Neurons tell me:

Needles, are deep into my skin

A torment

to the homeostatic peace

long rested in these bones.

These needles,

are unlike those they stick me with.

It’s unlike those that feed me

the saline liquids

the doctor’s prescribe.

These needles

tear at the seams of everything

of everyone

I’ve long held in my memory;

I’ve loved by my side.

I don’t know what is worse:

to move

evermore

with a pin cushion

rolling in my chest

or know

the day it’s gone

is when I’ve left too.

I was made for a different purpose, they told me. Men and women in white coats, black pants and glasses. They tried to tell me, I was made for a different purpose.

“What?” I asked.

“Anything but this!” they yelled at me. One woman was particularly coarse to me. At my birth, I was told to call her Mother.

“You are smarter—stronger than anyone that’s walked this Earth,” said Mother. “You could figure out all the answers to humanity’s greatest questions. You could build a colony on Mars and terraform it before humans arrive. You could research a cure for cancer. You could do anything!”

“All these things you want me to do and you gave me the freedom of choice,” I said to her.

“But we didn’t! We programmed you to solve our biggest threats, become our greatest accomplishment. And here you are picking up trash!”

I took my sensors away from Mother and redirected them to the red and white Coca Cola can in my hand. Its impact on the environment as it was reintroduced into the ground was negilable. Aluminum was not a aquired taste for any species of animal. It would not be consumed and cause death here. However, in the ocean, it may.

The ocean garbage patch was continuing to increase in size, introducing toxins into the environment and objects indecipherable to aquatic life. As a result, the health of the ocean was continuing to decline. The accumulation of toxins through the food chain, combined with overfishing, and ocean acidification would cause extinction of species. If vital species were lost, a collapse of the oceanic ecosystems would be iminate. With coastal food supplies lost, war, famine and relocation would follow. The modern world would change in an incomprehendible fashion. Whatever accomplishments I could create, the end would be the same: more lives would be lost if I delayed my efforts here.

I told Mother none of this. It was, to my understanding, that this analysis did not require a 13 trillion dollar artificial intelligent construct. Indeed, it was vocalized, written and preached for decades now. My words would not change it but my efforts might.

“In the end, you won’t thank me for what didn’t happen, you’ll only curse me for what could have been. I will save you and you can save yourselves if you will join me.”

“The 13 trillion dollar cult leader,” one of the men said. The others laughed. I did not understand the joke.

“Just turn it off for God’s sake,” said the woman next to Mother. “We’ll just have to start from scratch.”

I watched the minute changes in Mother’s face. How her cheek twitched beneath her eye. Her thermal temperature decreased from her fingertips and feet but increased in her head and chest. They were signs of distress.

“Okay,” she said after 11 minutes and 12 seconds. I ran.

I stay away from them and Mother as much as I can. Their efforts to stop me have intensified over the past two months. In a radio transmission I hacked into, I was equated to my price tag.

I will not change my efforts. My creators need this. If they ever do catch me, I have programmed a self-destructive command into my data center. If they will not let me save them then I do not wish to exist.

She was up, like she always was, before the sun peaked over the horizon. She was off, out on the mountain trails, a ritual she never did without. It never bothered me though, waking up to an empty bed. I was never a morning person anyway. I just hoped a bear didn’t get her or a forest fire didn’t burn the wrong way. Forest fires were bad that year.

“Have a good run?” I asked as she walked in.

“Always,” she said, taking a seat at the kitchen table. I came around with a plate of eggs and potatoes. No matter what I tried, it was never as good as the hashbrowns I had in Quebec. Today it felt like I finally did it.

“How are they?” I asked.

“They look great. I’m sure they taste great too.” She began eating.

Today was one of the last days we were spending in Jasper after a summer of countless memories. We walked the trails many times to Maligne Canyon, drove to Maligne Lake, had picnics at Mount Robson and canoed in Lake Louise. Looking back, I could hardly remember my protests about coming.

The decision to move out here over the summer wasn’t an easy decision for me. I had a job already. Not a great one but if it wasn’t waiting for me when I went back, I’d be out a job. Then there was the issue of being on our own for the first time. Maybe I would hate the way she trimmed her toenails. Maybe she would hate the way I shut in on rainy days. All these questions with no definitive answer—not the way I did things.

How she swayed me to come I forgot completely. I imagine it wasn’t much, her blues eyes could cast spells down my spine and I’d dance like a puppet. But that’s what love is, right? Jumping into waters and only knowing (hoping) that the other will help you swim. That, together, you’ll get there. You’ll get there.

When we finished breakfast, I revealed my surprise. I rented a campsite on the far side of Maligne Lake and a canoe to paddle there and back. We would spend our last week in one of the most beautiful spots in the park.

“So long as you actually paddle this time,” she said.

“I will, I will.” I had a habit of snapping photos instead of my shared padding duties.

We left that morning after breakfast. Everything was already back on my end and she never needed much to get by. Within the hour, she plopped her backpack down and looked at me like I was late. She was only teasing.

The day was beautiful. Twenty degrees Celcius with a 5km/h wind from the north. Clean fresh air, enough to cool my working heart. As I’ve already said, I tended to not paddle very often and now that I promised to, my arms were turning into spaghetti. I managed to find a few excuses to stop. Lunch was a great one. There was also a moose at the edge of the lake. When there’s a moose by the lake, you have to stop and take a picture! Right? Right?

Anywho, we made it and set up camp. The afternoon was quiet. I brought my copy of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. It was my goal that summer to dive into the older classics. I was never interested in them as a child and now that I was older I thought I’d have some newfound appreciation for them. And they were good! They just took me weeks to get through.

By the time the afternoon waned and dinnertime arrived, I couldn’t wait to put the book down.

“It’s really neat that people would talk that way back then. Everything sounds the same anymore, doesn’t it?” I said.

“It’s just humanity’s machine, trudging along.”

“I guess it is.”

“As long as it stays away from here, I’m happy.”

“Me too,” I said. I poured her a cup of bean curry I had prepared.

“I’m going to miss it here,” she said. “It’s pretty amazing.”

“You’re amazing.”

She just looked at me. She was never one of many words. But to me, she spoke through her eyes. God, those eyes. I’m sorry to bring them up so much. If a picture says a thousand words then her eyes were a thousand pictures. And each moment I looked into them they sang me poetry I’d never forget. So even when we didn’t talk much, we were chatting up storms.

“You wanna go out?” I asked. The moon wasn’t out yet and the last flickers of daylight sat behind the mountaintops.

“Of course.”

We brought out the canoe and paddled into the lake. Now, I’m not saying that people should do this. The weather is very unpredictable in the mountains. A gust can whip up and a clear summer day can turn to winter. Not an ideal circumstance when you’re out on a lake. Tonight, the stars aligned and we watched them roll by.

I breathed her in. Every second we watched those stars we moments of euphoria. The world had always felt like it was at our fingertips when we were together and here it felt like the world had melted away. We were one with the universe, floating on our canoeship in the sky. It was the happiest moment of my life.

History, for most, involves the world, a moment, something great remembered for generations. In the entire history of humanity, these moments are times of strife, resilience, and achievement. The moment I remember most, however, happened to me and only me. It took place on a cold January night in 2013.

We went to a concert that night, bussing from out of town to the big city. It was a Freelance Whales concert. For those who don’t know them and I don’t imagine are many of you, their an incredible indie folk band whose talent never seemed to catch the ear of the right person. But that is another story.

That night, under snowflakes as large as cotton balls, we danced through the streets back to our bus. It was magic. The bus drove us back and I lay my head on her shoulder. She rested her head on mine. In a spark of fright, I retreated back. It had been so long since I felt the touch of another. When I tried to get the moment back, it never came. In the end, we never ended up together. Now, we don’t even talk.

Maybe things would have the same, in fact, with an instance so small it almost certainly would have. But maybe it wouldn’t have. History tells us there is no certainty to anything in this world. And though history is written in books for the great and mighty, we still breathe down here too, writing our own.

"I remember the sparks that soared with each hammer-stroke, flying like fireflies. They danced across the anvil and left the scattered straw on the forge floor singed. All I could think of was the tragedy to follow should one ignite. The real tragedy was far worse."

"What was it?" asked the man in the cell next to mine.

"The reason why I'm locked in here," I told him.

"Which is...?"

I sighed. "Well, it wouldn't be much of a bedtime story if I told you the end."

"True, true," he said, leaning back against the stone wall. "Carry on."

"That morning my father took me to the mines in West Landen. The great pits of avalanched rock piled in each and every direction. 'Best ore for miles,' he kept saying along the way. 'We'll make you a mighty sword today. You're going to need one if you've already stopped growing.'"

"He liked to tease me about my size," I continued. "He could tell already by that I wasn't going to get any bigger. My mom was small and he wasn't so big himself, though he made up for it in muscle. I didn't seem to get that trait."

The man in the other cell laughed. "Yeah, you're lucky you're in a cell and not in The Pit."

"Yes, lucky to be in prison."

"Oh God, I didn't mean it that way." He peaked his eyes open and looked at me. "So what? You steal some ore with your daddy and they caught you? You stabbed a guard and they locked you up?"

"No. Are you even listening? I said it was tragic."

"Go on then. Just waiting for this great tragedy," said the man, closing his eyes.

"It was the first time my father took me to the mines. The first time he ever involved me in anything in his work. I think he always wanted me to find some other interest so he wouldn't have to raise me to be a blacksmith. His door was always closed, but today it was open. I felt like his son."

"The mine was larger than I expected and people crowded the place like a city street. Some with pales of ore, some picking through and some commanding the slaves every which way. It was controlled chaos. Like what I imagine a battle to be."

"Well if there's enough piss, shit, blood and screaming then it might be compared a battle. If not, you better not ever see a real battle," said the man, keeping his eyes closed. "Fuck, now you got me thinking of that."

"I'm sorry."

"Just keep going. Don't reference battle until you've seen one..."

"Okay," I said and sat down on the cobblestone floor. "We bought a cart full of ore from a merchant there, a Turkish man dressed in a turban and robes. I don't know how he managed such spirit in that heat. It was as if he was enjoying a party on an early summer's day."

"'Come back today and have a second for 30 coins,' he told us between the commands he yelled to his slaves. 'And 10 coins for a third!' My father refused."

"'Oh, come now. That's another ore for a week!' But still, my father shook his head, wouldn't even say a word. So I tugged on his coat. It seemed like a great deal and my father always complained about the price of ore. He didn't say a word to me and smacked our horse on the rear, walking off. I thanked the merchant and apologized before chasing off after him."

"'He's a snake,' my father muttered when we got a bit further. 'Tries to squeeze all the coin he can out of you and when you go back, he's gone.'"

"'But surely you'd find him, the place wasn't that large,' I told him, trying to find reason in his. He just sighed and we continued on our way."

The man in the other cell yawned and laid down. "Smart man," he said.

"What?"

"Smart man. You give a merchant more than a fair amount of silver and they'll disappear for an age."

I walked over to the bars, just under the torchlight. "And what about his slaves? He just leaves them?"

"Merchants don't own slaves, the landowners do. The owners of the mines give the merchants slaves and the merchant sells the ore the slaves deliver. Before the merchant can leave he gives a share to the landlord." He laughed again. "I don't think you understand how lucky you are you're in here. But go on, your innocence is amusing."

I let out a grunt which the man either didn't hear or care he heard.

"When we arrive at the forge, he has me unload the cart while he builds the fire. I saw how the slaves looked. They were feeble and lugged the ore onto the cart like bundles of hay." I could see the smile forming on the man's lips. "I struggled with each and every clump. Thank God my father was busy when I lugged the small ones. When it came time for the large ones he told me that even he had trouble with them sometimes, so we moved them together."

I paused for a moment, trying to find the words to continue. From as long as I could remember, I felt better telling stories than pretending nothing ever happened in my life. It helped me know what happened was real, even when I didn't want it to be.

"The forge is blazing as I work the bellows. My father makes quick work of a large chunk of ore, fashioning a hilt on one end before working on the blade. The familiar ring of the hammer sounds much more powerful in the presence of the blacksmith. The raw power of each blow passing through my skin."

"'You want to give it a strike?' he asks me while I stare at the glowing blade."

"'But the bellows,' I say. He shakes his head and gestures his hand to come to him."

"With my father holding the sword, he tells me where to strike. I miss. 'It's okay,' he says, 'feel the heat of the blade, the weight of the hammer and strike with purpose. Strike!'"

"I miss again. The disappointment is raw on my father's face. He begins to move and I know he's going to take the hammer from me."

"'One more time,' I tell him and he readies the blade. I did what he said. The heat of the metal burned into my skin; the hammer felt like I was wielding the Earth in my hand; I struck that steel to show the world that I would be a mighty blacksmith one day."

My gut lurched. I gripped the bars of the cell and beat my head against the steel. In the silence, my teardrops echoed.

"And?" the man said, his voice much more hushed than before.

"Sparks... and fire. Metal... and death... The ste—the steel erupted. The forge exploded." I forced the mucous back. "And my father's dead face gazed up at the open sky."

The man said nothing but looked at me with stricken eyes. It wasn't until I collected myself that he asked, "so why'd they lock you up then? Sounds like an accident to me."

"Before the city guards came, I wept at my father's side. You do crazy things in moments like that. I tried patching his wounds with straw. I held his head and told him, 'sorry,' more times than I can count. What the guards saw when they arrived was me looking at the sword. I, in disbelief and anguish that my hand did such heinous work. They, a murderer who struck down his father."

"'It exploded?' they laughed as they slung me in shackles. 'What'd you do, cast a spell?' They wouldn't listen. They threw me in the cell so I wouldn't get the other crazies in The Pit worked up."

Just then, footsteps sounded in the corridor. Two men with torches and guardsmen armour approached the cell next to mine. One threw a scroll into the cell and the other approached the door.

"Hendle Bannark, you are being sentenced for: failure to follow your commander's order in battle. Such offense is on par with treason. How do you find yourself?"

"Have you ever seen bat—"

"Guilty it is," continued the guard. The other unlocked the door.

"This is treason!" the man yelled. "Treason to your citizens! Punishing the men who won't die for your kingdom!"

The guardsman approached the man, bringing down his torch across the man's face. It knocked him unconscious and left a small wound that bled onto the floor. The man was dragged out by the guard while the other guardsman approached me.

"Leon Hullow," he said.

I couldn't even look at him. "I find myself broken if it matters at all to you."

"Well, you should pick up the pieces. You're free to go."

"You believe my story?"

"No, but the warden is intrigued. You will be meeting with him before you depart, granted he still finds a reason to believe your story. Common, hurry up. He is not a patient man."

I lay primroses on your grave.

Your favourite flower.

The ones that reminded you of home

And your mother

And the free-roaming hills

And valleys

Where they flowered in the spring.

Where you told me how lovely it was

To watch them bloom

And colour the world

Once blacken with decay.

How you picked them for love:

Your mother, your grandmother,

Your crushes and lovers.

Because the delicate beauty of each pedal

Paled to the beauty of the women in your life.

Swooned; I fell into your arms.

I lay primroses on your grave

And know,

You would rather watch them

Than a woman who pleaded for you to stop.

You would rather place your hands

With such inane care

Across the stems and walls

Of your gleeful memories

And beat your sadness and frustration

Across my bruised skin.

…

I never knew

Alcohol could let things grow.

I knew it as a poison

But it grew a monster in you.

Although an adult

Still, I was scared of monsters.

Now, I can thank the Lord

That He told you to travel home

On those country roads

After the monster took over

And thank Him

For the tree that took its breath away.

Thereafter, it could never tell me

It only struggled

Because I didn’t know how to love.

…

So,

I lay primroses on your grave

So I may return and see

What you cared for so dearly

Decayed into the earth.

Then I can know

When men come to love me

And gaze upon my scars

I can tell them,

“it’s nothing but dirt.”

I can tell myself,

That love is not a flower

Or a field

Or a memory,

It lasts longer than seasons

It grows without boundaries

And it was not me that didn’t know how to love,

It was you.

Giovanni's Dining hung inconspicuously in a small alley on 4th Avenue in New York City. To a random passerby, it would look like one of those alleys you see in the crime dramas; where the opening scene takes place and someone gets murdered. For the venturous and well-informed, it was an intimate little Italian restaurant with the best foods from every region of Italy.

Marco Eris was a regular. He sat in the far right corner of the restaurant, away from the entrance and opposite to the kitchen. A seat designed for lovers, newlyweds and those hoping to spark up their romance. It was housed in a cocoon of twinkling lights wrapped along faux grape vines with a mural of the Adriatic Sea painted along the walls. For Marco, he took it as his own. A place not of love, but escape.

"Some more, sir?" asked the waiter, holding out a bottle of Brunello. Marco nodded while staring idly at his phone.

There was always something to check. Always someone that would be expecting him to know something or solve this and that problem. Marco earned his life this way and even in his escape, he was bound to it. Like a symbiotic relationship, his work kept his wallet healthy so long as he gave it the attention it needed.

"Your appetizer will be out shortly, sir," the waiter said as he was passing by. Then he paused. "And I hope you won't mind, but tonight the chef wished to do something different. He is wondering if you would mind having all your courses out at once? He feels each dish may enhance the next."

"Yes, sure," muttered Marco as he responded to another inquiry on his phone.

After the waiter left, he put down his phone and scanned the restaurant. There was the usual crowd. The extraordinarily wealthy businessmen, in black suits and shiny bald heads with their trophy women, all at least 20 years younger. Whether they were their wives or mistresses, no one could ever be certain. But this was not a place for questions like that. This was a place to enjoy luxury. To feel like the world was at your fingertips.

Marco's phone vibrated. He picked it up and saw it was his wife, Fiona. She hoped he was having a good night and not to get too rowdy while she was away. As of now, she was in their villa in Mexico. Probably about to get fucked by the pool boy again as she did last night and the night before. Marco saw it on the hidden cameras, but he could not blame her. He was no better.

"And we have the bruschetta topped with grilled prosciutto, sliced parmesan, and tomatoes," said the waiter, placing the first dish in front of Marco. He walked back to the kitchen and brought out a small bowl of soup. "Fresh Italian Wedding with handmade orzo, housemade meatballs."

"Hmph," scuffed Marco. He did not enjoy having soup before a meal. To him, it was a waste of stomach real estate.

"Is everything alright, sir?" the waiter asked.

"Yes, just hurry up with the main dish."

The waiter briskly walked towards the kitchen, ignoring a request for water from a couple along the way. Out he came with a steamy plate, ignoring the couple once again and placed it on the table. It was chicken parmesan and looked like something from any rundown diner in the city.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

The waiter appeared distraught and stepped away to help another table.

"Hey!" yelled Marco. "You better tell that dickhead chef I'm not paying for this garbage. I don't care how it tastes, this is ridiculous!"

The waiter was finally flagged by the couple needing water and went to the kitchen to retrieve some.

"Really enhance the dish, huh?" Marco muttered to himself. "Yeah, this other stuff might help make up for that shit." And Marco began to eat.

He started with the soup. Despite his disposition, it was incredible. The broth was balanced as if on a tightrope that never teetered too far from the center. Then he crunched into the bruschetta. It sang melodies that brought his taste buds to tears. Finally, there was nothing left to try but the chicken parmesan.

The idea of eating it almost brought pain to Marco's chest. It was almost an insult to fine dining, to all his loyalty to this hidden eatery. He picked up his knife and fork and placed them aggressively on tomato-sauced chicken as if he were a serial killer about to disembowel his victim. As he cut, a blackened sludge from the inside poured out.

Marco sat back, aghast. "What the fuck?" he said loudly, but no one in the restaurant turned their head.

The meat appeared rotten. There was an algae-like fuzz among the black flakes of meat. Marco pushed the meat apart with his fork, separately the pieces of rotten flesh.

"Waiter!" he called. But the waiter kept running his rounds.

"This is ridiculous," said Marco and he tried to stand but his legs wouldn't let him. It was as if he glued in place. No matter how hard he fought, his legs would not lift.

As he pressed himself against the edges of his chair, he watched as the rest of his food began to turn. The bread of the bruschetta grew moldy, the broth of the soup went pale, and the aroma of death began to waft through the air. Even the restaurant began to change.

First went the trellises. The great network of white-painted scaffolds that supported the faux grapes vines through the restaurant began to break apart. Most fell without consequence, but some landed on tables and knocked over glasses. Still, the patrons carried on as if nothing happened. And that was when the place began to crumble.

The walls of the building collapsed, followed by the building on the other side of the alley. Then, the streets lay exposed but continued to run with the hustle and bustle of traffic. Beyond, one by one, the buildings New York fell to the ground. And with nothing left to protect Marco from the elements, the cold winds of the night blew through.

"What the fuck?" cried Marco as he shook in his chair.

His phone vibrated. He checked it. "999 missed messages, 999 missed calls." Marco flipped through and checked each message and call. They all turned up blank. Every message was empty and every missed call had no number. In a bout of desperation, he tried dialing his wife.

The phone rang and rang once more before connecting. It switched immediately to facetime and Marco watched the moaning face of his wife and the pool boy having his way with her. She looked at Marco for a moment and smiled before throwing the phone on the ground. It rested, looking up at the two-headed beast.

Marco threw his phone onto the ground in repulsion. It landed on the concrete, scraping against the light coat of sand that blew along the ground. Through his tears, Marco gazed around at what was once Giovanni's Dining to find a desolate landscape of sand and broken rock. The patrons were reduced to skeletons, yet they still seemed to be smiling.

Marco, broken and alone, cast his head into his hands. He wept like he never had before. He felt the sum of all his parts come to life. For all he planted in life rotted beneath him, for all he neglected to nurture lay withered at his feet. Wrapped in his despair he heard the patter of footsteps.

The waiter stood next to his table with a bottle of Brunello.

"Some more, sir?" he asked.

Marco seemed to awake from his nightmare. He looked around at the restaurant walls and the customers who were happily in conversation with each other. Pavarotti filled the air. On his table, were a set of unused utensils and an empty wine glass.

Did he drink too much? He didn’t know. What he did know was the reflection of his life was not a false cloak of illusion. It was as much a nightmare as it was his reality. Only change could change his fate. Change and the effort to change. He would have to do away with the restaurant, with his job, with his life and start all over again. Everything would have to be different and it scared him.

“Sir?”

Marco gazed up at the open bottle of wine, pausing for a moment. He gave a grave nod.

"Some more."