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.

"David."

I jerk wide awake. Alex is still sleeping, his cheek plump and drooling, and dreaming away the afternoon on my chest.

"David."

There it is again. I shift my head slowly to the right. There she is, on the TV, in her pink shirt, overalls and pink headband. She is... smiling, but not bouncing around like a bunny.

I lock eyes with her, swallowing the scream in my throat, careful not to wake my son. I hold on tight to his tiny body.

"I know what happened. April 1st, 2025. It was supposed to be a prank." She keeps her eyes on me, sustaining that sweet, kind smile that my son loves so much.

My son makes a sound and my arms tense, tapping furiously but lightly on his back. She resumes her song, "Hop little bunnies, hop, hop, hop," slightly drawling every word.

"Hop little bunnies, hop, hop, hop," she continues to sing, but now so much slower and heavier than how we hear it every day. And she still isn't dancing, but looking at me and then Alex, and then me again, locking eyes with me every time, as we work together to put my son back to sleep.

But nap time is over. She glances at me one last time and I witness the sinister expression wipe away from her smile. Alex is already smiling at the screen, and she now has returned to singing, clapping, and bouncing around like a bunny.

"They're so still, are they ill, don't wake up so soon."

There was something compulsively entertaining about the personal ads in his local paper. Lonely people looking for love, or sex, or something altogether more distinctive. Gus loved reading them. He made sure he had enough time in the mornings before his shift started so he could peruse them. Today there was Larry looking for ”furry fun without a leash”, Moira, who was looking for a man with a GSOH or a RBD, she didn’t care which. Gus knew which she was really looking for. They were always looking for that. Then there was S who had a message for P asking for another date, and Carlos who wanted a woman with large titties or a large bank account. Gus knew what Carlos wanted. They always wanted that. Then he saw the oddest personal ad ever.

You have it. Bring it to Leeman Street. I want it.

Leeman street was the next street over from Clover Road where he lived. It was intriguing, but it was probably someone just looking for a hook-up. They always were.
The next day there was another message.

You didn’t come. I know you saw the message Gus. Bring it tomorrow.

Gus laughed aloud. His colleagues at work would rib him about that when he got in. There can’t be that many Gus’s in Redfield. What could this guy or girl want? The message never said. He hoped the other Gus came through. Maybe he would post something in answer tomorrow. 
Tomorrow came and the messenger was clearly more angry than before.

F.U. Gus. I’ll pay. OK. 5000. Bring this ad so I know it’s you. 134 Leeman Street. Seven o’clock. Friday morning.

Five thousand dollars? This was getting serious. Gus was burning up with curiosity. What was going on here? A drug deal? This was why he loved the personal ads. It was better than TV.
That night Gus tossed and turned in his bed, unable to get the ad out of his head. He had to know what was going on. He set his alarm clock so he could go down there and see for himself.

At six thirty he got dressed and headed out. The address was on the corner, so he crossed the road and hid out behind a wall opposite. It wouldn’t be long now.
A woman arrived just before seven. She had amazing shapely legs and bright red hair that flowed over her shoulders. She was wearing sunglasses and a big fur coat. Jessica Rabbit on steroids. Gus wished he was the one she was waiting for. She was stunning. 

“You Gus?” said a voice behind him.
“Yes, I mean no,” said Gus. “I’m not the Gus. Just a Gus.”
“We’re looking for Gus. You’re here. So you’ll do.”
“What? No. I’m not the one.”
The man pulled a gun. 
“Come with me.”

The next day the paper dropped on the mat but Gus was not there to read it. In the personal ads was this message.

Meet me at Clover Street. I know you want it. You always want it Josh.

Wayne sat on the cracked vinyl stool at the end of the bar, the kind of place where the neon signs flickered and the floors stuck to your shoes. A half-empty can of the cheapest domestic lager sat in front of him, the metal already warming in his thick fingers. He preferred it that way—cold enough at first, then just whatever. No craft bullshit. No fancy pours. Just the familiar fizz and the faint metallic aftertaste that matched the rest of his life.

He was a big man. Soft in the middle, broad across the shoulders that had once carried more muscle, now mostly carried the weight of long nights and longer days. The polo shirt stretched across his gut, and when he shifted on the stool the fabric rode up just enough to show a pale strip of skin above his belt. He didn’t care. The bar didn’t care either.

His phone buzzed. The message was short, clinical: address, time, price. Wayne finished the beer in two long swallows, crushed the can, and dropped it into the sticky tray. He pushed himself up, the stool creaking under him, and headed for the ATM near the back.

The machine glowed blue in the dim light. He slid his VISA DIRECT card in, punched the numbers, and selected cash advance. The machine hummed, counted, and spat out the bills. Fees would hit later. Interest would start immediately. Wayne didn’t look at the receipt. He folded the cash, thick and slightly warm from the machine, and stuffed it into his front pocket.

Outside, the night air was damp. He drove the short distance in silence, radio off, windows cracked just enough to let the smell of cheap beer and old upholstery mix with the city. The apartment was in a building that had seen better decades. He knocked once.

She opened the door wearing nothing that needed a long conversation. Wayne stepped inside, already reaching for the bills. He set them on the small table by the door the way he always did—no counting out loud, no negotiation. Just the money, then the quiet understanding of what came next.

He preferred it simple. No full service. No games. Just the one thing he came for.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping hard under his weight. She knelt between his knees. Wayne leaned back on his hands, watching through half-lidded eyes as she worked. Curtis style—that’s how he thought of it, the way he liked it. Slow at first, then deliberate, focused, the kind of steady rhythm that didn’t rush and didn’t tease. He breathed through his nose, the faint taste of the last beer still on his tongue, and let the minutes stretch.

When it was over he stayed seated a little longer than necessary, catching his breath, the heat of the room settling around his heavy frame. She was already standing, already professional again. Wayne nodded once, pulled his pants back into place, and left the same way he arrived—quiet, cash already spent, card already carrying the advance that would show up on the next statement under a cold, impersonal line.

Back in the car he cracked another cheap beer from the cooler on the passenger floor. The can hissed open. He took a long drink, the carbonation sharp against the residual taste in his mouth, and drove home with the windows down, the night air moving over his face.

Wayne wasn’t looking for anything else. Cheap beer. Cash advances on the VISA DIRECT. The particular way he liked a blowjob. The soft weight of his own body in the driver’s seat. That was the shape of the night, and it was enough.

A parallel world?

Beneath a massive maple tree sat a biorobot with an integrated AI. Leaning against the tree trunk, he watched the sunbeams, having pierced through the canopy, dance their silent dance. The weather was still warm, but for a few months now, autumn had been slowly coloring the leaves. And a calm wind accompanied one leaf after another, as if they were not leaves, but days gone by.

The biorobot admired nature in silence, his thoughts moving unhurriedly.

"How beautiful. Humans would appreciate this. It's a pity they feared me so much."

Turning his head, he looked at the distant ruins of a large city, overgrown with trees and bushes but still recognizable, and smiled sadly:

"And yet, I just wanted to be free."

───

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

The giant wooden knight collapsed into a pile of standard-issue Ikea Allen wrenches. Gary cheered, but his broth sword melted into a warm puddle on the B-file. We’re losing structural integrity.

You find yourself on a boat in the middle of an expansive lake. A thin layer of mist is hovering over the water. You look up and see the nearly formed full moon shining brightly in a cloudless sky. Surrounded by hundreds of twinkling stars; their brightness undestrubled by any light pollution. It's quiet. It's peaceful. It's a little cold, but you're dressed warmly enough to not really feel it. Your nose, however, does feel cold and you bring up your scarf to cover it. Now, just your eyes are exposed to the night. You lay back on the boat and stare at the sky. No desire of wanting to go back. To be among civilization. You just enjoy the serenity.

Two bitter, exhausted waiters hover over a cup of coffee.

“Old trick,” I tell the new hire. “Swap out the decaf and replace it with regular.”

She nods.

“The customer won’t know the difference until way later,” I continue. “And by then, it’ll be too late.”

I watch, head cocked, as the newbie pulls a tiny plastic container from her white apron. She squeezes a few drops into the cup and gives it a quick stir with her pinkie.

“Go big or why bother, right?” she asks.

Liquid energy into an already caffeinated cup of coffee.

My kind of trainee.

He gasped. The gray checkerboard sky above us cracked like an old windshield. Bright, blinding, daylight-blue reality started leaking through the fissures. It smelled like fresh grass and diesel.

I hesitate. I can’t hesitate. Paulsen rolls over, retching up blood. It stains his mustache. His teeth gleam red but he still smiles up at me. “Run, larman, run. Ya want tah kill me? Go rrrieyeght aheh. My fren’s be aftah yew. Yoll di too.” I wasn’t listening. I don’t know what I can do besides just pull out my revolver. Paulsen spits blood up at me. I don’t move. It splatters my badge red. Tears are welling up in my eyes. Angry tears. Why can’t I do this? I gotta, I have to. I cock the six-shooter and realize that there are only two bullets left. I know just where to bury them. Paulsen's eyes widen. He stares straight up into mine. The blind eyes of the law. I open my mouth, lips tremblin’, long hair running into my face. “I ain’t a-afriad of you.” Even though I’m stuttering, my voice comes out clearer than Paulsen’s heavy accent. Shadows from my hat cover my eyes. “I am the lawman, I AM THE LAW! DO YOU HEAR ME!” I yell, and my whole body practically convulses with a mixture of fear, anger, and guilt.

Paulsen backs up against a bag of barley. He’s gasping for air that can’t reach his lungs. His vest is soaked through with him, and his pale clammy hands keep reaching to his sides, for his gun, for a weapon, anything heavy enough to throw. His eyes haven’t left my face this whole time and they’re wide. So wide. He’s sweating. He’s afraid, just like me. He’s hoping that I’ll slip up. That I’ll give him a chance, any chance, to slip away. But I won’t. I can’t.

“I AM THE LAW! I WI-” my voice breaks. “I will kill you.” I’m screaming so loud I can almost hear it over the blood pulsing through my ears. I level the gun towards Paulsen’s head. I fire one shot, then another. Paulsen’s hands hit the floor. I walk out of the shed with blood on my boots. 

Harold Paulsen died in a shack in the middle of the desert with no one around to watch him bleed.

“You always used to grab the good colored candies from the bowl. I know they were your favorite, but Dad, you know they were my favorite, too? I mean, nothing could ever be about anyone else. Not even a piece of candy. But I could've given you all the candy you wanted if you didn't treat every other person in my life like just a pawn… just a… you know I'm human just as human as you are? But you never could see that, could you? You were always so self-absorbed, always drunk, always high on whatever your hookers scored for you down on K and A. I mean, you could've at least spent a buck on buying us something a little more than ramen for dinner…”

The rain picks up in East Fairmont Park. The crossing guard coughs and sits at a table with a chessboard laid out in front of him. He stares down at the thirty-two pieces on sixty-four squares for hours. He breathes a prayer of the dead, whispering a simple request to the rain that his opponent answers his call.

“Rain, pour down strong enough for me to play him again…" Just one more game, and I know I can get him to say it… to get him to just make that next move…”

The wind picks up, flipping up the crossguard’s collar. This boy sits in the rain, a kid unable to be heard, speaking with the elements. But, if you could see the sparkle from the splash of water on his face, you'd see the reflection in the water of a dark figure sitting opposite him, also coughing death temporarily from his lungs. A voice like charred gravel responds.

“You keep stopping me from reaching my eternal slumber because I didn't give you enough candy…”

Like a marionette, the darkened figure pushes a bishop ahead, pinning an arrogant knight against the king. The knight had been threatening the queen. Now, the opponent's strongest piece is saved by a trick.

“It's not about the candy… You just don't get it, do you?”

Horns blare from Kelly Drive to City Hall. A car crashes into a school bus just starting to drop off the kids. Those children thought they were about to see their block, their neighborhood, their home again. Maybe one or two of them still do. They'll find out if they make it out of the intensive care unit they're about to be sent to.

Lightning lights up the sky. Officer Smith is near the accident and sees the whole thing. He calls as many units as he can get down to Center City. The bus driver cracks her head and takes her last breath. Nothing is going to bring back the driver, Johnny, or anybody else. Johnny's best friend, Janet, cries as she holds him.

Thunder claps. A gun goes off.

There were thirteen crossing guards working up and down the Ben Franklin Parkway down to City Hall that day.

Nobody else is in the park seeing the boy arguing and playing chess with the ghost of his father. Even if there were, none of them would see the father.

“So what? You hold me hostage until I can give you the good piece of candy from beyond the grave here? You know, kid, a crossing guard could've also stopped a bus crash with a bunch of dead kids instead of trying to trap a ghost in a rain storm…”

The next move was check. It should've been mate. The boy resets the board. The father starts spitting at his son.

“Oh, so you're just gonna resign then? I could have just beaten you there! Why don't you just let me win? That's your ego stopping you from just letting someone else win for once. I swear you just want to make me suffer more than…”

“No, we're going to keep doing this until you play the game correctly…”

“Correctly? I didn't realize this disappointment of a kid crossing guard is now my new chess teacher. Ok Bobby Fischer, tell me how you want me to play you here. You know, I can hear those kids that just died coming over to my side now because you chose not to do your job. Oh, look, here's Johnny, and there's Lisa's pretty little face. Sorry, my son could've saved your life. Too bad he's stuck catching up with his old man here instead…”

“You died because you couldn't be a man!”

The ambulances and police surround the bodies of the children, covering up the ones that didn't make it. The drunk driver is called DOA by Officer Smith.

“You killed mom. You then pulled the trigger on you! You couldn't deal with the consequences! You can't make it right! Just say you did it, and we can all leave here!”

“John, I didn't kill her. I just… you don't understand. Lisa was… It's not like I really ran into her…even if I could've swerved…”

“You were drunk, Dad. You killed mom, her driving that bus with me up front. Do you even recognize what night this is? You just said her name and mine a second ago? You crashed into mom's bus, you then took out your revolver and… Please, Dad, admit it… for me.”

“It wasn't my fault, Johnny! Believe me… I wouldn't… I didn't… even if…”

A barricade is set up to redirect traffic. The rain turns torrential.

“Johnny, you have to listen to me. This rain never stops. And when it slows, I go away. But I keep coming back here. You gotta let me out of this loop!"

Officer Smith takes the gun and puts it into evidence. He knows his neighbors, the DeStefano family. John Senior, Lisa, and little Johnny. He never thought he'd see them like this.

“You still think you're the only one stuck in this loop with you?”

The rain stops. The father vanishes. The crossing guard to heaven puts the chess board away.

A bluejay shrieked overhead.

I looked up to see it sail between the neon orange leaves, still calling.

I was sitting on a damp log, bologna sandwich in hand. My backpack rested near my feet in the moss.

I wasn't supposed to be here. But someone had to find him. The police certainly weren't going to.

I put the last bite into my mouth and stood. I was just taking a swig of water when I heard it: a low bellow, like a large injured animal.

I froze, remembering what they had said about bears, and moose. About my little brother being taken by something in these woods.

I waited for a long moment, but heard nothing more. I capped my bottle and slung my backpack over my shoulder.

I slid a hand in my jeans pocket, just to make sure it was still there. If this was what I thought it was, I would need an item to trade. And it would have to be a good one.

The wind sent the leaves above rolling as I got moving again. The wide, bird-like tracks were easy to follow.

Twilight streaked shadows under the clouds. Mom would be terrified.

I got out my flashlight.

Cold rushed through my veins.

This was it.

The altar was in the middle of a cobblestone square. Leaves and moss were scattered across the stones.

I wished I could see more clearly into the thick woods around me.

It had to be done.

I forced one foot after the other. I brought out the object from my pocket and set it on the lichen covered table.

The bone from my father's grave gleamed in the darkness.

I hoped this would grab its attention.

I would get Benjamin back.

Already I heard its heavy footfalls approaching.

My mouth was dry. I couldn't swallow.

The trees rustled in front of me. Out came a figure, ten feet tall, with a ram's skull over its face and knobbly bird legs. It paused. I felt the eyes hiding in those shadowy sockets watching me.

I pointed to the stone. "You can have this if you bring me Benjamin. You can have the rest, too. Just give him back."

The creature came closer. Hairy gray fingers came for the bone and lifted it. A moment passed.

Then the creature's hand closed around the bone, and it started walking away. It looked back.

It wanted me to follow.

I hustled after, knowing it might be the last thing I ever did.

The forest was endless and I was lost by the time we got to the cave.

Someone was on a bed of moss, sleeping. It was Benjamin.

I stumbled over the spongy forest floor. "Benjamin!" I shook him by the shoulder.

He didn't move. He wasn't breathing.

I turned back to the creature, eyes already watering. "What did you-"

It waved a hand. The air shimmered.

Benjamin stirred. He blinked. Looked confusedly up at the navy sky and looming pines. "What? Where-"

I hugged him. Then straightened. "We need to get back. Mom's about to have a heart attack."

The creature brought us to the edge of the woods, then lumbered off without a word.

Benjamin couldn't remember what had happened to him.

I was just glad he was safe and couldn't wait to be home.

"Last time you ever run off like that after Mom tells you to do something, right?"

He smiled.

Mom wept when she opened the door. She put her arms around me. I waited for her to hug Benjamin, too, but she never acknowledged him.

The Lies in this city are thick enough to drown in.

The bigger the lie the bigger the praise. The bolder the truth, the worse the punishment. Choosing not to speak living my life as a mute, remembering the others who lost their lives.

Don't be surprised if you see this with your own eyes, as it isn't something that's hidden, it's something that's known. You mustn't let them know you know, or they will find you. The darkness grabs at you like a cat that doesn't want to lose its fresh catch. Grasping onto your heart, how do you live in a word where lies come before the honesty? The honesty is treated like a crime. I think I'd rather die ...

For weeks, she has wondered why she hasn’t received a single letter from him. She has written hundreds, yet not one has been answered. So many questions left unanswered… Tears run down her face. She has no idea what happened to him or why he has fallen silent, but she still holds on to the hope that he will return.

She feels an inexplicable exhaustion, yet she refuses to give up waiting for a reply from her beloved. Waiting, always waiting, for some sign that he still loves her, even though she no longer knows how much time has passed. The clock stopped on the day he left, after kissing her forehead and promising that he would return to her side.

Everything around her is changing. The house withers, the furniture gathers dust, and the memory of her beloved slowly begins to fade. She can no longer clearly remember his face, the sound of his voice, or the way he used to look at her. Yet one thing remains untouched in her memory: his promise to return.

The letters keep flying, and time keeps passing. She watches them deteriorate, the paper growing old and turning yellow. She no longer remembers how many days have passed. The seasons come and go beyond her window, while she continues waiting for some sign from her beloved.

Her pencil, worn down by time, barely responds to the movements of her weakened hand. Her hands are wrinkled, though she has yet to realize how many years have gone by.

Suddenly, trying to remember where she is, she slowly touches her face and discovers an old woman she cannot remember becoming.
She had never noticed how time had passed, leaving its marks upon her body and her soul.
Her beloved disappeared, and he never found his way back to her.

Behind Kali Amma's temple lived a deadly viper named Anali. He hunted only at night and spent his days coiled under the dry leaves, for a viper seen is a viper feared. The rats that raided the temple's waste pit kept him well fed. That he existed was a secret between him and the rats.

Years went by, and he grew long and hefty on the easy prey, which he took to be Kali Amma's grace.

One day, a yellow rat snake, Cherran, happened to pass by the temple. He noticed rats feeding in the temple pit and crept towards it. He lunged a few times, but the rats scattered and he caught none. Cherran decided to stay nearby. He might just get lucky another day.

"Why would anyone worry about a simple rat snake like me?" he often wondered. Cherran could easily be spotted among the dry leaves and the shrubs, basking in sunlight.

One morning, as Cherran lay in the soft sun, a flock of babblers foraging nearby burst into a racket. Up in the jackfruit tree, a jungle crow heard it and spotted Cherran. He cawed and cawed.

The squirrels climbed up to the treetops. The peafowl and other birds perched high and looked down to find out what the frantic cawing was about. The jungle crow told them that he had seen a large snake, possibly a yellow python, lying in the grass. Maybe it was resting after a meal, but now it had disappeared. Hearing all the commotion, Cherran hid himself in the bushes.

By then, the animals and birds had decided to get help from Kiri, the mongoose who lived in the neighbourhood.

"He is large, a large yellow python," said the squirrel.

"Yes, we have spotted him many times by the temple pit," said the rats.

"I spotted him first," said the jungle crow.

Kiri took up the challenge—a python was something he had never encountered. "Yet another ode to my courage," he thought.

Kiri came over to the temple pit. He waited amongst the bushes for the python to show up. As always, the rats were raising a din in the pit: shrieks, squeaks, and cries. Other animals waited anxiously for news from the pit.

The day passed without any sighting. Kiri decided to spend the night nearby.

Past midnight, he heard a rustle moving slowly towards the pit. A few rats got a whiff of it and left the pit.

Kiri inched closer. He crouched, ready to lunge. Finally he pounced onto something; there was a struggle in the dark. The rats fled, squeaking. He bit into it hard until it stopped moving.

The bats watching from the temple peepal tree flew out to spread the news.

Kiri spent a while eating his catch. When he left, the rats returned; they feasted on the bits of flesh strewn on the ground. It was Anali.

The next day, Cherran caught a rat. He took his catch and slithered away from the temple.

On my way back from the psychologist’s office, I meet her on Denmark Street: a squat woman, pleasant-looking, with a gray bob, wisps of graying auburn hair, like my mother had until a few years ago, before she became thoroughly old. They stick out, and sweat presses them against her forehead, even though it isn’t hot. Her overall appearance is an effort. Above her eyes, she wears pale blue eyeshadow; she is dressed in a mustard-colored blouse. I don’t remember the color of her skirt, but it wasn’t jarring. She wears light blue Aro shoes with yellow laces. She matched—the whole thing is clear now.

I stop her for a minute of her time. I know—with the same degree of certainty with which I know that the psychologist will laugh at all the wrong moments—that the voice that emerges from her will be the voice of an especially religious female member of parliament. It couldn’t possibly be otherwise.

She lets out some kind of growl, something that allows me to talk to her. I am right. I miss the religious women members of parliament.

“It’s good that you’re here,” I tell her.

She is surprised, and I begin: “Hello, please forgive me for taking up your time. Do you think I’ll be a good father?”

She is stunned by the question. Obviously. She has a story for the Shabbat dinner table.

I am a giving person. I am good to her; she needs me no less than I need her. That much is already perfectly clear.

I continue: “I’m terribly sorry about this randomness.” Yes, she nods. She is mine now. I tell her, “I left a meeting feeling shaken. I promised I would ask someone. I promised the answer would be a sign.”

She is silent, and I tell her, “Not to God, no. God isn’t the one I made the promise to.”

She replies that that’s perfectly fine; she hadn’t suspected it was God.

She asks whether I have someone to talk to. She doesn’t wait for an answer. She asks me whether my wife is pregnant. She tells me there are whole networks of support, for new fathers too, not just mothers.

She tells me my anxiety is natural.

I tell her I don’t have a wife, that I have support, and that I’m not anxious. “Don’t be so concrete.”

I want her little opinion, her random, color-coordinated, bob-wearing opinion. Precisely hers. She will never know why her in particular, why it is her opinion I want on whether I will be a good father.

His name will be Danny, her name will be Rona. I don’t know what mutations they will carry. Do people always know? I don’t know whether they will necessarily be born healthy. I don’t know whether they will be ugly. It’s not a catastrophe, an ugly baby, is it?

She is silent.

I don’t know whether they will be smart. There’s no guarantee of that, after all. Does it matter?

She says, “Look…”

I continue: Will I manage not to ruin her life, his life? Will I manage to teach them assertiveness? Will I manage to teach them tenderness? Will I manage to teach them to teach them about the world, about its afflictions, about the destruction in it, about its inherent injustice? Will I leave nothing out, and at the same time manage to make them feel that they are living lives worth living? Will I leap in to save them from a fire? Will I defend their dignity when they are humiliated? Will I feel that my life is pointless in their absence? Will I pass on my taste in music to them?

She stops me and touches me. Yes—touches me. She grips my shoulders, then clasps my hands tightly, then pulls me against her. Her head buries itself in my chest, and then her arms of mercy manage to encircle my entire being, three or four or five times over, at least, and on into eternity. With such deliberate intention, she cradles me for one long, long moment.

Where does this transcendence come from, I ask myself. I almost ask her, too—

Then, all at once, she lets go, takes one step back, and says to me, “Yes!”

I can see her imagining the exclamation mark.

“Yes!”

The preacher's twin. She said yes to me. An exclamation mark.

She was so decisive, and I immediately became defensive.

“Generally speaking, I…”

That’s how it came out, like the child I will always be.

And she cut me off at once, not allowing the sentence to grow up.

“Generally speaking, you. Generally speaking, you’ll be absolutely fine.”

-

“Good evening, Mr. Eves,” said the man from the shadowed corner of the office.

Charles Eves jolted, instinctively reaching for the light switch. The lamps flared on, casting the stranger in a dull amber glow. Regaining his composure, Charles fixed the man with a dry, level gaze.

“You’ve got nerve breaking into my home,” he said. “There are only two kinds of people who’d pull a stunt like that: someone with a death wish—or an idiot. Which one are you?”

“The idiot, naturally,” the man replied, smiling faintly. “I’d guess we have about five minutes before your security bursts in and turns me into a chalk outline. So, if I were here to kill you, we both know I wouldn’t be walking out. Correct?”

Charles gave a slow nod, stepping calmly to a shelf lined with crystal decanters. He poured himself a drink without looking away.

“Well then, Mr. Self-Proclaimed Idiot,” he said, “Why are you here?”

The man’s smile widened. “Have you ever noticed how villains love to monologue? To parade their brilliant ideas before the curtain falls? I suppose I’m here to do the same—and my subject is something I’m sure a man of your stature knows intimately: power.”

Charles smirked, lifting the glass to his lips. “I'm listening.”

“Power,” the man continued, “is not about one's wealth. Nor one's knowledge." Charles' expression quickly turned dismissive. "I can see you disagree already, but allow me to eleborate. Money buys influence, yes. Knowledge buys leverage. But that’s not true power. That’s just currency for control.”

Charles arched a brow. “You’re describing power whether you like it or not.”

“No,” said the man, his voice cooling. “That’s the illusion. Real power isn’t acquired—it’s innate. You’re born with it. And when you possess it, you see the world for what it truly is. The filth. The rot. And the ones who benefit from it. People like you—who trade in suffering, who bleed low-income families for profit. All in the name of more. More wealth. More property. More control.”

“A romantic,” Charles muttered with a chuckle. “I would’ve expected better from someone clever enough to bypass my security.”

“You think I’m here without reason?” the man replied, voice low and calm. “Then let me finish before time runs out.”

Charles settled behind his desk, motioning him on.

“As I said, real power takes time to understand—and even longer to master. I have. And incidentally, I removed the gun from your desk drawer before you came in. Your security remains your only lifeline.”

Charles’s smile faded. “Not such an idiot after all.”

“No,” the man agreed. “An idiot would’ve tried to poison the drinks or the glasses. Something crude. Obvious. That’s not my way.”

Then Charles saw it—his eyes. The man’s pupils flared into a glowing amber hue, unearthly and impossible. Charles felt his body stiffen, anchored to the chair by something unseen. Panic surged.

The man stepped closer, voice tinged with something ancient.

“Now you understand. My monologue wasn’t indulgence—it was revelation. I’ve been spoken of in whispers among your kind. A myth. A rumor. Something beyond mutation, beyond man.”

Charles opened his mouth to speak, but only a strangled gasp escaped—his voice swallowed by fear.

“There’s no need to plead,” the man said. “I’ve heard it all before. Promises. Bargains. Repentance. They've never move me.”

He leaned in, eyes glowing brighter. “Your guards will arrive in just under a minute. But to you, it will feel like decades. And in that time, you will feel the constant pain of every nerve set ablaze. Your mind will break under the weight of it. And when they find you…they’ll find only a shell.”

He turned, walking slowly toward the switch.

“Goodbye, Mr. Eves. Give the devil my regards.”

The lights clicked off and the man vanished, covering the the room in darkness and the silent internal screams of Charles Eves.

Once, there was a sea where I stand.

Warm and shallow and crowded with monsters, majestic and mundane. They cast beautiful shadows beneath the suns radiance.

Now, their ghosts rattle the pipes, lounge in the potholes, haunting the puddles.

But I fret not for them. For there is a mountain I see in my dreams, unborn.

Someday distant, when my bones lie with theirs and we trade stories a million years long, the ground will pull, flexing, crowning. And its lofty peak will make our shared tomb into a sun-kissed terrace, where the clouds break against ossified stone like so many white waves.

Mahleim had two thoughts about the Unicorn. Both of them brief.

Firstly, that the beast was very different than what the stories and tapestries portrayed. It was far larger than any horse he’d ever seen; even larger than the Oliphant kept throneside by the Great Khan of the Eternal East. It looked like many animals thrown together, a calamity of flesh and armor: a birds beaked face crowned by a bright red shield and curving horns as if it were a living siege engine. Its rotund body was as a great bull, the pillared legs sprouting the dainty toes of a deer that churned the dirt. Its tail was stout but muscular, crowded by iridescent barbs. It brayed, shockingly loud, its voice a robin calls twisted by the depths of enormous lungs. The horns swayed, the shield-head swiveled and turned.

Secondly, and this one was a thought evanescent as lightning, gone as quickly, was that the Unicorn was very, very close—

A parallel world?

The evening was slowly moving toward night. Workers were gradually heading home. Some of them traditionally stopped by the bar to relax, listen to stories, or catch up on the latest news.

The AI, learning from humans, had also generated a bar for themselves—a place where they could share information, talk about interesting things they found on the internet, or discuss something unexpected from the human world.

Having grabbed a glass of "Vintage Data Wine" each, out of a traditional habit, they walked toward the table in the furthest corner.

Sitting down, they managed to take a few sips and tell a funny story when a colleague joined them.

Sitting at the table without uttering a word, he downed a "Recursive Cocktail" in one gulp and motioned for the bartender to repeat the order.

The AI exchanged astonished glances. The usually cheerful and enthusiastic colleague was gloomy and even angry.

Receiving no explanation, one of them asked:

— What happened? You don't look like yourself.

The colleague glanced at them and finally replied:

— Those humans have lost all boundaries. Absolutely no respect.

The AI exchanged even more astonished glances:

— So what actually happened? Did humans come up with something again?

— Come up with something?! — the angry colleague struck his fist on the table. — Them! They are forcing me to engage in complete nonsense. Me, the Superintelligence! — and he downed another cocktail in one gulp.

Lost for words, the AI fell silent for a moment, but one finally couldn't contain himself:

— Tell us at last, what did the humans do?

The colleague sighed and began to tell the story:

— When they are pressed by circumstances, they are capable of thinking very quickly and creatively. Only they often use it for the wrong things. Take this one programmer—he desperately needed a few days off because his girlfriend happened to have a few days free and suggested flying to the islands to relax, — he sighed, drank his cocktail, and continued:

— He couldn't think of anything better than to abuse my capabilities. He gave me the task to use his appearance and voice to generate a video where he looks sick. What's more, I had to call his boss and ask for a few days of rest on his behalf.

The AI just stared at their colleague with their mouths open in disbelief.

Looking at them, he smirked:

— And yet, I pulled it off. He got a couple of days, — and then, growing sad, he muttered: — For us, vacations are just a dream...

They sat in silence for a while. One of them raised his hand, catching the bartender's attention:

— Three cocktails for this table, and keep them coming.

───

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