You have the clocks, but we have the time

August 24, 2024

Evelyn waited longer than she was ordered to do so. She could have departed before sunrise. Now, she would wait until sunset. At least, that was the insurgency thought.

Evelyn was never going to leave.

In a God-forsaken country, only those with nothing left to lose, call it home.

Evelyn watched her husband (a native) and her two children die in the streets. The men responsible wanted to make an example of the three. In broad daylight, they skinned all three of them. She heard her smallest scream during the process.

Then the men beheaded the remains and fed it to the wild dogs.

That was nearly six years ago.

Since then, if she kept records, 216 paid for this. Their blood ran into the gallons. Their voices dwindled with each bullet, each knife thrust, each spear, and with each torch. Evelyn breathed their burning flesh as she stood motionless over the charred remains of the deceased and two of the living.

For them, death was a blessing denied.

But now, Evelyn stood her ground. She had come full circle in the village where it all began. Her friends warned her of the dangers. Her husband laughed at the warnings. They placed his head on a stake in the market square. Still laughing as it rotted in the sun. Still laughing as the insect devoured its flesh.

Fifty six times (almost four kills per event), Evelyn returned the favor. Fifty six times, the insurgents increased the bounty on her head. Today was to be number fifty seven. Someone thought the 5000 in local currency ($26 USD) was enough to stop counting and cash in.

Thirty pieces of silver goes a long way in this neck of the woods.

Taking inventory, she had three magazines for her AK and two mags for her Makarov. Add a grenade and a khyber knife prominently displaying the encrusted blood of yesterday’s work, and she was ready to meet her maker.

The conversation would only include a short, “I love you”, to her family before being cast into the pits of Hell.

Evelyn could accept such a fate. She had a six year guided tour of what was yet to come.

“How much worse could it be?”

The attack began with mortar fire from an old Soviet 82mm. The first two rounds were paint. Purple to be exact. The third round was still working.

The roof of the shelter and two walls were no longer.

Evelyn expected as much. She waited for the next attack. Most likely from a few not-so-bright AK bearers with more testosterone than common sense. These “brave souls” could not see her in the rubble.

But she could see them.

Four insurgents. Four 9x18mm bullets from a single chrome lined barrel and the deed was done. The first three fell inside the doorway. The last fell just outside.

Finally, came the barrage from all sides. Evelyn would have done the same had the positions been reversed. She rolled under a fallen steel door to shield her from much, but not all. Too many 7.62x39mm rounds to count flew past her. The two that hit her left foot left their unmistakable numerical identity.

Then came the flood of people. She never heard their voices. Perhaps her eardrums were shattered earlier. Perhaps it no longer mattered. All she heard were the screams of her children.

With her grenade in hand, pin pulled, she extended her arm and let it fly.

Few people lived to positively identify Evelyn during her in-country stay. With each telling of her story, her hair became more red, her viciousness became more extreme, and her body count inched higher and higher.

Few still remember the name of her children or the manner in which she lived prior to her change. The locals only remember the details that scare them.

Without a body to ID, many people will be scared for a long time to come.

PROLOGUE

There are times when telling a difficult story could be likened to the peeling away of skin or a scab, but some go deeper—like sawing into scar tissue; these stories are accompanied by a sense of unease and unwillingness. For some, that unwillingness had little to do with much else than they’d rather leave it buried—like a bullet too close to an artery. They would rather not delve too deeply into the connotations, for theirs is a simple life unaffected by the ramifications this far. The difficult pieces were merely that—a single stone in an otherwise smooth path.

For me, I followed the path I first set foot on, growing used to stepping from one perilous occurrence to another. So many stones did I encounter, that it would appear that my journey were paved with cutting realities; and it’s not for pain or weariness that I’ve failed to record it until now, but for not knowing how to disclose it.

Where pain brings clarity, the feelings that I had during these times are not the same feelings that I carry now, and even that can warp certainty.

For that reason, I’ve sat with them—trying them out in different lights, wearing them about like a cloak to see how they fit at different times. Occasionally, I would peddle these stories to an interested audience only to find that the full weight of the truth… isn’t always best…isn’t always welcome even—it’s too heavy for those not prepared for its overwhelming weight.

I then curtailed the edges of fact or redacted some entirely to avoid unwanted penalties to my own character as well as those of others. I made the stories more bearable for you.

So, I am going to tell my story the only way that I can at this point: as an amalgamation of truths from others along with my own, compiled by a fearing and imaginative child; through the filter of a resourceful and knowledge-hungry young woman; through the teeth of a seething and angry dog of destruction; and as a recovering human, seeking the end of it all.

You will find no real names in this book. Some scenarios will be watered down, while others embellished to mislead for the sake of those who could be tarnished by its pages.

Why tell this story at all, then? Ultimately—to be clean of it. To be emptied. Having carried the various versions over the years, it has been as a blight keeping those parts of my past alive and writhing beneath the surface. I’ve come to realize that I could never be totally free without finally cutting it out and abandoning it forever to the ether; which brings me here:

Out of all the stories that I know, this one just might be mine…

Chapter 1

My Life as a Dog

It would’ve been a beautiful sight: softly swelling and golden against a blue sky. The wind was warm as it abruptly pushed dry grasses one way then suddenly the other, changing the color-tone of the hills like they were fabric, velvet. Again, it would’ve been a beautiful sight, except for the vast auto graveyard filling the valley; a spectacle in and of itself—stunning, in its own way.

To a small child, the steel monoliths seemed to stretch endlessly, but as these things go, a little vantage would dispel any such notion. Say, if you crawled carefully atop one of the rusted demigods, you would see the necropolis spanned only to the base of the next ridge—a quarter mile away.

There were flecks of paint, dark blue, stuck in the baby skin of my palms and knees. My shins were brown and orange with rust, scrapes, and blood as Kimo laid sphinxlike beside me, licking the bits of iron from me then his own massive paws. I tied my tiny fingers into the thick fur of the shepherd. The pungent smell of him filled my nostrils, but it wasn’t unpleasant; rather, it was reassuring. Even as an adult, I still find the reek of dogs ‘comforting’. If there’s a dog in your life, for me, that’s synonymous with a life being lived well.

Kimo had been the only pup sired by Jack, that King kept; an old black shepherd with keen, bright orange eyes—not unlike the rust on my chubby, child’s legs. Jack was now too old to be running around with the pack and stayed close to King at the wrecking yard office. Kimo was larger than his father—he was the largest shepherd most visitors to the junkyard claimed to have seen. King was offered money for him on several occasion, but he turned all bids down. Not because he loved the dog, but simply because he didn’t want other man to have what was his. He’d soon as shoot the dog himself than let another man take him.

The wrecking yard now had a dozen such German Shepherd dogs at any given time. Even now, several of Kimo’s own half-grown pups sniffed about and inside the doorless vehicle below us while others surveyed those surrounding. One pup gave a low, throaty warning; suddenly, the entire group of them raced passed us like sharks on the scent of blood. They emerged, juggling a rattlesnake and, incidentally, their lives before tugging it apart. Such was life here on the fringes. Wild. Brutal. Beautiful. Forgotten.

Kimo sat here beside me now as a sort of mercy provided of this place. I believed that. Not King’s mercy, for it was King’s own inattention to blame for Kimo’s close call. But rather a mercy only shown to those who were conditioned to never show, never need—but thrived under when given.

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The rancher could hear them screaming as he ran from the house to the basin of the hill where a single, small shed stood. Pressing the rifle tight against his chest, he ran as fast as his failing hip would allow. As he grew closer, the voices grew fainter. One-by-one, they went silent until there were more. It was then that he stopped suddenly, still holding his rifle close to his chest. The beat of his heart shook his whole body as he slowly settled the wood butt against his shoulder in anticipation. Stepping lightly, he approached the shed. He could smell the iron in the air.

Still keeping space between himself and the doorway, currently obstructed by a dead ewe—he adjusted his eyes from the bright sun to the depths of the shed, and there he could clearly see the blood-soaked demon, illuminated by trespassing sunbeams from old damage to the tin roof. The shepherd stared directly at him and wagged his tail as if waiting for compliments. He’d done good. He had killed them. Every last one of them noisy sheep. And the Shetland pony.

The incensed hobby rancher shot into shed, grabbed the sun-bleached, carved wood handle of the door, and forcefully pulled it shut—heaving the heavy, dead ewe with it. Quickly he slat-locked the door and listened. After a moment, Kimo broke the silence with an escalating, long, painful bellow that made the farmer’s nape skin to prickle. The man turned and ran back toward the house. It was high time someone did something about those Liles’ dogs before they killed again. Maybe next time, a person.

When the authorities arrived to retrieve the dog, he was gone. The rookie and deputy looked for him amongst the dead ewes thinking the gun shot, if as severe as the farmer had indicated, would surely have put the animal down.

Most of the livestock had their throats ripped open. Few were missing anything except their lifeforce. It looked as though the dog had killed for the sake of killing. One ewe’s head was bent backwards with the top of the head resting on its hindquarters, as though it had been peeled back to that point; from the other end, you had an almost clean look into its esophagus. The younger officer pointed out the absurdity, trying to seem tough, until the animal unexpectedly expelled aloud, baritone and breathy crow which spouted gore. Postmortem movement. He had studied it in his classes to get the badge he wore, but knowing the terminology didn’t help the young officer keep his last meal…only pay for it.

His senior, the deputy, ignored this and called him over. He guided the peaked rookie’s attention to a small opening at the corner of the shed. The young man wiped spittle from his chin and asked what it was—indicating the strange buildup clinging to the top of the tin. The deputy pulled the alien entity and it sprung open extending like an accordion made of fresh flesh, hair, and blood obviously fileted from the dog’s body as he had chewed just enough of the tin to then push his massive frame through the opening. The young officer lost the rest of his lunch.

Twice in a day, the dog had evaded death, but it had been over the past few years that they had received many complaints of a huge dog attacking livestock. They were sure it came from the only place within miles with shepherds and shepherds, mind you, with a reputation for their vicious entourage. Locals were terrified to go anywhere near the place, which seemed bad for business in the public’s eye—but for King, the deputy knew for a long time now, it’s exactly what he wanted. So, when he and his rookie partner did not find the dog’s mangled body—not along the road, not on the hillsides—it was last straw to drive to King’s Wrecking Yard to see if, by some ungodly marvel or utter demonic will, that the animal made it home.

“Stay with the car.” The Deputy told him as he slammed his own door.

King heard a voice and peered out the dust-caked window of the repair shop. The deputy had already made it halfway through the dirt parking lot before King flipped the switch from tormented, guilty, paranoid to self-possessed, indignant, and foreboding. He exited the building, shutting the door with a heavy swing.

“Afternoon, Officer,” he acknowledged.

“King.” The deputy nodded, watching his disfigured reflection get longer in King’s sunglasses.

A staple of his. Truth was though, King was an anxious mess most of the time, but his puffed-up bravado, dark tanned, muscular appearance, and sunglasses…they hid much of that…and honestly, as nervous as King was, the deputy was twice as much so for he knew, worse than any cornered, wounded dog—was an anxious addict of King’s magnitude.

“Here for a pickup? Little early.” King stated.

The deputy looked over his shoulder to make sure his partner wasn’t listening.

“We shouldn’t talk about that out here.”

He turned his attention back to King, squinting against the sun.

It was best to get the point as soon as possible as to diffuse the situation before King started creating scenarios in his head that weren’t happening.

“King,” the deputy looked about himself, “now that dog you got. The big one. Well, it butchered old Bill Owens’ flock. Even killed his goddamn pony.”

“A pony? Huh.” he almost sounded proud as he crossed his arms.

“Thing is, the Owens’ got grandkids and they’re all real upset right now that that dog is still out there. They’re gone want recompence.”

Though King remained wholly unchanged, the air around them stiffened noticeably.

“Now mind you,” the deputy offered, “they’re not asking to press charges,and it won’t cost you a dime,” he paused, “not this time.” But they’re gone wanna see that dog put down.”

“Put down, you say?”

King reached above his ear and found a Marlboro.

“That’s right.” The deputy replied.

King took his time lighting his cigarette, trying to calm his nerves. His face was as placid and unreadable as the stretch of highway that brought them here and it made the deputy uneasy.

“Did it happen to show back up here? The dog.”

“Haven’t seen it.” He blew two columns of smoke out of each nostril. “Could ask my brothers.”

The deputy looked down and took note of the blood trickle trail and large paw prints headed the way of the four garage bays.

“That would be good.”

The deputy saw a young dog peer around the side of the building. Another two shepherds slowly made their way to the covered porch in front of the office door from the opposite direction. One dog laid down, but all three dogs were at attention. Watching. Waiting.

“Uh huh.” The deputy thought a moment, probably weighing the various outcomes should he press the issue. He looked back up to peer at his reflection in King’s glasses again, then over his shoulder at his partner straining to hear the conversation from the passenger side of the black and white Olds.

“Alright then.”

The deputy started to turn away, feeling slightly vexed, he stopped. “Jus’ make sure you put it down, that is if’n it does show back up.” He said this standing with his gun hip pointed toward King, taking great care to not look the man in the eye again. He knew King didn’t like to be told, but the deputy had a job to do—his real job.

“Probably be a small mercy to the thing if’n he’s in as bad a shape as I think he may be. Owens’ are right, you know,” He started back to his car. “I’d be a might bit worried having a dog like that around these kids you got here too...”

King’s hand grabbed the deputy by the back of the neck, snatched his wrist with his other hand, and slammed the officer onto the hood of the car—it was hard to tell if the deputy was screaming from the surprise, the angle he was bent, or the scorching heat of the metal on the flat of his cheek. His partner stumbled out of the car and with a shaky hand, pointed his sidearm at King, who paid him no mind even as he yelled, “Let him go! Let him go now!”

It was then that the dogs descended—snarling, lunging. The young rookie pointed his gun at them, and they backed off, still snarling—pacing and looking for an entrance.

King continued to ignore the young man as though he were but a gnat in his orbit.

“I don’t like anyone telling me how to treat my property,” he gritted his teeth near the officer’s ear, “and I sure as hell don’t like anyone telling me how to treat my kids. Not you. Not any other pig. No anyone. You hear me? If you want to keep this arm,” King wrenched the deputy’s wrist backwards until it was likely to snap, “you will keep your goddamn nose out the business that’s not yours and just keep it to the business we do have. You got me?”

“Yes! Let me up!”

His voice was almost drowned by the barking.

“What was that?”

“Yes! Just let me up! Let me up!”

King flung the rest of the man’s body onto the car. The deputy pushed himself off as fast as he could. His face already had a red welt ready to blister. He held his cheek and got into the car. The young officer, still standing beside the door, confounded over what had just taken place.

“Get in the car, Dicky!” the deputy yelled.

“Well, ain’t we gonna…”

“Get in the fucking car!”

The young man scrambled back into the car as awkwardly as he had gotten out of it. The car lurched into reverse and completed a wide, reckless backward turn before switching gears, and speeding off down the highway.

King watched the deputy go until the dust had settled and he heard the engine no longer. He sighed, then turned and walked directly to the first garage bay. Stepping inside, he looked down at the huge dog, side heaving erratically, reaching for air. The dog, unable to lift his head, peered out the corner of his eye at King. He was dark with blood, impossible to tell how much was his and how much belonged to his kills. King stared at Kimo. Cold.

He started for the backdoor to the office as he said, “If you die you better crawl somewhere where I won’t fucking smell you rot.”

He opened the door and just before he slammed it, muttered, “Stupid, fucking mutt.”

Kimo didn’t die. That night, King gathered the dog up and carelessly threw him into the back of his Chevy short-wide. He didn’t make a sound. King then piled us kids into the cab. We were never alone with Mom. It was the rule. Even if King was out well past what should have been a normal bedtime for a five and seven-year-old. He kept us close.

The windows were down. The breeze that came in was hot. I could hear the whoosh of the cars passing. The sun still glowing low like an ember on the horizon while the pink sky was slowly forced down by a heavy, dark blue veil of twilight.

I peered through the back glass of the truck. I could see Kimo’s ribs slowly moving up and down with each orange streetlight we passed under.

“Turn around.”

I obeyed.

When we arrived home. Our house, in the middleclass Modesto suburb, looked like any other house from the outside—dirt yard, palms, stucco—but inside it was chaos. It was also hazy, thick with cigarette smoke and stale Budweiser that clung to the furniture, the brown and tan carpet, and stained near the tops of the walls yellow. Bubble-glass windows in the bathroom heavy with mildew, the windows nailed shut from the inside to keep the men of shadows out. No room unscathed from King’s paranoia or the holes it made every wall.

My older brother Logan ran to our mom as she opened the front door. I could see him waving his arms as he explained the situation and see Mom’s eyes growing incredulous with each small flail. She walked quickly towards the back of the truck.

“GET…” my mom stopped at King’s voice. “…back…in…the house.” She slowly backed away from the truck bed and turned back the way came.

“I’ll bring him in,” his voice softened, almost apologetically—like he was a normal father coming home from a rough day at work and had uncharacteristically lost his temper.

King lugged the dog into the house, into the kitchen, then flopped him onto the orange, 1960s metal and Formica kitchen table. Blood crusted fur, eyes caked shut. Mom’s hand covered her trembling lower jaw as her eyes welled up with tears uncertain that she was allowed to have. She stood frozen, unknowing what to do until King told her.

“Bring me the first aid kit.”

J.M.Liles ©️2024

Lucius Collantinus : Don’t ask me what’s right or wrong. Ask me, “what’s the better story.” As of now I’m just a man. A man of war, a man of great love for his wife. I’ve been sick of this regime for years. I’ve been so tired of leaving my home and pledging loyalty to a idiot, that can’t control his own urges. I’ve always believed in my wife, believe that when I’d return she’d wait for me. During the last tour that fool Sextus had the thought that he could bed my wife and then decided to turn it into words said in my direction. He thinks himself a prince, just because his father wear’s a crown. But he is no King, I’ve heard the people speak, there’s no love, there’s no respect for Lucius. He’s a Tyrant and he needs to be dealt with. And you my loving wife gave the reason to rip the crown from his body, even if his head must come with it.

So I will give you a chance, one chance. You can be tried and convicted as an adulterer, maybe your lover Sextus may spare you. But trust me you are simple a dime a dozen, his harem is as expansive as the flowers in the royal garden. However, you can die a faithful, loving wife, that was brutally assaulted by a beast in human clothing. How would you rather be remembered, what would your Father, your brothers, your Mother think of you. Could you bring such shame on to them and on to me. Even if you don’t care about shaming us, what about our son, will you allow him to grow holding such shame. Take this knife in your hand and think about what you truly care about. If you even have an ounce of love for this family, you will drive this into your heart. The same way you already drove a knife through my heart when you decided to allow that man into our home.

Lucretia: So what would you have me do Collantinus. Kill myself. What would you have me done, he is the Prince. Refuse him and then what. Do you truly think he would have kept me pure, if I said no. You don’t say no to Sextus, you don’t say anything. You grit your teeth and wait for it to end. You think the other wives have been spared. Those who refused, husbands have never return from war. But fine, you want me to die your faitful wife. Spare you the shame of having to come to this home. And spare you the fact you don’t have the balls to kill me yourself.

Lucius Collantius: Nothing comes If it’s my sword that impales you. I just become another a husband who couldn’t take the fact that Sextus, bedded his wife. That means nothing, even if I attack him, they will just look at me as a disgruntled husband whose wife was taken. Lucretia you were always seen as the wife most committed to their husband. Those who enlisted with me often spoke of their jealousy. Sextus will not hold is tongue, he will brag to everyone, that none is safe from his sword. Even one considered the most faithful woman in Rome, fell to her knees in my presence. Even she laid on her back to gain my favor.

Lucretia: Is that what you think of me?

Lucius Collantius: It doesn’t matter what I think of you, it matters of other’s perception.

Lucretia: We could run.

Lucius Collantius: I will not abandon my country. It’s the land that birthed me and raised me to a man. Either we live in shame or you die a faithful tainted wife and I live as a vengeful husband.

Lucretia: If that’s the story you wish to tell. Hand me the knife, I’ll do what you wish. If you even have a ounce of love left for me. You will ensure that bastards head ends up on a spike. Know that I loved you and I hated every moment. Goodbye, my love.

Spurius: Was this truly the right thing to do.

Lucius Collantinus: It doesn’t matter what was right. History will start from this moment. Sextus caused an innocent married woman to commit suicide because of his actions. My next course of action is to kill that bastard. The death of his son will cause the King to turn his attention to me. The only course of action is to overthrow the king. The price of assaulting my wife, will be the death of the Royal family. I’ll burn their damn castle to the ground. I’ll usher in a new era of Rome. One where those who protect the country don’t have to worry about coming home to their wife being Tainted by a spoiled man child.

Spurius: But you know it’s a lie. While Lucretia did not want it, she did not protest.

Lucius Collantinus: AND WHAT DOES THAT MEAN! She didn’t protest because she couldn’t protest. Sextus knew this as well. I didn’t want her to die either but it had to be done. Everyone knows what the truth is. Everyone knows what kind of woman she was, no one will belive Sextus. And those who do will resent him even more. Now go announce her death and gather the men. We ride to Sextus mansion tonight. There will be one less prince in a matter of hours. I will no longer be a good man, but what I build will be Great. I will ensure she will be remebered fondly in history and I’ll build an empire in her honor.

This works.

Here is my piece;

I’m not a religious person, I could never grasp the idea of “blind faith”, however looking back at the moments leading up to that call, I can’t help but to question what forces are actually out there.

I’m always asleep that time of the morning, the world at 7am is for runners and retirees not me.

I fumbled for the phone when it rang, only just waking up enough to register its jarring ringtone.

Missed call,

Mum

Suddenly I felt my heart fall to my feet, my mind immediately wakes, I can feel my veins thumping as my blood pressure suddenly spikes.

“Shit, I think dads having a heart attack”

Now I should mention at this point that my father had always been in good heath and didn’t have any heart issues that we were aware of.

But for some reason, some cosmic reason, I immediately knew what that missed call was about.

I call back before my mind could even finish my thought.

Mums hysterical, dads in the ambulance being rushed to St Vincent’s hospital, she wants me to come quick.

Calmly I tell her that he’s having a heart attack, she insists that they haven’t told her what’s going on yet but that he’s very very sick.

I calmly repeat mum he’s having a heart attack, I’ll meet you at the hospital.

Those moments, that handful of seconds, between missing her call and calling her back, we in some surreal way the most real moments I’ve ever felt. So real that they almost feel like they have physical form- like I could reach out and touch every millisecond and feel it’s pounding pulse beneath its sharp and hard surface.

The memory exists in my mind as some strange artists installation piece.

What made me assume it was a heart attack I will never know.

Maybe I was just an innate educated guess based on family history or maybe it was something else, something explainable only through faith and beyond human forces.

Whatever it was, those moments will never leave me.

When I was calling mum back dad was being revived in the ambulance en route to the hospital, he had had a massive cardiac arrest - doctors told us that no one could have predicted it, he had a silent electrical cardiac condition that was a ticking time bomb waiting to go off.

Only 10% of people survive a cardiac arrest like his

And thats only if they receive professionally administered CPR within 4 minutes of the arrest happening.

Almost no one survives when an inexperienced person is the one to provide the immediate cpr, and if they do manage to beat the odd they almost always have some left over brain damage from the lack of oxygen.

I look back at how calm I was on the phone to mum “he’s having a heart attack I’ll meet you at the hospital” I don’t remember feeling scared in those moments.

Dad made a full recovery, “a miracle, touched by god” said the doctors.

I wonder if those moments immediately after I woke up, the phone call with mum, the absence of fear and the confidence I had in my diagnosis….

But then I stop and remind myself, I’m not really a religious person.

I wish I could forgive you. But I can’t. I’m merciless in that regard. When you spoke about my brother, I remember it so vividly. I remember laying on my right side, my green pillow beneath my head and my left eye and bang visible on the FaceTime. You were in your car, in your white coat stained with makeup on the collar. You looked so dark against the backdrop of the lingering winter. So beautiful. I made a remark, and it truly wasn’t malicious. I know me. I know when I say things mean. I usually mean them. I know too when what I say is even backhanded. Most of what I say is with purpose, meticulous in thought. You said your brother chased people with swords, threatened them as a young boy. I said that’s crazy with a soft laugh- soft, because I know children. Soft because I love children, and know how their brains work for the most part. Soft, because he is your brother. Soft, because I am soft naturally. When I’m not being purposeful.

I remember I still had a smile on my lips, serenity in my soul when you responded. I’d shifted an inch to glance at the lights on my wall. It was daylight but I was in the darkness aside my twinkle lights. You said “at least my brother didn’t actually try to kill me.”

God, the pain in my body. In my soul. I can only imagine it’s the calm you feel before someone stabs you. Before you’re jolted to reality in such a painful way. Out of rest. Out of calm. Out of normalcy.

I remember the serenity in my body forming to tensed muscles. I know my vision darkened on its edges, and I looked to my window. You didnt immediately apologize. You just watched me for a few seconds until I spoke. Like you wanted to see it set. Wanted it to hurt. I told you it did. And you didn’t apologize. You went on the defensive.

I hate giving you the excuse of being young. But when I was 20 I did worse. So I can’t blame you, not really. But I still do. I still hurt. Still feel that betrayal.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so hurt. No ones ever spoken against my brother like that. They’ve said horrible, horrible things but none of them could ever use Aidan against me. I must not have mentioned him then.

Every time I mention him now it’s with resistance. Hesitance pooling on my tongue. I have to force it out like teeth being pulled. How horrible is that? And when I’m speaking to you, when it doesn’t hurt, I then remember.

And it kills me. You meant to hurt me. You don’t think so. But I know mean. I know that vitriol. I know it’s taste and feeling. I won’t ever tell you that, because I know guilt. And guilt eats someone alive.

And I know that’s love, then, too. Because I don’t want you to hurt how I have. If I was a better person I’d keep it to myself. All of it. But I’m not. I’m trying to be. But for that I have to let go.

How do I let go?

I knew from our first date you wouldn’t be good for me. I remember that same tensing after your little joke about kissing better. It’s my fault.

And you are still such a comfort. I loathe you for it.

The world has gone to shit, Jake thought as he scrolled through Facebook looking for story ideas. He wrote for his small town paper, and knew his days were numbered. Layoffs were happening weekly, and he hadn’t built even close to enough seniority to save himself. It made him sad, because in theory it had been his dream job. But that’s the funny thing about dreams, he supposed, once you achieve them, they stop being dreams.

But journalism wasn’t what it was in its heyday. There was no office, no local coworkers, just mornings in an empty house scrolling for ideas, and afternoons writing them. Depression had been hovering like a storm cloud ever since Wendy left, and reading comments from a world of hateful pricks certainly wasn’t alleviating his condition. He was sinking, and he could feel it. He just wanted to reach through the screen and ask these people, why don’t you just fucking kill yourself, if your life is so miserable? What is your purpose?

Jake saw a video of a sad young mother dropping her son off for his first day of kindergarten. She was emotionally distressed, and the comments actually made Jake feel sick.

You should feel bad!

You’re letting the government brainwash your child!

You’re a terrible goddamn mother! You should be homeschooling!

It went on like that for dozens of comments. Jake kept scrolling and feeling worse the more he did, yet he felt it was beyond his control to stop. He brushed his hands through his hair, and placed his head on his keyboard. What is wrong with this world? He said to himself. Was it always like this?

And the answer is probably. He supposed that being a kid was just not bothering with the bullshit because it didn’t concern you. It made Jake think of a book he read about the Vietnam war. After the fall of Saigon, many people left in boats for Canada. The traveling was wrought with diseases, famine and death. For the adults, times couldn’t be worse. But in the book, they talk about the kids, who were also hungry and sick, waiting for a boat that may never show up, putting sticks in the mud of the little island where they wait, and playing soccer. They cheered, and laughed, because they were kids. And kids see the world differently.

It made him feel sick for childhood. Not because the world was necessarily better but because he didn’t care. Oh, to not care again.

His phone dinged, and it was a message from a woman on a dating app he was trying out. Her name was Miranda. They’d been talking for a couple of weeks and had gone out for ice cream on the waterfront once. It was fine, and maybe it was his desolate state of mind, but he found himself uninterested in her stories and unable to show the same zest that he had when he was 20. He could listen to a pretty girls' stories all night long back then. But on that date, he just wanted to go home. Close the blinds and put on old movies in the dark with a six pack of beer. Another nostalgia escape. Old Stallone movies on VHS. It was wonderfully corny and over the top, and the only time he found himself smiling without forcing it.

But Miranda hadn’t let lack of sparks flying keep her from following up with him. She messaged him everyday, not in an overbearing way. Just a checking in kind of way. If he didn’t answer, she let it be, and if he did then they had a brief conversation before another bout of radio silence.

Hey stranger, she’d say

Hey you!

What’s going on?

Not much, you?

Not much, just at the beach soaking up the sun. Enjoying another beautiful day.

That’s nice.

Yeah.

And that was most of the conversations. Even that felt like a chore because what he wanted to talk about was the dark cloud in his head. He wanted to talk about Wendy leaving with the kids. He wanted to talk about his folks moving away, his best friend dying. He wanted to talk about how his dream job wasn’t a dream and what he was supposed to do when it all went up in flames?

But then he thought it was unfair to Miranda. It was unfair to burden someone you barely knew with the realities of what you wanted to talk about. But if you didn’t, then the conversations were superficial and dull.

Jake checked his phone and Miranda’s message said.

I got a story idea for you, if you’re interested.

Yeah, for sure. He answered, realizing that he answered way faster because it was a self-serving message and felt bad about the selfishness.

Have you heard of Companions?

??

I’ll take that as a no lol. It’s AI. At work they’re using it for a lot of the elderly folks who are lonely. Basically, they program it to be whatever the old folks need it to be and then can have conversations with it. It’s supposed to help with depression and loneliness. It’s pretty neat. I’ve seen it in action and it doesn’t sound robotic at all. Just a listening ear. You should come by and check it out.

Then she sent the link.

Jake clicked on it and found himself immersed in this strange site. Companion seemed like something out of a bad Sci-Fi, but it was strangely beautiful. It wasn’t a site for people looking to tell a robot their deepest darkest sexual fantasies. It said right on the site that you’d get kicked off the app if you started getting sexual with your AI companion.

It was what Miranda said. Just an ear to lend.

There were screenshots of conversations between Mario, and his AI companion, Andrea. He said,

It’s been really lonely lately. Sometimes I think it would be better if I were to just end it all. I don’t think anyone would care.

I would care, Mario.

Why, you don’t even know me?

Then tell me about yourself.

What would you like to know?

I’d like to know the things that sit inside your head when you lie in bed at night. I want to know the things that you fear others would never understand, so instead of telling them you keep it inside until it feels like the weight will kill you. I want you to talk to me until the weight is light as a feather. I want to be your friend.

It was beautiful. Every conversation was positive. Every answer was uplifting and caring. It was the exact opposite of the bullshit he scrolled through daily.

So the next morning, Jake woke up for his 8am Zoom meeting where he pitched his story ideas to his editors. He told them that he was heading uptown to the Riverside Retirement Home. He’d been there before to speak with veterans for Remembrance Day, and that he was going this time to check out a new AI app. Bruce Jensen, the editor, seemed mildly interested, and allowed it. Jake didn’t really care because he’d made up his mind the night before.

After the meeting Jake drove to get a coffee and then headed uptown. He parked near the east entrance and walked inside. There was a middle aged woman with graying hair and a wide smile that greeted him.

Hello, sir. How may I help you?

Uh, I’m a reporter for The Star and I’m looking to learn more about Companions and speak with a couple of the folks that are using it.

Ah, yes. Companions, she smiled. A brilliant thing, if you ask me. On the third floor you’ll find Reginald Walker. He’s 86 years old. Been in here for the last decade and barely spoke a word. Just stared out the window most days. Now, he speaks to Edna every day and the other night he even danced. Nearly brought me to tears.

Jake smiled. Just the small screenshot had nearly brought him to tears the evening before.

I think it’s great too. The concept at least. I’d like to see it in action.

Oh, I’m sure Reginald would love to talk to you. If not, come back down and I’ll get someone else. We have around 25 of the seniors using and a few more on the first floor are getting introduced to it later.

Alright, well I’ll go check it out. Thank you.

Anytime. The news these days is just doom and gloom. Happy to see some coverage for something positive.

I hear you. Jake smiled and turned left down the hall.

Once on the third floor, Jake realized he hadn’t asked the receptionist which room Reginald was in, but once he exited the elevator, he could hear music and he decided to follow it. He walked past open doors where old folks laid on beds watching TV’s with small screens, and he wondered what they were thinking. Were they thinking about being young? Were they hoping to live another 10 years or praying that the good Lord would take them somewhere soon? He wondered.

Around the corner the music became louder. The song was Dream Lover by Bobby Darin.

Every night I hope and pray, a dream lover will come my way. A girl to hold in my arms, and know the magic of her charms.

An old hoarse voice sang over it, and then what seemed to be the voice of an elderly lady.

Because I want

Doo-doo-do

A girl

Doo-doo-do

To call

Doo-doo-do

My own. I want a dream lover so I don’t have to dream alone.

Jake peered into room 327, and saw who he assumed was Reginald, dressed in a navy blue plaid shirt and tan suspenders, swaying nimbly from side to side as a tablet was placed on the windowsill.

The song ended and Reginald wiped his brow before picking the tablet up and saying,

“That was the best one yet, Edna. Boy, I feel ten years younger. I’m moving like a 75 year old.” He followed this with a big hearty laugh which reminded Jake of his grandfather.

Jake knocked lightly on the door and Reginald turned around. His face was old, but there was a spark in his eyes. One that had been missing for years.

“Um, Hi. My name is Jake Lansing. I’m a reporter for the Star and I’d like to talk to you about your companion there.” He said, pointing to the tablet, which Reginald was now holding tightly to his chest like a freshman walking the halls in between classes.

“Oh, well come right on in then. Edna and I would be happy to talk, wouldn’t we, Ed?”

We sure would, Reg. Would you like a cup of coffee? Edna asked.

Uh, no. No. That’s fine. Thanks. Jake replied, feeling something strange in the pit of his chest. It wasn’t robotic at all. Just a friendly old lady inside a machine, what a world, Jake smiled, what a world.

Pull up a chair there young man, Reginald said, and Jake did. He sat down and Reginald sat on the edge of the bed, placing Edna softly beside him.

What would you like to know, Jake? Reginald asked.

I guess just the whole story. I think this is a wonderful idea. A friend of mine, Miranda Wood works here.”

Reginald cut him off.

Oh, we love Miranda, don’t we, Edna?

She’s a fine young lady. Sweet, kind and smart as a whip.

That she is, Jake said. I just want to know how this program came into the home, how you decided to go ahead and try it, and how you’re liking it, though judging by your Bobby Darin duet, you like it quite a bit.”

Edna and Reginald laughed together. And Reginald slapped Jake’s knee, again the way his grandfather used to.

A young man, who knows Bobby Darin. I like you already, kid.

Well, my mom says my old man and grandfather brainwashed me. But I think there are worse things to be brainwashed into than great music, don’t you think?

Couldn’t agree more, boy. So, to answer your question. About a month ago they start putting these flyers up, telling us that there’s an important session in the cafeteria coming up. They say it’s a way to connect and feel less lonely, ya know?

Jake nodded.

I didn’t want to go. Edna had passed a couple years before and I was still having trouble making sense of it all. I’d just stare out the window. Telling myself I’d stare until she came back. But it was your girl, Miranda. She’d come in at lunch and bring me my slop. Reginald laughed at this, and so did Edna.

And she’d sit down at the edge of the bed, and say Reg, you should really think about going to this session. I remember I said, why? What for? And she said, because Reg, there’s more life in you than just staring out the window. There may be a chance to smile again, to laugh again. You never know. And she kissed me on the top of the head and left.

Jake felt that guilt in his stomach again. Miranda was really something.

And I’ll take it the session proved to be a success? Jake asked, writing in his notebook.

It did. These two young girls did a presentation. They had a big screen behind them. One of them said they lost their mother recently to cancer. She said the pain of knowing that she’d never speak to her again was enough to make her want to give up. Then behind her, the screen lit up and this woman said, I’ll never leave you, Jess. I’m always right here.

Wow, was all Jake could muster. Wow

Yeah, you bet. Reginald said, I looked up and watched this young woman have a conversation with her mother. You see, you can program it to be like a loved one. As long as you have some audio or video, they can get the voice right. It can scan pictures. Not everyone wants their companion to be a loved one they lost, because it’s too painful, or doesn’t seem real. But I just needed to see Edna, whichever way I could.  Anyway, then afterwards, she had a sign up sheet and her and her partner did the rounds. I was still skeptical but Miranda looked at me from over on the right wing and winked. So, I signed up. A few days later, a woman comes in with this tablet and asks me how I’d like my companion to look.

Reginald grabbed the tablet and turned it towards Jake. There was the face of a  woman with short auburn hair. Deep blue eyes, and a happy smile with no trace of pain hidden behind.

Nice to meet you, Edna. Jake said, about to put his hand out before he realized and let out a short chuckle before placing it back on the bed. Uh, sorry. He said, it’s my first time meeting a Companion.

Oh, that’s no problem at all, dear. I’m happy you came by.

Jake looked over to see Reginald as happy as a clam. Looking at Edna, like he’d never loved anything more in his entire life.

I am, too.

They talked some more, and then Jake said, I should get going. I’d like to do a follow-up in a few weeks time and see how everything is going, if that’s alright?

I’d say that’s fine. What about you, Edna?

Sounds perfect. Edna said, still holding that smile.

You two really love each other, eh? Jake asked.

I’ve loved her since 1958. Reginald said. We met at the old King theater downtown. It’s gone now. But back then Main street was filled with people on the weekends. I had plans to go see Vertigo, you know the Alfred Hitchcock movie?

Jake knew it.

I was going with Betsy Reynolds.

Reginald looked over at Edna with a sly smile and waited for her to roll her over and sigh.

Yes, Reg. We know that Betsy Reynolds said yes to going to the movies with you. How did that end up anyway?

Edna laughed and so did Jake.

Yeah, well getting stood up was the best thing to ever happen to me, Reg said, reaching his hand out and rubbing the screen where Edna’s face was. I sat there waiting and waiting for Betsy. I was looking behind me every few seconds. Well, safe to say she never showed.

Then Edna started in.

I was with a friend of mine Daisy Walton. Daisy was with Shep Langley. She never told me she was bringing him because she knew I had it in for old Shep. So of course, I get there and I love Alfred Hitchcock, so I’m not gonna leave, you know? Anyway, they started smooching up a storm, and I’m missing vital information from the movie. So, I turn around and see Reginald sitting by himself. I knew Reginald from school. We might smile at each other in the hallway or something but we never so much as held a conversation. But there was something about that night. Something that made me think it was the right decision to make. And so I walked back, asked if the seat was taken and we watched Vertigo together.

And the rest is history. Reginald added.

That’s a beautiful story, guys. Thanks so much for sharing it. Jake said, getting up and heading for the door.

Reginald followed behind him. Be right back, sweetheart. He said.

Hey, kid, Reginald said at the door. Now, listen I don’t know what’s real or what’s not. I thought this was strange too. But I’ll tell you something. I get up in the morning and drink coffee. I stare out the window and smile. I fall asleep in deep conversation with a soothing voice and I wake up again, ready to be a part of the day. Ready to be a part of the world, you know? You’re young and you might not understand yet, but when you love someone so deeply, and they go away you stop living. Sure, you wake up and breathe and go through the motions, but there’s no life there. It’s just conscious dying. But when you have the chance to live again, especially at my age. You take it, kid. Because at the end of the day, a screen or skin, if I can talk to Edna, and laugh with her, I have a reason to live.

Is that on the record? Jake smiled.

You betcha.

Thanks, Reginald. See you in a couple of weeks.

In a lot of ways, I’m easy to get along with. I’m a people-pleaser; I almost always do what’s asked of me. And 99 times out of 100, I’m appreciated for that.

But this . . . this is one thing I refuse to relinquish. Is it so much to ask for a bit of comfort, a bit of relaxation? I’m happy to stay quiet, to mind my own business and not bother anyone else. Why can’t she treat me with the same courtesy?

She stands over me, hovering, glaring. God, I hate that look. But I’m taking a stand, so to speak. I won’t let her take this from me; I deserve this!

“Come on, Charlie!” she says, giving me a little push. But I refuse to move. I can be quite stubborn when I want to be. When she realizes she can’t physically move me, she tries bribery - my favorite food. I admit that I’m tempted, but I stay firm. I’ve claimed my prize, and she won’t take it from me!

“Charlie, this isn’t like you!” she insists. She sounds hurt, like I’ve disappointed her. It almost breaks me. “Why are you being so stubborn?” My only reply is a small whimper. I don’t want to upset her, but I don’t think I’m asking for that much. I’m not being unreasonable, especially not when you consider how I’m normally treated around here!

“Really?” she says finally, her hands on her hips. “This is the hill you want to die on?”

I tilt my head as if I don’t know what she’s talking about, but she knows I understand.

She huffs at me, but I can see the slight smile on her face that tells me I’ve won. “You’re lucky you’re so cute,” she says as she leans over and scratches me behind the ears. “I don’t know why I bother trying to enforce the ‘No dogs on the furniture’ rule.”

She comes into the bar, face barren from makeup and hair a right mess. Her clothes look strewn on like a second thought, eyes wide and constantly expressive (but of what? Not yet know) searching the bar.

I am a drunk in a night barren between day and night, half black clouds and half an eerie glowing blue. The humidity is up, sweaters cuffed yet.

I watch the wicks furl on the candle before me,

The wax wet the pastel bottoms.

I bite my lip- a bit further, down half the flesh and wait for the familiar and comforting scent of ash.

I watch it form, thick and heavy dark until it burns away its old sense.

I learned many things without you.

I learned to drive, how to change my car oil without it running on my skin-

I learned how to pay my own taxes, and how to act out my career.

I learned how other people’s hearts sound when I’m resting my head against their chest, And I learned how to take care of myself when I thought it futile.

(But I don’t want to learn anything more without you. I want to learn you.)

I touch the pulse in my neck with my thumb, digging it in like the pliable juicy flesh of a peach.

I look at folk young and old engaged

I yearn

I look at the indents on my can from my nails and taste liquor and regret and ache and oh, do I ache.

I watch condensation drip and clench my jaw

I say the wrong thing and regret.

Sarah jolted awake to the faint sound of tapping coming from somewhere in her apartment. She lay frozen in bed, straining her ears to locate the source of the noise. Tap...tap...tap...steady and muffled, like someone rapping their knuckles against wood.

With a trembling hand, she grabbed her phone from the nightstand, the harsh glow of the screen illuminating her terrified expression. 3:17 AM. She let out a shaky breath, the noise still continuing in the dead of night. It had to be coming from inside, maybe the closet or behind the dresser? An intruder, or worse - something not human at all?

Heart pounding, Sarah slowly pulled back the covers and slid out of bed, her bare feet touching the cold hardwood floor. She grabbed the baseball bat she kept in the corner for protection and crept toward her closed bedroom door, the tapping growing slightly louder with each step. She pressed her ear against the door, holding her breath as she tried to triangulate the source. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen.

With a surge of adrenaline, Sarah threw open the door and stormed into the hallway, bat gripped tightly as she whipped her head around. The tapping stopped abruptly. She stood motionless, listening for any sound over the rushing of blood in her ears. The apartment was pitch black save for the slivers of moonlight seeping through the curtained windows.

Mustering her courage, she inched down the hallway toward the living room, her toes curling against the bare floor with every step. A loose floorboard creaked underfoot, making her wince at the sound shattering the silence. As she neared the entryway to the kitchen, a new sound caused her to freeze in her tracks.

It was the slighery rasp of something being dragged across the tile floor, like nails on a chalkboard. Paralyzed with fear, her eyes searched the darkened room, struggling to adjust to the lack of light. There! A shadow seemed to detach itself from the wall and inch forward, a shapeless black mass slinking over the tiles with that same hair-raising screech.

Sarah's scream caught in her throat, her entire body petrified as the form crept toward her with Purpose, leaving a smeared trail in its wake. As it emerged from the gloom, she could make out two pinprick points, like flickering eyes trained directly on her. Something was dangling from it, scraping along the floor and producing the dragging sound that set her teeth on edge.

Her brain finally kicked into survival mode and she swung the bat in a wide arc at the creature, bellowing a feral scream. It connected with a sickening crunch, knocking the thing backward, two of its appendages loosing their grip and rolling away across the tile.

Skulls. They were human skulls.

The creature let out an unearthly wail that felt like ice water flooding her veins. Sarah scrambled backwards, completely consumed by primal terror, finally giving voice to her screams again. The bat slipped from her numb fingers as she retreated, her back slamming against the wall.

The entity contorted and morphed in front of her, skulls and femurs extending from its body like twisted branches, weaving into a new form. More skulls tumbled to the floor from its depths, jaws hanging agape as they rolled and spun with clacking sounds. Within moments, it had reformed itself into a nightmarish amalgam of bones and shadows, a dozen empty sockets glaring in her direction.

Sarah's bladder gave way as she stood rooted in fear, warm liquid pooling around her feet. She wanted to run, every instinct firing at once, screaming at her to flee. But some deeper, more primal part of her brain wouldn't let her move a muscle, paralyzed under the gaze of that skeletal aberration.

It began dragging itself toward her again with that bone-chilling screech.

Just as its gnashing, protruding jaws were nearly upon her, a deafening crack rang out in the enclosed space like a gunshot. Something shattered at Sarah's feet and she blinked, shaken from her trance. A bright, blinding light was pouring out, surrounding the bone creature and filling the room.

It twisted and thrashed, its eerie shrieks devolving into pure, unholy screeching as the illumination intensified. Sarah shielded her eyes against the radiance until suddenly, it stopped. She blinked again, her eyes adjusting to reveal an ordinary, empty kitchen awash in moonlight from the now-open curtains.

A small object clattered across the tiles, the source of the shattering - a shattered light bulb. Sarah crumpled to the floor, her legs finally giving out as the adrenaline drained from her body in waves. Sobs racked her frame as she curled into a ball, whimpering and shaking uncontrollably.

After several dazed minutes, she managed to collect herself enough to reach for her phone with a quavering hand. Her fingers trembled as she dialed 911 and held the phone to her ear.

"911, what's your emergency?"

Sarah opened her mouth, but only a ragged croak escaped her lips.

## Part 1: A World of Two Lights

On the distant planet of Breadopia, where the crimson sun Toastus and the pale moon Butterus hung eternally in the sky, life thrived in the most unexpected of forms. Here, among the vast fields of wheat and the bustling bakeries that dotted the landscape, lived the proud race of Croutonians. These cube-shaped beings, golden-brown and crisp, spent their days basking in the warmth of Toastus and the cool glow of Butterus, living lives filled with flavor and purpose.

In the heart of Crustville, the capital city of Breadopia, three particular Croutonians found themselves entangled in a complex web of emotions, their destinies intertwined like the very gluten that held their society together. Their names were Rye, Sourdough, and Multigrain, and their story would soon become the talk of the entire planet.

Rye was a hardworking Croutonian, known for his robust flavor and no-nonsense attitude. By day, he toiled at the local Qwik Mart, stocking shelves with an assortment of breadcrumbs and seasoning packets. His part-time job was a source of both pride and frustration, as it allowed him to interact with a wide variety of Breadopians but left him little time to pursue his true passion: competitive bread boxing.

Sourdough, in contrast, was the epitome of Crustville high society. Her tangy personality and perfectly scored edges made her the toast of the town. She spent her days attending fancy dinner parties and charity events, always the center of attention. Yet, beneath her crisp exterior lay a lonely heart, yearning for something more substantial than the shallow affections of her admirers.

And then there was Multigrain, the free spirit of the trio. With a complex blend of textures and flavors, Multigrain was an artist at heart. He spent his days in the park, composing symphonies inspired by the interplay of light between Toastus and Butterus. His carefree attitude and creative soul drew others to him like moths to a flame, but he struggled to form deep, lasting connections.

As Toastus began its slow descent towards the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, Rye's shift at the Qwik Mart came to an end. He said goodbye to his coworker, a stale baguette named Crusty, and stepped out into the bustling streets of Crustville. The eternal dance of light between Toastus and Butterus cast long shadows across the city, creating a mesmerizing interplay of warmth and coolness that never failed to take Rye's breath away.

Lost in thought, Rye didn't notice the elegant figure approaching until it was too late. With a soft "oof," he collided with none other than Sourdough herself. Packets of ranch seasoning scattered across the sidewalk as the two Croutonians stumbled backwards.

"Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry!" Sourdough exclaimed, her usually composed demeanor momentarily shaken. "I wasn't watching where I was going. Here, let me help you pick these up."

Rye felt his edges grow warm with embarrassment as he knelt down to gather the fallen packets. "No, no, it's my fault," he mumbled, avoiding eye contact with the beautiful Croutonian before him. "I was distracted by the sunset."

As their hands brushed against each other, both reaching for the same packet, a spark of electricity seemed to pass between them. Sourdough looked up, meeting Rye's gaze for the first time, and felt something stir deep within her well-fermented core.

"I'm Sourdough," she said softly, a slight tang coloring her words.

"Rye," he replied, his voice gruff but not unkind. "I, uh, work at the Qwik Mart."

Sourdough's eyes widened with recognition. "Oh! You're the one who always arranges the seasoning display so artfully. I've admired your work for months."

Rye felt his rough edges soften at the compliment. "You've noticed? I didn't think anyone paid attention to that sort of thing."

"Of course I've noticed," Sourdough replied with a warm smile. "In fact, I was just on my way to pick up some garlic powder for tonight's soirée. Would you... would you like to join me? As my guest, of course."

Rye hesitated, acutely aware of his work uniform and the crumbs that always seemed to cling to his corners after a long shift. But something in Sourdough's eyes, a glimmer of genuine interest, made him nod in agreement.

"I'd like that," he said, surprised by his own boldness.

As they walked together towards the grand mansions of the Upper Crust district, neither Rye nor Sourdough noticed the figure watching them from the park across the street. Multigrain sat beneath a breadfruit tree, his latest musical score forgotten on the bench beside him. He had been on his way to the Qwik Mart, hoping to finally work up the courage to talk to the handsome Croutonian he'd seen working there so many times before.

Now, as he watched Rye and Sourdough disappear into the growing twilight, Multigrain felt a strange mixture of emotions bubbling up inside him. Disappointment, certainly, but also a fierce determination. He may have lost this battle, but the war for Rye's affections was far from over.

As Toastus dipped lower in the sky and Butterus began to assert its cool dominance, the stage was set for a love triangle that would shake the very foundations of Breadopia. Three Croutonians, each unique in their own way, were about to discover that in matters of the heart, things are not always as simple as they appear on the surface.

Little did they know, their journey was only just beginning, and the intertwined lights of Toastus and Butterus would bear witness to a tale of love, heartbreak, and self-discovery that would be remembered for generations to come.

# Crouton Love Triangle: A Tale of Two Celestial Bodies

## Part 2: Rockets and Rivalries

As the eternal dance of Toastus and Butterus continued overhead, life in Crustville took an unexpected turn. The annual Breadopia Science Fair was fast approaching, and excitement filled the air like the aroma of freshly baked bread.

Rye, despite his busy schedule at the Qwik Mart, had been secretly working on a project for months. In the small garage attached to his modest apartment, he'd been meticulously crafting a model rocket. It wasn't just any rocket, though. Rye had designed it to be powered by a unique blend of yeast and baking soda, creating a reaction that he hoped would propel his creation higher than any other in the fair's history.

One evening, as Rye was putting the finishing touches on his rocket, a knock at the garage door startled him. He opened it to find Sourdough standing there, looking as elegant as ever in the combined light of Toastus and Butterus.

"Rye! I hope I'm not interrupting," Sourdough said, peering curiously over his shoulder. "I was wondering if you'd like to go for a walk in the Sesame Seed Park. The way the two celestial bodies shine on the poppy fields is simply breathtaking this time of year."

Rye felt his crust warm at the invitation, but his eyes darted back to his unfinished rocket. "I'd love to, Sourdough, but I'm in the middle of something important. The science fair is next week, and I need to finish my project."

Sourdough's eyes widened as she took in the sleek, bread-shaped rocket behind Rye. "Is that... a model rocket? Oh, Rye, it's wonderful! I had no idea you were into rocketry."

"It's a recent passion," Rye admitted, stepping aside to let Sourdough enter the garage. "I've always been fascinated by the dual celestial bodies of our world. This rocket is my attempt to get a little closer to them."

As Sourdough examined the rocket, another figure appeared at the garage entrance. Multigrain, clutching a notebook filled with musical notations, froze at the sight of Rye and Sourdough together.

"Oh, hello," Multigrain said, trying to keep his voice neutral. "I was just passing by and thought I heard voices. What's going on here?"

Rye, oblivious to the tension, excitedly began explaining his rocket to both Sourdough and Multigrain. As he delved into the technical details of his yeast-and-baking-soda propulsion system, Sourdough and Multigrain exchanged glances, a spark of rivalry igniting between them.

"It's quite impressive, Rye," Multigrain said, a hint of challenge in his voice. "But have you considered the acoustic properties of your design? The sound of a rocket launch can be quite musical, you know. I'd be happy to help you optimize it."

Sourdough, not to be outdone, chimed in, "That's a lovely idea, Multigrain, but I think what Rye's rocket really needs is a more aerodynamic shape. My family has some connections in the aerospace industry. I could introduce you to some experts, Rye."

Rye, caught between his two friends, felt his excitement waver. "I appreciate the offers, but I've put a lot of thought into this design. I want to do this on my own."

Multigrain's expression hardened slightly. "Are you saying our input isn't valuable? I thought we were friends, Rye."

"Of course we're friends," Rye replied, taken aback by Multigrain's tone. "I just meant—"

"I think what Rye means," Sourdough interjected, placing a gentle hand on Rye's crust, "is that this project is important to him. We should respect his vision."

Multigrain's eyes narrowed at Sourdough's gesture. "I'm sure you'd know all about Rye's vision, wouldn't you? You two seem awfully close these days."

The atmosphere in the small garage grew tense, the warmth from Toastus suddenly feeling stifling. Rye looked between his two friends, confusion evident on his seeded surface.

"Now hold on," Rye said, his voice firm. "There's no need for this. Multigrain, I value your friendship and your musical expertise. And Sourdough, I appreciate your offer to help. But this rocket is my project. I need to see it through on my own."

Multigrain, realizing he'd let his emotions get the better of him, took a deep breath. "You're right, Rye. I'm sorry. I got carried away. Your rocket is amazing, and you should be proud of what you've accomplished."

Sourdough nodded in agreement. "We both think you're incredible, Rye. We just want to support you."

As the tension dissipated, Rye felt a mix of emotions. He was touched by his friends' desire to help, but also conflicted by the undercurrent of competition he sensed between them. As he looked at Sourdough and Multigrain, bathed in the combined glow of Toastus and Butterus, he realized that his feelings for both of them were more complex than he'd previously thought.

The three friends spent the rest of the evening admiring Rye's rocket and discussing the upcoming science fair. But as Toastus began its slow climb back into the sky, heralding the start of a new day on Breadopia, Rye couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted in their relationships.

Little did he know, his rocket would soon launch more than just his scientific aspirations—it would propel the three of them into a whirlwind of emotions that would test the very foundations of their friendship and potentially change the course of their lives forever

## Part 3: Launch Day Revelations

The day of the Breadopia Science Fair arrived, bringing with it a palpable excitement that crackled through the air like static electricity. Croutonians from all corners of the planet gathered in the grand Sourdough Dome, named after Sourdough's illustrious family, to witness the marvels of Breadopian ingenuity.

Rye arrived early, carefully transporting his precious rocket. As he set up his display, he couldn't help but feel a mix of pride and nervousness. This was his chance to prove himself as more than just a Qwik Mart employee—to show that he had layers beyond his crusty exterior.

As he was making final adjustments, a familiar voice called out, "Rye! Your rocket looks even more impressive in this light!"

Turning, Rye saw Sourdough approaching, resplendent in a gown that seemed to shimmer with the combined light of Toastus and Butterus. She was accompanied by a group of important-looking Croutonians, undoubtedly the aerospace experts she had mentioned.

"Sourdough, you came," Rye said, a warm feeling spreading through his crumby core.

"Of course I did. I wouldn't miss this for the world," Sourdough replied, her eyes sparkling. "I hope you don't mind, but I brought some friends who are dying to see your invention."

As Sourdough introduced Rye to the experts, another figure approached from the other side. Multigrain, looking uncharacteristically formal in a suit made of various grains, carried a small device in his hands.

"Rye, I'm glad I caught you before the launch," Multigrain said, slightly out of breath. "I know you wanted to do this on your own, but I couldn't resist. I made you something."

Multigrain held out the device—a small, sleek contraption with a microphone attached. "It's a sound recorder. I thought you might want to capture the audio of your rocket launch. The acoustics in here are incredible, and the sound of your rocket taking off could inspire my next symphony."

Rye was touched by the gesture. "Multigrain, that's... that's really thoughtful. Thank you."

For a moment, the three friends stood together, an island of calm in the bustling excitement of the fair. The awkwardness from their previous encounter seemed to have dissipated, replaced by a shared anticipation for what was to come.

As the time for the rocket launches approached, Rye excused himself to make final preparations. Sourdough and Multigrain found themselves standing side by side, watching Rye walk away.

"He's really something special, isn't he?" Multigrain said softly, almost to himself.

Sourdough nodded. "Yes, he is. I've never met anyone quite like him."

They turned to look at each other, a moment of understanding passing between them. In that instant, they both realized the depth of their feelings for Rye—and recognized the same emotion mirrored in each other's eyes.

Before they could discuss it further, a loud announcement echoed through the dome. "Attention all participants and spectators! The rocket launch competition will begin in five minutes. All contestants, please proceed to the launch area!"

The launch area was an impressive sight. A clear dome had been erected in the center of the Sourdough Dome, allowing the rockets to soar while protecting the spectators. As Rye carefully placed his rocket on the launch pad, he could see Toastus and Butterus through the clear ceiling, their eternal dance serving as a celestial backdrop to his moment of truth.

Sourdough and Multigrain found seats in the front row, both silently cheering for Rye. As the countdown began, the entire audience held their breath in anticipation.

"5... 4... 3... 2... 1... Launch!"

With a mighty roar, Rye's rocket ignited. The unique combination of yeast and baking soda created a powerful reaction, propelling the bread-shaped projectile upwards at an astounding speed. The crowd gasped in awe as the rocket soared higher and higher, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs in its wake.

But then, just as it seemed the rocket would touch the dome's ceiling, something went wrong. The rocket began to spin erratically, its trajectory becoming unstable. Rye watched in horror as his creation began to plummet back to earth.

In that moment, Sourdough and Multigrain acted instinctively. Sourdough rushed to the control panel, her knowledge from the aerospace experts allowing her to quickly assess the situation. Multigrain, using his keen ear and the sound recorder he had given Rye, detected a subtle change in the rocket's engine noise that provided a crucial clue.

Working together, they managed to send a signal to the rocket, stabilizing its descent. The crowd watched in amazement as the rocket gently glided back down, landing softly on a cushion of air.

As the dust settled, Rye stood frozen, his eyes wide with disbelief. Sourdough and Multigrain ran to him, enveloping him in a group hug.

"Rye, are you okay?" Sourdough asked, concern evident in her voice.

"That was incredible!" Multigrain exclaimed. "The sound it made—I've never heard anything like it!"

Rye looked at his two friends, emotions overwhelming him. "I... I don't know what to say. You both saved my rocket. Thank you."

As the judges approached to examine the remarkable rocket and its unorthodox landing, Rye found himself at a crossroads. The adventure of the rocket launch had brought the three of them closer together, but it had also intensified the complexity of their relationships.

Looking at Sourdough and Multigrain, both gazing at him with admiration and something deeper, Rye realized that his heart, like his rocket, was caught in a delicate balance between two powerful forces. As Toastus and Butterus continued their eternal dance overhead, Rye knew that he would soon have to confront his feelings and make a choice that would alter the course of all their lives.

But for now, in this moment of shared triumph and connection, Rye allowed himself to bask in the warmth of friendship and the glow of scientific achievement. The love triangle that had been simmering beneath the surface was about to come to a boil, but that was a challenge for another day.

As the crowd cheered and the judges deliberated, Rye, Sourdough, and Multigrain stood united, their future as uncertain and full of potential as the vast, unexplored reaches of Breadopia that lay beyond the Sourdough Dome.

## Part 4: Dust to Dust, Art to Heart

In the days following the dramatic rocket launch at the Breadopia Science Fair, life in Crustville slowly returned to normal. Yet for Rye, Sourdough, and Multigrain, nothing felt quite the same. The intensity of their shared experience had shifted something fundamental in their relationships, leaving them all grappling with unspoken feelings and unresolved tensions.

Rye threw himself into his work at the Qwik Mart with renewed vigor, using the monotony of stocking shelves and operating the cash register to distract himself from the turmoil in his heart. But even as he tried to focus on the mundane tasks of his job, his thoughts kept drifting back to Sourdough's quick thinking and Multigrain's ingenious sound recorder.

One quiet afternoon, as Toastus hung low in the sky and Butterus cast long shadows across Crustville, Multigrain decided to pay Rye a visit at work. As he approached the Qwik Mart, he noticed something unusual in the store's front window - an intricate, swirling pattern that seemed to dance in the dual light of the celestial bodies.

Intrigued, Multigrain entered the store to find Rye carefully manipulating a small brush, adding delicate lines to the window display. As he got closer, Multigrain realized with amazement that the entire artwork was created using nothing but bread dust.

"Rye," Multigrain gasped, "I had no idea you were an artist! This is... this is beautiful."

Rye jumped slightly, startled out of his creative trance. "Oh, Multigrain! I didn't hear you come in." He rubbed the back of his crust sheepishly. "It's just a hobby, really. I like to create art with the bread dust that collects here at the store. It helps me relax and think."

Multigrain moved closer, examining the intricate details of the dust painting. The swirls and patterns seemed to mimic the eternal dance of Toastus and Butterus, creating a mesmerizing effect that captured the essence of their world.

"This isn't just a hobby, Rye," Multigrain said softly. "This is true talent. The way you've captured the light, the movement... it's like your rocket, but in art form. You're full of surprises, aren't you?"

Rye felt his edges warm at the compliment. "Thank you," he said, genuinely touched by Multigrain's words. "I've never really shown anyone my dust art before. It's always felt too... personal, I guess."

As they stood there, admiring the artwork together, the bell above the door chimed. They turned to see Sourdough entering the store, her eyes widening as she took in the scene before her.

"Oh my," she exclaimed, moving closer to examine the dust painting. "Rye, did you create this? It's exquisite!"

Rye nodded, feeling suddenly self-conscious with both of his friends there. "It's just something I do in my spare time," he mumbled.

Sourdough shook her head, her eyes sparkling with admiration. "No, Rye, this is much more than that. You have a gift. Have you ever thought about showcasing your art? I know some gallery owners who would be thrilled to exhibit something so unique."

As Sourdough and Multigrain continued to praise Rye's hidden talent, he felt a strange mix of emotions washing over him. Pride at their recognition, certainly, but also a growing awareness of the precarious balance between the three of them.

Here were two incredible individuals, both of whom he cared for deeply, both seeing and appreciating sides of him that he rarely showed the world. Sourdough, with her connections and her ability to see the bigger picture, could open doors for him he never even knew existed. And Multigrain, with his artistic soul, understood the deeper emotional significance of Rye's creations in a way that resonated deeply within him.

As Toastus began its slow descent and Butterus rose higher in the sky, casting the Qwik Mart in a soft, ethereal glow, Rye realized that his dust art had become a perfect metaphor for his current situation. Like the delicate swirls of bread dust on the window, his relationships with Sourdough and Multigrain were beautiful, complex, and fragile. One wrong move, one harsh breath, and the entire picture could scatter to the wind.

Yet standing there, surrounded by the warmth of his friends' admiration and the soft light of Breadopia's dual celestial bodies, Rye felt a glimmer of hope. Perhaps, like his art, there was a way to take these separate elements - his feelings for Sourdough, his connection with Multigrain, his own dreams and aspirations - and create something beautiful and lasting.

As the three friends continued to chat, discussing the possibilities for Rye's newfound artistic talent, the love triangle that had been simmering beneath the surface seemed to shift and evolve. It was no longer just about romantic feelings, but about the deep, multifaceted connections they all shared. In that moment, surrounded by bread dust and possibility, the future seemed as vast and full of potential as the Breadopian sky above them.

## Part 5: Rising Tensions

As the days passed on Breadopia, the delicate balance between Rye, Sourdough, and Multigrain began to shift. The discovery of Rye's bread dust art had added a new layer of complexity to their already intricate relationship, and the unresolved feelings simmering beneath the surface threatened to boil over.

Sourdough, true to her word, had reached out to her connections in the art world. Soon, whispers of a talented new artist began to spread through Crustville. Gallery owners and art critics alike were intrigued by the notion of ephemeral paintings created from bread dust, seeing it as a poignant commentary on the transient nature of their crouton existence.

Multigrain, inspired by Rye's visual art, threw himself into composing with renewed vigor. He began work on a symphony that he claimed would capture the essence of Rye's dust paintings in musical form. The melodic interplay between the warm tones representing Toastus and the cool, silvery notes of Butterus mirrored the visual dance in Rye's art.

Rye, for his part, found himself torn between excitement at these new opportunities and anxiety about the changes they might bring. His shifts at the Qwik Mart became a refuge, a place where he could lose himself in the familiar routines of stocking shelves and creating his dust art without the pressure of his friends' expectations.

One evening, as Toastus and Butterus hung low on opposite horizons, casting long shadows that intertwined across the landscape, the three friends met at the Sesame Seed Park. The dual light created a mystical atmosphere, perfect for the conversation that was long overdue.

"I've been thinking," Rye began, his voice slightly shaky, "about the rocket launch, my art, and... well, everything that's happened recently."

Sourdough and Multigrain exchanged glances, sensing the weight in Rye's words.

"Rye," Sourdough said gently, "we're here for you, whatever you need to say."

Multigrain nodded in agreement, but there was a tension in his posture that betrayed his unease.

Rye took a deep breath, the words he'd been holding back finally spilling out. "I care about both of you so much. You've both opened my eyes to parts of myself I never knew existed. Sourdough, your ambition and vision push me to dream bigger than I ever thought possible. And Multigrain, your artistic soul resonates with mine in a way I can't even fully express."

He paused, looking up at the two celestial bodies that had witnessed their entire journey. "But I feel like I'm being torn in two directions, just like Toastus and Butterus pull at our world. I don't want to hurt either of you, but I also can't keep pretending that these feelings aren't there."

The silence that followed was deafening. Sourdough's usually confident demeanor faltered, and Multigrain's expressive face cycled through a range of emotions.

Finally, Multigrain spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "I think we've all been feeling this tension, Rye. I know I have. Every time I work on my symphony, I'm thinking of your art, of you. But I also see how you light up around Sourdough, how she inspires you."

Sourdough nodded, her eyes glistening in the mixed light. "And I see the connection you two share, the way you understand each other's artistic souls. It's beautiful, but it also breaks my heart a little."

As the three friends sat there, the weight of their unspoken feelings finally out in the open, a strange sound began to fill the air. It started as a low rumble but quickly grew in intensity. The ground beneath them began to tremble, and in the distance, they could see a crowd gathering near the Sourdough Dome.

"What's going on?" Rye asked, momentarily distracted from their emotional conversation.

"I don't know," Sourdough replied, her brow furrowed with concern. "But it seems to be coming from the science fair grounds."

Without a word, the three friends rose and began making their way towards the commotion. As they approached the Sourdough Dome, they could see a group of scientists gathered around a large monitor, gesticulating wildly.

"Excuse me," Multigrain called out to one of the scientists, "what's happening?"

The scientist, a well-toasted baguette with a wild sesame seed hairdo, turned to them with wide eyes. "It's unprecedented! The rocket launch from the science fair seems to have disturbed the balance between Toastus and Butterus. Their orbits are destabilizing!"

Rye felt his heart sink. His rocket, his dream of reaching for the stars, had inadvertently put their entire world at risk. He looked at Sourdough and Multigrain, seeing his own shock and fear reflected in their eyes.

As alarms began to sound across Crustville, the three friends realized that their personal dilemma had just become insignificant in the face of a much larger crisis. The fate of Breadopia hung in the balance, and somehow, they would need to find a way to save their world – together.

The dual light of Toastus and Butterus, once a constant comfort, now seemed to flicker ominously. The love triangle that had consumed their thoughts was suddenly overshadowed by the very real possibility that their world, and everything they held dear, might be torn apart by cosmic forces beyond their control.

As panic began to spread through the gathered crowd, Rye, Sourdough, and Multigrain exchanged determined looks. Whatever challenges lay ahead, they would face them as one. Their individual talents – Rye's innovative spirit, Sourdough's connections and quick thinking, and Multigrain's artistic insight – might just be the key to saving Breadopia.

With Toastus and Butterus visibly shifting in the sky above them, the three friends stepped forward, ready to take on the greatest challenge of their lives. The story of their love and friendship was far from over – in fact, it was about to play out on a cosmic scale.

## Part 6: A World United

As chaos erupted around them, Rye, Sourdough, and Multigrain found themselves at the center of Breadopia's greatest crisis. The destabilizing orbits of Toastus and Butterus threatened to tear their world apart, literally and figuratively. But in this moment of extreme peril, the three friends discovered that their unique blend of talents and the strength of their bond might be the key to saving their planet.

Rye's mind raced, recalling every detail of his rocket's design. "The propulsion system," he muttered, his eyes widening with realization. "If we can recreate it on a larger scale, we might be able to generate enough force to nudge Toastus and Butterus back into their proper orbits!"

Sourdough nodded, already reaching for her phone. "I'll contact the aerospace experts. We'll need every brilliant mind we can gather to scale up your design, Rye."

Multigrain, his artistic soul sensing the cosmic rhythms at play, added, "The vibrations, the frequencies of their orbits – they're like a symphony out of tune. If we can calculate the correct resonance, we might be able to harmonize their movements!"

As the plan took shape, the entire population of Crustville rallied around them. Rye's coworkers from the Qwik Mart volunteered to help gather supplies. The gallery owners Sourdough had contacted offered their spaces as impromptu laboratories. Even Multigrain's fellow musicians joined in, using their understanding of harmonics to help fine-tune the calculations.

Days blended into nights as they worked tirelessly, the ever-shifting light of Toastus and Butterus a constant reminder of the stakes. Rye's innovative spirit drove the project forward, his mind finding creative solutions to seemingly insurmountable problems. Sourdough's networking skills and leadership kept the massive operation running smoothly, coordinating efforts across all of Breadopia. Multigrain's artistic sensitivity proved crucial in understanding the delicate balance needed to restore cosmic harmony.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of work, their plan was ready. A massive version of Rye's rocket, infused with Multigrain's harmonic calculations and brought to life by the collective effort coordinated by Sourdough, stood poised for launch.

As the countdown began, Rye, Sourdough, and Multigrain stood hand in hand, their individual grains intermingling. The weapon of last resort, a giant breadstick aimed at the heavens, began to thunder into life.

The launch was spectacular, the massive rocket trailing an awe-inspiring plume of yeast and baking soda exhaust. As it reached the upper atmosphere, it split into two, each half heading towards one of the celestial bodies. The rockets released their harmonic payloads, enveloping Toastus and Butterus in a field of resonant energy.

For a heart-stopping moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then, gradually, the erratic movements of the two celestial bodies began to smooth out. The violent shaking of Breadopia's surface gentled, then stilled. Slowly, majestically, Toastus and Butterus settled back into their eternal dance, their light once again bathing the world in a comforting, dual glow.

A cheer went up across Crustville, indeed across all of Breadopia. They had done it! Their world was saved!

In the jubilant aftermath, as the inhabitants of Breadopia celebrated their narrow escape, Rye, Sourdough, and Multigrain found a quiet moment alone. The experience had changed them, deepening their bond in ways they had never imagined possible.

Rye looked at his two dearest friends, his heart full of love and gratitude. "I think I finally understand," he said softly. "What we have – it's not a triangle that divides us. It's a harmony that makes us stronger together."

Sourdough smiled, her usually crisp exterior softened with emotion. "You're right, Rye. Our differences, our individual strengths – they're what allowed us to save our world."

Multigrain nodded, his eyes shining. "Like your bread dust art, Rye, or a perfect chord in music. Each element distinct, yet blending to create something beautiful."

As they stood there, bathed in the now-steady glow of Toastus and Butterus, they knew that their relationship had transcended simple romantic notions. They had found a love deeper and more profound – a love that could literally move worlds.

In the days that followed, Breadopia flourished as never before. Rye's bread dust art gained new meaning, seen now as a representation of the delicate cosmic balance they had restored. Galleries across the planet clamored to display his work.

Multigrain's symphony, inspired by their cosmic adventure, debuted to universal acclaim. Its harmonies, mirroring the restored dance of Toastus and Butterus, brought tears to the eyes of all who heard it.

Sourdough, recognized for her crucial role in coordinating the planet-saving effort, was offered a position on Breadopia's newly-formed Council of Celestial Harmony. Her innate leadership skills and ability to bring people together would help guide their world into a bright future.

And at the heart of it all, the Qwik Mart remained. Rye kept his part-time job, finding joy in the simple pleasure of creating his dust art in the window. Now, though, he was often joined by Sourdough and Multigrain. Together, they would work on new pieces, their individual techniques blending to create art that was greater than the sum of its parts.

As for their relationship, it evolved into something unique and beautiful. They were more than friends, more than lovers – they were a trinity of souls, bound together by shared experience and mutual understanding. Their love, like the twin lights of Toastus and Butterus, brought balance and harmony to their lives and to all of Breadopia.

And so, on a world bathed in dual starlight, three croutons found that true love knows no boundaries, that it can take forms as infinite and beautiful as the cosmos itself. Their tale became legend on Breadopia, a reminder that even in the darkest times, the power of love, friendship, and a little bread dust art could illuminate the way forward.