Hey, you're not here and I'm sitting at my cubicle watching the clock, but you don't know about 9-to-5s. I don't know why I even think of you. It's been a while, and there wasn't much to think of to begin with. 

Hey, you're not here, and I'm at the tequila bar on 6th street doing shots. I haven't made it home before three this whole week. I'll probably end tonight hunched over a toilet expelling half-digested tortilla chips and guacamole. If you were still here, I'd probably be throwing up anyways. 

Hey, you're not here and I'm in my cubicle again, and thinking of when you were. You weren't in the city for a long time, but you got to see Brooklyn. We left work early, and took the Q from Union Square and got off at DeKalb. Subways make me sick. I'm sensitive to motion. I wonder if you were too. I wonder how much like me you would have been. 

Did you know when we walked into the clinic? What were you thinking? Did you hate me? All this time–did you hate me more than you loved me? Did you have enough time to form those emotions? 

"It's done," the doctor said, and I thought, hey, then stopped. He held a Petri dish out to me. "Do you want to take a look?"

Hey–

I swallowed, shook my head, look away. I heard the plastic clatter into one of his many wastebaskets. 

It's done. 

Hey–

It's done. 

Hey–

You can't hate me anymore. I made sure of that. But I'll do it for you. 

I can't fall asleep anymore. I'm scared if I close my eyes, I'll never wake up. That itself would be okay. I'm scared because I'll have to face you if I die. When I die, I mean. Because we're all gonna die. And I can't face you. 

Hey, you're not here, and it was my choice. Hey, you're not here, and you can't come back. 

Hey, you're not here and I said I wouldn't care, but I'm sitting at my cubicle watching the clock and thinking of you even though there's nothing to think about. You weren't anything. You had no time. I gave you no time–no, not quite. I took away all your time except a few short weeks. 

 Hey, you're not here and it's my fault.

 Hey, you're not here, and I wish you were.   

You see, it was a Friday. On Fridays, my buddies and I head straight for the bar after clocking out. After hours and hours of standing around, feeling our brains decompose while keeping that fucking grin on our face, we felt that yeah, we deserved it. That's retail for you. Either the job kills you, or your methods of coping will.

That Friday, I met a girl. I'm talking long legs, decent rack, and red smile. She was goddamn beautiful. We talked over some drinks, laughed at some jokes, then we were fucking on her bed, though for the life of me I couldn't tell you who convinced who. In the morning, we looked at each other again and realized something.

Hey, aren't you...?

Oh god, you're...

Sean Choi.

Naomi Dawson.

Naomi Dawson. I hadn't heard that name in years. Fuck, I hadn't given two shits about the girl in almost a decade.

It's been a while, she said.

I took a sip of my coffee; it burned my tongue. Yeah, I replied. Yeah, it's been a long time.

How have you been?

I put my coffee down. Ah, I'm alright. Just another college grad working retail, you know.

Oh. She drank from her coffee, gulping it down silently like it wasn't just boiling hot two seconds ago.

What about you? I said. How've you been holding up?

I've been okay.

That's good.

Yeah, she said. It's okay.

I thought she was talking about the coffee. I brought up how hot it was, and then we went off on a tangent about coffee, of all things. Soon enough, I was walking back out the door, her phone number tucked into my pocket, dropping promises into the air that we'd meet up again.

Yeah fucking right.

Naomi and I were childhood friends. “Friends” is what I would call it, since we hung out, ate lunch, talked. It started when we were ten. I woke up the day after Halloween, punch-drunk from too much candy, and my mom started gushing to me about how Mr. and Mrs. Dawson's baby got run over yesterday.

“Oh my,” she kept on saying. “Oh my, that poor child.”

That was all they ever said – my mom, my friends, fuck, even the teachers. “Poor Naomi.” “Poor baby.” “Poor dear.” But the thing was, Naomi never acted like a dear. Never caught in the headlights, frozen in the spotlight, only moving as she'd always moved: on and on.

I got curious.

See, Naomi didn't have friends. Even if she was the lone-wolf type, the shy, small-voice type, going through four years of grade school without forming one friend was pretty fucking hard to do. It took work. I managed to mangle all the efforts of that work and become her only friend. It was hard and frustrating, but I kept at it. I kept at it and continued going at it until that blistering day in June when we graduated and she vanished from my life.

Well, fuck her, I thought. Fuck her and all her talks, all our talks. Fuck her wild, witch's laugh, fuck every ounce of food she'd ever weaseled out of me, fuck the way she said fuck, all soft, drawn-out and hesitant. Fuck her.

I was never going to see her again, especially not after that goddamn Friday night. At least, that's what I told myself, but there was something about her. Even now, I'm not sure what it was. Maybe I felt guilty. Maybe I was waiting for an apology. All I know is that every following Friday she'd text me, always these same two words:

Come over.

And I came over.

After a few weeks, I decided that Naomi had a nice bed. We lay on that bed every time I came over, watching her nice, HD TV. It was comfortable. It was nice. At the end of six weeks, though, I felt like the bed could have swallowed me up whole, and Naomi wouldn't have spared even the blink of a goddamn eye. So that sixth night, we weren't watching the TV. It was late. If we started a movie, we'd fall asleep before we could finish it, or that's what I said.

We were just sitting together, finally, side-by-side, in a silence that we had been warding off for too long now, a thin barrier that had reached its breaking point.

I spoke first.

Why'd you drop off the face of the Earth after we graduated? I said.

She stared, frowning at the blank TV like it was actually on. Then she wasn't anymore. She looked down at her hands, her face as blank as the goddamn TV.

It started with a fight, she said.

A fight?

Yes, she said. A fight.

They had loved each other in the beginning. For many, many years they loved each other, and at the end of those years, they had a child. No one remembers the child's name or what it looked like – if it had been a girl or a boy, if it had been beautiful, like its mother, or warped, like its father. All we know is that Hawé had loved it, adored it just as your mother had adored you and my mother had adored me. Every day she suckled the child. She cradled it in her arms, kissed its unwrinkled forehead, and sung to it stories that no one else knew. Aerta watched his lover as she did this. He watched as she poured her love away from him and into this creature he soon wished had never been born.

He knew what must be done.

One night, in the midst of Hawé's slumber, he stole the child from her arms. The child, perhaps having recognized its father, did not cry. It simply lay in Aerta's arms, silent, blinking, innocent to its fate. Perhaps Aerta hesitated at this. Perhaps in the sudden shadow of a doubt he looked at those clear, thoughtless eyes and contemplated fully the weight of his actions. If he did, it was not enough. That night, Aerta held the child in his hands for the first and last time, and he swallowed it whole.

Wait, I interrupted.

She turned to look at me. Her eyes were expectant, like she'd been waiting for me to cut in right at this exact moment. The thought that I was playing into her weird game pissed me off, but not as much as it should have. Naomi tended to have that effect on me.

Yes? she said.

What the fuck are you talking about? I said. I asked you a question.

And this is my answer.

But –

She nudged my shoulder with hers, smiling at me gravely.

Just listen, she urged.

No, I wanted to say. I wanted to tell her that I wouldn't just sit there and listen to her bullshit. It was fine when we were brats. She'd talk nonstop about aliens, superpowers, robots, the usual kind of kid crap that would sound like something more when coming out of her mouth. We weren't kids anymore, though. We were adults for god's sake, and adults didn't believe in shit like fairies.

But you see, Naomi had green eyes. Green like leaves in April rain, and I'm no twat poet so when I say shit like that, you know I mean it. They stared at me then, so big and full of water that they glistened, even in the gray dark.

Okay, I said. I'll listen.

Still smiling, she leaned her head on my shoulder and wrapped her damp fingers around my nicotine-stained hand.

Aerta ate his child, she continued. It was done, irrevocable, and the cry that Hawé let out at finding her arms empty the next morning bore through his already beaten heart. But it will all end soon, he told himself. Soon, Hawé will be mine once again.

Yet Hawé was the Being that ruled all beings. She watched over every plane in the universe, dipped her fingers into the swirls of stars and left behind trails of black holes, life-giving water, acid rain, and bipedal organisms. She was life and death and heaven and hell. That morning, she took one look at Aerta and knew what he had done.

Hatred as she had never known tore through her mind and aching breasts. “I banish you!” she screamed. “I banish you to the ends of the universe, where you shall never chance to look upon me again. There you shall bear the weight of all my children, you shall feel their feet shift and stomp on your back, you shall watch them grow while you decay in the filth of their waste, and you shall nourish them, knowing that they are the children of others and not yours.”

Aerta begged for mercy. “I love you,” he said.

“It is not enough,” Hawé replied.

It is said that even thousands of years after, in the dead of night, one could still hear Aerta begging, the cries tucked like secrets into the wind.

Naomi paused to grab her beer from the nightstand. She took a sip before offering it to me. I drank from it like I was watching someone else move my hands, open my mouth, and massage the liquid down my throat.

At one point in my life, I legitimately believed that Naomi was insane. Stories are stories, but you wouldn't have believed it from the way she talked. For her, mutant dolphins and hallucinogenic pencils were as real as you or me, and whenever I said they weren't, she would stop talking to me for hours, sometimes days. That night was different, though.

That night, she was speaking like the story was a fairytale. She moved her hands and paced herself, like her answer was a thoroughly memorized performance of a book she had read somewhere, sometime long ago.

Which meant that she was talking about that Halloween night, when her step-father turned his back for a second and let her baby sister step out into the road, about that random day, when her mother punished him by killing herself, as if it were all just a story. And I just didn't know what to do with that.

Naomi put away the beer and continued.

Just as Hawé promised, she bore many more children from many more men, and she sent them all to live on the wide expanse of Aerta's back. Aerta had no choice but to sustain them, to give them the water and the vegetation that would help them grow. Aerta resented Hawé for this, yet he could not stop loving her.

Every night, he sent his heart out into the skies, commanding Hawé to look at its brilliance, urging her to think of him, to return to him. Hawé's children looked upon this bright light, feeling its loneliness, and some began to join their hearts with his. After hundreds of years, the black darkness of the planet the children called Kaluhet bloomed every night with the beating lights of a billion stars and one cratered moon.

Yet the only answer Hawé ever gave was one more child, one more burden, one more wound.

And finally, Aerta ceased to endure. He did not wish to incur Hawé's wrath yet again, but neither could he sit back for hundreds, thousands of more years as her children breathed and ceased to breathe on his skin, in peace.

Painfully, he began to change. Blood ran in rivulets as he willed his skin to rip open in uneven seams. Brilliant, fertile land dried up, wrinkling into cracked ground as he denied moisture to those regions. His body arched into mountains, dipped to form valleys, trees and berries flourished in one place and shriveled up in another. Oozes of chemicals erupted from his broken skin, tainting, mutating once harmless plants and animals into things of poison and fear.

The world had changed. Aerta had changed. Yet, it was the Kaluhetians who had to choose how to live in this new environment. Would they live on harmoniously, as they had before? Or would they hunt, scavenge for land and knowledge, and betray each other in the name of survival?

Yes, it was their choice, Naomi said. But Aerta knew what they would choose.

Naomi never outright told me, but I knew her step-father never got around to doing that much fathering. His baby dead, his wife dead, a man can only take so much from life. If he didn't have Naomi, yeah, I would've gotten that. Naomi's mom died the summer after fifth grade, and the man disappeared too, in a way. That was when Naomi and I really started to hit it off, hanging out all the time 'cause she hated being at home. That summer, her stories were always about ghosts and zombies, creepy things that I swore were cool even if they kept me up at night.

I guess they lived like that, one fairy and one zombie together in a house as hush as a church. It was senior year of high school when I started to think that something was wrong. That something had changed. Naomi started skipping, which isn't like a fucking crime, but Naomi never skipped. She started sleeping in class. She'd show up looking like a goddamn corpse and refuse to talk to me.

She started to have bruises, cuts, small but gigantic on her usually perfect, acne-free skin. She'd just brush me off when I asked about them, and I figured if she didn't want to talk about it, that was her business.

But I was curious. Fuck it, I was worried. Naomi only had her father and me, and if one of us was a fucking deadbeat, then what was I supposed to do? I showed up to her house one day. She was skipping, so was I. I knocked, no one answered. Crouching down, sweating, I got the spare key out from under the mat, and I opened the door.

The rank stench of stale sweat and bitter, sour alcohol was warm, sticky, humid, but it all hit me like a cold, cement wall. I nearly gagged and stepped back outside. But Naomi was there, sitting on the floor. She was hugging her knees, not looking at me, even though she must have heard me knocking. She was looking at the couch, where, in the shadows, I could almost see something breathe.

Cans of beer, empty bottles of vodka, shards of exploded glass and glittering ash from upturned ashtrays. Everything reflected and shined in the light that spilled in through the door I'd left open behind me, everything except Naomi, her step-father, and me.

“Naomi,” I choked out.

“Not now, Sean,” she said. “Come back later.”

“I can't fucking come back later, Naomi...”

Silence.

“Tell me what I can do.”

“Last night,” she said, quietly so that I had to step closer to hear. “He told me he was dying. Cancer, he said. Isn't that unbelievable? A dream, maybe a nightmare. But this is how he chooses to cope!” She laughed, not her usual, cackling laugh. It was an adult's laugh. Bitter, like beer. “No, there's nothing you can do, Sean. There's nothing any of us can do.”

“Naomi.”

She looked at me. Finally, she looked at me.

Just go, she said.

What?

Just go, Sean.

I waited for her to say something else, anything else, but she just turned back to look at the couch. I remember the dust motes dancing between us, like a million laughing fairies.

Fine, I spit out.

I turned around and just went, slamming the door behind me.

Kaluhet became divided. Tribes formed. Towns formed. Villages, societies, civilizations, city-states, empires, countries formed and crumbled and reformed and crumbled again. Aerta watched on in savage satisfaction even as his body groaned, bones creaking and cracking, skin burning and melting.

The moon still hovered in the distance of the night skies, but stars slowly disappeared, lost in time, as the Kaluhetians fought, gloated, surrendered, and killed in a haze of red days.

Millions of cries joined together in lament over hundreds of years. Finally, finally, the sound reached the opposite ends of the universe, and Hawé shifted her ear towards the voices of her children.

“What is it, my loves?” she said, confused by the mixed sounds of triumph and loss. “What has happened in the place you call Kaluhet?”

“Mother!” they cried. “Hear us! We are the defeated, the ostracized, the starving, the weak. We were born on this cursed planet, destined to be slaves to the victorious, targets for the majority, entertainment for the fat, and nothing to the strong. We do not deserve our fate. Look, Mother, look at how we breathe! We are your children, just as they are your children! Why must we suffer like some lesser beings? Why must we live and die on our knees, reduced to nothing, knowing nothing but desperation and ridicule, right up until the very end? Mother, hear us. Look at us! Save us from this world that knows nothing but pain.”

Hawé listened to them in horror. Once again, Aerta had maimed her children. Once again, Aerta had betrayed her.

This time, she knew her punishment must be absolute.

“Aerta!” she called.

He gasped at this name, at hearing Hawé's voice. It filled him with such potent longing that the rivers, the rain, the oceans of Kaluhet stilled, every plant and hill straining to hear her words.

“Aerta,” she said again. “I punished you once, many years ago. You killed my child. I could not forgive you, I still have not forgiven you, yet you have added upon your sins by guiding the rest of my children into madness and self-loathing. Why? Why have you done this? I did love you, somewhere in this body of mine, I might still love you. But you have done this. You have done this, and I cannot forgive you.”

She looked down upon Aerta, the deformed, broken thing that she had loved so long ago. 

She hesitated. She was Hawé, the Being that ruled all, yet she hesitated.

But she knew what must be done.

“Goodbye, my once-love,” she said.

And so, the Kaluhetians received what they had wished for: an end to all things. In silence, they watched as trees everywhere began to dry up and crumble, as rivers and oceans disappeared as if they had never been. Fruits blackened and dropped like stones, flowers and leaves drifted away with the wind, and toxic fumes choked down their every breath.

Aerta was dying. Yet this brought neither salvation nor satisfaction because with his death, the Kaluhetians realized that they too would die. They realized that they had been living all this time because of him. They realized that they could not live without him. And they knew this realization – come too late – was their punishment for forcing Hawé's hand.

So they starved. Their throats burned for water. They killed each other, killed themselves, they waged feeble wars for the diminishing nutrients, and they pleaded for Hawé to bring him back. They did everything they could. But there was nothing that could be done.

Thus they lived on until the end of their days.

I waited a few seconds for her to start speaking again, for the part that came after the end. I waited so many long, silent seconds.

Naomi, I said, finally. Is this your answer?

Were you listening?

Yes, I said. I was listening.

Then you tell me.

I paused, mind blank. But it didn't matter that I couldn't think. It wasn't something I had to think about.

“You know,” I said. “It's not written in the stars or whatever that you have to suffer like your dad and your mom, or even your sister. You're alive. You're here right now, with me. I don't know what you've been doing for the last five years, but you can tell it to me straight, when you're ready. You don't have to hide behind your words, or all the shit you've been through, not anymore, because you're not some long lost story. You're a person. You have skin. You cuss and the way you laugh is fucking ridiculous. You've grown up to be a really hot broad, and you're a damn good kisser. You can be funny when you want to be. I know that you actually hate coffee, and unlike every other person on Earth, you like the smell of cigarettes. You're not dead, you're not a ghost, and you're not a fucking zombie. You're a living, breathing, human being. You don't have to go away. Not then, and definitely not now.”

Slowly, she took her hand out of mine. She looked at the TV, briefly, and then she sighed. Just an exhale, quiet even, in her usual way. But it was like I was seeing her breathe for the first time.

“Naomi?” I said.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “For keeping you here so late. You have work tomorrow, don't you? You really should start heading back.”

The sky was clear that night. It was the dead of winter, and the dry air was filled with nothing more than weak, wispy clouds and a bright, full moon. For some reason, though, I always remember hearing the rain then, hitting her window and trickling down the glass, quiet and loud, all at the same time.

“No,” I said, barely able to hear myself over the downpour. “It's too late. Do you mind if I just sleep over?”

She looked at me.

I wonder if she saw the same thing I did in that moment, if she smelled the same sour air of that day so long ago. But the way she looked at me was different from back then. That Friday night, I could see the green in her eyes.

“Okay,” she said, finally.

“Thank you.”

We lay down more comfortably on the bed, the blankets and pillows already warm. I reached out for her hand. She met me halfway, like she had wanted to hold onto me too, and like the bed, her pale, calloused fingers were warm already.

We fell asleep listening to each other breathe.

He spoke in elegant parables. With words dipped in grace, the implication behind his metaphors spoke directly to her heart. She was awestruck by the presence of him. Even the way he balanced tobacco and thoughts on the same tongue: his intrinsic equilibrium made her dizzy with affection.

And the mercy of his unconditional acceptance...when her unspoken truth tumbled carelessly from her gut, it provoked more loyalty to him than any blood oath taken by her ancestors.

They were inseparable. They spent hours of days, months, and seasons, talking about the untouchable philosophies of life. Their combined intellect bore its own form of consciousness, and they instinctually began to complete each other's epiphanies.

Their undeniable camaraderie vowed devotions of love. They believed (in their previously-agnostic hearts) that they were brought together by God.

Even their bodies were symmetrical puzzles of divinity. For the first time, the pieces of their existence (once strewn-about amongst a diluted society) fit perfectly in-sync.

Their souls mirrored the variance in each other's broken parts. But through a unified image of yin-yang darkness, glory ricocheted in contrast to their individual angst. Light was reflected and illuminated them whole.

And despite the imposition of modern-day society, together they ascribed to remain platonic. Respectively removed from the "normal" dating scene, their friendship birthed more fruit than the Garden of Eden.

They essentially retrained their reward centers to ignite a sense of pleasure not brought by sexual euphoria, but a new cognitive stimulation. But, one day, her controls failed.

A deep-rooted desire welled from the darkness within her. It slowly morphed into a delusional monster chimed Need for his touch. She fell sacrificed to sporadic fits of madness.

When she succumbed to its pulse, she reached for him with palpable aggression. Shuddering with confusion, he still reminded her of what they shared. It was "more" than instant gratification. It was real.

Despite his patient reiteration of their verbal bind, she began to hold good-night hugs a little longer. She craved to inhale his spirit, and dance ceremoniously derobed. And her inclination forced her body to press against his, but he gently declined with compassionate resolve.

Her daydreams became nightmares of their bodies devoured. And their conversations grew distant, like circular tracks with stationary cars.

She developed a false sense of need to love him on a level for which their minds could never reach. Her love became primal and its passion drove her to unconsciously attempt to circumvent their agreement.

And she felt rejected.

The Need was superficial, a harsh rejection of her wit. And with morose self-analysis, she ruminated with guilt.

The inner struggle of rejecting her cognitive purpose was something for which she would never recover. And to witness firsthand her human nature revealed, her left mind's rejection of her right mind's clarity was her terminal stumble.

And with no one else to blame, as she watched their love crumble, she weeped silent tears only he could hear.

Good Afternoon, Prosers,

We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!

It’s week sixty-one of the Prose Challenge of the Week, but before we unveil the winner of last week’s challenge and this week’s newest prompt, we’d like to set you all another challenge. As most of you are aware, each month we set a Challenge of the Month prompt where the winning entries get put in a Prose Original Book with each entrant getting a set share of the lifetime royalties. Last month the prompt was to write about being the most intelligent human being on earth. We have picked the winners, and are almost ready to publish the book. However, we have decided to task you creative bunch with creating the cover. If you think your creative expertise can create a Prose Original Book cover, here’s what you need to do.

1) Create a book cover with copyright-free images, with the following copy on, in this order:

Intelligence.

A Prose Original Book

Designed by @YOURUSERNAME

2) Send it along with your username to info@theprose.com

3) We will look over the entries and the top-10 designs will be featured on our blog, with the top entry being our book cover.

You have one week. Entries close 26th March 12am PST. If you snooze, you lose, but next month's challenge will give you a fresh chance to make a gorgeous cover.

We can’t wait to see the design-candy.

Right, back to the Challenge of the Week.

For the last week, you guys have been writing about a new life form, and man, did you deliver. Before we check out who the deserving winner and recipient of $100 is, let’s take a look at this week’s prompt:

Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit

Now, back to the winner of week sixty.

We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the lifeform challenge is @DrSemicolon with their piece, Native Martian Anatomy and Physiology.

Congratulations! You have just won $100. We’ll be in touch with you shortly.

In the meantime, you have one week to get your write on!

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.

I wanted you to be right. I wanted to have been paranoid, but I knew that something like this would happen sooner or later. But I would spend my money how I pleased and you weren't the kind of person that would stop me. We had kept separate residences, and finally after the news reports started getting serious, you finally stayed with me "just in case".

When the first case of this strange disease broke out, you laughed at my paranoia. When the hundredth case broke out you still laughed nervously.

When the thousandth case broke out, you proposed and admitted I was probably right, even though you hoped I wasn't.

Then it reached phase 5 pandemic before they noticed that the dead weren't staying dead. It took months for the first bodies to animate, but this condition was mutating rapidly.

On the day it was confirmed that corpses came back, I went into the closet, grabbed out our bugout bags, and we headed down to the courthouse. We left as man and wife.

We left the small city behind, lucky that we didn't live near any of the cities where things were getting out of control.

I don't think you realized how serious I was about it. Your shock as we drove into the "apparently" empty field in the middle of the forest, only to find my underground bunker there. Although your face is entirely shocked, your body seems much more relaxed because of my preparations.

I removed the floorboards and took count of all the supplies. Our stocks were only halfway full and what we had here would only last us a year at most. Do we dare go into town now? I definitely don't want to wait until later. Either way, I don't know if we're just delaying the inevitable.