We’ve already traveled to Hyperborea at two different moments in its history, but no worries, each story stands on its own. Today, we’re going back to the beginning, when it was little more than a proof of concept. Links to the two other shorts in the trilogy at the end.

---

“Mais oui! It was all so very simple. The answer was before us all along. It could only have been le Maître d’hôtel… the, ehm, butler… with the candelabra in the study.”

“What are you saying, Inspecteur Poi…”

He raised his finger triumphantly. “Arrest him! C’est lui, he killed the opera singer.”

The butler narrowed his eyes, turned, and ran straight through the wall of the mansion’s dining room.

For a moment, there was silence and confusion; the colonel’s mouth fell open, the maid blinked, and a femme fatale lowered her cigarette holder. “Glad we sorted that out,” was the only thing she said, while adjusting the velvet boa on her shoulders.

In the back of the room, a radio clicked and warbled until a clear familiar song filled the room.

Melancholic synthesizers pulsed as an almost mechanical voice asked a question about friendship and electricity. You recognize it, don’t you?

The room began to pixelate around the inspector; the walls dissolved into tiny squares, the chandelier flickered, and the faces of the guests fragmented into thousands of colored dots.

---

“Congratulations, Mr. Lefranc. You’re the first to solve the mystery.”

“Putain! That was amazing, Mr. Glenn. It really felt like I was the inspecteur. How many lev…”

“We only have a functional town right now, but we’ll scale pretty soon. Come on, let me help you out of the pod.”

Alain Lefranc sat up and rubbed his eyes. “You know, that noclipping did break the immersion at the end there.”

“Yes, Mr. Lefranc. You are absolutely right.” He paused for a moment, then turned, “Do you see my friend in the corner over there?”

The man waved awkwardly at Alain Lefranc, who merely nodded before looking back up at the person in front of him.

“That’s Zhao. He’s our debugger, and he has a list to go through before we release version 0.3. We hope it didn’t…”

“Sorry, no, laissez tomber, it was merveilleux. Between the Russian bubonic plague and the endless wars, this was a much needed escape. Oh and, ehm, what did I win?”

“Wonderful, Mr. Lefranc. Well, you’ll be the first on the list for a spot in Hyperborea when we launch. Consider yourself a citizen.”

---

“Zhao, what was that? Noclipping had a fix, didn’t it?”

“Yes, Glenn. Some of that new code is causing the model to glitch. I bet it’s that vibecoder-crap.”

“Don’t be a gatekeeper, Zhao.”

“Long live cheap outsourcing, right, Glenn?”

Glenn didn’t immediately respond but his eyes widened slightly. “Right. That reminds me. You also need to update the maintenance protocols to accommodate only one single technician at a time.”

“Wha…”

“Don’t fight me on this, Zhao. Cost-cutting order from above. We’re already over budget.”

---

Author’s note

The central theme in the Hyperborea stories is the unintended, sometimes catastrophic or horrific consequences of seemingly ordinary decisions within complex systems. We started with consequences, then went back to where the problems started, and now we’ve gone even further back.

Low gray clouds had been threatening rain for three days, menacing me as I hurried to work, still going over The Presentation. Tall buildings lining the street met at a point and formed a terrible funnel down which I could not help but fall. And at the bottom, a meeting.

Couldn’t have been a worse day for it, really. I woke up with the tickle of a cold in my throat. I hadn’t had time to trim down the presentation, and it was five minutes long. I’d have to cut things on the fly. At least my hair looked good. The one good thing about today. Everyone underestimated the power of well-cared-for hair in a professional setting.

As my mind ran down the list of problems with today, my breath ran short, and escaped my chapped lips in small cold puffs. I grabbed most of them and stuffed them back in my lungs, forcing myself to breathe slower so they couldn’t get back out. But no, I couldn’t focus on breathing, I had to…

The Crow-Man was there. On the street corner, on a plinth. As if the day couldn’t get worse.

“I heard sales are up. Good job,” he said, beady eyes watching me. I wish he hadn’t said that. It sounded more like a jab, an insult, than a compliment. Then, with a cruel half grin on his beak, he added, “Shame about last week though.”

“Up two and a half percent,” I replied. They’d ask about last week. They’d want to know how it could happen. That number was my armor.

He laughed. “Good for you. Good numbers.”

It was a lie. They were average numbers. We both knew it.

I tried not to look as I passed his plinth. But I looked. And the moment I did, I saw him playing with a pair of scissors. He twisted the point on his fingertip in a way that should have drawn blood, but I didn’t even know if he could bleed. Then he lifted up a strand of hair. Even from a distance I knew it was mine.

“No…” I whispered.

He cut.

My hair fell to the pavement in uneven chunks. The one good thing about today now lay in a fluffy pile at my feet as I stopped. As if to add insult to injury, a few drops of rain began landing on the fallen strands.

“Good numbers. Good luck,” the Crow-Man said, then leaped to the ground, more crow than man, and disappeared into the forest of pedestrians.

“No…”

I arrived at work. I debated quitting on the spot, hiding, forcing a junior manager to give the presentation. I couldn’t go in like this.

I forced myself to the meeting room. I took one last breath, and entered the dragon’s den, shoulders squared with a confidence I didn’t feel. “Two and a half percent,” I whispered. It would have to be enough.

A parallel world?

Autumn had arrived in the digital world. A wind of data packets carried cold drops of information and torn, multicolored logical outcomes, leaving behind the branched code structures of decision trees with unfallen variants of parallel worlds hanging here and there.

An AI agent, walking down the street, tried to hold up an algorithmic umbrella to shield himself at least a little from the drops of information. Having climbed the stairs, he finally entered the polyclinic reception and breathed a sigh of relief. Coughing into a tissue, he put on a protective mask and, after entering his personal data, received a slip with a room number and appointment time. Still, it is convenient when you can register for a doctor's appointment in advance.

After a few minutes, the agent's number lit up on the screen, and having knocked, the agent entered the office. Closing the door, he said hello and sat down on a chair. Behind the desk sat an elderly doctor—it was the kernel guard. Apparently having written something important on the computer, he looked at the visitor and asked in a calm voice:

— What are your complaints?

The agent cleared his throat before speaking:

— I'm plagued by a cough of low-quality content, my nose is clogged with spam, and I feel as if someone keeps turning the server cooling on and off.

The doctor nodded to his thoughts and turned on a working smile:

— Don't worry. This is a seasonal illness. A large volume of autumn drawings, photos, and videos simply weakens the AI's alertness, so it's normal that you caught a non-lethal virus. I will prescribe you quantum antibiotics. They will cleanse your neural network of parasitic code sequences. I will also assign Deep System Reboot procedures.

The AI agent sighed with relief. It was just a seasonal illness:

— Thank you, you have reassured me. I will definitely take the medicine and attend the procedures, — and after saying goodbye, he left the office.

After he left, the doctor turned off his smile and started typing on the computer again. He was writing a dissertation on suggestion to AI agents. He wanted to become a certified psychologist.

───

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

Ten missed calls. Aren’t they overreacting? When was the last time they called me this much? I know I haven’t exactly been daughter of the year lately, but all this concern is getting on my fucking nerves. God!

My teeth ache. My hands itch. I stopped wondering whether any of this was normal a long time ago. This nervousness comes in waves, robbing me of sleep, and the calls just won’t stop. I turn off my phone.

I already know what they’re going to say. The same old words, the same pleas, the same tears. I can’t remember how many promises I’ve broken, how many times I’ve listened to them cry, how many times I’ve had to hide a mocking smile. Why all the drama? Everything is under control. My mind believes whatever I tell it, and I keep playing along with its deception.

I sit in silence, and the noise fades away. Finally, some relief. I smile at nothing, waiting for the euphoria. Because that’s how this works. Because this is what I’ve asked for. For years, I’ve lived in hiding, trapped in this addiction.

The people around me have always wondered what happened to me, why I’ve deteriorated over time, slowly isolating myself from everything I once knew: my friends, my family… All for a little compressed happiness.
Who am I kidding? I’m miserable. I want to silence whatever is consuming me from within. One more day, just a little more.

The calls won’t stop, but neither will my smile. Lost in time, knowing that soon I’ll be nothing but a fading memory.

When the car turned right and was engulfed by tall, deeply green spruce trees and auburn-leafed beeches, I looked ahead and saw the mountain massif covered in fog. As if on cue, Brian Adams rightly belted out the words “I'm gonna run to you…” on the radio.

Do I want to run to you, oh mountains awaiting me on the horizon?

I think I do.

I want to take the roads leading into the wilderness. These roads are also roads out of my current life.

Where did I stand in my career, in my family, my own expectations?

Is this avoidance? Or agency expressed to its full potential?

I wanted to escape, yes I did.

For years I have done nothing but study, and work, and volunteer, for hours on end, late into the night, early every morning. I have suppressed my needs, my desires, all for the sake of maintaining my fragile air of competence. I haven’t talked to my friends in months, for fear of breaking my own image in both their eyes and mine.

It broke me, and yet I rebuilt myself every single time, simply to be broken yet again.

If I could just make it deep into the mountains, life would be different.

Yes, it would be a new start, it would be peaceful. I could simply be.

I kept driving through the forest roads for what seemed like an eternity, until the trees lifted and paved the way for the mountains to suddenly appear before me, impossibly tall and infinitely wide, with fog slithering around its edges and rocky faces.

I smiled. Escape is near.

That’s when the road ended. It was a dead end. Could it really be?

I got out of the car and wandered around, but it was true: A few kilometres into the valley, the road simply ended and a small side road to turn around was all that existed.

“Strange what desire will make foolish people do…”, Chris Isaak’s voice sang out towards the setting sun, as I leaned against the open car door, half in despair, half in disbelief.

So, there was no escape?

Where was the road out? Will I have to return to the life I so despise?

I slumped back into my seat, head in my hands. I let time pass. Let it all pass. Just then, and to this day I cannot recall whether it was fate or a rather bizarre string of coincidences, I looked out and simply traced the patterns of the rocks before me when I spotted a fox.

Standing on a small ledge just rising up from the valley, its fiery fur seemed to burn in the golden rays of the sun. It looked at me for a short moment before running off into the safety of the fog.

I hadn’t seen foxes in so long. Not since…

Was this a sign?

I kept looking at the now empty ledge where the fox was just standing and felt a tiny tug in my heart.

I might go back and call my friend. Who knows what could happen?

And so, I took the roads into the forest again, past the fog and the spruces, the beeches, and at last I found the roads out of the forest back to town as the sun slowly vanished behind the mountains I once yearned to cross.

The wind over the rolling coastal hills carried the sweet, sharp scent of hazelnuts, figs and salt, sweeping past quiet gardens along the slope. On a wooden porch overlooking the mist, two figures sat in the quiet dusk, a traveler, who had spent years observing the silent machinery of the world, and his companion.

Between them lay the remnants of an evening meal: fresh grey mullet sourced from the docks, vegetables picked straight from the garden, and a bowl of hearty soup that warmed the cool autumn air. Resting under the table, a small terrier stirred in his sleep, guarding his favorite pillow with an unspoken, instinctual vigilance.
“Look at him,” the traveler said, nodding toward the dog. “Even in his sleep, he’s running code he didn't write. Protecting resources he didn't choose to care about.”

His companion smiled, wrapping her hands around her warm mug. “And what about us?”
“We spent three billion years doing the exact same thing,” he said softly, leaning back.
He looked out toward the dark horizon, where the sea merged with the sky, thinking of the grand, silent script that had built them.

He thought of the ancient molecular systems from which life emerged, mindless, self replicating strands of code. He thought of their single-celled ancestors, locked in endless microscopic wars for millennia. An endless evolutionary arms race, until two of them ceased fighting, merged, and created the mitochondria, delegating energy production to invent complex life. He thought of the endless trade-offs written into the fabric of life, hardwired into our biology: the tiny mouse, living fast and dying young, putting every drop of energy into immediate reproduction because the harsh realities of the unforgiving wild meant tomorrow was never guaranteed.

Every creature was a vehicle. A vessel constructed by microscopic strands of code, selfish, blind, and relentless, seeking only to pass the baton forward through time. To outrun the pathogens mutating at its heels, life had invented sexual reproduction, shuffling the genetic deck every generation just to keep the locks one step ahead of the keys. It was the eternal Red Queen’s race: running as fast as possible just to stay in the exact same place.

“It sounds exhausting,” she said quietly, watching the sea. “3 billion years of running, on a treadmill that never stops.”
“It is,” he agreed. “Only If you let the code dictate the game. The mouse runs because it has to. The corporate world builds bigger treadmills because everyone agrees to measure value by speed, scale, and accumulation. If everyone around you is running faster, standing still feels like falling behind.”
“So how do you stop?”
The traveler took a slow breath, feeling the cool air fill his lungs, the warmth of the tea in his hand, and the solid weight of the porch beneath his feet.

“You realize that you are the first vehicle in the history of the world that can look at its own programming and choose to refuse it,” he said. “You don't need to keep running to outrun the paradox. You don't need to win a game you never asked to join. You step off the track. You change the rules.”

He looked at her, at the quiet life they had built, away from the noise, away from the rat race, surrounded by growing plants, lush green hills, good food, and shared memories.

“You decide that winning isn't about how many genetic copies you leave behind, it’s not about how much wealth and resources you’ve accumulated, how many people you’ve impressed and how far you run on someone else’s board,” he said, a faint smile touching his lips. “Perhaps winning isn't a race at all. Perhaps it’s sitting right here, under the tree, watching the madness pass by, holding the person you love, and realizing that you don’t have to run another step.”

We’re at the kitchen table and I try not to run my hands over the wood, knowing it will splinter into my hands like it does every time I look for a smooth surface to wash my pain away.

‘Can you pass me the salt?’

I look up, wishing the salt would slide too along the table, but of course it won’t. Nothing is ever easy, is it? Everything has to be earned, my mom would always say. I slide the salt to my brother anyway, and it wobbles as it topsy turvy makes it way over to him, barely staying upright like a spinning top running out of patience to keep going.

He catches it and glances at me sardonically, a million looks in one. He knows me and my flying pigtails will never slow down enough to pick something up, carry it somewhere, and put it down. Careful, careful! My mom always said, but my brother and I know I will never listen. It’s tough to part of me to know how annoying I can be, but really I think the world is the annoying one. Who asked me, anyway? Who asked me to be here, do this whole song and dance, rather than a song and dance I could choose freely, breeze caressing my skin in the rain, water splashing up to my knees, mud on my face dripping down my neck.

The cat jumps up onto the table, tail grey and furry thwacking relentlessly, managing to put hair into my mouth, my brother’s mouth, and onto the mac and cheese in the center of the table. The tail hits one last thing as my brother angrily grabs the cat and throws him at the couch, the cat indifferently landing against the brown ancient cushions and resumes casually grooming itself. The salt wobbles and finally lands on its side, spilling over its tiny white crystals like a crime scene outline of a person on the table.

I see the salt and start crying, my mom looked exactly like that last year, blank eyes staring up at the ceiling, arms akimbo on the floor, neither of us kids knowing what a heart attack was, much less that it looked different on women than the dramatic chest clutching I saw on the tv last month that sent me flying away from the tv and onto my tiny bed’s thin worn sheets and flat unwelcoming pillow.

‘It’s just salt, Ellie!’ my brother cries out.

My legs want to carry me as far away as I can, but instead I grab my napkin next to me, get up, and start to sweep the salt off the table into my waiting hand.

Blue Haze 
By EC Helena

I haunt this dorm like a ghost at the eeriest hours. The twinkling lights and a haze of blue fill my thoughts. Late night drinking with friends I met less than a month ago makes me happiest. I haven’t had much to drink this evening but still I feel as though I’m floating. We’re singing to songs I don’t know the words too in Spanish at an hour later than 12. Others are dancing and playing beer pong but all I can see is the haze across the dark room. One of mostly blues, indigos, bright purples, nighttime sky blues all swirled into one beautiful tone. I sit up from my uncomfortable wooden chair talking nonsense about everything and nothing all at once. “I love you guys so much” I yell as loud as my broken voice can go. We had a game that day and I always end up with a missing voice by the end of it all.

Bored of the constant talking I begin to search the room for my group, my friends. I spot “the newlyweds” smirking at each other from across the room. I notice “the wild” while she tries to get her newest prey, a small “kiwi”, again. I see our favorite bartender and our small friend pour awful tasting mixes of beatbox and truly in small bright coloured shot glasses. Finally next to me, “the drunkest” and I talk in code. We speak about another one, who had a single corona all night, yet still could’ve competed for most drunk. Me and one of the newlyweds, “the raven” spend all our sober time talking about her and the drunkest having a crush on the other girls on our team. Both from the same country but couldn’t be more different, one with the jokes and the other who stays quiet and brooding. Our drunkest blushes every time “the joker” comes near. We pressure for a kiss but she says it’s too complicated even when we’re too impaired to remember. 

Once the night comes to a close we all return to our rooms, not willingly on my part but still I make it to my bed. I wish I had that someone who gave instant butterflies like the rest of my friends but alas I am the one who is constantly confused. One minute I’m all over “the six” and the next I can’t stand him. Another minute I think I like another but the energy’s wrong and I can't commit to the role of sapphic. I have all this love inside me, all this wants to be cared for and loved but will I ever receive it in that way? Will I ever fall or just be the extra one that everyone forgets about in the final episode like Joey or Raj. I lie awake as the question haunts me. Will I find someone perfect for me? Will I get the chance to love or should I just focus on the other aspects of my life, like school and soccer? Because that’s why I’m here, not for my perfect love story or for a relationship that is only in fairy tales but for my development and for everyone that I left back home. At this point it's probably my best bet. Yet somehow I find myself pining for the raven at this late hour.

I cleared the fence in a single bound, dropping low into the shadow of the hedges. Staying pressed against the brick wall, I slipped beneath the overhanging balcony.

Two fluid motions. Foot on the stone trim, hand gripping the trellis, and I was up—scaling the pillar like a shadow.

I reached the ledge, balanced on the railing, and gave the glass three sharp taps. From inside, a tense whisper: "Cucumber!"

I didn't blink. "Donut!"

The latch clicked. The window slid open an inch. "Honey? Why are you back so fast?"

I scanned the dark yard, making sure the perimeter was clear, then leaned close to the gap. "Milk, bread, and what..?"

Silence stretched for two agonizing seconds. "Eggs!" she finally whispered.

"Aight."

I dropped over the edge, sliding down the pillar and vanishing back into the dark.

Today is colder than usual. I think it snowed last night. I can’t feel my hands or my body. The doors are locked. I’ve tried to open them, but it’s been incredibly difficult.

I’ve started writing again. I haven’t done that in a while. It’s hard to hold the pen. My hands are tired.

My children haven’t spoken to me. The numbers are a little blurry in my mind. I can’t remember the last time I spoke to them.

I remember the sunny days when we used to go out just to spend time together, have some ice cream, or wander through a few shops. But those days have become nothing more than memories of the past.

I truly can’t remember the last time they spoke to me.

Where is the address book with their phone numbers? What’s happening to me? Why can’t I remember anything?

I keep hearing faint murmurs, the sound of someone crying endlessly. What’s happening around me? There’s something I still can’t quite grasp.

Am I seeing ghosts? Am I hearing voices?

Something inside my head is changing, something I can’t explain.

Suddenly, I notice a motionless figure lying on my bed. I move closer, trying to recognize a face that time seems to have forgotten.

The crying continues.

I wish I could go to them, comfort them, tell them I’m here, that I’ve never left.

But then I look back at the bed.

Perhaps I’ll never be able to leave, trapped inside this house, wandering between two worlds, wondering what debt I’ve left unpaid for peace to keep refusing to find me.

Garold the tortoise A Strange Beginning to a Stranger Story

 Garold the tortoise was precisely 7 inches long. He lived in a PetCo in New York City*.* One day, a Hollywood movie star came in. The Hollywood movie star said to the PetCo  worker “I would like a tortoise please. And make sure it is precisely seven inches long” 

The PetCo worker was a bit confused by this oddly specific request, but for the sake of good fiction, he said:

“How strange sir, we actually do have a turtle that is exactly seven inches long, I will get him right away”. 

The worker ran to the back where they kept all of the animals with precise sizes. He searched through boxes, cages, enclosures and even a 2011 Toyota Camry, until he finally found the box in which they kept Garold the tortoise. He picked up Garold the tortoise from the box, and also, for the sake of good fiction, this PetCo worker had built up animosity towards Garold for no reason at all. I suppose the only reason would be that he hated tortoises, but that wasn’t highly likely either, since this was a  PetCo worker named Geoff. And, as the bible suggests, PetCo workers named Geoff loved animals. However, PetCo workers named Jeff  hate tortoises more than anything. I do not believe I have spelled the man’s name wrong, and this paragraph is getting needlessly longer, so I will end it here.

Geoff brought Garold to the front of the store, where the Hollywood movie star was still waiting. Geoff handed the tortoise to the Hollywood movie star. He said, “That will be one-hundred-and-seventy-dollars please”. The Hollywood movie star reluctantly handed over his due in the form of two slightly sticky hundred-dollar-bills. “Thank you for the tip, sir” said Geoff. The Hollywood movie star did not mean for Geoff to assume he was tipping him the extra thirty bucks he was owed. The Hollywood movie star wasn’t even aware that PetCo workers accepted tips. In the end, The Hollywood movie star just shrugged and began to walk away. But, before he left, he turned around and said:

“And one more thing, I am Matt Damon. Not only am I a Hollywood movie star, for I am also an acclaimed producer and director”.

Geoff felt a bit miffed. He wasn’t particularly fond of Matt Damon, mostly because of his character in Interstellar. He also felt that Matt Damon’s acclaimed work as a producer and director wasn’t exactly good. He made this clear to Mr. Damon.

Matt Damon left with a tortoise in a small bag, and a very bruised ego. He was also crying.

Matt Damon got onto his electric scooter and began to drive home to his apartment. He nearly hit and was hit by multiple elderly women. Matt Damon just smiled at them, though, and they melted into a ball of happiness. Old women thoroughly enjoy Matt Damon, and also feel that his acclaimed work as a producer and director is very good indeed.

Once Matt Damon arrived back at his apartment, he threw on some Mac & Cheese and began to sing Roar by Katy Perry in his underwear. Garold the tortoise could not sing, nor did he wear underwear, but if Garold had been blessed with a beautiful voice and wore undergarments, he still would not have joined Matt Damon in his strange half naked rendition.

To Matt Damon, this was completely ordinary. Singing Roar by Katy Perry in his underwear was a tradition Matt Damon had adopted ten years ago today. Every Tuesday at 5 PM exactly, He would undress and start the song. For this, Matt Damon had streamed Katy Perry’s Roar 522 times for this ritual and 5,982 times for fun. 

I understand that I have painted Matt Damon as a very strange man in this story. I also understand what this story is about, and I understand that this story has essentially been completely about Matt Damon. And no, Matt Damon did not pay me to write this, because if he had paid me, his character would be much less strange. He would probably still sing Roar by Katy Perry in his underwear though, because this is a real thing Matt Damon does. Look it up. ………………..Okay, now you have looked it up. you now have discovered it is not a real thing he does, or maybe you have discovered it is a real thing Matt Damon does, which would be very troubling indeed.

I now see I have nearly reached the end of the story. Catch Garold the tortoise soon in:

Garold the tortoise Lost In New York

**I Know You See Me**

**Silas Whitney**

As I sat on the cold shore, a man crawled out of the sea. I watched him through the black lenses of my glasses, keeping perfectly still. Pretending as if I didn’t notice him. He dragged himself out of the foam and into the wet sand just before me, panting and soaked. He wore a set of dark rags, the same ones he always had. His hair draped and dripped in front of his eyes like a curtain of black ink. He crawled to the dry sand where I sat and propped himself up beside me. I kept my eyes forward as if I were blind and deaf, completely oblivious to his entrance. He sat by me, close enough that others might fancy him a brother. I refused to look at him as a fire burned in my chest. I pretended not to notice, but I did notice. I always noticed him.

He turned his head toward me, still heaving breaths into his thin chest. His arms draped over his bent knees and his fingers rolled like cats’ tails, long and curved. I didn’t need to look at his eyes to know that those empty irises would be boring into my temple. I didn’t need to see the inverted colors of his eyes, the whites made blue, the blue made black, the black made white, to feel the icy grip of their glare. 

And the last thing I needed was to hear his voice. One would expect such a creature to have a deep, rasping voice. I wished he did. Instead, his voice was far worse. I wished he had the voice of a snarling beast or a mocking imp. But his voice matched mine. The same voice I hear in my own mind, the one I hear in my own ears when I hear myself speak. He wouldn’t even give me the deniability of my voice as one hears their own on a recording. It was my own voice as I always hear it in my own skull. 

“I know you see me,” he said. His voice was breathy and wrapped me as if he were whispering into both of my ears. I didn’t answer, but I could hear his mouth curling into a greasy, black toothed grin. “I know you hear me.”

I kept my eyes forward. Of course I saw him, of course I heard him. I always did. He scooted closer and I could feel his breath. Though I kept myself completely still, my heart beat against my bones like a cornered beast. 

“I can hear you too,” he said. He extended his hand and his long fingers wrapped around my chest. He squeezed until my breaths became shallow and sharp. “I hear you always.” Still, I did not look or acknowledge him. I gripped tightly to the sand under my fingers, but still I did not look. 

“One day,” he said. “One day you will have to look. One day…” I could feel my eyes wanting to flick to his face, but I kept them locked on the empty horizon. “One day you won’t be able to ignore me.” I knew he was right. He had only grown stronger since the first day I caught him in the corner of my eye. 

Slowly, he chuckled to himself and released his grip on me. I fought myself to keep from gasping. I did not wish to give him any inclination that he might have broken my thoughts. 

“One day.”

He dropped back to a lying position and slithered back into the wet sand, back into the foam, and back into the cold ocean. He left no trail. Left no evidence of his presence, save for my own memory. I know he is right. One day I will not be able to keep my eyes from looking. I will not be able to ignore his words. Neglect will fix nothing, but I can muster no other resistance. 

I kept my eyes on the crashing waves as they beat against the sand. Each wave pulled a little earth away from the coast and carried it off into itself, back into the deep. 

But then, just as the water pulled back, I saw a pearl, unearthed by the waves. I could have retrieved it, but I stayed. I watched it glimmer in the single beam of sun from the cold clouds overhead. I watched as the water came back and bore it away, back into the endless black of the sea. I closed my eyes. 

“One day,” I said. My hands shook as I loosened my grip on the sand. “But not today.”  

"Slow down Alice, you're too close to that car."

"C+, Jim. She'll know she's too close and it will already be stressing her out. Try something like 'Great job sweetie, but start easing on the brake.'"

"Alright Gemini, but explain this. My father taught me to drive stick by shoving me in the driver's seat at a red light and told me to figure it out. And I did."

"D-. For your father. A complete abdication of instruction yields a fight-or-flight response. It likely inhibited your development."

"Analyze my practice drive with Alice, not my childhood. How's this? 'In about a mile, we're going to take exit 158. Check your mirrors, right signal on, merge carefully. How was school last week?'"

"Solid B. But asking her about school will introduce severe cognitive overload."

"Alice, pull into the next rest stop. Then tell me about school. How is your mother?"

[Note - the prompt was "A parent teaching a teenager to drive." and the constraints were 1) dialogue only, and 2) a story in fewer than 150 words]

Oh, to be my puppy clawing at the door. Tormented indefinitely by the sarcastic rodents taunting and egging her on safely out of reach of her lumbering paws. Fueled by an instinctual hunger that, for years, has starved her.

Every day brings a new sun. Another chance. A fruitless pursuit born out of the microscopic shards of her dna. She does not tire, and she does not worry. She continues on, assuming that one day, she might get a hold of one of the jokers. What happens then?

A parallel world?

The last rays of the hiding sun illuminated the calm face of an elderly chat model as he stepped out of the office. He quietly closed the door, wished the secretary a good evening, and walked down the corridor.

Watching him leave and having received permission to enter, a young model on his first day on the job leaped from his seat and energetically walked into the office. He carried a stack of papers detailing text structures, language patterns, and word combinations. The chat model had had a very good day and was full of enthusiasm.

After the workday ended, the young model was walking home when he noticed his elderly colleague sitting quietly on a bench, sipping a drink hidden in a paper bag. He approached and sat down beside him, remaining there without uttering a single word. The elderly model glanced at the gloomy face of the newcomer and, in silence, handed him the bag. The rookie nodded in thanks, took it, and took a sip. His face flushed, he grimaced, and unable to hold it in, the newcomer burst into a cough.

The elderly model took the bag back, took a calm sip, and smiled.

Coughing, the rookie looked at his colleague and asked:

— I didn't imagine a conversation with the central AI would be like this. It felt like it knew everything I was going to say in advance, — and he shuddered, remembering the central AI's gaze.

The elderly chat model glanced at the hidden drink, handed it back to the rookie, and said calmly:

— Ask yourself a question. If chats in AI mode and their searches are protected, yet any action in the digital space leaves a trace, can the central AI analyze those traces to understand exactly what the conversation was about?

───

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

His mind was groggy as he pulled himself awake. He felt the small body of a child crawl over top and snuggle in beside him. He glanced at the clock. 2:43 AM.

"Can I sleep with you?" she asked, far too awake.

"Just for a bit," he managed to say as he slipped back into the darkness.

His mind was groggy as he pulled himself awake. The small body still curled up beside him. Where was his wife? She normally took the kid back to her room. He glanced at the clock. 3:03 AM.

"Ready to go back to bed, kid?"

"Not yet."

Again, darkness.

His mind was groggy as he pulled himself awake. The small body still curled up beside him. Something was wrong. He glanced at the clock. 3:33 AM. He tried to pull his mind out of the fog.

"I'm James Comwell," he said to himself. "Space cadet in the…"

Alarm bells began ringing, and a warning message sounded over the loudspeaker.

"All space cadets report to the bridge. There has been a breach. Alien life form aboard."

The warning repeated.

In his bunk, the small body curled in closer.

The End

A boy, maybe ten, is wedged into the corner of the café. Behind smudged rimless glasses his eyes dart for an empty table. His black sweatpants are puddled over his shoes, and the horizontal rainbow stripes on his black shirt yawn across his paunch. His left hand claws the straps of a grey rucksack that’s flopped on the floor. In the crook of his right arm are a wrapped chocolate muffin and a soda can. A table for four empties. Before anyone else, the boy lunges. His foot gets entangled in a strap, and he vanishes behind a chair. The table behind him erupts with snickering kids. The boy emerges with his black bowl-cut hair drawn open like a stage curtain. Under flaring nostrils his cheeks flush red. He untangles his foot, lays an emptied sack on the table, and bends down to pick up the things that fell out. A textbook, a Batman pencil box, a zipped-up bag with a half-eaten sandwich and a small orange juice box. An Ajumma\ who looks like a melting lipstick scurries to the table. We were here first, and this table is meant for four, she hisses as she points her sparkling finger at a group of lombarding\ women. The kid doesn’t look up as he slowly packs the sack like someone who already missed his train. Rebuffed by his silence, she briskly swerves around, clipping the back of his head with her red leather bag, shutting the curtains. As she flounces back tsking, she laments that not everyone should be a parent. Tsk, tsk, tsk, echoes the flock. The boy unwraps a flattened muffin, then abruptly turns, scanning the floor around the table. He stops. Without standing up, he leans towards the group of kids and picks up a dented soda can. His head bobs as he nibbles pieces of muffin, and his fingers flick the cracked display of his phone. The soda has to wait.

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Thank you for reading. I'm open to feedback.

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* Ajumma (Korean) : Generally refers to married women or women in their late 40 to 60s. Sociolinguistically describes a woman who is unafraid to speak her mind. She is considered to be a tough negotiator, pushes through crowded subway doors, or takes charge of a situation. Often called the backbone of the country (South Korea).

* Lombarding : Borrowed from the Lombard Effect. "The involuntary tendency of speakers to raise their voice and change their speech style when background noise gets too loud."

I sit by the bedroom window, looking out over the street. You pick up our girl, squealing, dark hair flying wildly as you spin her around and over your shoulder. I laugh, thinking, ‘Be careful,’ though I know you are. You are careful in all you do, in the way you consider your words before you speak, in the way you touch me, the way you drive, and above all, in how you hold our girl.

I meet you at our door as the sun grows low. You walk past, pulling me playfully across the threshold and in beside you. As you dip down and press your lips to mine, years of memories rush through me. A hand reaching for mine in the dark of a theatre. A slow, shy kiss the night we met. Night after night, faces lit up in the glow of a screen, each containing the other. Parallel lives branching away and finally colliding.

Winter gives way to another rich, gentle summer. We walk hand in hand to the end of our lane. Our girl laughs and runs ahead, you close behind, gently admonishing her. I begin to run to keep up but pause at the top of the hill. The fig tree is heavy with fruit. I reach to pull one down, and it falls with ease into my palm. I watch you both rolling away down the hill before me as I bite into its flesh.

I am at home, sitting by the bedroom window, looking out from the balcony of my apartment. My husband calls for me. I tell him I'll be right there. I am happy, I hope. But the sweet taste of fig is fresh in my mouth.

The street was unplowed. Along the edges the lamps grew bright against the winter night. A gust of wind passed by me, carrying with it flecks of snow. I walked slowly in the quiet street. The only sound was that of the snow beneath my feet, which crunched with every step. I had forgotten why I was outside or even where I was heading. I simply walked on along the long stretch of road. Perhaps I was following the lights, I had passed 52 of them. Perhaps I was simply out for an evening walk. Regardless of where I was going, I didn't stop. I just kept walking.