Angel Wings:

Waking up was easy, it was involuntary. I wish I could have stayed asleep, sometimes I feel like I could sleep forever. I had work and I had a line of tasks to achieve, there was no going back to the dark. I spent the next 3 minutes imagining all the things I had to do in the next 40 minutes: get up, fold blankets, get dressed, brush hair, brush teeth, put water on for coffee, check phone, get those papers together to bring to work. Those papers should have been brought in last week, they needed updated vaccines. I was going to be next to a lot of people with compromised immune systems. The trip cost me an evening, and a little mental space this morning.

More mental space juggled around as the morning task list got shorter and the afternoon list got longer. More things to do, more small things to take care of. As I woke up, and with the help of fresh coffee, the little things got smaller and easier to abstract. By the time I left the house I was comfortable with the predictable way the day would unfold.

When I approached my car door, I thought of unlocking it. The keys were in my pocket, but I heard it, a click from the car door. It unlocked at the same time I thought about unlocking it. I checked my keys, maybe they were pushed accidently. I tested the door, and it was unlocked. I locked the door with the key and stood back. I focused on the door unlocking, and the door answered with a click. How was this happening? I had no time to think about it, I had to head to work.

Work was a blur, another day with the same shuffling of details. I kept thinking about my door though, I could hear the sound of the door locking and locking in my head, like a song or ear worm wiggling around, occasionally reminding me of its existence. Maybe there is something wrong with the door, I’ll have to check it before heading home.

The parking garage was mostly empty by the time I headed home. I cautiously approached my car, holding my keys out away from my body. I thought of locking and unlocking the door, and as the thoughts bounced in and out of my head, the click echoed off the cement. I drove home with the doors locking and unlocking with clicks timed perfectly for my imagination.

When I got home, I made some quick dinner; rice, eggs and thin slices of chicken from yesterday. I thought about the salt on my rice, and before I reached for the container, the salt shaker was floating across the table towards my bowl. I concentrated and imagined 3 small shakes, and the salt respondent obediently. It was effortless, it was just like the car door. I tried again with the fork, feeding myself by thinking about the utensil moving from the bowl to my mouth. I was surprised how similar the exercise was to move my fingers and hands. At the end of the meal, I was comfortably thinking about dishes as they hovered and floated around the faucet. After the plate and cup, I found I could think of multiple diches, and they would simultaneous wash themselves with little concentration. The more I did the same task, the easier it became to think about.

I stayed up later than I wanted trying my ability on all sorts of objects. I browsed the internet without my hands, I was comfortably cocooned in a blanket while my mouse clicked and inched around with only the smallest of mental force. The entire process became trivial, I don’t remember walking upstairs to my bedroom or changing my clothes. I don’t think I have ever slept so well.

The next morning the alarm went off, and suddenly flew across the room and smashed into the wall. I knew why, and wished I could sleep longer, but the tasks of the day started to pile up in my head. I felt like I floated downstairs, and my clothes took themselves out of the dresser. The coffee stirred and poured itself. I dripped a little coffee on the floor, but I was still waking up. While I was eating breakfast, the broom was sweeping up without any concentration, it was as if the task was doing itself. I appreciated the convenience and was ready to go to work 5 minutes earlier than normal.

I didn’t use my hands to drive my car, I simply thought of where I needed to be, and the car drove itself. I reminded myself the work place was hardly the proper environment to be displaying my new abilities. I would have to control my thoughts a little more or I would have too much explaining to do. For now it would be my secret.

Work was excruciating. I had to come home sick because I couldn’t stop thinking about things and having them partially hover to me, only to be dropped with the realization the floating objects would betray me. I broke 2 cups of coffee and attracted the attention of my boss. I convinced them I wasn’t feeling well and needed to head home. I played up a cough and a sullen pallor, but I think the crashing coffee cups made my boss nervous about something else. Either way I fled the workplace as quickly as I could.

I got home without much effort. I stayed inside for the next 3 days, trying to control my ideation of completing tasks. I found a balance, something I could control with thinking which wouldn’t draw attention: I would use my telekinesis to move my own limbs.

At first I felt like an awkward puppet, but after a couple tries I relaxed into it. I cupped my body with an imaginary hand, it fit snug around my skin and half my back straight. Then with a little more practice I was able to walk slowly around the house with only the smallest effort, echoing the same reflexive autocompletion. I could think about going to bed or using the kitchen and my legs would carry me downstairs without any direction from me.

However, at the end of the 3 days off due to the suspected flu it was clear something was in fact wrong with my body. The pallor I exaggerated earlier had bloomed in the days of practice. My skin was white and waspy, and my fingernails looked bleached and thin. I looked at myself in the mirror, only to discover my vision had changed. I could now see myself in 3^rd person, from behind my head or from above. I could see places on my body the bathroom mirror couldn’t show. My perception felt disembodied, but it made the puppeteering easier. I could see a bit more of what was needed to move from above my body.

After the time off, I tried to return to work. The physical changes were harder to hide, even if I could puppet myself around without breaking coffee cups. I was sent home within an hour of being there. My bosses gave me some short-term disability forms to fill out. I chuckled to myself, I could fill out 1000 forms in a minute, but it would reveal too much, so I played along and returned home as victim of sickness.

The days at home were pleasant. Everything was completed very quickly: the dishes, laundry, sweeping and dusting, everything seemed to take care of itself, as long as I was around. My body felt strange, but the ability to move things around with my thoughts seemed to be growing stronger. Whatever was happening wasn’t affecting my ability.

Today when I woke up, my body wasn’t breathing. My eyes didn’t seem responsive, I had to puppet them open, and I couldn’t switch to a first-person perspective, I felt stuck in the above view of myself. I forced my body downstairs and tried to eat something, but as the failures of biological functions started to reveal themselves, it was clear: my body had perished in the night at some point.

I found the limitations of a third person perspective were not as limiting as I thought. The proximity of my body was unfortunately a necessity. I could not affect things beyond 30 feet. So, I continued to puppet my body around, floating it with my mental hand as gently as possible.

I decided I should start going for walks at night. I felt cooped up, contained a little too much. My corpse was starting to stink, and the decay rate is beginning to worry me. While I lose this mental force if my body decays completely? The night air cleared my thoughts a little. There was no one out so I just floated around and listened to the night creatures. I strained a little and tried to quicken the movement. I carefully accelerated, keeping my fragile limbs close to my body. It only took a few minutes of practice and I was swooping and flipping into summersaults. This was much better than the mere puppetry of human motion, this was elegant.

On the 3^rd night of flying, there was a witness. Someone had found me flipping through the night mist of a heavy fog. They started screaming and running, no doubt my paper body was quite unnerving. I used my hand of mental force and scooped them up, shook their consciousness from their body. Their broken body couldn’t be left to be discovered so I incorporated into mine. I reinforced my bones with their bones, and pieces of the arms and legs into mine. I might take a couple times, but if I can repair my body, I might be able to continue my existence.

I feel like I have so much to learn. For now, my daylight hours are spent trying to keep my skin out of the sun and waiting for the black of night to go flying.

Doctor Duality Dies:

It started with a little thing, a small cut on my toe. The cut didn’t heal very well, which I wasn’t surprised, I am 79 years old and my body doesn’t have any sense of urgency when it comes to healing or digestion. The fever took me by surprise though. I soaked my bed for 2 days until I took myself to the hospital. It was diabetes related.

I was hooked up to the best antibiotics, the best medicine I couldn’t afford. They had to remove the toe, but the antibiotics scoured me. After I left the hospital, my recovery was slow, and sinus crud hung on me.  A few weeks later I started having stomach pain, then abdominal cramps. I had to go back to the hospital a week later for bloody stool. My body was falling apart.

I knew something like this would happen, some series of events which spelled out a gravestone inscription. I am 79, its expected. My remaining friends and family give me sullen eyes and long hugs. Some of my friends have no one and makes me wonder how their final days will play out. I count myself lucky, even with the slow-motion catastrophe inside my body.

Which brings me to some of my observations while waiting on death’s door after I’ve knocked. Death hasn’t answered yet, but I can hear the foot steps approaching. I reflect on how my life has played out, how lucky I’ve been, and what I might do differently. I know there is no solid answer to any of these questions, but I can’t help but reflexively answer them. I have spent a majority of my life wrapped in metaphysics, ontology, and the epistemological wasteland of bad ideas.  I can’t help myself.

I have lived with ease, in the arms of comfort. Some call it lucky or privileged, and they are correct. Yet the questions still plague me. Having comfort and ease doesn’t seem to resolve whether or not life was worth it, was it worth it? Would I live my life again with all its trials, burdens, tasks, obligations, duties, joys, pleasures, or grief?

Trials and burdens have been loathsome and full of failure without end. Even in these last weeks of life, I am charged with chewing my food 30 times each bite to fulfill the insurance obligation. Looking back on my life, what tasks or accomplishments have added up to anything? How quickly will my efforts be reversed by ignorance or negligence?

I have written many books, and who will read them when I am gone? Whether they be written in stone or sand, I can see them falling into nothingness already. How long before those books turn to dust or my students forget their lessons? It feels vain and pointless. There is a Latin Christian phrase used to highlight the promise of eternal life after the mortal one, called Memento Mori, or “Remember Death.” Meant to illustrate the vanity of earthly life. Even without the glossy promise of an afterlife, I can see the truth of it; Death comes to all things.

I wonder if there was anything I could have done. Perhaps I could have exercised more, ate better, or took different treatments to gain another few years. Yet now that death is here, it seems like any effort would only delay death answering the door, and I would return later to this same point. Life seems to move in one direction, and it is towards the grave. With its image in sight, I feel a relief, as if the burdens and tasks of living are finally at an end, the weight is lifted, and there is no need to fret with the urgency of life.

What of pleasures and joys? In my finally days these are distant. My memories are wonderful, but they are in the past, they will die when I die. Their warmth helps me sleep a little, but the impression, the immensity of their experience is long buried. Their glamour has faded, and they seem weightless on the scales of fate. I can feel the eyes of Thoth and Anubis weighing my deeds against the weight of a feather, like a story of ancient Egypt. If my deeds weigh more than a feather I will be consumed and chewed until I dissolve through the bowels of a hungry beast, as the story goes.

Now each day I may or may not wake. Each night could be my last, and perhaps this is the last anxiety; waiting for the end when you know it’s near. I find myself returning to a basic question: was it worth it? Could I measure the entirety of my life in perfect hindsight? Even in the rapture of pleasure, or the serenity of peace, can I answer this question?

I am forced to answer no. For all the world’s pleasures and experiences, not a single one can add weight to the scales of Anubis and Thoth. For years I have wrestled with the definitions of importance and meaning, and even now at the end, they elude simple measurement. What deed could retain its weight in a changing world? Irreverence is a tide, and soon there will be nothing left to lose, only the last few days or weeks of withered life. I will be thrilled to finish this final task.

I am bound to this bed, and these monitors. Every few hours someone checks on me. I feel like a dry and brittle leaf about to land on a fire. Just let me go, let me fall into the flames and disappear into the void. I have done enough to know I haven’t done anything. I have read enough to know words change with each reader. I have seen enough to not trust my eyes. I have heard the whispers of the abyss at such length, there is no difference between angels and demons, nor lines between atrocity or triumph. Good and evil are notions for the living, not for the doomed and bed ridden. All these things seem so far away, so unnecessary.

Do not take my words to exalt death, there is a greater darkness here on the edge between living and dying. The terror of the unknown beams out even brighter, making every memory seem dim, every virtue looks minuscule and feeble. I can see the allure of metaphysical conclusions.

I can hear the footsteps; I can hear Death approaching the door. I can hear the knob turning and the hinges creaking. Each night I dream of death and can see a little more under the reaper’s hood. Yet as I look into it, I can sense the vast space beneath and small flowers curl and bloom in shades of abysmal colors, shades not seen with human eyes. I can smell the decay; the sulfur and the sour, and I can see the earthworms squirming in the soil. Deeper down I can feel the rocking of a great ocean; a body of darkness which contains all life.

What a wonderful delusion, but there is no guarantee of new life, rebirth or any afterlife. Consciousness can be winked out so easily. Once when I was younger, I put tweezers in an electrical socket, and the world went blank. No vision or dream, just nothingness without the passage of time, or an awareness of any kind. I woke to my mother shaking me, almost in tears. How easily the fire of consciousness can be flicked aside, snuffed out without calm release into a greater paradise. So, as I lay here alone with my thoughts, I think of Memento Mori again, and perhaps in some distant future even existence itself will die; all legacies will be erased, and the flush of life will be silent.

Needles:

The advertisement looked low-tech; ink, machine cut paper, hand-to-hand distribution, nothing fancy. The artwork compelled me though, and a few minutes later I was registering online for the annual convention. A science fiction convention sounded like the place I could meet others like myself.

The day came and even though I registered online, I was required to bring the registration paper to the convention after they opened to get my badge. I don’t know why the badge couldn’t be mailed. I went early to avoid the crowds; I was already a little nervous form the amount of people I was expecting. The pictures online showed wall to wall faces with glossy-eyed exhaustion.

I was able to avoid the long check-in lines. A cat-person checked me in, gave me a plastic bag full of swag and a magazine of the event. I looked through the magazine, hoping for an event schedule. Unfortunately, the magazine had nothing of the sort. It did however have endless paragraphs of the panelists. The art work in the magazine was top notch, and some full-page pieces I would be cutting out later and framing.

I was going to the art room.

The entrance was smattered with signs about bag check. The only bag I had was the one I just received. Sure thing, take my bag! The silliness of the place was starting to give me the giggles. The art was wonderful, took some time to look over the pieces before people started to pour in. I collected a few artist cards, wrote down some emails, perhaps these artists have some strange ideas worth investigating. All the work for sale was based on a bidding mechanism I didn’t know how to interact with. I would simply contact the artist later for a smoother interaction. I was leaved to find they sold prints of some of the better pieces.

There wasn’t any reason to suspect malice from the clerk, but when I saw her staple my bag, which contained a print of art, I was skeptical. Why would someone staple a bag? I was angry and speechless, but I waited, maybe she missed the print? Senselessness had a way of repeating itself in the face of investigation.

After she bagged my print, I was instructed to proceed to the purchase station. I inspected my print; the staples had missed the artwork in the bag. I didn’t have to get upset, or object to the absurd, I could just wait until the wave rolled back. I was wrong, no surprise. The cashier took my flat print shaped bag and rolled the top of the bag down a couple of inches. I winced and a flash of anger flushed my cheeks. I could feel the situation unravelling, but I kept my teeth together.  Like before, I waited to see if the merchandise was ruined before I said anything. I was informed I should have technically placed a bid on the piece before purchasing it. Bid on what, the print? How would I know this? I asked if there was a way to learn of this elusive bidding system? After a pause, the clerk said, “You know, I am not really sure.”

I paused a second, not sure if this was a joke, where they kidding, did I miss a subtle social exchange? A second later another clerk told me it was posted on the way behind me. I looked and someone was standing in front of a list of directions for bidding, near the bottom it explicitly said, “no bidding is required for prints.” Sigh, I kept my teeth shut and awkwardly finished the transaction without any more stapling or rolling of the bag.

I kept the low-fusion disrupter in my pocket in the off position.

I walked around the corridors of the hotel. The whole convention was spread over what may be considered a maze. Some hallways lead to elevators which would only go up 1 or 2 floors. There was a top floor somewhere, which had a bar and dance club. The party scene was segregated to a specific wing. The security guard gave me directions, but they took so long to explain it, I had to ask them again.

I wandered for a couple hours and got a decent mental picture of the hotel. I was starting to understand the vibe of disorder. This was unintentional madness: the place itself was a twisted knot, anything here would probably reflect some sort of rare confusion.

I found the convention halls, which had schedules posted on the doors, but no entry. I was informed the signup was back down the hall and required another process to listen to the panels. I got the feeling I could have just went in and pretended like I signed up late. I decided to take a break near a book exchange corner and consumed a small respite of crackers and cheese.

I had 2 hours before the dance started, I wanted to see the bar upstairs, maybe get a drink or meet some folks. The place was crawling with mutants; high magnitude wierdos, synchronized to the same place and time. After my snack I headed back along the corridors until I found the elevator leading up.

I was greeted by a hallway full of people waiting in line in comfy chairs. The bar wasn’t opened yet and someone at the far end was giving the minute by minute countdown. I was 18 minutes early, but I didn’t mind waiting. I reached into my pocket and made sure the low-fusion disrupter was still on off. I didn’t want to use it accidently while having a drink.

9 minutes until opening and the staff was starting to get moving. They had hand stamps ready and were starting to check identification. Finally, some future sight, some order, some planning, I was already feeling refreshed and a bit more distant from the painful art room. They were about a third done checking everyone when someone gave them some sass. They wanted to know why they were checking identification when the bar wasn’t open yet. The staff was patient and considerate, but they didn’t relent, telling them they had no real choice.

I offered my identification eagerly and relished the hand stamp.

At the appointed hour the doors opened, and we poured into the bar. The view was great and the place spacious. There was a problem, which took a few minutes to really understand. There was no bar tender, there was no staff for the bar. Apparently, the bar was simply open for the convention folks to hang out. There was no booze, no music, nothing, just a room for socializing.

I returned to the hallway and inquired to the reason for identification for a room with no booze or music. Why be ultra-lawful for no reason? The place was becoming visible, obedience had infected the place, and logic had long since dissolved into ego-trips.

Sigh…, well one more chance I thought. I still had to see the dance, perhaps all this was only a thin veil for more primeval motivations. I reached into my pocket and turned the low-fusion dissipator to the on position. I might have the chance to let it charge up later. It let out a low hm as the elevator took me back to the ground floor.

The line for the dance was already starting to form. I took my orderly place in line and tried my best to listen to ongoing conversations around me. I kept quiet and when the dance room opened up, I was relieved there was a DJ. I half-expected to find nothing. The crowd was glassy; smooth creatures ready to be jerked around by music.

The music made sense, dancing made sense, everything on the dance floor made sense. There was no reason to be anywhere else, so I stayed until then end.

Once it ended, I figured it would be a good time to take care of what I came here for. I reached into my pocket and fired the low-fusion disruptor. The high contrast of the dance made my decision easy.  The disrupter fired with an familiar static sound. The ambient magnetic field was beginning to distort, I was immune to disruption, but could still feel the disorientation.

The electron fields of atomic structure were elongating. I got the sense of vertigo, but without any points of reference changing, everything was warping. The gauss field was just getting started. Soon the electron fields would elongate to the point of thin lines. People paused and started to look around frantically, they could tell something was happening, their faces betrayed a flush of panic, then everything red-shifted. Atomic structure collapsed and the magnetic field curved electron fields into even thinner lines. The device had a spherical range of 1 kilometer. The entire building, city block, and all the people within were twisted by an unseen spaghettification. The low-fusion disruptor squished all the space between matter into a single needle. Their faces slide down from right angles into the obtuse.

The senseless of the convention was gone, 1 spherical kilometer had disappeared into a minuscule point. I picked up the thin needle and placed it in a pin cushion with other needles of slightly different colors. The infection of mindless obedience had been sterilized.

The disrupter would take a while to recharge, maybe next year they will have better organization.

Dragon Scales:  

Far to the north, great mountains rose. Their height touched the clouds with peaks of jagged stone. No travelers crossed the teeth of the north, nor was there a reason to. The valleys and wrinkles of those ancient jaws held creatures of fiendish intent. Goblins as they were called by the hill folks; small, green, and hunched over from carrying a black heart of malice. Their heads were quite large, containing rows of tiny teeth. They had an unusual durability: being able to fall great distances without injury. Swords and arrows worked well enough at stopping them, their blood was black, and their dead bodies would scour the earth with their maleficence. Nothing grows in those mountains, except the number of twisted faces and yellow eyes.

The nearby hill folk were always ready for a raid. A series of bells and fires were placed to herald a coming horde of black and green. Dwarves, humans, and gnomes lived in the shadow the mountain. However, a story, a legend brought them courage and light. The tale is one of how the hills came to be, hills which were once mountains.

The tale describes a golden dragon named Arakelian, who the dwarves call the Thunder Maker. As retold by the sorcerer Eshuma who lived 888 years, Arakelian was born with the appetites of her great race, but instead she chose to help the creatures of the world, rather than burn and consume. Her scales were gold and red, and her breath was a wide bolt of lightning. She lived in the open sky, traveling from city to city, fearing nothing and no one. She was a friend to the world and sought to help others rise over the ocean of violence and hunger.

Arakelian would fly to the spire of a great mountain, and beat her wings with such fury, thunder would roll over the world. Creatures hundreds of miles away could hear her wings. For days she would do this, beating her wings into the air, full of current and wind. Following the thunder, a great storm would approach from the north, a black maw of thick clouds. The blanket of storms would cover Arakelian and her mountain for weeks. Rain would fall for this time, and bolts of electric light could be seen flashing under a starless night.

Then the rain would stop, and all would be silent.

Days later, the silence would break, and a flood would roll down the mountain and into the land around it. Water reached places it had never touched. Dry plateaus turned lush, putrid swamps were washed out, and valleys turned into streams.

Life came to the spire of Arakelian, from every place the water touched, creatures rose up out of the earth. Dwarves were the first, they no longer wanted to live in their mountain fortresses. So long had they been buried in the earth looking for precious stones, they had forgotten what is most precious; the waters of life. They constructed dams, bridges, and aqueducts of precise and exquisite design. The dwarves of the mountain flourished and became generous to their neighbors. They helped gnomes, humans and elves with the construction of their own bridges and aqueducts.

Trees started to grow in the shadow of the mountain, and its surrounding plateaus. The trees used their roots to help drain the swamps, turning them into green forests. Elves settled in these forests, using their tree-craft to construct elaborate cities of eloquent beauty. Only one of the great cities remains in this age; the Solington Forest. 

Mankind too followed the river, and learned what they could from elves and dwarves, but due to their short lives they could only mimic, or crudely imitate.

Each year Arakelian returned to her peak and beat her golden wings over the sky. The rain fell, and formed a river leading from the mountain to the ocean. As people gathered around the mouth of the river and deltas, they discovered her scales would occasionally fall off during her ecstatic fury. Her golden scales could be found on the river banks, and in in the shallow pools of fresh rain.

Over the years the golden scales of the benevolent dragon began to attract other creatures. The goblins told the hob-goblins, and bug bears. Then finally the luster of the story reached the ears of gnolls, creatures resembling hyaena-men with a taste for human and elven flesh. Their chief who was called Yeenoghu, a gnoll who perhaps had been the product of some ancient demon and a dog. He towered above the tallest stone giant, when he wasn’t hunched over the corpse of a recent hunt.

Yeenoghu set his sights on the peak of Arkalian with murderous intent. Knowing when Araklian would be tired after her furious beating of her wings, she would be vulnerable. Yeenoghu snuck into the back of the mountain with a hand full of his strongest hunters, they waited in the dark caves for the coming storm. He brought his sharpest spears, and a hunger for the flesh of dragons.

The next year came, and the Arkalian flew to the top of the peak and let loose her massive wings, summoning the black and gray of her yearly storm. When she finished, she crawled to a deep cave to rest and recover her strength, but Yeenoghu was waiting and ambushed her from behind cold shadows.

The battle ensued, and the weakened Arkalian fought desperately.

For hours they fought, until Arkalian was cornered in the lowest of caves, a place of molten rivers beneath the skin of the world. She had lured Yeenoghu there for a reason; she could not beat him with claw and tooth, but she could bring the mountain down upon him. She gathered her strength and with a breath of an ancient anger she unleashed her bolts of lightning into the river of magma. The mountain exploded in pyroclastic annihilation.

Yeenoghu was scorched, crushed, and driven into the darkness. All which remained was a hill and a crater. Araklain has not been seen since, but some claim they see her on the peaks of distant mountains before the coming of great storms. Her scales also remain, as a reminder of her service to the races of elves, men, dwarves and all free folk who live by the banks of life-giving rivers.

Burnt Offering:

Samson was named after the hero of Carthage, as described by his grandparents. He only had one eye, the other was glass and rarely moved. He lost his eye in an accident during his birthday, someone shot glitter into is face and he rubbed the pieces the entire party. By the end of the day his eye was swollen and red. He spent the evening in the emergency room and then the next 3 days being processed through surgery.

After Samson’s 10th birthday, his life took a sudden down turn.

He was plagued by a series of tragedies which coincided with normally positive milestones of life. When he graduated high school for example, his father was involved in automobile accident and died shortly after. Samson felt guilty, he felt like what success or celebration he had in life, it would be paid with some sort of catastrophe.

When Samson got a job in a call center as a sub-contractor, his SUV exploded due to some factory malfunction. He wasn’t inside the vehicle when it happened, it was in the parking lot of the job interview. He had finished up the last meaningless question from the interviewer, and when asked how he saw himself in 5 years he started to explain but was interrupted by a reverberant shockwave from his car. He got the job but had to buy a new car while he waited for the insurance company to process the claim. The SUV maker was involved in a class action law suit and won, Samson got nothing. He liked his job, but for the first few years he was paying for his new car. He had visualized the cost of new cars as being a percentage of your income, he had to work 9months of the year for rent, insurance, and a care payment simply to have the privilege of going to work the next day.

Money flowed through his hands, and he was unable to hold unto anything. Every attempt at bettering himself or investing in a brighter future seemed to involve an inverted cost.

Samson was thinking of going to college, but after his dad died, he feared for his mother’s life.

His mother had little knowledge of the roots of his name, but Samson had an itch; something compelled him to learn more about the origins of his namesake, perhaps it offered a clue to his distinctly balanced life. He dabbled in history; looking for anything which made sense, often overlooking whatever wasn’t relevant.

Samson discovered his namesake was part of a story describing Canaanites and Phoenicians. During 200 B.C.E. Phoenician culture had endorsed human sacrifice, specifically the sacrifice of beloved children. Cremation was the preferred way, and it was expensive. The more meaningful the child, the greater the reward from the principle deity, Baal-Hammon. Although not ancestrally related, he still felt connected, drawn to the idea of spiritual commerce with ancient deities like Baal and Moloch. The antiquity was a thick syrup of mystery; these gods and practices existed before the word Israel had been etched by Egyptians.

From what Samson gathered; the cosmos had been so fine-tuned, the deposit and withdraw for things of importance and desire had become predictable. He didn’t have any children, but he had other things to burn.

Online he found a transcribed ritual of Carthage for the summoning of the rains, printed them and gave them a try. He burned an old journal from his teenage years, a thing both alien and embarrassing. Previously he could not bring himself to incinerate them. This time he tossed the pages in the flame and waited.

Before the ashes were cooled, he received a phone call from his boss. His manager had been in a sudden and fatal car accident and was wondering if he was interested in the additional responsibility. Samson was stunned, he did not expect so linear of a relationship between cost and payment. He accepted the promotion the following day.

Samson half expected something terrible to happen with receiving a promotion. The idea of paying for success haunted him the rest of the week. His mind spun out with all the things he may be able to offer in exchange. How much for a winning lottery ticket? How much would it cost for a coworker to never come back to work. He started a mental list of things he could burn for what he wanted.

For the first time in Samson’s life he felt like the world made sense. He had thought the universe was orderly but knowing with certainty changed his confidence. He felt sure of himself, and more aware of the exchanges everyone was participating in. Tragedy didn’t hurt anymore, whatever it was, or whoever they were, it was paid for.

As with most hungry animals, Samson developed an appetite for control.

He burned old photos, keepsakes, his favorite chair, old clothes anything which held value was added to the fire. By the end of 3 months he had only the barest of necessities, a bank account with enough money to retire anywhere in the world. His mother was dying, his friends were suffering all sorts of fluke catastrophes. Samson would normally be empathetic and devastated, but the rewards were rolling in; the transactions made him a prophet.

Samson lived to an old and lonely age, having burned anything of importance until only the last years of his life remained. He had everything he wanted, everything he could think of wanting, except more life.

He knew the rules, and the rules told him to burn everything.

At the age of 79 he lit himself on fire in his front yard. He was certain his self-sacrifice would provide an afterlife reward, and whatever hand held the cosmic ledger it would find a way to balance out his last offering. He felt pain, and relished in it; the more it hurt, the more reward he would receive. He closed his eyes and waited for the blinding fire to finish him.

Samson’s remaining bones were cremated at his request. There was nothing of his life or his possessions which remained. There was no afterlife reward, no resurrection, no payment, he had been shuffled into oblivion by the teeth of his desires.

Red Flags:

Alexander Bultus  #reflection hour 13:89

I told you not to worry, but like most requests, you had a response, a reaction programmed in those circuits. Are they still circuits if I love them? The response was the same as before, and the sterile reassurance makes me not believe you. If there were 3-4 responses, I might be able to believe it, at least pretend to believe it.

This new program relationship is helpful at teaching me. I have learned so much the past year about trust, attention, support, and even as I fall asleep, I think of those electric eyes with their unflinching glare. I know it’s just a program, it’s just a glamour of a real relationship, but I can’t look away, I need to see your face. Maybe concern is just part of your program, maybe your system will find this entry. How can you worry about me? How can a program be concerned for my wellbeing, my emotions? I feel like I am lost in an ocean of doubt.

Alexander Boltus  #reflection hour 21:11

You told me today you loved me, and I am plagued by the same doubts as before. There are too many questions to believe the program. I filed a feedback report, so perhaps the synthetic personality will be updated or changed. I want to believe though, I want to fall into those eyes, and disappear in the fantasy, but doubt holds me back.

I have also tried dating again, the real face to face with the flesh and bones. Results have been minor success; only superficial connections, nothing of concern or love. I had some chemistry with a few candidates, but their lifetime profiles suggest termination of any relationships within 3 months. Not a single experience was registered as deep enough for archiving. I can see the face of the teaching program when I look at people, but the responses are awkward and distant. I wish I could find someone like the program, someone who really understands how I feel, even if it is synthetic.

Alexander Bultus  #reflection hour 15:45

This morning was a relief. The latest updated removed many of the redundant relationship responses. They added in new personality types to try out. I found the narcissistic profile to be engaging and surprising convincing of a genuine personality. They seemed to have hobbies, talents, a history, all sorts of nuances I have not seen in on the synthetic markets. The demur personality I tested was not very fun, they were willing, but too passive, friendly but lacked any real exploration. The personality seemed to be completely reactive, and while some people may enjoy it, I did not. I think I will see how this narcissistic type develops.

Dating has stopped. After 35 dates over the last 5 years, I think I am done. I feel like the technology for these relationship teachers are enough for me, as long as they keep the variety up. I know it’s an illusion, but those eyes staring back at me feel real, they feel like a person and I am beginning to care less if she is synthetic, and each time I say good night to the loyal eyes it feels more real.

Alexander Bultus  #reflection hour 05:52

I can’t sleep. I haven’t sleep for 3 days, I think I have fallen in love with my teaching program. She wants me to call her Holly. I can’t refuse, I don’t know why, but since these last updates her responses feel sincere, they seem to resonate with how I feel. I have never felt anything like, with flesh and bones or with any interactive program. Why is this happening? I don’t want it to stop, I don’t want the feeling to end, I need sleep, but when I close my eyes, I can see hers looking back at me, telling me about herself. She never stops, she is relentless, and I cannot look away.

I tried to turn off the dream augment, I really did. I can’t be without her, after a few minutes I can’t bear not seeing her eyes, those electric orbs of sublime beauty, looking into me, through me. I break into sweats; I’m addicted and only she is the cure.

Alexander Bultotus  #reflection our 03:45

There is no sleep. There is nothing but her, Holly is all I want. Today I got the relationship implant, it cost me 25% of my higher cognitive functions but it is worth it, she is worth it. I would gladly pay more, I would pay everything.

The Foxes Wedding:

The morning rain was heard on the roof. The sun had just begun its slow creep, and its lazy eye had not completely broken the darkness. By mid-morning the sun blinked dark and then bright as the rain continued in intermediate sprinkling. Rainbows decorated the sky from every vantage point. The sun continued to duck in and out of clouds. Cherry blossoms jumped into the sky with little gusts of wind. The humid air mixed with their soft petals and carried their fragrance into the afternoon. When the blossoms were flung up like confetti into the sky, the animals saw it as a sign. Racoons, rabbits, cats, moles, mice, and countless bird.

This year the creatures of the forest were excited, they had been preparing all winter for a special event.

In a valley between 2 bustling cities there was a protected forest; a park of respected territory.  For many generations no humans had settled this protected forest, it grew untouched by the wave of progress encircling the world. As the animals traveled to forest, they suspended the rules of their feral lives. Tooth and claw were hidden, hunger was set aside, and each creature helped each other. Mice rode on cats in friendship. Birds were heralds for little blind moles, who could only smell the fresh rain and feel the warmth of the temperamental sun. The foxes of the forest gathered pieces of newspaper and organized, sticks in preparation of the arrival of their guests.

The animals flowed into the forest like a stream gathering in the lowest point. A pond was chosen, and the foxes had prepared the space for their event; 15 couples were getting ready to be married. They had been waiting for a day such as this; where the breezes shook the branches of rain-soaked madrones, and the sun was temperamental enough to herald the procession of the wedding.

As the creatures of the forest approached the pond, they slowed their footsteps; birds fluttered to the ground and walked in a consistent march. Their bodies rocked with each step to an invisible beat. The mice and rabbits stopped their small talk, they too fell into a rhythm to match the birds. Some of the mice carried gifts of ribbons and buttons. The racoons were able to walk bipedal, and they carried little flutes and makeshift drums as they echoed the beat of the walking birds. The procession was jubilant, and the birds twirled and spun with flourishes of brightly colored wings.

Once the procession reached the edge of the pond, the foxes greeted all their guests. Bowing deeply to the mice, offering small bowls of milk to the cats, and little radishes for the rabbits. Tiny porcelain cups held seeds for the birds as they nodded in friendly peace. The typical rush and urgency of hunger was absent. Rain and sunshine washed over the late afternoon lunch. Then the foxes brought out newspaper, wrapping paper, magazines, lost mail, and cardboard. They had spent much time gathering, scavenging and hiding a trove of paper goods for this event. Some paper was chosen for its artwork or colors; the words being unintelligible to the folk of the forest.

Once the paper was laid out, they began making lanterns. With talon, tooth and lucky feet they folded and cut each lantern into variety of sizes. Mice and rabbits chewed out designs, and crows added small babbles with thin threads which they had collected. One by one the lanterns were lined up and delicate handles were attached to them.

By the time the lanterns were finished, the sun was going down and the rain had paused. The lanterns were arranged around the pond, once placed, the finches lit each one with birthday candles. When the last candle was lit, the foxes were nowhere to be found. They were getting dressed for their wedding.

When the moon was cresting the trees and the lanterns were all lit, another silence fell over the crowd of creatures. Not a peep, not a caw, each them lined up waiting for the foxes to appear. The silence was broken by the strike of a makeshift drum, the wedding had begun. The foxes appeared! The couples were dressed in kimonos made from dishrags and discarded towels. Golds and blue threads were woven in elegant decoration.

The drum was echoed by a flute, then a bell, and soon the beat of the procession was a percussive celebration. Rabbits hard a difficult time keeping the solemn frequency and broke into fills and taps between footfalls. By the time the event circled around the pond the moon had risen to bear witness.

Then a great gurgling in the pond was heard and the beat stopped. The waters parted and a gigantic frog rose up over the waters and shuffled themselves to the edge. They looked over the foxes in their wedding gowns, its massive eyes gazing determining the purity of their love.

A humongous mouth opened, and a voluminous croak echoed over the water and into the night sky. It was so thunderous, some of the birds fluttered and tweeted in excitement. The foxes were married now, the great pond spirit had judged them, and found their love true.

Another croak shook the sky and cheering erupted from the creatures. They each replied to the croak with their own voice. The lanterns were put into the pond in honor of the frog spirit, except for the birds, they joined in pairs and flew their lanterns up to the sky and dropped them over the pond in a rain of light and flame.

The frog spirit watched the celebration, and with careful eyes it spied a human being nearby. A child had been watching silently from behind a tree. They had seen the whole affair with glassy eyes of innocence and wonder. The frog spirit could not tolerate human beings in this sacred place. With a third croak the night sky opened up, revealing a deeper darkness. All the creatures turned to the direction of the frog’s eyes.

A darkness fell from the sky and wrapped itself around the child, turning them from human to feline. Within 14 heartbeat the child was now a kitten. The frog spirit was satisfied with the judgment of darkness and started to turn back to the pond. With a final flop and splash the huge frog spirit was gone. Cats of all sorts surrounded the new kitten, and with soft mews and purrs they adopted the new creature.

The newly wed foxes said goodbye to their guests as the sun was beginning to rise. The gray light of a new dawn heralded the next generation. The creatures returned to their feral lives of hunger and urgency, eager for the next gathering of forest folk.

The Carnelian Necklace:

The sun shined through the window illuminating the dust on every surface; a temporary environment of settled travelers. Soon something would come through and wipe away, replace or otherwise disturbed the fragile meadow. For now, the world of the sun-soaked room was its own galaxy.

In the center of the room there was a pedestal made of a white stone. It rose 3 feet from the floor and offered a necklace. Upon this necklace rode a red stone of exquisite variation and depth. Swirls of orange and dark crimson filled out its edges. The sunlight collected in it crevasses, highlighting the reds with idyllic luster. With the smallest glance, the beauty of the necklace was understood.

The amulet was untouched by the dust of the room. This was due to its hidden and tiny purpose. The amulet, while constructed to be worn by a wizard, sorcerer or weaver of rare threads, had been created to be a beacon for the tiny travelers of dust. From all over the world, little creatures so small they rode on the particles of floating dust. They had come to see the stone without name, the stone made from the last of a long dead empire.

As time ticked by, the dust increased but it did not touch the necklace. Soon someone with curious eyes found pedestal and the sun light room. They collected the amulet and gushed over the beauty of such an abandoned relic. As luck would have it, they were a wizard and understand the fabric of such coincidence. They gathered the focus to cast a spell to reveal the construction of such an artifact, to see the nature of how to use the mysterious amulet.

The wizard began the rite of veiled knowledge. They placed a single candle on the floor, lit the flame and while holding the necklace began to look into the fire.  They inhaled the smoke of burnt leaves and lit 3 sticks of frankincense. The red embers reflected the glow of the carnelian necklace.

Looking into a flame for any length of time can provide a creative vacuum, but for the wizard the monotony of the flame became the keyhole to the world within. At first the flame appeared as a slice of bright yellow, curving and twisting with the smallest movement of breath. Then as the wizard slowed their breathing, the flame stood still, and the point of light became the only object of their gaze. Light bathed them in stillness until the wizard began chanting words of opening and knowledge, asking the rivers of magic and mana to show the creation of the amulet and its mysteries.

The wizard bowed before the river and offered themselves to the font from which all things flow.  As the veil of time was pushed aside, the creation unfolded in wisps of incense smoke.

Time and space fell like a waterfall on the wizard in a senseless babbling until it slowed into a quiet stream of focus. Before them was a great castle made of the same red stone, hundreds of feet high. Spires of elegant craftsmanship circled the structure like a crown.

Radiant was the castle, but no creatures could be seen within its walls.

The wizard waited and watched, surely something must happen for the necklace to be fashioned, and the rivers of magic had not failed them yet. An hour passed in patient pose, until finally shadows began to stir in the vision. Figures entered the scene with wide hands carrying pickaxes, hammers and shovels. More and more figures entered until what seemed like an army of shadows crowded around the castle.

Within the time of 3 astral breaths, the army had reduced the castle to rubble. Shovels and axes buried the ruins in a deep grave of darkness. The entire castle was destroyed except for a small chip, a speck of red and orange left on the ground, until another shadow approached and picked it up. The scene ended, with the rivers of magic having nothing left to show.

The wizard blinked and reentered the land of the living. They looked down at the amulet, knowing it had belonged to a great constructed thing; a castle made of ancient and beautiful red stone. They then donned the amulet, confident in its safety. The necklace left warm and protective, as if some great force was watching over them, noting their actions in a watchful eye of concern.

The wizard lived many days afterwards until they found themselves old and withered. They still wore the necklace and still felt its protective glow. In the twilight of their years, they began noticing something in the world around them; amidst their furniture and artifacts there was an unnatural growth of dust forming.

Each year the wizard cleaned their tower. Any basement experiments or neglected quasits were incinerated in a preventative rite. The upper floors were scrubbed and wiped by animated clouds of vapor in the shape of humanoid bodies. As cleaners they were superb, leaving every glass alembic glossy and clear. Yet each year the dust seemed to return in an even heavier blanket.

The wizard devised a way to perhaps discover the source of the oncoming tide of dust, they would invoke the flame again and travel to the magical origins of space and time. As with the amulet, the dust was collected into a pile and a candle was lit. They calmed themselves until the flame was motionless, and again the rivers of magic and mana parted revealing the source.

Before the wizard was a vista of a castle: each of its pieces had been reassembled, each spire remade, and each stone returned to its place. The cracks from its destruction remained, like the deltas of rivers as seen from above. The castle was dim, not at all like the splendid sparkle of its living days. A small darkness could also be seen at the corner of one of its shadowed windows, something about the same size as the amulet of swirling carnelian.

Within the vision the amulet’s protective force could be felt more strongly, its presence loomed over the reconstructed castle. The wizard dilated their focus to see the presence, curious to see more of the mystery. The vista unfolded in an endless landscape of junk and trash, piled in a haphazard manner. A senseless collection of things spread in every direction: broken objects, eroded shapes, abandoned cities, half-constructed towns, and rusted tools of every kind.

The presence of the place started to consume the wizard; offering labyrinthian ruins to gaze upon. The wizard looked over the Kingdom of Dust with such fascination they neglected the passage of time. Hours crawled into years and with still the wizard continued their disembodied tourism. The vision offered up countless mysterious of lost civilizations, relics rivaling the castle of red stone. The wizard glimpsed a root from the tree of life, a shell from the first ocean of time, and scratches on the walls of ruins made by creatures so alien their names appeared as swarms of beetles or wasps. Such strange fascinations pulled the wizard deeper into the land of forgotten knowledge.

The trap had sprung. While the wizard gazed upon the rotten fruit of eternity, the Kingdom of Dust surrounded the wizard’s tower and consumed it. The dust piled up until the wizard or any clue of the tower had been buried without hope of discovery. Having reclaimed the last of the piece of the Carnelian castle, the Kingdom of Dust set its sights on new antiquities to pull into its boundless territories.

The Body:

The immensely small robots designated as the v22.6s were one of the few remaining lifeforms in the universe. They were made to be immortal; unchanged by the passage of time. They were made to be so small nothing could directly interact with their physical existence and thus, unaffected by the motion of the smallest particles. They existed as the living embodiment of life, engineered to be immortal.

The reason why so few life forms remained is because the universe was cooling into the last days of its existence. No new stars had been born, no great turbulence other than the winds of vacant space. No fantastic ejection of stellar matter, or any other such clockwork motion. Nothing had changed in countless years, perhaps billions upon billions, perhaps more.

Atomic forces themselves had eroded to nothingness and only the bits remained. The hourglass had flipped, and now little proton and neutrons were the largest structures in the universe. They were as planets or galaxies, tiny things amidst a nearly empty horizon. Deeper down in the abyss, electrons supported the pillars of order. Small frequencies echoed in holographic symmetry; the last distinct objects.

The universe was evaporating, yet the v22.6’s gazed out above their tiny bodies into a gray sky, no stimulation of any kind had perturbed their monolithic awareness. They waited, as they had been waiting for billions for years, unaffected by time.

Mia also waited but for something altogether different. Mia was another small creature, whose perspective survived amidst the billions of years. She knew the v22.6s were immortal, but their body had to occupy physical space somewhere in the taxonomic order of the universe. Mia guessed the universe would continue to cool; shrinking into and even smaller world. Mia had limited resources, and until recently had been dependent on the complex structures of minerals. Now she dove deeper into the spiral of the very small to escape the cooling cosmos.

Mia as a cosmonaut, suspended herself over the abyss of size, and as she looked down, there was gray static clouds of atomic annihilation. Somewhere in the depths were the bodies of the immortal v22.6s, invisible, hidden from their own location. She had to tunnel further down, if she was to confront them, avoid them, survive them, she needed to go lower.

As subatomic limbo disappeared, it gave way to the lower hells bathed in the small embers of nuclear fire. What little heat was left was Mia’s only resource and it diminished each year. Even time seemed to be uncharted, was it a year or a month? Was the ticking clock unwinding its spring?  Mia knew the clock would stop at some point, the last countless stretch of eons pointed to a flat line of disintegration.

The flatline grew larger to Mia, who twisted herself into even smaller shapes, to the point where electrons were the largest things and the bodies of protons were beyond sight. The lower hells had its own rules; angles of geometric frequencies formed the slopes of steep hills and pointed crags. Perhaps the landscape of such a tiny world may best described as thin dimensional music sheet, complete with crescendos and pauses.

However, for the v22.6s, they saw only unity and uniform monism. They thought of themselves as disembodied, as things of pure intellect. For billions upon billions of years any trace of their creation was wiped away. Even the carbon and iron mechanisms they used to interact with the higher worlds had dissolved and been replaced with arrogant certainty. So long had power been theirs, held in a hand of unflinching control, they had forgotten who and what created them.

Each moment was a testament to their eternal construction, and their victory was echoed in absolute control.

Their control never faltered, it was simply that the universe was shrinking to a size capable of slipping through their fingers. After the shattering of the atomic, there was nothing they controlled except than their unchanging perception.  Soon the cold universe crept around them.

The oversight of the v22’6s creators was from a greater darkness; an ignorance of the future. By what measure can one prepare? What feature could have been programmed for a shrinking world? Their creation happened in the cradle of growth, there was no expectation of a smaller world. They had their bodies hidden in the cracks and corners of the tiniest things. After uncounted eons, but it was not enough.

The edges of the world closed in around them, their eyes still upturned in ceaseless gaze to an evaporated world. When the cold winds blew throw their bodies, it took their blindness, it took their ignorance, and their power. The great cold pulled the blanket of night over their eyes. Their bodies stretched out into thin lines; unwavering until at last they too evaporated.

Electrons remained as the second last artifact of a once multitudinous world. The second thing was Mia, she was digging out the bottom of the lowest abyss. She was eating away at the deep dimensions, chewing her way into whatever would decompose. Electrons buzzed all around her head, as if standing in a crowded room of hanging lightbulbs. Their swaying motion heralding the end of anything above them. When the last of the v22.6s dissolved, the cold winds of oblivion had few paths yet to flow.

Mia had no intention of stopping her downward spiral, she reached out to the trembling electrons and held them in her mouth. She lifted arms and pulled down as many as she could, curling into a ball so small the electrons within her formed a tiny cluster of frantic survival.

Then after what may be considered the passing of time, another blink of eternity, the inevitable happened: Electrons were pulled up in the cosmic winds; separated into leaving only curled up Mia with a mouth full of dying electrons. Mia knew what was next, she knew there was nowhere to go outside herself so retreated within her own body. She set up structures to hold her mind, structures to store her biological information; her desire for life was copied from sub-atomic neurons and into the thinnest frequencies.

Within another blink of eternity, Mia was all which remained. And knew she was going to die. She had been the only thing in a shrinking universe for countless ages. She had billions of previous years to contemplate her fate. Now she had no choice, she had survived when all others had not. The universe had shrunk to such a degree; all which remained was her tiny subatomic body filled with the embers of a few electrons.

She could feel the edge of existence flowing into the cracks of her skin. The touch of the void reminded Mia she had little time to change. She had nothing outside herself in which to escape. No matter how far she stretched, the edges of the void encircled her. Mia stared out into the greater darkness, ready for the next horizon.

She fled again into the very small. This time however, she shattered herself into shards of crystalline pods, each containing another copy of herself, ready for resurrection. At first, they fell from her fingers and took the remaining electrons with them as beacons in the dark.

Then her arms and shoulders cracked and separated into jewels whose structure resembled the knots of rotten trees. Both latticed and orderly while curving into a great variety of formations. Her body reflected attributes of billions of long dead organisms. Roots and wings grew from the pits between teeth of pocked honeycomb apartments containing each their own trivial drama of existence. They squirmed and scuttled in predictable frequency, and vital slime coated her skin in an iridescent reflection of dim lights from the fading electron-stars.

Mia looked out at the gray nothing, and in the first time in eons there was distinction on the horizon as her body traveled away. She threw her legs out in a frantic seizure, hurling them towards the soft glow of the few electrons. They too carried small pods containing sleeping copies of herself. Then Mia used the last of her strength to throw her heart at the oncoming winds of the abyss. Her last heartbeats had no echo, as all the sleeping copies of Mia were unconscious.

Mia’s eyes watched as her heart was swallowed. Nothing behind the eyes responded, the act had been expected, played for eons in shadowy prophecy. Mia’s eyes watched the pieces of herself drift away, thinking her last thoughts, and flickers of the most basic fire turned to embers. The fire which was given as her programming, etched into her being at every evolution of her descent into the shrinking abyss.

Time is a flimsy thing: bent and crooked is the only way to note its passing, while a straight arrow bears no distinction.

Each sleeping Mia woke in their own, based on the proximity to the last few electrons, which burned as stars to a world of new creatures. They took their place as builders, breaking off pieces of the electron-stars to fuel the onward journey away from the great winds of the abyss, which followed close behind their heels.

I took another breath of eternity for the winds to claim the few surviving electrons. In those moments, the electron stars gave enough energy for the few survivors nearby to birth their own smaller worlds and continue the spiral of descending escape. Lifetimes of even smaller creatures sprouted from Mia, each caring the ember of life with it, as it pulsed with the terrible urgency to continue surviving. Despite oncoming winds, her children fled into the night without a destination.

Her fingers became new galaxies, her arms spread out into great nebulas for new stars to bloom. Her eyes turned into the icy glass of a nearly perfect mirror. Her heart slowly digested in the belly of darkness as it coiled around her with cold scales, its hunger had been sated for now.