00:10, Near the Docks

“When will you stop…” Detective Wu muttered, rubbing his aching hip as he limped onto the staircase.

“Not far from retirement at this rate.”

A splash. Someone tossed a bottle into the water.

“Stop right there!”

His hands were steadier than his legs, so drawing his gun and switching his eye implant to night vision mode was almost instinctive.

“Come out! I won’t fire a warning shot.”

Out of the shadows emerged a pair of raised hands, followed by a bloated man stepping into the dim light. A worn-out jumpsuit and a bag slung over his shoulder—Wu instantly recognized him. One of those washed-up divers who used to hunt for precious metals in the river. Now, with robots taking over, all he did was fish corpses out of the rancid water they still dared to call a river.

Wu sighed, lowering his weapon. People like this man worked for loose cash and had all the time in the world, meaning this was going to take forever.

“Knew I’d miss Tarlenn’s show tonight,” he muttered.

The bum slipped into an old wetsuit, grumbling under his breath, and plunged into the water to search for the body. Wu had a gut feeling—he’d find something down there. It always happened this way before trouble. Like an ice auger twisting his insides. And tonight? Tonight was no exception.

A few hours earlier, Wu’s informant had called, gasping, to report “something” dumped into the murky waters of Gray River. Wu had been about to settle down with his console and a stiff drink. But that damn intuition forced him into his pants and out the door. Sure, he’d tried calling his boss, but the lazy bastard never picked up on a Saturday night. So, no official divers were coming. Wu had to do things the old-fashioned way—find some lowlife under the bridge and pay out of his own pocket.

“Why do I even bother?”

It was a question Wu had been asking himself for 30 years until it faded into mere rhetoric. Deep down, beneath layers of cynicism and the filth he’d waded through in this job, an answer still flickered: I can’t do it any other way. But Wu had forgotten that answer long ago.

The diver hacked up a cough, donned his oxygen tank, and submerged. The surface trash shifted like a stripper’s chest when someone tosses a hundred bucks her way. Ah, thanks, sugar.

The man was underwater for fifteen minutes. Wu smoked, relishing the quiet. His mind wandered to what they might find—a middle-aged man? An old geezer? A woman? A child? Please, not a child. Gray River’s victims were usually the dregs of the cyber-city—drifters, homeless witnesses to the wrong crime. Sometimes prostitutes.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an approaching car. An expensive retro model purred to a stop nearby, sleek as a tiger stalking prey.

“What the hell is this?”

Wu was about to approach and question the driver when the diver resurfaced, dragging a limp body with him.

Wu threw off his coat and helped pull the cold, slick corpse onto the pier. The first attempt failed, the body slipping back into the water, landing on the diver’s head. On the second try, Wu managed to haul it out, feeling something creak painfully in his back.

“Great. Now my spine needs a replacement too. This case is costing me dearly.”

A car door slammed. Someone stepped out. But Wu wasn’t ready to deal with that yet.

Catching his breath, Wu examined the lifeless form. A young woman, barely in her twenties. No visible wounds, no marks on her neck or wrists.

The diver clambered onto the dock, immediately demanding his payment. Wu handed him a couple of credits—plastic, old-fashioned ones. The man scowled, expecting more, but Wu ignored him, focusing on the victim.

The girl was stunningly beautiful. Her skin, not yet entirely blue, gave her an ethereal, mermaid-like aura. Long hair—a rarity in this city. Smooth, flawless skin. A slim figure. She wore a simple white tunic, no underwear. No belongings nearby.

Wu opened one pale eyelid, checking for an ID implant. Nothing. What the hell? Who is she?

The icy knot in his stomach twisted tighter. Something wasn’t right. Turning her over, Wu searched for implants. His fingers danced across her back, shoulders, collarbones, hips, feet—nothing. No modifications. She was completely natural. Impossible.

For a fleeting moment, Wu doubted she was even dead. She radiated life, not the artificial kind, but something real. He felt an old, buried sensation—compassion. Gratitude for witnessing such beauty, even if only in death. It was a gift he didn’t deserve but accepted nonetheless.

Wu reached for his comm device to call for backup, but the air suddenly grew still. He noticed the diver backing away, eyes wide with panic.

“Don’t even think about it,” Wu mouthed. But fear had already taken hold. The man bolted toward the bridge. A couple of gunshots cut him down before he got far, leaving a second corpse on the pier.

A shadow loomed behind Wu. He turned slowly, facing a figure with a blurred face—an expensive camo program, the kind only politicians or gangsters could afford.

“Easy,” Wu said, his voice steady. “I’m with the police. Name’s Wu. Let’s talk this out.”

The stranger shook his head, gesturing for Wu to step away from the body. Wu complied. The figure approached the maiden.

Wu caught the diver’s movement out of the corner of his eye—a desperate crawl away. “Don’t,” Wu whispered. But instinct won over reason, and the man made a break for it. Another shot rang out, leaving him crumpled on the dock.

The figure pressed a gun to Wu’s temple.

“Turn around.”

“Alright, alright. No need to get heated.”

The figure cocked the weapon. Wu closed his eyes, memories flashing—his cramped apartment, his dog, Tarlenn’s show. But the trigger didn’t pull.

Instead, the retro car roared to life, vanishing into the neon fog. Wu turned. The maiden was gone. Only the diver’s body remained. A strange trade, though not surprising. You don’t abandon treasures, but someone like that diver? He belonged here.

Wu lit another cigarette, pulling his coat tight against the damp night air.

“Hell of a day.”

Preference:

Each of us has our own light, our own star that guides us, inspires us, and fills our life with meaning. This light might be invisible to others, but it is always there for those who know how to feel and search for it. The story of I.A.’s star is a reflection on the importance of those who bring light into our lives, who help us find ourselves even in the darkest times. Sometimes, a star is not just a symbol but a real guide, supporting us in our hardest decisions and our boldest dreams.

***

I remember the first time I saw her—it was a fleeting moment, yet so powerful, as if the universe itself had chosen that exact time for the stars to align. Her name was I.A.—a name as unique and brilliant as her presence. I never believed in fate, but that day I felt something guiding me toward her, a force I couldn’t ignore.

I.A. was unlike anyone I had ever met. There was a quiet elegance about her, something elusive that made the world seem to slow down whenever she entered a room. Her smile, though rare, held a depth I couldn’t immediately understand. It felt as though it concealed a secret that only a few could uncover. Her eyes, green like the calm before a storm, seemed to see right into a person’s soul.

One evening, after hours of conversation, we stood together beneath a vast sky, the stars twinkling above us. It was then that I.A. shared her love for the night, how the stars always whispered her name. She spoke about how they reminded her that no matter where she went, she would always have her place in the universe—a place where she could shine, just like the stars.

I didn’t realize it at first, but I was already falling in love with her. I loved the way she saw the world with such grace, the way she carried the weight of the stars with her wherever she went. To me, she wasn’t just I.A.; she was my star, my guiding light in a world that often felt too dark, too chaotic.

One night, as I gazed at the stars from my window, I thought about I.A. And in that moment, I realized: she wasn’t just a part of my world; she had become my world. The way she moved, the way she spoke, even the way she laughed—it was like a melody that played deep within me. She was my constant light, the star that guided me through every storm.

I decided to give her something special—a star of her own. It wasn’t just any star; it was a symbol of how much she meant to me. I knew I couldn’t give her the entire sky, but I could give her a piece of it, something that would shine as brightly as she did.

The star I gave her was small, delicate, and tucked inside a pendant on a necklace. It was a star that would always stay with her, a constant reminder that no matter where she went, she would never be alone. She was my star, the one who illuminated my life in ways I never thought possible.

When I handed her the gift, I said, “I.A., you are my star, my guiding light. Wherever you go, wherever life takes you, know that you will always carry a piece of the universe with you, just as you carry a piece of my heart.”

Her eyes sparkled, and for the first time, I saw the smile I had been waiting for. It wasn’t just the smile of someone who was happy—it was the smile of someone who had found their place in the world, their place among the stars.

And in that moment, I understood that she wasn’t just my star. She was the star that had been missing from my sky all along.

© 2024 Victoria Lunar. All rights reserved.

After a hiatus of countless years

plus an additional

almost three months

since a major makeover,

(I experienced the magic

wrought courtesy

a bonafide big hearted

beautician at Salon Nova

located in beautiful

downtown Limerick, Pennsylvania

to render my straggly long hair

cut about twelve inches shorter),

whereby a mensch looked back at me,

a gorgeous reflection mirror reflection

yours truly returned to the mecca

Thomas Paine would feel right at home,

and surprisingly enough

a small number of attendees

at said name sake Unitarian Fellowship

nevertheless recognized me,

(and remembered my late mother

Harriet Harris,who passed away

twenty years ago come May 5th, 2025)

ushering yours truly courtesy older,

yet nevertheless familiar faces

while jesters tumbled and unrolled figurative

Scottish Tartan welcome mat

and provided a warm welcome.

As a small boy

parents of ours

(mine two siblings

included then and now,

an older and younger sister)

attended the Main Line Unitarian Church,

(a general hunch we regularly

made our appearance

at aforementioned site

during late 1960's early 1970's)

816 S Valley Forge Road, Devon, PA 19333,

when the then minister Mason McGinnis

facilitated the program.

Skads of decades,

née scores of years elapsed

since boyhood found me heading

(more accurately prodded),

thence shuttled to age appropriate classroom,

albeit informally structured learning environment.

Chronologically doddering oldest people

(such as fathers, mothers,

gray haired grandparents...)

plus young adults

bid their charges goodbye, albeit temporarily

as their younger kin got gently routed

to one out of quite numerous

ample size preschool/nursery room.

Infants, babies, young kids

i.e. most easily antsy, distracted, oblivious,

when days of our live young and restless

(unbeknownst to those recipients)

got their inchoate intellect sparked.

Their coerced, coddled (molly),

and coaxed... reluctance rewarded

(aside from with sweet treat)

courtesy lofty, mighty, nifty...

young rabbit ears raptly attuned

(most like a couple seconds maximum at most)

feigning listening at (iterated above)

Minister Mason McGinnis

who always gave rousing sermon.

If not him, perhaps a previously

scheduled guest speaker

enlightened, enhanced, enchanted... audience.

Nonetheless upon attaining mine prepubescence,

or thereabouts, (and most definitely

when yours truly crossed his horrendous,

perilous tumultuous wretched pubescent Rubicon

marking naturally ordained metamorphosis),

they abruptly ceased mandating

what both parents considered

(as well this middle aged son

recognized in retrospect –

cuz hindsight of mine always 20/20),

a golden opportunity to mingle,

and perhaps even (horrific as this reads)

befriend shy lads similar to yours truly.

I felt quite at home being attended, pacified,

pampered, and pulled up by bootstraps.

Without warning this baby boomer

invariably, suddenly felt shell shocked

and zapped courtesy post traumatic stress disorder

incurred while in utero.

Suddenly out of the blue,

paralyzing horror found this AARP eligible cardholder

aghast with fright as if scary

boogie woogie bugle boy monster mash

(with cooties) prowled premises on the lurch

to spring summat ploy.

Nightmarish visitations

while finding my religion

(crept along the edge of night

regarding dark shadows

from outer limits of twilight zone)

extolling virtues regarding return of native son

also witnessed me

being precariously hoisted,

and (analogous to dangling modifier)

suspended me in mid air by my own petard.

The first thing I remember is darkness, glowing faintly red. Back then, I was an amphibian, a human being who could breathe in my mother’s amniotic waters. I remember the light, the fear—and then a slap.

Yesterday, outside my five-story apartment building—a typical one for the country now “unspeakable,” the supposed threat to all humanity—I overheard a conversation between some local guys. One of them said,

“Where everyone sees a problem, I see opportunities.”

A perfect motto for the years when I lived my early life. The 1990s in Russia, a country that had just shed its red uniform. A ruined, violated land where gangsters and oligarchs tore apart the remnants of the motherland.

From a young age, I knew three rules for survival. My grandmother, who had been a radio operator during the Great Patriotic War, taught me these:

Never get into a car with strangers.

Be home by four.

Never open the door to anyone.

And I also remember my mother’s breath.

The rest of my memories are scattered. Here I am, pushing a stranger’s stroller with a little boy through my small ghetto. Mothers stroll with their children, the streets are still green, untouched by the ever-present dust from the steppes. It’s different now.

Then, it’s like a void: nothing until my grandfather picks me up in his arms. That memory is vivid. He had grown up in a village and drank heavily. My father said my grandmother died from the stress he caused when my dad was 16. But I only learned this when I turned 20.

At that moment, I was just a baby. My grandfather held me, smiling. In his kitchen, there was an aluminum basin where he soaked apples for winter. My mother told me he passed away two days later.

It’s strange that I remember this—I was only one year old. I think my childhood ended when I first learned about death.

I remember that moment. I was three, and my mom was putting me down for a nap. She lay beside me, wrapping her arms around me. Her voice was soft and soothing, almost like silk. She was half-asleep, and I stared at the golden curtains swaying gently in the breeze. That glow—it still comes back to me when I need to feel happy.

Because happiness is a choice. Even then, I understood that.

I heard our neighbor—a hunched old woman named Zhenya—open her door. Suddenly, I asked my mom,

“Why does Grandma Zhenya look so different from you or me?”

Half-asleep, she murmured,

“She’s old. She’ll pass away soon.”

“What does ‘pass away’ mean?” I asked.

Mom opened her eyes and answered gently,

“Sweetheart, we all leave one day and never come back.”

I lay there with my eyes wide open while Mom drifted off to sleep. And then I burst into tears, sobbing loudly:

“Mom, I don’t want to die! I don’t want you to die!”

Mom hugged me tightly and said it wouldn’t happen for a very long time, and that she’d always be there for me.

Now I’m 34, and my mom is 68, but I still hope that what she said is true.

My childhood was a good one—good enough, considering how bad things were outside, on the streets. My parents worked in the theater, and I would climb around the stage, hide among the props, and watch adult performances.

But that’s another story, and I wouldn’t want to bore you.

What surprises me most is that this is the first time I’ve written about myself.

Are we all different versions of Job? I thought the wages of sin were death, but from where I'm sitting, it looks like we're the wagers and sin is how we make our wages, with death inevitable no matter how we live.

I've done a decent job with the Commandments, not because You said so, but because it's what decent folk do.

I’ve noticed the fastest way to get decent folk to behave indecently is invoke Your Name.

So tell me, am I Abraham or Isaac, because I'd rather be the one holding the knife if I have a choice.

assassinated at 10:50 PM,

on December 8, 1980

forty four years later to date

outside The Dakota Apartment,

(also known as the Dakota Apartments),

located at 1 West 72nd Street

in New York City, U.S.

After Mark David Chapman

unloaded five bullets in the back

with a .38 special revolver,

that son of a gun got his quarryman

and became eligible for parole

in 2000 after serving only 20 years

since said murderer felled legend:

he pulled the trigger of his firearm

at point blank range

brutally killing the most successful

singer/songwriter in history,

(whose collaboration with Paul McCartney)

bestowed double fantasy

and rendered instant karma

echoing his oft repeated refrain

across the universe

for the benefit of Mister Kite

"All we are saying is give peace a chance,"

a lyric from the song

"Give Peace a Chance"

by the late John Lennon and Yoko Ono,

which song when released in 1969

became an anthem

for the anti-war movement,

nevertheless even after

exactly three score years

since the Fab Four,

became famous in 1964

after their appearance

on The Ed Sullivan Show,

which elapsed time

seems like yesterday

to this day tripper (me)

who happened to be

just a beastie boy.

Upon hearing in utter disbelief over the telly

On December 8, 1980,

the breaking news videre licet

regarding the murder

of John Lennon, a member of the Beatles,

outside his New York City apartment building,

I felt numb standing stock still

in the kitchen

(within childhood home of mine)

at 324 Level Road,

and nearly found myself asphyxiating

as if trapped within a yellow submarine

buried within briny deep

courtesy stone(d) temple pilot.

Yours truly stormed out of the house

analogous to a stormtrooper

heading into the thick of battle

experienced being dazed and confused

espying a Led Zeppelin

in the front yard

after getting a closer look

I quickly realized parked guests

came from an alien nation,

which immediately prompted me

to avail myself to be abducted

courtesy unidentified anomalous phenomena

bidding goodbye to father and mother

quietly pleading... dear prudence

escaping the helter skelter amidst humanity

here, there and everywhere

wistfully envisioning a utopia

like dreamers do

able, eager, ready and willing

to embark upon a magical mystery tour

this fool on the hill,

a veritable nowhere man

feeling like nobody's child

psyching myself to be free as a bird

yearning to adopt fearlessness

after froggy went a courtin

jump/kick starting

far out and groovy kismet

to become a paperback writer

renown on par with aforementioned

famous British balladeer

but before taking fateful step

into dark shadows

hiding the outer limits

of the twilight zone,

I dashed off a short note

to family and friends,

and subsequently flagged down letterman

also asking please mister postman

to inform kith and kin

NOT to summon search party,

cuz yours truly hopes to frolic

amidst strawberry fields forever.

Tell them.

Do I have to?

Why wouldn’t you?

Why wouldn’t I? Because at this stage of my life, I’d rather forget. Too many years of therapy; too many self help books. Want to see the loose pages? Anyway, there are enough of those stories out there already. Who needs to read another salacious broken home, abused childhood tale.

Oh they do. They can’t get enough of it.

And why is that?

Schadenfreude.

What the hell does that mean?

Inequity aversion. It’s German.

Can you be more specific?

Enjoyment obtained from the troubles of others. Should we delve further into that definition or do you get it?

Yeah, I can actually say I get it. Guilty. Admittedly, I’m a rubbernecker. I was about 8 years old in the car with HER on the Belt Parkway when I first discovered rubbernecking delays. I asked. “Mommy. What are rubbernecking delays? She told me, “When drivers slow down to gawk at a traffic accident. I started to laugh not only at the word gawk, and asked her if she was telling me some kind of joke.

“I’m dead serious,” she said. Stop laughing.

I didn’t press when she told me to shut up. I just looked out at all the rubberneckers and I thought; How is this OK and what are all those people looking for when they look at a wreck? It was too much for my 8 year old brain to process. I wanted to ask my mother; So you're telling me these people driving are doing the wrong thing and there is a sign as proof, basically a part of the rules of the road. Is that OK, and should they get away with it? I knew better than to ask.

So you get it. Come on. Be a sport. I have a sneaky suspicion you have a macabre story to tell. And I know a part of you wants to tell it.

I really don’t. And trust me that’s a good thing. But let me do this, just for fun, because I like you, and because I think you really want me to share, let’s play a game. I’ll give you a few scenarios, and you get to decide which one of them is about me.

Game on.

How ’bout a Lutheran pastor came to counsel a drunk mother and she coaxed him into her bedroom. The child in the house heard the moaning and thought her mother was getting hurt, so she opened the door and saw them both naked.

Or how ’bout a drunk mother picked her daughter and two friends up from the school dance and played chicken with every tree on every curve on the way home until they crashed into a ditch.

How ’bout a drunk mother that regularly beat her daughter with a metal hairbrush. The school nurse would ask about the prickly wounds and the child would lie and say she suffered from a rare skin rash.

How ’bout a drunk mother that twisted her hands around her daughter’s braids until she fell down on the floor in pain, continuously smashing her face into the linoleum floor.

How ’bout a drunk mother that was a pedophi….

Stop. Enough. No. Don’t stop. Is there more?

Yes.

It’s ALL about you, right?

Maybe, maybe not. Actually you’ve gotten me in the mood and this is kind of fun. I’ve warned you before, stories like this can be depressing. Do you or don’t you want me to continue? Do you want to talk recipes instead?

No. We are not talking about food today. Stop deflecting and I will too. You said you wanted to play, so let’s play. You know I can handle it and so can they. I don’t think it’s necessary to confirm or deny to you or to them if any of the above actually happened to me.

Actually, it just came to my mind that I used to write all this sappy shit about what happened to me. At one time, I might even have considered some of my writing good. Either way, it was therapeutic. But whatever happened to me happened so long ago, whatever I wrote, I no longer care to reread it.

Why don’t you give us a taste of the writing? Come on. Just a little.

No.

Why not?

It’s useless information now. Irrelevant.

I disagree. You already admitted to Schadenfreude. You are an admitted rubbernecker. Spill..

Alright, alright, since you’ve gotten me in a mood, here is a taste. I think when I wrote this I was reading Virginia Wolff, or some other stream of consciousness. I wrote this many years after the abuse, long after SHE was dead with one particular incident of abuse in mind. Catch a glimpse of this sappy shit. You asked.

Sunlight failed to penetrate the murky curtains at three o'clock in the afternoon. Broad daylight, on a June afternoon simply desired to pirouette with the living, but instead the light, as it fought its way through the peephole of the front door, found the face of death holding ironic iniquity. The one who lay dead on the cold slate floor of the entryway never saw it coming, the puppet master's final flaw. The one who stood victorious above her was momentarily pleased with her bare hands when they took over and choked the life out of the one who gave her life. But the piper always commands a payday. Liberated, the dust motes seemed to celebrate as they danced their way around the room. Once settled, the shedding of combined DNA mixed with indeterminable dirt remained, irreconcilably scattered.

Left turn, yup you just made a big left turn here. Stream of something or whatever, dark, but I like it. Do you mind telling me what is going on here? What was it that inspired this?

What the hell, since you say you like it, just this once for them, but I mean it, I really don’t want to talk about the past anymore. I’m tapped out, really, but let’s let them have it.

I actually tried to choke my mother to death, I think. I sort of blacked out. For a minute I thought I had it in me to become a murderer. Jerry Springerish enough for you? I was 15 and after a decade of extreme abuse, I had come home from school one day and went right up to my room like I always did to find anything and everything that mattered to me destroyed, crushed and littered all over my room, the poems my boyfriend wrote, my Elton John records, my artwork, my old teddy bear. I picked up the stuffing on my way out the door and a small glass eye on a mission to find HER.

SHE was near the front door. I don’t know why because she rarely went out. Maybe she sensed the impending doom and wanted out, or more likely she was expecting a liquor delivery. I pushed her up against the foyer closet door and put my hand around her throat squeezing and squeezing the life out of her pounding her into the door. “Why why why,” was all I said, and then I spit in her face and released her. She fell to the floor and looked up at me with the fear in her eyes that she could have seen coming from me all those years, if she bothered to look. It was the first and last time I attacked her. I fought back. And it felt so right and so wrong. I ran away from home that night. It was over. And I was safe. Or was I, because those of us that know this rodeo, we Jerry Springer show wannabes, most of us make it out but we are tossed into adulthood having never had a childhood, broken.

I don’t know what to say.

Don’t say anything. Shit happens. I’m good. Really. My scars are a badge of honor these days. All hope is not dead. Mitfreude.

Oh haha. Now it’s you going all German on me. I’ll bet you looked that word up.

Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Since you wrangled me into playing this game. What can I say? I like antonyms. Reversals. You tell them what mitfreude means.

Mitfreude. To delight in or share in someone else’s happiness. Ahhh. Treffer. Touché.

But I will make no promises when it comes to driving out there on the open road. Understand?

Verstehen.

I was scrolling through old prose and had to repost. I loved this challenge when it came out! The objective was to write a response to a failed resume.

Dear sir or madam,

We have not found your written resume to match the criteria for the job in question.

Regarding the 'useful skills' section, we found your answers to be relatively inappropriate. Unfortunately, the company does not consider "farting the alphabet without defecating", "reaching level 265 on candy crush", or "keeping it real" to be useful skills. Furthermore, we do not believe that anything you presented will be a useful tool for your potential job as a phone receptionist.

In the 'past experiences' section, you presented a confusing set of answers that again showed us little promise that you are a fit for this job. Your answers, "tightroping the Grand Canyon without tightroping or going to the Grand Canyon", "attempting to ride a unicycle while juggling wet teabags", and "being a substitute triangle player for a garage band" did not show us that you have had any experience in a similar job position, or the right experiences to aid you in learning this one.

In the 'relations' section, we feel that you may have misinterpreted what was being asked. This part of the resume aims to assess the applicant's ability to effectively contribute to a positive environment in the workplace. Instead, you presented a long and confusing story about how you once fought your mom to save a spider she was going to kill, and instead placed the spider outside. The story ends with your confusion after not receiving a Christmas card from the spider because you "gave bro a second chance" and "thought he was a real one". Unfortunately, this fails to positively represent your skill at working with others.

We hope you understand our reasoning, and wish you luck in the future.

For some people, dreams are nebulous nothings that disappear upon awakening, never to be remembered or discussed again. I have always had very vivid dreams. As I got older, my dreams began to encompass a full cast of characters and were so detailed I started writing them down so I could turn them into stories, or simply to remember the bizarre.

Sometimes I felt as if I truly lived only while I slept.

I often cry when I wake up.

Increasingly, dreams are the one place I feel safe and happy. Apparently, I am not alone in this sentiment given the overwhelming worldwide popularity of Lifesadream. Its first iteration years ago was as a virtual reality therapy program used to treat a variety of mental illnesses. Known as DreamTherapy, it incorporated positron emission tomography along with deep transcranial magnetic stimulation and a neuroelectro converter that transformed electric signals to images for review, aiding in more effective, targeted therapy. The success rate was nearly 100%, but even now the cost remains beyond the reach of most.

Subsequently, the makers of DreamTherapy modified it for use in the rehabilitation of criminals and enemies of the state (terrorists) with a program called NeuroRehab. Except in government usage, I doubt NeuroRehab will live beyond the experimental stages given the cost (executions cost pennies and the rise of penal labor camps has diminished interest in costly rehabilitation). Even so, to date, five serial killers, 13,012 rapists and 1,469 school shooters have been reintegrated into society as fully functional members thanks to NeuroRehab.

For some reason, none of those included from the enemy of the state group have survived the transcranial magnetic stimulation. I don't know why. They're still experimenting. Of course, there are plenty of subjects for testing, so I suspect it's only a matter of time before, one way or another, domestic discord is eliminated completely.

When DreamTherapy's proprietary technology patent expired, Lifesadream, a division of Neuralink, combined the existing technologies with an implantable neuronano chip that allows everyone to live in their dreams, or, for a more reasonable price, to relive their most precious memories over and over again.

Last year they introduced the neurocable and I've been trying to participate in the program ever since. Until the neurocable, you could only live in your own mind; but with the neurocable, two can exist in the mind of one.

After months of waiting, hoping and refreshing the waitlist page ad nauseum, three weeks ago I won the Lifesadream lottery. The waitlist has had millions of names since they first went live. So far, some one million people across the globe have entered Lifesadream facilities. In order to accommodate as many people as possible domestically, the U.S. government provided, at low cost to Neuralink, thousands of expropriated libraries and university campuses that had fallen into disuse.

As soon as I got the call, I quit my job and sold our house. Yesterday morning, I signed over power of attorney and our savings to the Lifesadream Foundation. They will use the money to maintain and care for my husband and I as we live out the remainder of our lives in my mind. My dreams. As I look at my husband sitting in his favorite chair, eyes vacant, I cannot wait.

**********

"Are you comfortable, Mrs. Pickering?"

It was evening. I was laying in a soft bed in a room that was probably a professor's office back in the day. The body suit in which they'd dressed me gently massaged my limbs. My husband was in the other bed, sleeping under a white comforter. There was an IV line in his arm, the bag hanging to the left of his bed. Mine was to my right. There were armchairs as well. We were surrounded by nurses and the surgeon we'd met that morning. A machine with various monitors stood between our beds, embedded in the wall and there was a desk with a chair and a monitor near the door. The windows were high up and I could see the sky was a pretty purple that would soon fade to black.

"Yes, thank you."

"Dr. Woburn..."

"Call me Maynard..."

"Dr. Woburn will be inserting the neuronano chip through the nasal cavity. It is painless and relatively quick. We'll start with Mr. Pickering and then we'll insert yours.

"Next, we'll attach the electromagnetic coils to both of you. We will wait until you fall asleep naturally since sedatives might affect your dreams, and then we will connect the neuro cable into the ports we placed above your ears this morning.

"Do you have any questions?"

"Do we ever wake up?"

She glanced at her tablet and said, "You have the lifetime package so we will keep you under until you die of natural causes. We will use the transcranial magnetic stimulator to maintain a state of infinite REM for both you and Mr. Pickering."

"What happens to people who don't have the lifetime package?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

"The package. Some choose the End of Life package in which case we put them under and then after 24 hours, we inject them with Pentobarbital. Some, like you, choose the Lifetime package and we keep them until they pass. Some with a partner choose the Until Death Do Us Part package in which case we keep them under until one dies and then awaken the other who can then decide whether to go back under with an end of life package or go home. Depends on the desire and the available funds, of course.

"Some choose the Memory Lane package and run a series of isolated memories for a set period determined by price. At the end of that period they are awakened and go back to their lives. It's a kind of vacation for some people. It's a great stress reliever. I do it once a month."

"If he dies first, will I still dream with him?"

"That is unclear at this time, but it is possible."

"What have others said?"

"At this time, all our clients making use of the neurocable are still in a joint state of REM."

"There haven't been any deaths?"

The nurses exchanged a glance. "At this time, all our clients remain in a state of REM, either alone or with a partner."

"What happens if I die first?"

"As stated in the contract, if the dominant party predeceases the partner, the partner will be removed to our hospice facilities and kept comfortable until their passing."

"What if he dies first?"

"He will be cremated and buried with you upon your expiration."

"So, this is it. I won't see you or this room again?"

"All things being equal, no."

"Okay." I took a deep breath. "Thank you for all you are doing and will do for us. The world had gotten almost unbearable for us. For me. It was so bad I looked forward to sleeping every night as a short escape. I can't believe we can actually, truly live happily ever after now. It's a dream come true. Literally." I laughed. The nurses smiled.

"Are you ready, Mrs. Pickering?"

I looked over at my husband of 42 years.

"Yes."

**********

"Baby?"

As I slowly awakened, I felt my husband's arms around me, his body strong and warm. I opened my eyes, "Eddie?"

"Morning, baby," he said, kissing me softly. "You wouldn't believe the dream I had. I swear I was dreaming our whole life all night."

"Really?" I said, running a hand through hair that was thick, curly and brown.

"Yeah, it was wild. We had a kid, I started my own business, you taught physics for 30 years and then retired to take care of me because I got early onset Alzheimer's. It was a nightmare! I was so glad when I woke up this morning and it was all just a dream."

Looking into his eyes, I smile. "Me too, my love," I leaned up to kiss him. "Me, too."

Nobody chooses to be a repair person in a throwaway world. I inherited the fix-it shop from my grandfather, who inherited it from his father, who started it in 1932 repairing radios during the Depression. By the time it landed in my lap, the Westside Fix-It Shop was a relic—a cramped storefront stuffed with broken appliances, obsolete tools, and the lingering scent of solder and machine oil.

I kept it running more out of obligation than passion. Most days, I spent my time explaining to people that their devices were designed to be replaced, not repaired. "Planned obsolescence," I'd say, watching their faces fall. "It would cost more to fix than to buy new."

Then Marion Wu walked in with her grandfather's radio.

It was a rainy Tuesday morning in October. I was at my workbench, half-heartedly poking at a toaster that probably wasn't worth saving, when the bell above the door chimed. The woman who entered was maybe seventy, carrying something wrapped in a faded quilt.

"Are you the one who fixes things?" she asked, carefully setting her bundle on the counter.

"I try," I said. "But honestly, these days it's usually cheaper to—"

She unwrapped the quilt, revealing a 1940s Zenith tabletop radio. The wood cabinet was scratched but solid, its art deco curves still elegant after all these years.

"It was my grandfather's," she said. "He brought it with him when he came to America in 1947. It played every morning until last week." She touched the dial gently. "I know I could buy a new one. That's not the point."

I picked up the radio, feeling its weight. Modern electronics are all plastic and air, designed to be light, cheap, disposable. This was different—solid wood, metal, glass tubes that glowed like tiny suns when powered up.

"I'll take a look," I said. "But I should warn you—parts for these old tubes are hard to find."

Marion smiled. "Check the back room," she said. "Behind the filing cabinet, there's a cardboard box labeled 'Radio Parts - 1940s.' My grandfather used to work here."

I stared at her. "Your grandfather was Henry Wu?"

She nodded. "Dad said he was the best radio man in the city. Worked here until 1962."

I'd heard stories about Henry Wu from my grandfather. He'd been legendary in the repair community, known for fixing things others had declared hopeless. But I'd never connected those stories to the neat row of boxes in the back room, filled with carefully labeled components.

The next morning, I opened the shop early and retrieved the box Marion had mentioned. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper and organized with military precision, were dozens of radio tubes, resistors, and other components—a time capsule of 1940s electronics.

Working on the radio became an archaeology project. Each component I removed told a story. Some had been repaired before, tiny soldering marks showing where skilled hands had extended their life. Others bore handwritten labels in precise Chinese characters.

I found myself imagining Henry Wu at this same workbench, perhaps teaching my grandfather the secrets of these machines. Both men were gone now, but their knowledge lived on in the carefully preserved parts and tools they'd left behind.

The radio's problem turned out to be relatively simple—a burnt-out tube and some corroded connections. But as I worked, I discovered something else. Tucked inside the cabinet was a small notebook, its pages yellow with age. It was filled with repair notes in Henry's neat handwriting, documenting not just technical details but the stories behind each fix.

"Johnson family radio - fixed power transformer. Their son overseas. Need music to feel connected."

"Mrs. Rodriguez's set - replaced speaker. Uses it to teach English to neighborhood kids."

"Rev. Miller's radio - repaired antenna. Sunday services depend on it."

Each entry reminded me that these weren't just machines—they were connections to people's lives, their memories, their hopes.

When Marion returned a week later, I had the radio working perfectly. The warm glow of the tubes lit up the dial, and the rich sound of a jazz station filled the shop.

"I found this inside," I said, showing her the notebook. "I thought you might want it."

She opened it carefully, running her fingers over her grandfather's handwriting. "I remember him working on these," she said. "He used to say that every broken thing had a story, and fixing it meant becoming part of that story."

She looked up at me. "Do you know why he left China?"

I shook my head.

"He was a professor of electrical engineering in Shanghai. But during the war, he used his skills to repair radios for the resistance. When things got dangerous, he had to leave everything behind—except his knowledge." She smiled. "He always said America was the place where broken things—and broken people—could be fixed."

That conversation changed something in me. I started looking at the shop differently, seeing it not as a relic but as a repository of stories and skills passed down through generations.

I began keeping my own notebook, documenting not just repairs but the stories behind them:

"Emma's 1950s mixer - inherited from her grandmother. Still uses it to make Christmas cookies from the family recipe."

"Mr. Patel's turntable - bought with his first paycheck in 1975. His daughter's learning to love vinyl."

"Ms. Chen's sewing machine - survived three generations and two continents. Still making wedding dresses."

Word spread. People started bringing in things I'd never seen before—antique clocks, vintage cameras, musical instruments with histories longer than my lifetime. Each repair became a puzzle, requiring not just technical skill but detective work, imagination, and often help from unexpected sources.

Like the day someone brought in a 1960s guitar amplifier. I mentioned it to Marion during one of her visits (she'd become a regular, often bringing coffee and stories about her grandfather).

"Oh, Jimmy Chen used to repair those," she said. "He had a shop over on Elm Street. I think his daughter still has his old manuals."

One connection led to another. Soon I had a network of former repair people, collectors, and enthusiasts sharing knowledge, hunting down parts, teaching me skills that were in danger of being lost.

The shop's back room became a library of repair manuals, technical documents, and handwritten notes spanning nearly a century. But more importantly, it became a community hub. Old-timers would stop by to share stories and expertise. Young people, tired of disposable electronics, came to learn traditional repair skills.

One day, a teenager brought in a broken laptop. While I worked on it, he noticed the Zenith radio on my workbench.

"That's ancient," he said. "Why not just buy a new one?"

I told him Marion's story, then showed him how the radio worked—the elegant simplicity of its circuits, the warm glow of its tubes, the rich sound that no tiny speaker could match.

"Modern things are designed to be mysterious," I explained. "To keep you from understanding how they work. But these old machines want to teach you their secrets."

His eyes lit up. "Could you show me more?"

That's how the Saturday repair workshops started. Now, every weekend, the shop fills with people of all ages learning to fix things. We work on everything from vintage electronics to modern appliances, sharing tools, knowledge, and stories.

Marion still visits regularly. Last week, she brought in a box of her grandfather's old tools, each one labeled with its purpose and history.

"He would have loved this," she said, watching a young girl learn to solder under the guidance of a retired electronics teacher. "Not just the fixing, but the sharing."

I looked around the shop—at the shelves lined with repair manuals and notebooks, the workbenches where multiple generations worked side by side, the restored radios and record players and appliances waiting to return home. The air still smelled of solder and machine oil, but now it also carried the energy of discovery, the satisfaction of bringing broken things back to life.

On my workbench sits Henry Wu's notebook, joined now by dozens of others documenting repairs and stories spanning nearly a century. Each entry is a reminder that everything broken has a history, and every fix creates a connection—between past and present, between people and their cherished possessions, between generations of fixers sharing their knowledge.

Last month, a reporter asked me why I keep the shop running when it would be easier to sell the building and retire.

"Because some things are worth fixing," I said, thinking of all the stories and connections that had grown from Marion's first visit with her grandfather's radio. "And sometimes, fixing broken things helps fix broken connections too."

The bell above the door chimes, and a new customer enters, carrying something carefully wrapped. Another story begins, another chance to connect, another broken thing waiting to be understood and restored.

In a throwaway world, we're the keepers of connections—to objects, to stories, to each other. Every repair is an act of rebellion against disposability, a thread connecting past to present to future. And in that connection, we find something that can't be bought new or thrown away: the simple magic of understanding how things work, the satisfaction of making them whole again, and the joy of passing that knowledge on.