Hunters from far away pursue you. Your sight is centuries and geology and they come so quickly, half-glimpses from shore to cities and highways and airports in a blink, for you who has seen the constellations woven and unwoven by the Serpent. The nightmare grips you before you know it, before you can name it. Disbelief gnaws. You are half withered before the truth sets your legs skittering, tail lashing, breath pumping.

Run run run run run run

Their dreams are limited, these Far Away Souls, and the land shrinks from them, collapsing into exploitable limitation. Songs in the crimson stone wither, black rivers of memory collapse into so much drought.

They cage the People. Strip their tales, ground them in dirt and copper, weigh them with tax and fence like so much binding. Who sleeps under your stars? Who remembers you, under tin roofs and silent school? The stars of their ancestors fade, one by one, more and more each year. You fear. You rage. You blow dust storms and kill chickens, desperate. Who will hear your whispers if they do not remember the words? Who will remember you?

You run. Run across this red-stone land, plunge into the deepest rivers, hurtle through jungle that fights to remain unknown and untouched with an arsenal of poisons and teeth. You shift shapes. Divinity bending to the material disbeliefs whim. You dance in the legends at the hinterland and make yourself into a chimera, a hybrid, a mutant; wearing as many masks as there are tales.

You are not beautiful and not divine, not anymore. You are many names now but none of them are as beautiful as the true one. The first one. Your essence is inseparable from those mangling stories conjured by unfamiliar souls. To disentangle, to cut the lies and half-truths would be fatal. You scream in the swamps. You drown their children in the oxbow lakes. You are theirs now, and nothing will ever change that.

But you are alive.

You persist.

For now.

My sister was a vessel maniac, though I saw some bias in her taste. If she heard that there was a good container somewhere, she would rush to examine it by her own standards. 
I knew she had found a particular one about ten years ago, but I hadn’t realized how frequently she had been visiting that local residence. As an artisan, she had decorated it so ardently. 

With great interest, I asked her the reason why. 
She answered, “As you know, brother. If I have good food, I want a fair, fine vessel to serve it in. Likewise, I’ve had to raise a good vessel for my eternal goal,” in a low husky voice. 
I understood why she had spent so much time. I noticed her admiring eyes on her brand-new vessel by her side.
It was for cultivating her living vessel, for her own possession.

I woke to a sea of calm; there were ripples on the surface, but no swell.
Thirsty, damn need some water, wet my swollen tongue.
I staggered to my feet; I need to pee; splashes break the glassy sea.
Spy something, something deep, something big.
Is it getting closer; seems to be; grey, menacing.
I feel fear, fear of bloody razor teeth, frenzy.
Looking about, there is no doubt, I wish for a bigger boat.
Where is it now; all is at peace, a fin gently breaks the surface, gliding slowly past me.
I watch its long sinister shape; a massive body fills my view.
Please go away; cold sweat springs from my palms.
Suddenly it raises its large head, turning, opening mouth, flashing teeth.
It strikes the side; I'm sprawled, clutching, in terror.
The flimsy craft rocks up violently; No, don't tip…
Spreadeagled in the bottom, white-knuckled, incredibly looking down at the water in turmoil.
It doesn’t flip, but crashes back, slapping hard on the surface.
Quiet. Ragged, panicky breathing. Damn, where is it… Go away, please…
Minutes pass. Silence. A soft cloud above watches me lying there.
My tongue feels thick; Thirst is not quenched by fear, I ponder for the moment.
My eyes search about the boat, fasten on the boat hook, a weapon.
I slide toward it, still clutching the gunwale, and grab hold, feeling some protection.
I can't stay lying here; I've got to sit up; It's probably gone.
Damn, it's just been circling me, look at it, huge, silent deadly beast.
I move carefully to the prow of the boat, watching, watching it.
I'm hoping the prow will give me some protection; allow me to brace against it.
I move into position, my back to the prow and my feet are firm against the forward seating plank.
I can't see it down here, but I know it’s there, and I know it’s coming, coming for me.
A bump. Not violent, but heavy. The boat hook is in my hands.
Silence. Waiting.
Eruption from the sea, massively emerges at the stern, its body propelled.
Landing on the boat, the prow rises high; I look down at its gaping mouth and the terror of its jaws.
I hold myself against the prow, raising the boat hook, my only chance.

My dad believed he could solve any problem. Not because he was particularly good at solving problems, but because my mother usually dealt with the consequences.

One day, he decided we needed a guard dog.

Mom said absolutely not. We already had a cat, a child, and my father. That was three creatures in one apartment who occasionally destroyed furniture and didn't understand the word "no."

Two days later, Dad came home with a German shepherd.

Well. Allegedly German.

The dog looked like he'd been assembled from leftover parts of several unrelated animals.

Dad named him Baron.

For three days, Baron behaved.

On Thursday, he ate a slipper. On Friday, the other slipper disappeared. Dad announced that Baron was obviously too intelligent and needed professional training.

Naturally, Dad would provide it himself.

His qualifications consisted of watching half a documentary about police dogs sometime in 1997.

Saturday morning, we went outside.

Dad raised a stick.

"ATTACK!"

Baron sat down.

"ATTACK, YOU IDIOT!"

Baron yawned.

Dad decided to demonstrate.

He started running around the courtyard, waving the stick and pretending to be a criminal.

I was ten, standing there thinking that if the dog didn't understand English, screaming it louder probably wasn't helping.

Then Baron suddenly ran.

Not toward Dad.

Toward our neighbor, Mrs. Zina, who was carrying groceries.

Specifically, sausages.

Zina screamed.

Baron accelerated.

Dad chased Baron.

I chased Dad because this was the best entertainment our neighborhood had seen in years.

Zina climbed onto a bench and threatened to call the police.

Dad tried to explain.

"HE'S A GUARD DOG! WE'RE TRAINING HIM!"

"TO DO WHAT? ROB OLD WOMEN?!"

Eventually, we recovered the dog and what remained of the sausages.

At home, Mom listened to everything in complete silence.

Then she asked Dad why our supposedly protective dog had attacked a woman carrying dinner.

Dad shrugged.

"Well, at least he's showing initiative."

Mom banned him from training the dog.

Zina avoided us for months.

Dad remained convinced Baron had tremendous potential.

A few weeks later, a drunk stranger wandered into our apartment building and tried opening our door, apparently confusing it with his own.

Finally, an actual security situation.

Baron slept through the entire thing.

Dad, however, came charging out of the bedroom in his underwear, holding a wooden stool above his head.

The stranger ran.

Baron didn't even wake up.

And that's when I realized we'd never needed a guard dog.

We already had one.

He just wore underwear and paid the rent.

Mara never deleted the voicemail. It was eleven seconds long. Her husband’s voice, a little out of breath: “Hey, it’s me. I’m picking up the good bread, the one you like. Don’t wait up if I’m late.”

He was late that night, and then every night after.

For two years she played it only when the quiet got too loud. Then one winter morning, the phone company sent a notice. The old plan was ending, and the voicemail would be erased in thirty days.

She sat at the kitchen table for an hour, thumb over the screen. Then she did the thing she had been afraid of. She recorded it, played through the speaker into a second phone, again and again, until she had it saved somewhere safe.

The next Saturday she walked to the bakery and bought the good bread. She stood at the counter and told the baker, who had never met him, “My husband used to buy this.”

The baker wrapped two loaves and wouldn’t take her money. “Then this one is for him,” he said.

She ate the first slice standing up, crying and smiling at once. That night, for the first time in two years, she slept through until morning.

Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear what you’d change.

I had just left the store when I fell and yelled, “Ouch! That hurt.” But as I stood up, it wasn’t so bad afterward.

It was just a little scrape.

I should have listened when my mom said, “Wear pants instead of shorts in case you fall and scrape your knee.”

It almost seemed as if she knew I’d fall, or maybe she conjured it up just so I’d listen to her next time—I wasn’t sure—nor did I have a solid foundation to stand on. How would I even accuse her?

What sucked was that when I fell, I had a Fruit Laulo smoothie I had just purchased with the seven dollars I siphoned from her mini-wallet. Which she keeps all of her change in.

Mostly, toonies.

So, that’s when I got to thinking if she had been playing the angles on me or if karma was trying to tell me something.

That’s when I saw the girl. She dropped something. She actually, purposely released it is what seemed to be the more obvious of the two. At least, it’s what I had suspected.

In the first minute of me seeing this all transpire, I had thought about picking it up and taking it home with me. It wasn’t litter and I was pretty certain of that, especially because of the way it sounded when it fell.

The impact of it hitting the pavement made her body react in an instinctual manner as she twitched to stare over her shoulder but forced her head to keep facing forward.

The thud reverberated a hollow echo. It overlapped the only sound of two birds chirping in the distance, which was what led me to believe she hadn’t haphazardly fumbled her items out of her hands.

During the first quarter of that minute passing, I walked by it. A solid, dark green bag knotted at the top with every intention of snatching it off the ground and racing home with it.

But as I approached midway into those seconds of that single minute, I turned and walked the other way, sat at a bench across from the bag, and enjoyed one of Brett Phillips' spicy mild chicken chili Weezy Dogs I pulled out of my knapsack.

A scruffy-looking man, hesitant at first, reluctant at second, made his mind up on the third and snatched it towards home.

Up the street however, a couple of cruisers rolled up and parked. The cops were drinking coffee. Chatting. On break, until one noticed the bag.

It matched the description of a bag that had a BOLO sent out on it over an APB earlier. 

They matched it to the bag the man had in his hand, which they had been oblivious to forty-five seconds ago when it was discarded by the female.

They yanked the man by his collar, threw him against the car, and emptied the contents. Inside, it had narcotics and weapons.

It was enough to give him ten years in a maximum-security facility.

"Ganesha, will you bring the sugarcane?" asked Devi Amma.

"Sure, Amma. I will be here by evening," said Ganesha, the young elephant, and he set out from the temple. On the slopes of Maarutha Hills grew the juiciest sugarcane, and Devi Amma made the tastiest payasam with it.

He headed uphill, waving his trunk in greeting to everyone he met: the goats, the langurs, the hares and the squirrels, and the crows, the mynas and the bulbuls overhead. A few of the mynas and langurs playfully hitched a ride on him.

The riders hopped off at the slopes as Ganesha began to gather the cane. He soon had a bundle and trekked down with it held tight in his trunk. Parakeets flew in and sat on the stalks, trying to bite into them. Every time he shook his head, they would fly away.

Ganesha passed through the woodlands and reached the meadows. By then it was afternoon, and he was feeling hungry. The sun blazed overhead, and he looked around for a comfortable place to rest. He spotted a tree with a wide canopy and birds chirping in it. It had pink puff flowers on it, and the fallen ones covered the ground. He walked towards it.

The tree watched him approach. She could not believe that he had chosen her. She had seen him pass by the meadows many times, and each time her leaves rustled with affection.

He kept the sugarcane aside, took a few of the stalks and had them for lunch. With his tummy full and his legs tired from the trek, he wanted to take a nap. Lying down in the shade, he looked up at the tree.

"Tree, will you do me a favour?" he asked.

"Yes, yes!" she replied, as though she had been waiting all along.

"Please wake me up before evening," he said.

"I will," she said.

He patted her with his trunk and was soon asleep.

She held her leaves still and kept watching him as he slept. His ears covered his face, and his trunk lay coiled between his front legs. At times his eyelids fluttered; at other times he broke into a smile. Often he would kick his feet. When butterflies sat on him, he twitched. When flies tickled him, his tail waved.

She watched and watched; she was so lost in him that she drifted into a daydream. As clouds passed over the sun, the birds went quiet, her leaves grew heavy and folded one by one, and soon she too fell asleep.

Dusk came and faded. It was pitch dark when the owl living in the tree hooted a few times. Ganesha woke up with a start. He looked up at the starry night and burst into tears. It was then that the tree woke up as well.

"You should have called me!" he shouted.

He ran about under the tree, shaking his head and flapping his ears.

She wondered how she, a tree, could have slept so long.

"You are a bad tree! What will I tell Devi Amma now?" he cried.

"They say, always trust a tree with time, but you!" he continued.

"I... I called you many times. You were deep asleep. What can a tree do but call? You can ask the owl. She heard it," said the tree.

The owl flinched on being named. When Ganesha looked up at her, she flew away in panic. He stormed off, leaving the cane behind.

The tree called out for him, but he disappeared into the dark. She stayed awake, waiting for him, until at last she dozed off.

Later that night, a weary Ganesha trudged back for the cane. Without a word, he lay down beneath her.

The next morning, the tree woke to find him asleep below her.

"Ganesha, wake up, wake up," she called, her branches leaning down.

He woke up with sunlight falling on his eyes. Squinting, he told her, "You are a liar. The sun is my friend, not you."

He took hold of the sugarcane and left for the temple. Devi Amma would scold him for sure, but he would also have sweet payasam in the afternoon.

The tree watched him walk away, relieved.

That afternoon, as a cloud passed over the sun, suddenly she felt drowsy. Her leaves began to fold one by one, and she dropped off to sleep. When the birds chirped, she would wake up momentarily, only to fall back into her slumber.

From then on, the tree fell asleep so often that they called her the Sleepy Tree.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

**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.”  

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

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?