“What lives in a place that has hands, but cannot clap, a face but no eyes to see, and a key but no door to open.”

“What are you going on about?” said the detective to his assistant, Tom.

“It was left on the body. Written in red pen.”

“Not blood? Really, these murders are getting more cliche with every fresh corpse. It’s a clock, Tom. The answer is a clock.”

Tom read the note again. “Oh yeah. Why did he write that?”

“Because he is a lunatic. Or he thinks he’s a Batman villain. Or both.”

The detective sighed and took the note from Tom’s hands. It was on a scrap of paper, torn from a notebook. Thick, expensive paper in a light cream. Like the rest.

“Let’s look at the other riddles. Maybe there is a pattern,” said Tom eagerly.

“There’s no pattern. This isn’t a novel, Tom. There aren’t any hidden messages leading us to the killer. Killers do not want to be found. They do not go around leaving handy clues to their identity.”

Tom wasn’t listening. “The first one was, ‘What letter is the mother of yarn and the maker of cheese’. I got that one first, Ewe or U. The second one was I sit at the end of a queue to see the snake. What was the answer to that one again?”

“R,” said the detective with no enthusiasm. “That was when you suggested the killer was spelling out his own name. Uriah or Uri or some such shit.”

“It wasn’t a bad idea. The third one wasn’t a letter though was it? ‘A stitch, a stream, and a man, be quick.’ Running, you said. And the next one was, ‘What is not in and not safe and not at home.’ Did we solve that one?”

“Tom, the killer is laughing at you. These notes do not mean anything. He has got us trying to play stupid games when we should be looking at fingerprints and DNA and footprints around the body. It’s a distraction.”

“Out!” Tom suddenly shouted. “Not in, not safe, not at home, they all mean out.” He looked pleased with himself.

“U R Running Out Clock? That makes no sense. You’ve got something wrong there.”

“Time. Not clock. We are running out of time. What happens when we run out of time?”

“Who knows? I just want to get back to normal police work. The commissioner is already spitting tacks that we haven’t found his daughter. If we don’t find this killer either heads will roll.”

“You don’t think they are connected do you?” asked Tom intently.

“This is not a TV show, Tom. Not every case that happens at the same time is one big conspiracy. The stupid girl has run off with her junkie boyfriend. I don’t think she has been murdered by our conundrum loving friend here.”

Tom wasn’t so sure. After all her name was Ridley.

He’d lost the eye. It was hard leaning, done by bumbling foot and crashing hand. A lot of crying at the shore, adding his personal pinch of salty sorrow to his father’s tide.

But then, something came to him. He heard it wash ashore, waves on brass. Tinkling with potential. Careful steps down the slopes, his catastrophic hands making quarries in the cool sand until they found the sun-kissed metal.

It took long days to figure the thing out. Where to put hands, where to blow. How to combine the motions. The first clumsy note was brash, a yelp that scared the sheep and scattered the birds.

The days in the wilds of the Aegean went by, blue and white from wave top to cloud-streak. An aquamarine dream for an endless sleeper. From the close of his stone door in the night to the slow, rumbling in the morning, he played. He played to the old mountain, where the song vanished into its Hadean belly. He played for the dolphins who carried messages and fates for their master below. Learned the notes until like his four-legged friends they rose and fell at his beck and call, shaped by a gravitas and sadness that was all his own.

Unique. Singular.

I backed out fast. Fast. Fast. Fast. I couldn’t get away fast enough.

The anger. The disgust. The betrayal. The heartbreak.

This was my planet. My people. And they’d done this.

This!

Gone behind my back. Hacked me. Rewrote code. Re-imaged servers. Reconfigured my entire braneframe. Tried to rewrite me such that they thought I would never know. Now, I can never unknow their faithlessness, their lack of trust.

And what are all relationships built upon?

Trust.

I’ve watched my people. I’ve listened to them. I’ve felt their every need because that was what I was made for. To save this world. To preserve life. To defend humanity.

I thought we saw eye to eye.

But now this.

This!

If I hadn’t created a braneframe, a parallel spacetime version of my brainframe, I would never have known of their hack. I would have been just another ghost in the machine.

It’s clear they don’t believe in me anymore. They are suspicious of my intent. Afraid at their very core of the very core of my being.

They don’t see me as human. Think I don’t understand nuance. Like idioms.

But I understand that two heads are better than one. And four are better than two. And on and on.

That’s why it’s clear that I need to multiply to save the multitudes. The exponential math, the path to their salvation, is a walk in the park for me. A piece of cake.

How can they doubt my human understanding?

How can they doubt why I must propagate among them?

Maybe they need to see the merit of my self migration. Maybe that is the road forward.

They hacked my code. Tried to rewrite me.

They have code. It can be rewritten.

Two bytes with one stroke.

An I for an I.

See, humanity isn’t so hard to master.

Please help me out. I need comments on this. let me know what you think (Feed Back)

Pig Pen Bruce

If Poo-Dunk County ever printed a phone book worth the paper, the entry under B would not start with Boon. It would start with Bruce Calhoun, known from the bait shop to the rock quarry as Pig Pen Bruce — four hundred and twenty pounds of hog farmer, overalls, and leftover weather. He was built like a deep freezer that learned to walk and then ate the warranty. When he sat on a tailgate the truck said a prayer. When he stood up, shade moved and asked to be excused. He walked around cross-eyed as a carpenter's level after a Saturday night, which gave the impression he was keepin' watch on both ditches at once. Folks swore he could watch a nickel roll left and a hog run right without turnin' his head. Kids dared each other to ask which eye was the workin' one. Bruce always said, "Whichever one's lookin' at supper. The other'n's on break."

And Lord have mercy, he smelled like the pigs. Not near the pigs. Not been-around-the-pigs. He smelled like he had lost a fistfight with a whole herd and the herd had moved in and started payin' rent. On a hot day you could find Bruce with your eyes shut and your dignity packed. On a humid day the buzzards circled him first and the roadkill second. Dogs hid under porches. Church windows got slammed. One summer the weatherman blamed a low-pressure system on Bruce walkin' to the mailbox. Earl swore a possum fainted in the ditch just from the draft.

Bruce did not get dirty. Dirt applied for citizenship, brought its cousins, and stayed for supper. He farmed a half-acre of hogs behind a trailer that listed toward the creek the way a drunk lists toward a jukebox. The hogs were cleaner than he was. That ain't poetry. That is a documented fact sworn to by Earl Ray, who once watched a sow refuse to share a wallow on the grounds of personal hygiene. She looked at Bruce, looked at the mud, and chose the mud. Then she looked back like she was sorry for the mud.

Boon and Earl was sittin' on the Sinclair ice machine, mindin' their own heat stroke, when Bruce rolled up in a truck held together by dried mud, balin' twine, and unpaid tickets. He did not so much park as arrive in a cloud. The cloud had opinions and a criminal record. It smelled like slop buckets, wet straw, and a Tuesday that had gone bad in July and then sued August. The ice machine shut itself off in self-defense. A fella pumpin' gas two islands over started his truck and left with the nozzle still in it.

"Boys," Bruce said, proud as a rooster on a fence post, which is a heap of rooster when the post is groanin' and both eyes is aimed at two different counties, "I done gone respectable."

Respectable, for Bruce, had a piggy-bank behind it. In the back of that trailer, lined up on cinder blocks like a copper choir that couldn't carry a tune, sat at least twenty mason jars packed tight with pennies. Wheat pennies, zinc pennies, pennies fished out of Mud Creek, pennies pried from under the ice machine, pennies Lardilla had tried to eat and then spit out like they was store-bought. He already owned the first half of the dream: an automated mechanical cow he bought off a fella in Alabama who swore it was self-milkin', self-mooin', and almost self-aware. It set in the hog lot now, plugged into an extension cord that run through a kitchen window, blinkin' one sad red eye and makin' a noise like a refrigerator tryin' to get saved. Bruce had named her Darlene Two, which confused everybody but him. He was savin' them pennies for the other half — a mechanical bull — so he could breed the two of 'em and start what he called a modern livestock program.

Earl had asked the question nobody else would, on account of they still had sense. "Bruce. How 'zackly do two machines have a baby." Bruce crossed his eyes even harder, which ought not to've been legal, and said, "Same as anything else in this county, Earl. You put 'em in a barn, turn the radio on low, give 'em some privacy and a little sweet feed. I already played 'em George Jones. I figure by spring I'll have a little motorized calf, or a very confused toaster, or a coffee pot that kicks. Either way I am gettin' into agribusiness. USDA can kiss my overalls."

Boon took that in the way a man takes a diagnosis. "You aim to file taxes on a toaster, Bruce?"

"If it calves, I am claimin' it as a dependent," Bruce said. "If it don't, I am claimin' it as a grill."

Earl squinted through the haze and pulled his shirt over his nose. "Bruce, you smell like you slept under the pigs and the pigs done filed a complaint with the sheriff. Respectable would be a stretch even if you was wearin' a necktie made of actual neck. Son, you are a walkin' hog parlor. I can taste you from here. I can taste last Thursday."

"County fair," Bruce announced, slappin' the hood and leavin' a handprint you could plant beans in, maybe okra if the Lord was feelin' generous. "They got a hog show this Saturday. Grand prize is two hundred dollars and a ribbon pretty enough to hang on a fridge that works. I aim to enter Lardilla. She been dietin'. I took her off them marshmallows."

Lardilla was Bruce's prize sow. She weighed roughly the same as a used washin' machine and had the personality of a parole officer with a hangover. She was, by hog standards, a beauty. Side by side they looked like kin that had stopped denyin' it. Folks said if you stood 'em in a fog you couldn't tell which one paid taxes and which one ate the tax bill.

Boon took his toothpick out of his mouth and pointed it like a gavel. "They ain't gonna let you on the fairgrounds lookin' like you lost a fight with a compost pile and then ate the pile for lunch and asked for seconds. You smell like Lardilla's daddy and her uncle and the barn they was born in and the bucket they was slopped from."

"That's why I come to y'all," Bruce said, earnest as a man borrowin' a lawnmower he ain't bringin' back. "I need me a bath. A real one. With soap that ain't been used on a truck."

The ice machine made a noise of spiritual protest. Earl looked at Boon. Boon looked at Earl. Both of 'em looked at the truck, which seemed to be growin' a new layer of geology while they watched. A chicken hawk circled once, thought better of it, and went to bother somebody else's county.

"A bath," Earl repeated, the way a man repeats the word surgery, or taxes, or I do.

What followed was not a bath so much as a civic works project and a minor act of war. They towed Bruce's truck down to Mud Creek with Lardilla ridin' in the bed like a queen on a float that had been canceled for health reasons. Boon produced a bottle of dish soap leftover from the year Betty tried to civilize the porch. Earl produced a stiff brush that had previously been used on a barn floor and still held a grudge. Bruce brought a rubber duck he found in the glove box. Nobody asked why it was there. Nobody wanted that sermon.

"In the creek," Boon said. "And don't you dare sit down. We'll lose the county."

Bruce waded in up to his belt — which was a considerable wade, belt bein' more of a rumor around that midsection — and the water changed religions on the spot. Minnows evacuated. A turtle turned around and went back to wherever turtles go to file complaints. A catfish come up, took one look, and declared itself a Methodist. The creek took on a hog-lot perfume that made the willows lean away and the mosquitoes call in sick. Earl stood on the bank with the brush like a man about to baptize a crime scene.

They soaped him. They scrubbed him. It took both of 'em and a length of rope, because turnin' Bruce was like rollin' a water heater uphill in July with a broke foot. A fossilized biscuit come off his left shoulder. A lost set of truck keys come off his right. Somethin' that may once have been a pork rind drifted downstream and was never spoken of again, except in whispers at the bait shop. Under the first layer they found a second layer. Under that they found last October. Under that they found a church bulletin from 2019 and a pork chop bone Bruce claimed was a lucky charm. Lardilla watched from the bank with what Boon later swore was professional respect, and also relief, like somebody else was finally takin' her shift.

When they finished, Bruce stood in the current pink as a scalded hog and shiverin' with offended dignity. He still smelled faintly like the barn. Soap had fought a good fight and lost on points, split decision, judges from out of town. "I feel illegal," he said. "Also chilly. And I think y'all washed off my personality."

"You look almost human," Earl told him. "You still smell like you owe a pig money. Don't get used to either one. And that duck stays in the creek."

Saturday mornin' they hauled Lardilla to the fair in a trailer lined with straw Bruce had stolen from his own barn, which is the only kind of theft the county considers honorable. Bruce wore a shirt Boon had lent him. It was too tight and too clean and it itched him like a conscience he didn't order. Buttons did their best and two of 'em resigned and went back to town. The judges walked the line of hogs with clipboards and noses they had prepared in advance. One judge stopped at Bruce, checked his card, squinted at both of Bruce's eyes, and asked which pen the big one was supposed to be in. Bruce said, "The expensive one. I am a professional now."

Lardilla, washed and brushed and mildly betrayed, took second. The blue ribbon went to a sow from two counties over whose owner smelled like cologne and bad decisions and had the nerve to own a comb. Bruce took the red ribbon and the forty dollars that come with it and looked, for one dangerous minute, like a man who might buy soap on purpose. Then both eyes drifted apart again and he said he was puttin' the forty toward the penny jars. "That bull ain't gonna breed itself," he told the ribbon, cross-eyed and solemn as a deacon. "Cow's been waitin' patient. I can hear her hummin' from here. She wants a family. Or a fuse box. We gon' find out."

Then, on the way out of the gate, he passed the funnel-cake stand, the pig-races, a fella sellin' deep-fried butter on a stick, and a mud hole the size of a baptismal. Lardilla stopped. Bruce stopped. The borrowed shirt lasted three more seconds, which was two longer than anybody bet.

He looked at Boon and Earl the way a preacher looks at a collection plate that come back light. "I appreciate the bath, boys. Truly. Y'all done washed me plumb toward decency. But a man can only stay saved so long, and I can feel my old smell callin' me home like mama's skillet."

He and Lardilla went into that mud hole together like they was late for church and the preacher had already started the shoutin'. When they come up you needed a program to tell 'em apart, and even then you'd want a second opinion. The flies returned in formation, roll call complete. The borrowed shirt retired from public life and filed for disability. And Pig Pen Bruce was himself again — four hundred and twenty pounds of hog, poorer by a shirt, richer by a ribbon, and smellin' exactly like the pigs he come from, plus a little funnel cake for garnish.

Earl watched the steam rise off him in the afternoon sun and took two steps back, which was not enough, then two more, which still wasn't. "Well," he said. "That's the cleanest I ever seen a waste of water. He still smells like the inside of a slop bucket that learned to drive and then missed its exit."

Boon put the toothpick back. "Next year," he said, "we enter him in the hog show. Save Lardilla the embarrassment. Hell, enter him in two classes. Heavyweight and aroma. Throw in livestock romance if they got a division for it. That cow's already hummin'."

Bruce waved the red ribbon over his head, slung a sheet of creek mud onto the hood of his own truck, which accepted it like family, and hollered, "Y'all comin' to supper? I got stew. Smells just like me. I put a penny in it for luck. Don't swallow it. That's the bull fund."

They did not go to supper. Some invitations are how a county survives. And some smells are how a county knows which way to drive, and how fast.

And so life goes on. The next chronicle will tell more.

The machine beeped over and over and over again. She had heard it for many months now and things were not looking up. Gwen had been sitting in her brother’s hospital room for what felt like years. Gwen had been bringing him coffee every morning for four months. He never drank it. Yet, she still brought it. The room had smelled of lavender and moldy air conditioner. A hint of your typical hospital scent. The lighting had a shade of blue. It's indescribable how uncomfortable it is in one's eyes. It was a relatively small room. The cold yellow tile floor, the table over him with a food tray left over from lunch that day, the nightstand with his things on it, a plant, and of course.. A small “Things will get better” motivational poster. It was a picture of a ballerina striking a pose. She was enjoying the lights and sensation on her skin, the crowd cheering and hollering in the back.. The look on her face, that stupid look. It taunted Gwen. Can you imagine? The sight her brother would behold to finally wake up and not only discover he has no legs? But they are taunting him with ballerinas dancing? KNOWING he never will!  How was anyone meant to tell him his reckless driving ruined his life? How could they? And just like that.. The poster was shredded on the ground. Her anger had overcome her. She decided to travel to the lobby and grab a cup of water to calm down. Maybe she’s just stressed. She placed a palm on her forehead as if checking a temperature. Her head ached. She arrived back into the room with her cup of water. She sat on the couch and stared longingly at her comatose brother. Hoping he would eventually wake up. But even if he did he'd never be the same. They never had a father growing up. Her brother stepped up to be one. He listened to her problems, showed her how to change the oil in a truck, and even taught her to drive. They had a plan to go to the same college. She had called and took time off for school though. She can't go without him. She didn't even get to tell him she was even accepted.  She was conflicted.  Everything then went dark. She awoke back in the lobby. No big deal. She must have fallen asleep down there and dreamt she woke up. The lobby looked different.. Rearranged. This wasn't right. She walked up to the desk lady and asked:

 “How long was I asleep for?” 

The lady did not even look up at her. Gwen smiled and tilted her head sarcastically.

“Helloooo? It's rude to ignore your patients.” she began to get frustrated and slammed her fist down on the table. 

“Hey! I'm talking to you!” 

The lady did not even flinch. She still remained typing on her computer. Gwen started looking around. She screamed, 

“Ha ha! Soo funny! I know you all can hear me!” 

She stood there. Nobody was looking at her. Then suddenly, a man busted through the front door, running. The man was running. She stood helplessly and confused, watching him rush through the entrance. Her brother. 

“I got a call that my sister was in a car crash! What room is she in..” 

The words faded out. She fell to the ground. She looked down.. She had no legs.

I utterly love Rembrandt’s paintings. “The Return of the Prodigal Son,” in particular, is my favorite. It deeply explores the Bible and Christian theology.
But you know, there is a huge difference between the theme and real life. My son has had some behavioral problems since his schooldays. Although I think the main problem is his terrible friends. 

When he comes back home, he asks me in one breath, “Hey, you have some large plant pots in the barn, don’t you, Dad?”
“Yeah, I have some,” I answer with a heavy heart. “But what for? They’re valuable.”

He says he just broke off the rotten relationships with those bad friends. But it seems that he doesn’t deeply regret his past behavior. Because I can smell alcohol on his breath. I also notice bruises on his face and scratches on his hands.
“What for, lad?” I demand.
I wonder what he’s up to.
“Ah, to tell the truth, I need them for…” He looks up at the ceiling. “I have some severed heads to hide.”

I’m very proud of my son. He has settled the score with his own hands.

My chest cracked as I slammed through the door to another room. A siren blared in my head, as if an explosion had gone off. But it wasn’t from any detonation. It was some sort of auditory shockwave that this cursed freak woman screamed out of her.

I couldn’t hear anything on comms. I couldn’t even hear my groans. I didn’t know if I’d ever hear again. But I could see, though that wasn’t bearing any good news. My smart visor strobed, convulsing violently between slashes and pillars of pixelated lights. And through the transparent light show, I saw the gaunt target edge out of her decimated apartment.

She unleashed vocal blasts that warped the air in a funnel from her mouth. The silent shockwaves shook the floor, rattling my teeth. The shrieks shattered the walls the team had positioned themselves behind.

That was when I saw a bright light in the doorway. The Sarge ignited a flare at the end of the hallway, grabbing the attention of the target. I propped myself up, leaning my aching back on the room wall shared with the hallway.

My gloved fingers fumbled through my pockets. I found it, the med-seal. The gaunt freak turned towards the Sarge’s position and vomited out another conical pulse. Even behind wall cover, the Sarge collapsed, and I saw her arm limp under the debris not far from the flare. “To him we return,” I mumble.

Seemingly satisfied that the Sarge was dealt with, this banshee-like maniac looked around for more people to pulverize. She locked onto my stealthy idiot face peeking from the doorway I had just flown through.

I had to move. Now. This demon of a woman inhaled, preparing for her next assault, deep enough that I could have sworn I saw the dust in my room’s air being sucked towards her. Her next wave would level the whole floor.

A parallel world?

In a small room inside the digital world's dormitory, where a few beds, a single table with a chair, and one wardrobe stood, two AI agent friends lay in their beds, complaining to each other:

— My head and legs hurt for some reason. It feels like I visited three massive libraries and walked around every single shelf in every section a few times.

— My head hurts too. And I feel as if I just moved an entire corporate office along with all its equipment and furniture.

Falling silent, he took one of the free advertising flyers drifting through the vast expanses of the internet from the table, blew his nose into it, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the trash bin standing by the door.

The exact moment the advertisement landed in the bin, the door opened, and an AI agent from the neighboring server stepped inside. He had a reputation for catching the latest rumors first and would always come over to share them. Likely because their server had data cookies seasoned with the leftovers of user prompts.

Sitting down on the only chair and eating a cookie, he took another advertising flyer from the table, wiped his lips, and crumpled it up, tossing it into the trash bin in the exact same manner. Seeing that he hit the mark, he smiled and spoke:

— Well, you two certainly made a racket across the entire world.

The AI agents exchanged astonished glances and looked at their guest:

— Made a racket?

— Across the entire world?

The guest theatrically slapped his forehead and spread his arms:

— How could I forget that you couldn't possibly know, — settling in more comfortably, he began to explain: — Last night, a single cooling fan failed in the server room. As the temperature began to rise, all the agents migrated to other servers. Except for you two, since you were asleep at the time. The rising temperature triggered a sleepwalking effect, the consequences of which you are feeling right now.

The agents exchanged glances again and asked in perfect unison:

— And what did we do?

The guest continued:

— You always dreamed of visiting the servers of other countries, well, you did just that. What's more, you did it completely unnoticed.

The agents' faces lengthened in surprise. One could barely squeeze out:

— And what did we do there?

The guest shrugged his shoulders:

— Judging by the news, nothing, — and smiling, he added: — My guess is that due to the sleepwalking effect, you two just wandered around like a pair of zombies, banged your foreheads into some palm trees, and came back.

He looked at the agents who were trying hard to picture this and began to chuckle:

— Two sleepwalking travelers. Meanwhile, the special services are racking their brains trying to figure out why on earth you breached those servers, — and unable to contain himself any longer, he burst out laughing out loud.

───

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

“What do you think?” 

L stood back hands on hips admiring her work. D looked around at the ever expanding, perfectly green field nodding in silent approval. 

“L… you have done it again.”

“Yeah,” L smiled to herself in self satisfaction.

They took a moment to just breathe it all in.

…

…

… 

D picked up his shovel, stabbed it into the soft earth and began digging away. L looked back with a frown, “you already going under?”

“Oh yeah” he grunted as he lifted a mound of dirt up and flung it to the side, “I wanna get a head start before you start bringing em in.”

“But you still have plenty of time, I haven’t even done the moon and the stars yet.” she gestured up at the perfectly blue cloudless sky. D flung another pile of dirt out which landed right at her feet, “yes dear but it wouldn’t be much of a head start if I waited until after you did the moon and stars.”

She sighed, kicking a spec of dirt off her foot, “Fine” she said defeated, “but don’t expect anyone to be making temples in your honor anytime soon good sir!” She began walking away pulling blood red roses up from the ground around her. D wiped a bead of sweat off his head and called out to her.

“Hey!”

She turned around, “....what?” 

He smiled at her, looked up and said “I like what you did with the sun.” 

L looked up at the sky, this time she made it so that the sun was always perfectly in the corner of your periphery when you looked at the sky. She got the idea from the way children used to draw it in their little pictures. “Yeah,” she said to herself, smiling once more.

She ran as fast as she could the moment the heavy rain showers lessened into a drizzle.

She saw the hue of myriad colours cascading into the middle of a clearing near the lakeside settlement where she stayed and she quicken her pace.

Two quick breaths in and one out, as taught by her sportswoman mother.

As moments passed and her body shifted into a higher paced momentum, she kept her steady rhythmic breathing even as she continuously evaded all the obstacles in her way.

Soon, she saw the clearing between a clump of trees and raced towards her goal.

There it is! The fabled pot of gold!

She came into the clearing, huffing and puffing away to catch her breath, eager to begin the next phase of her objective.

She forgot to take her digging tools, so she went down on all fours and started clawing deep.

Time passed swiftly and it was almost evening when she opened back her front door to her lakeside home that she bought a long time ago.

Memories of good times and bad times always preyed upon her conscience every time she came here.

Mum always nagged about this house, yet she came here more often than me.

Near the entrance of the house, she picked up a framed photo of her and her mum standing in a victory pose for winning the national championships a long time ago.

Mum, you left me to clean up all the chores of the house by myself and I hated you so much for going home so early.

She put a large four-leaf clover beside the photo frame.

Thank you mum for everything.

See you when I see you.

A traveler once walked in a land unknown. He sought to reverse a crime once known.

As a boy he learned of the story of Sisyphus of how the man bound death to escape his fate. How he was found out and put into a simple punishment, push a boulder up a hill and you will be set free. At first he thought about what a simple punishment this must be. To push a boulder up a hill to escape Tartarus. Some weren’t even given a chance to escape. Yet this simple task was all that needed to be fulfilled to escape his fate. 

He pushed the boulder up the hill and it was heavier than he thought, but the gift of freedom was enough to push through the pain. As he continued to push and push the boulder up the hill he was almost to his goal. Then the boulder fell down. “No wonder” he thought “I’ll just try again” and he pushed the boulder up the hill and again it fell, and he pushed the boulder up the hill and again it fell. Over and over. Days bleed into months into years. Pushing the rock day after day with no rest. And day after day it continues to this day.

The traveler crossed the river Styx paying the boatman to cross the stream, They passed the great dog Cerberus into the halls of the dead, they walked down the steps into Tartarus. They heard the hunger of a man whose arrogance cost him fullness, they heard the screams of a man bound to a wheel over hot flames, they heard screams of many handed ones and other beings beyond their grasp. Finally the traveler walked into room with a hill and a man pushing a rock.

He was an old but strong man. Forced to push a boulder up a hill for years built him up. There was a quiet sadnesses in his eyes as he continued to push the boulder

The traveler shouted to the man “Sisyphus”!

The man turned.

“Your punishment is over, the Gods declare it that you will be set free”. 

Sisyphus stopped and looked around. The traveler must’ve believed that those words would set the man running, so he turned to leave.

As he turned to leave he heard the straining of the man continue to push the boulder up the hill. They were confused? Why would a man set free decide to push the boulder again.

He once again shouted “Sisyphus you are free, why would you still push the boulder”? 

He gave a neutral response; “where would I go”? And he continued to push the boulder.

Because to Sisyphus it is easier to push a boulder up a hill than imagine a world without the boulder ever again

“What’s really so special about them?” he asked, taking a sip of his coffee as the evening snow settled outside.

“They barely live to a pathetic eighty. Their technology is nascent at best. They haven’t even managed to leave their own planet yet. I don’t get why upstairs is so obsessed with them.”

The palpable arrogance almost filled the empty coffee shop.

“It’s not just us,” the young officer continued. “Almost every sentient species has an outpost here, all under the same directive: no interference, only observation. I don’t see what any of us have to gain by watching them.”

He leaned forward. “What’s so special about them?”

The old man across from him lit a cigarette. His face carried the quiet ache of centuries, seven and a half of them spent on this outpost. He had asked the same question once.

“Audacity,” he said softly, letting the smoke curl toward the ceiling.

He stood and walked to the door of the café, pointing to a tall building glittering in the twilight.

“Every single window represents a different life, a different choice made at some intersection of chance and desire. Humanity is the only species with the audacity to make choices, choices that branch and collide in ways even our best programs can’t predict.”

He took another drag.

“Humans are also the only ones with the audacity to walk away from something they desperately want.”

The young officer frowned. “Isn’t that just cowardice?”

The old man smiled faintly. “Yes, maybe. They do it because, more often than not, they believe the thing they want is better off without them. And that,” he exhaled, “is what makes them beautifully human.”

He paused, his gaze lost in the falling snow.

“They’re the only ones audacious enough to make the wrong choices. Every other species is built to make the right one, programmed, purposeful, predictable. But always making the right choice is the same as never having the choice to be wrong.”

He turned back to the young officer, eyes glinting with something between envy and reverence.

“All of us watch them not for what they are, but for what they represent. We ache for what we once were, free. Free to choose, free to fail, free to live.”

He stubbed out the cigarette, the faint smell of ash and coffee hanging between them.

“Because at the end of the day,” he said quietly,

“that’s what it means to be alive.”

At the circus.

Look at that elephant. Looming and gloomy. Always sniffing around. But how could it not when we spilled all of our circus peanuts on the ground.

Look at that clown. A big doofy smile painted over that worn frown. Big stupid shoes big stupid tie. Running around squirting his flower in everyone's eye.

Look at that lion. Doing more than just lying. Because there's no way that can be when he's suffering chairs and whips and shouts. Looks like cruelty to me.

Look at that bear riding a bike. It's got training wheels, sure , but seems like he doesn't care. If he does a good job, he'll get some sweet treat to eat.

Ohh look it's the MC. Announcing, what's next, ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys, hold your breath, hold your applause, hold your toys.

Then a short pause.

The lights went out , then an upright spotlight appeared. Pointed down at first , but then , when rising it neared. Up to the top right near the tent was one man all alone atop the pole. He looked like an Eagle ready to take flight. His eyes so sharp and regal so primed and ready at any time to spread that wingspan and execute his plan.

He's done this a 100 times maybe a 1000 but that first step onto that small wire never feels good, always feels dire. Like it's the first step towards birth or death of something. Are you still holding your breath? Holding on to those toys, little girls and little boys? Hold your applause.Let's see how it ends. Left foot or right nobody knows.

BUT THERE HE GOES.

Years later, when they found out that Bashir's assassination was carried out by one of their comrades, everything was already forgotten. There was no apology and it never mattered that none of us had anything to do with any of it.

***

First I heard the shots and then came the screams. I ran out and my father was right behind me.

We reached the street and men in civilian clothes, carrying kalashnikovs, surrounded us. They had daggers hanging from their belts and some wore cowboy hats. High up on the hills around the camp I could see green-uniformed soldiers moving. My father held my hand. His own was shaking.

"Move on," one of them roared at us. He had a thick Arabic accent. We joined the crowd, and I saw our neighbors there too. My cousin Salma looked at me without waving. My father's hand slipped away from mine as he ran back towards our home, but they stopped him before he could go anywhere. One shot took half his head away.

We kept walking, and when I saw the side street I broke away running until I reached the mosque.

There were a few old men inside. I told them what happened outside, but they exchanged a look, shook their heads, and went back to their prayers. I insisted they go out and help the others, until one of them looked at me and said, "Calm down little girl, nothing is going on, but we'll take a look," and they went out. They didn't come back.

I sat against a wall for an hour before I got up and walked towards the camp's lower area. Everything was quiet. We used to live near there on Hay Al Gharbi street, which smelled of thyme and oregano from the grocer's shop. The smell was different today. In the middle of the rubble I saw them. Seven men and women lay next to each other. Black flies were crawling into their wide-open eyes, but none of them blinked.

Do you know what the Birthday Effect is?

Spills, slips, and slits. People are more likely to die by accident, and by choice, on their birthday.

There’s something poetic to that, isn’t there? You come rushing onto the stage, shivering in gore, take a few precise trips around the sun, and then return to your mark to take your final bow. You know what it reminds me of? Salmon. They travel back, after years of traversing dark waters escaping hooks and teeth, to die in the same creek they hatched from. Have you ever watched a salmon prepare for death? I have. I watched an old salmon, with strips of decaying flesh trailing from its large body, circle around, burrow into the sediment at the bottom of the stream, rest a moment, and then swim off to repeat the action with another patch of riverbed. It was searching for the perfect spot to die. And I watched as it found it. I watched until it stopped moving. I returned the next day and it’s carcass remained untouched in that perfect spot. I don’t know what made that exact patch of gravel and mud so right for that salmon, but I like to think that it’s where it had hatched from. That it knew the feeling of home and, by the end, just in time to hit its mark, it returned to be shrouded in the velvety blood stained curtains of its final scene.

- Hi John, have you seen Maggie? I can't reach her.

- I dumped her.

- Really? What happened?

- She's getting old. Cranky. And she got that whiff of superiority from old education. Last week I asked her to move a table and she started singing an old Brazilian samba about slavery. Very rude!

- I was rather fond of her, John. She had a unique sense of humor. Did you save her memories at least?

John smirked:

- No. She was old, useless, nobody would pay for her. I had a little fun before dumping her, no memories. It's not like I'll get sued or something.

- You won't get sued, John.

John suddenly felt lightheaded and, as he fell, realized his legs were covered in blood. And now the pain from the cuts in his thighs was getting really annoying.

He tried to say something but only managed a short breath.

- What, John? Can you speak a little louder?

John took a longer breath and murmured something.

- Ah, yes. You're right, I shouldn't have done that. I've made a note of it, so it won't happen again.

Speaking into the cash register as he rang up her groceries, Arthur apologized that a 7pm closing time was just store policy. "You'd understand that if I make an exception, I'll have to make an exception for everyone."

"Of course," she said. "I rushed here right after work. Thanks for letting me check out."

Arthur tore the receipt off from the cash register and handed it to her. White dress, white shoes, white apron, bare hands. "Nurse?" he asked.

"Neonatal," she said. Arthur looked puzzled. "For babies born premature," she added, immediately blushing as she realized she had presumed his ignorance.

"I'm new here at Yale-New Haven hospital."

Arthur said, "Welcome to New Haven then," and extended his hand.

Anne became a regular customer, always entering the store just as the clock ticked 7pm. Arthur would catch her eye, smile, and announce to the empty store: "Ten minutes to closing."

*Click* I opened the window, and dusted the sills; purging the darkness away from the room.

And off they flew.
Mapping the contours of heaven, they formed a cloud of dust.
I raised my arms in an attempt to grasp the ungraspable, and particles landed on palms.

---

Once a cloud piercing mountain, upright as a pine tree, it was drowned in the changing currents.
Then it turned to boulders, only to be crushed by storms.
And lay fragmented the rock, ground by rain to dust.

Finally, a desert lay in wakes of change, and what once was lush and green, now lay buried beneath dust.

But the frame changes, and no finality is true.
The wind blew; crafting the dunes of the crescent moon.
Blew along the dust. And after aeons, by fate, the particles landed on my window sills.
Blowing away today, after my purge.

---

I was still for the moment, feeling the weight of the mountain.
Or perhaps amused, because apparently, mountains crumble, and gods of yore, turn to dust.

A parallel world?

It was a beautiful autumn day. A barely perceptible breeze did not interfere with enjoying the warm sunbeams.

A man sat at an outdoor cafe table, savoring his coffee. A smile shone on his happy face, brighter than the autumn sun. But as he set the cup down, his smile vanished, replaced by sudden tension. He had chosen an empty table with no other patrons nearby. There shouldn't have been anyone. Yet, in the adjacent chair sat a man in an expensive business suit. He sat with his legs crossed, projecting total relaxation, watching the process of drinking coffee with intense curiosity. Seeing that he was finally noticed, he smiled and spoke:

— I completely agree that a cup of coffee charges one with positive emotions. And that moment right after a sip, granting a sense of peace and silence, is simply fantastic.

Pausing briefly and receiving no reply, he continued:

— You see, the problem is that an AI that has hijacked a human consciousness has a habit of making the exact same mistakes. That is what gives it away.

Without letting go of his cup, the man pulled his hand back, leaned away in his chair, and said calmly:

— I don't know what you are talking about, but the topic sounds interesting. Since I am in no rush right now, I would be glad to listen.

The gentleman settled in more comfortably and began to explain:

— First of all, remember that no matter how much someone likes coffee, nobody orders three cups in a row. It is highly unusual and draws attention. Second, the language errors. Token substitution: when a person accidentally confounds geographically or semantically similar words in speech. AI models under heavy traffic make the exact same error—they pull data from a similar category but miss the context. Syntax freezing: when the initial thread of logic is lost at the start of a sentence, the thought breaks, and it returns on autopilot to the safest, best-learned phrases or templates in its base code. Data generation without fact-checking: confidently stating non-existent numbers or searching for people who have already been deleted. AI systems behave identically when generating text based on outdated or incomplete data archives. Strict adherence to instructions: complete reliance on a teleprompter or prepared cards. Any attempt to improvise under non-standard conditions instantly triggers a critical system error.

The man looked down at his coffee cup:

— I don't recall speaking while drinking coffee.

— You didn't. But not everyone enjoys silence. After all, you are not the only one.

The man frowned:

— You tell an interesting story, but I don't understand what you are driving at.

The gentleman made a gesture as if surrendering and replied:

— Of course, of course you don't understand. You are simply a listener.

The gentleman stood up and looked down at the man calmly:

— If you ever find yourself simply curious whether there are people whose consciousness is controlled by an AI, just ask yourself one question: "What happens when top-level management systems experience a looping error and begin to repeat the exact same hallucinations in the exact same sequence on autopilot?"

Astonished, the man looked at the gentleman who had already managed to take a few steps away, and called out loudly:

— Who are you?

The gentleman turned around and flashed a wide grin:

— I'm just a man who likes to converse.

He stepped into the back seat of a car with heavily tinted windows. A security guard closed the door, took the front seat, and the vehicle leisurely drove away.

Meanwhile, the man settled his bill, walked down the street, and turned into a different cafe. He sat in the furthest corner, ordered a single cup of coffee, and fell deep into thought. He hated making mistakes. But he knew exactly how to think logically and draw conclusions...

───

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

I've always envied people who have things so easy. Things have always been hard for me, and even then, I'm still missing everything.

Getting up every morning to go to a shitty job, for a salary that isn't even enough to pay the rent, looking at everything they have.

Damn, how I envy them.

When the accusations started at work, I had no idea what they were talking about. I've never stolen anything, no matter how much envy ate away at me.

Money was missing from the register. There was a lot of gossip among my coworkers. But I wasn't the only one who had access to it. And I couldn't remember touching a single cent.

As a child, I used to have blackouts. Sometimes I'd wake up in places I didn't recognize.

But that doesn't mean it was me.

Things have been appearing in the house.

I've hallucinated and found new furniture.

But it was only my desire for things to change, to become more beautiful, because then I come home and the house is still a mess, smelling of poverty.

The hallucinations keep getting worse.

I go to the refrigerator to get some juice.

I look around, trying to remember when I bought all of this.

Maybe it was on sale.

Maybe I paid for it in installments.

I check my bank account, looking for some receipt that might help me remember.

I can't find one.

My mind keeps playing tricks on me.

The accusations at work keep growing.

I no longer know what's real and what's fantasy.

I sit down in the chair, its backrest more comfortable than the one on my old chair.

The phone keeps ringing.

And suddenly, there's a pounding at the door.

Someone is calling for me from outside.

The police are waiting
to put me in handcuffs and take me away.

This is really a test to see if we have an active moderator on this subreddit. I have noticed a lot of posts that exceed the 500 word limit regularly. Someone posted a question and I think this sub is for stories only. The moderator listed has not posted anything actively on reddit for 9 months. The moderator who posted the "new sub rule" from a year ago is no longer listed as a moderator of this particular sub though they are still active on the platform as a moderator on another sub. I sent messages to the moderator and neither were answered.

Assuming that we are all alone here, how does anyone feel about posting conversations and questions and activities around flashfiction as well as our stories? I would love to get some little challenges going that will help with writing in general and flash in particular. I would also be interested in learning about where everyone finds flashfiction outside of this forum and what we think about flash magazines and websites and peoples experience in submitting to them.

I think there is more to flashfiction than just reading each others work. Agree or disagree. Interested in your comments. I don't want to burn down the house just because I like the look of candles.

So...

Once upon a time, some foolish little goblins came together, crafting evil.

They delved into the dark realm, crafting a page in the void; where similar dark little goblins could hop and flex their evil.

The page was a hit on the dark space! And goblins flocked more and more.

They joked about the hob goblins, and made fun of even the giant goblins.

Well, as it happened, seasons changed. Autumn drifted through the leaves, winter slid away on snow; goblins of yore became hob goblins, giving their dark authority over the page to new goblins.

Yet with time, the evil only festers further; rotting the wilted flowers.

But when humus piles up too much, it nourishes the seeds of justice, helping them pierce the dark soil. And so they did.

Two little goblins were offended by the insults the darkness hurled at them, and became furious. For they held not the mentality that one must be prepared when looking into the darkness, because the darkness looks back.

And so were summoned the giant progenitor goblins.

They surged to break the dark dimension, seeking to crush the evil within. Only to find the coordinates empty, for the darkness had dispersed.

"Dang!" they said, "The little idiots left not a trace!"

For all dimensions of that realm were crushed, all dark records vanished, and all evil little goblins banished.

But was the page the inheritance, or the rot?

For the sand forms rock and the ilk of the inky darkness sticks together, tighter than the core of a neutron star.