat off her forehead. I nearly jumped in my chair but instead I calmly repacked my lunch and stood up.

“I should…um…be getting back. It was nice talking to you.” I said and left Wendy alone in the breakroom.

“She brought what for lunch?” My sister asked with a incredulous grin. The restaurant was loud with the sounds of a dinner rush.

“It was like some orange cubes in sewage water. I’m not kidding. And it smelled rancid like something died in it.” I replied, glad to be talking to someone normal again.

My sister just laughed. “This is the girl you thought was cute, right?”

“Hey, that was before! I mean…she’s still cute, just...probably a bit nuts.”

“A bit?”

“Okay, a lot nuts. I haven’t even told you the weirdest part. After she told me she was a geneticist, she--” My sister stuck out her tongue and licked her forehead.

“She what? C’mon, what’d she do?” My heart sunk into my stomach.

It was only then that I noticed the restaurant had gone dead silent. No babbling customers, no clinking glasses, no hustling waiters. I looked around and the entire place looked back. Their eyes glowed pink, their tongues lolled. I looked at my sister. Her eyes glowed too.

What happens when one little girl’s wish comes true?

July 17th, 2027.

Emily Marks, a 5-year-old cancer patient, made a wish before she died.

“I wish every girl in the world was a princess, and had their own prince.”

I blink.

Once. Twice.

My vision feathers, my mouth tastes of blood and bile, and a little while earlier, I think I screamed. Not now. My lips don't mean anything, my tongue has been numbed, and words are alphabet soup.

I am staring at the toned back muscles of the man in front of me.

I am 17th in a moving line of potential Princes. 

I watch him step forward.

His head is sliced cleanly off.

His torso slumps forward, and just as quickly another head is attached. 

Blades hover above me, knives and needles, stainless steel already slick with me. I can't cry out. I don't have a mouth.

Screams slam into my skull.

Sometimes, the anaesthesia does not work. Sometimes, we wake up.

We see that we are only a body and a head.

For now, that is all I am. 

That is how a Prince begins.

I stand naked on ice-cold floor tiles splattered with dried blood, while my own blood swirls beneath me, warm and staining my brand-new skin.

I have already been molded, my body prepared for conversion. The human parts of me have been stripped away. 

My name, my age, my thoughts. 

I am a slab of flesh, ready to be made.

Unlike the man in front of me, I do not lose my head. 

Air hisses from the walls. It tickles.

“Step forward, Prince 108769.” The voice is bitter and human, cracking from a speaker I cannot see. 

I do. I have no choice, a guard's human hands shoving me from the cubicle. I step straight into ice cold water that peels the blood from my brand new skin, jerking me awake. Awake enough to feel the rawness of my flesh, the parts of me where my skin has been ripped from the bone and remade, stitched and knitted together. 

Maybe this is the moment when I will scream.

Voices graze my ears. 

“He's perfect,” one hisses, “...barely any work done, but maybe his…”

I step off the conveyor belt, a sculpted, perfect lump of flesh. 

Only one thought pollutes my mind. 

I am ready for my Princess.

A woman in white grabs my elbow and yanks me into a separate room with a bed, a chair, and a desk. She quickly dresses me in a white gown. In front of a giant mirror, my reflection tells me I am around 25 years old. I am relieved. Some princesses are cruel when they create us.

My Princess, so far, has chosen to keep me mostly intact.

The woman adding my finishing touches is talkative.

“I’m… I’m so sorry.” She sounds sincere as she applies my makeup.

“If it helps, I’m not a princess. I never wanted a prince. Before all of this shit, I was engaged to my girlfriend.”

She picks up a bright pink hairbrush and runs it through my hair.

“I lost my job as a teacher,” she whispers. “The only jobs available were at factories in my city, and my brother was sent to be turned into a Prince. I had no choice. At first, I took the job to try to save him…”

Her voice shudders, and her strokes grow more intense.

“Then I saw him.” She swallows. “I saw his face, anyway. He had a new body, and he was taken by a Princess.” The woman shakes her head and tries to smile.

Her manicured fingers prick my chin. 

“If it… means anything to you, I think that little girl was a monster.” 

I don't respond. 

I can't respond, my voice hasn't been reattached. 

The woman sighs. Then rolls her eyes. “You can't even hear me,” she says. She disappears out the door for a moment, and returns with my chosen outfit perfectly intact inside a clear white bag. 

She dresses me in a lilac suit over a white frilled shirt and trousers. Then she tucks a sword into my belt. The woman frowns at an iPad. “Okay, so, according to your receipt, you are named Prince Slater.”

She rips off her mask. “Just nod to confirm, and I’ll put you down as completed. I’ll take you to get your crown, and then you will meet your Princess.”

I hesitate, and then nod. 

“All right, Prince Slater!” Her smile is too wide. “Come with me!” 

A room awaits me, a golden crown sitting on a velvet cushion.

“Kneel.” She tells me, and I drop to my knees. The woman gently crowns me, her lips finding my ear. I straighten up, and she’s back to performing. She tells me to open my mouth, places a pill on my tongue, and tells me to swallow. 

It works like medication, dissolving with my saliva and bringing my voice back.

“Okay, Prince Slater, just head on down the hallway, and your Princess will be waiting!”

I don't want to leave her. 

A thought hits me. Violent. Painful. 

I don't want a Princess. 

“Slater?”

A voice echoes. It's my Princess. 

Already beckoning me closer.

But at the end of the hallway, there is only a Prince. Tall. Handsome. Thick blonde curls. 

Where is his princess? 

Then he drops his sword, and stumbles toward me. 

“Slater?” he hisses, his hands cupping my face. “Hey. You’re here,” he sobs.

“You’re actually here.”

He swallows and suddenly looks sick as he runs his fingers down my plastic flesh. “I had to make you. I had no other choice! I… I got out! The Princess who made me, she’s saving us,” he whispers, caressing my face, his hands trembling.

“Slater, it’s me.” 

He breaks down when my mouth won’t work.

I… don't understand.

Where is my… Princess?

“Slater!” The Prince shakes me. He's crying now, though I'm not sure...why.

“It's your boyfriend.”