"I thought I would be done with all of this school stuff after college. You can't even use the argument that 'life is a school' since even that has ended!" The pale form in front of me was being quite verbal about being 'sent back', again.

I looked down at my own course schedule for the upcoming year. HUA 101, A Preliminary Guide to Haunting; SCA 203, Scare Tactics to Use on Adults; POL 142, Standards for Poltergeists; GHU 124, How to Mess with Ghost Hunters; and... MAT 101? College Algebra?! Did they really assume that I needed math now that I was dead? Okay, so I had failed all my living math classes, but how much math are the excpecting me to do as a ghost? It's not like I need to know how to find the hypotenuese of a triangle or calculate the difference in speed and height and distance and all that. I'm a ghost now, I can just appear where I choose.

I sighed dramatically and followed the other two ghosts in front of me onto the bus back to Earth. The Ghost School was located in an old castle somewhere in the middle of nowhere Scotland, and it was going to be a long trip. I settled in and resigned myself to another four years of school.

He smelled like friendship

Arms open

Charming grin

An honestly sincere person

His voice boomed

Welcoming us

For a moment

A short snapshot

His arms extended

Two people each side

I stood to his left

Right beside him

Comfortable

Like he’d been a friend my whole life

Everyone else who got a snapshot?

Undeserving

(Though that could just be me)

I stood next to Cyborg

I stood next to King Ezekiel

I stood next to Khary Payton

I wore bruises to my wedding.

No dress.

I wore my blood as chains around my wrists.

I wore a pregnant belly and dark circles beneath my eyes.

I wore my hopelessness like a scarlet letter.

I wore my white flag of surrender.

I wore ink on paper as a prison cell.

Or at least that’s how it felt.

All I know is that there was never any dress.

#EndTheSilence

When I was 10

I'd look at the couples

Kissing and holding hands

I wished on a star

When I was 12

I kissed a girl

It was new territory

Everyone around me said it was wrong

So I kept it my secret

When I was 14

I finally admitted in my head

I might like girls..

I might like boys..

In my school gay was not okay

I was ashamed

When I was 16

I was finally out

I was not confused

Everyone knew

I was Bisexual

Except my father

When I was 18

New Girlfriend

New Life

Dad know's

I'm happy.

#Secrets #Bisexual #LGBT #Pride

Why would the committee choose me? My resumé touted skills like ‘proficient in Microsoft Word and Quick Books.’ Nowhere did it say anything about diapers.

Rewrapped in a soft, gray blanket, the child looked up at me with uncanny focus, and I turned away, gaze darting out the bay window and into the evening sky. Stars dotted the horizon, peeking between silhouettes of mountains and outshining the more distant speckles meant to bedazzle the heavens.

These stars were fake.

“It won’t grow if you don’t feed it,” chided a warm, slightly grated voice. Time had bent the nurse’s back while laughter had drawn crow’s feet from her eyes and lips. Wisdom had dyed her braided hair the color of the moon.

Clucking at my bewildered expression, she placed a tepid bottle in my grasp and guided it to the baby’s mouth. The contents smelled like paint thinner, and despite the beige tint, I doubted it was milk.

The infant guzzled it, eyes never closing. I wouldn’t meet that gaze, not again.

“Ma’am, what’s in the bottle?”

“Food,” she chuckled, “and that’s all you need to know, Mr. Lane. Just don’t try to eat it yourself.”

I frowned. “Please don’t treat me like an idiot.”

“No, not an idiot. Of course not,” she cooed with a pat on my arm, “but you are very ignorant, and your superiors have designed things to keep it that way. Will you listen to an old woman’s advice?”

Always look people in the eyes, my papa said time and again. That’s where you’ll find the truth hiding.

So I did, and despite the sagging skin that made her eyes appear closed and the cataracts that clouded her pea green irises, a brightness and energy greeted me. Her eagerness jumped to my heart, her desire for me to succeed, her confidence that I could.

I nodded, and she smiled.

“Love conquers all.”

“I’m sorry?” I questioned. What did love have to do with this?

Her hands folded behind her back, immaculate, bleached scrubs glowing like a specter in the sunset’s rays. She was the only brilliant thing in this small, dull room. My black suit and tie seemed sinister in comparison.

“Do you know why the first nurse told you to hold the child?”

I shook my head. I would have preferred to leave it in the clear cradle.

“It’s the power of the human touch.” She repositioned my arms, pressing the infant tighter to my chest as she pushed me onto a rocking chair. “One gains strength from knowing they are loved. This child will need that strength.”

“I can’t love it,” I sputtered. “It’s not human. I can’t even tell if it’s a boy or girl.”

“It’s neither. That child has one purpose, and reproduction is not necessary. If we need more, the scientists will craft them. Your job is to ensure we don’t need more.”

“By loving a monster so it grows up nice and strong?” I grumbled and made the mistake of looking at it. Deep brown eyes met mine, vertical pupils flexing and contracting. I fell into them, a spiral slide with no end, breath abandoning me as the ride grew steeper, faster.

“Would it help if it had a name?”

Her words gave me something to grasp, a lifeline. All my strength poured into tugging on it. I felt like an ancient sailor hoisting the rigging, but it was only my eyelids that moved. As if tied to them, my jaw followed, opening, but I couldn’t quite control my voice yet, so I nodded.

“This one’s the hundredth of the batch, so I call it Cien.”

“Do you call the one right before it”—I searched my limited database of Spanish and found ‘ninety’ conspicuously missing—“uh, nueve-nueve?”

She laughed, a throaty, warm sound like freshly buttered toast. “You don’t need to know what I call the others, only this one. Cien is your only responsibility.”

***

The yellow notebook given to me when I left the building that night contained row after row of thick black lines, and I wondered how such a thing was supposed to help.

“Keep it healthy,” it said at the top of the first page. Everything else appeared censored.

It scared me nearly a year later with an incessant buzzing and the stench of bacon grease left idle. Fearing it might self-destruct like in an old spy movie or worse, bees, I flipped it open with a long pair of tongs.

Beneath the first admonition, where there had only been a black bar, were the words, “Prove it can learn.”

To whom am I supposed to prove it? I wondered. Are they watching me?

My superiors never responded to my emails.

There, dressed in flannel pajamas, fuzzy slippers, an apron, and armed with a hot pad and barbeque equipment, I pulled out my phone and sent them another one.

If they read it, they didn’t let me know.

I had never thought of myself as a teacher. In school, I preferred to work alone, and until the committee’s summons to the lab, I had been gleefully occupied in my corner cubicle, double checking formulas. Finding errors only validated the need for my position.

The child was a sponge, devouring all I could give. Phonics, arithmetic, vocabulary, history, biology, algebra, chemistry, literature, calculus, philosophy. Rarely did I have to explain a concept twice, and the more knowledge it gained, the easier it fit new pieces of the world together.

I stayed up all night researching so I could keep ahead or answer its questions.

I sent reports, amazed, enthralled, frustrated, but no one ever replied.

Years passed, and the notebook’s message remained the same. “Keep it healthy. Prove it can learn.”

So I fed it the packaged meals delivered to my doorstep each week. I taught it to play fetch, catch, then more complex sports. Through games, it learned to apply its studies to scenarios, to move smarter, not necessarily faster, than its opponents.

One didn’t have to take out every pawn, knight, and rook if one simply cornered the king.

The false stars still waited above. Could they see us? Did they fear this twisted creation molded from their DNA? Were they as monstrously beautiful?

The child looked mostly human aside from a few too-sharp angles. Its skin was albino with a wet, glossy appearance, stark against inky, shoulder-length hair.

Yet its true charm was in how it moved, like water, a stream. It wasn’t confined by gravity, instead using this ever-present force, repelling or attracting to augment its leaps.

When it fell, the spell that held me rapt broke, and I was reminded this was still a child, growing, adjusting, figuring out the definition of possible.

We sparred, me grateful for years of mixed martial arts training. I wondered if the committee had known of those night classes omitted in my resumé since they hadn’t seemed relevant for a cubical number cruncher.

I’d already corrected Cien’s stance twice this session, and again it stood too open, too forward, too close. The heel of my hand swooped in to punish the mistake, and those mesmerizing, russet eyes flicked to me, seeing the error too late and already wincing.

It’s just a child, I recalled, a seven-year-old not even a third my size.

I balked, hand slowing, and Cien dodged, spinning aside with a chuckle.

You know you can’t let it get away with that. Its skills won’t surpass yours if you always pull your punches.

We needed something stronger than me, stronger than us, to defeat the false stars if they ever attacked. That was this child’s purpose, something created from them to destroy them if the need ever arose.

What if that day came before Cien was ready because I didn’t push hard enough?

What if that day never came? What if we only created weapons we couldn’t control?

Sharp weight crashed into my spine, knocking me flat, followed by another giggle. “You’re not paying attention, Mr. Lane.”

***

“Why must I go to school?” Cien questioned as I parked in front of the brick cube that was the junior-high’s main campus.

“You have to learn to interact with others.” I pulled the yellow notebook from my briefcase in the backseat and placed it in the twelve-year-old’s lap, tapping the newest exposed line, the last on this page.

Cien stared down at it, gaze darting over the many mandates. “How do you know doing what the paper says is the right thing?”

Because you belong to those who wrote it, and you’re our best hope in the worst case.

But I had learned a teacher did not tell. A good teacher reasoned.

“Do you think what it has said thus far has been wrong?”

Cien shook its head, long hair fanning across its back. With it tied in a low ponytail and the school’s androgynous uniform draping Cien’s rail-thin frame, I saw equal amounts of feminine and masculine traits in this almost-teen. It was neither, but sometimes I wanted to see one or the other.

“If you skipped any of these steps, I would not exist,” it determined, eyes huge as they fixed on me. My heart fluttered like a flock of startled birds, but I had learned how not to fall into that gaze.

I concentrated on the sharp tips of the pupils, my own reflection impaled on them. “Is there something you think would work better than what the paper advises?”

With another shake of the head, Cien undid its seatbelt, passenger door clucking as it opened. “Can I keep the paper with me?”

Of course not, sat on the edge of my tongue, but as Cien hugged the yellow pad to its chest, I saw the faint tremor in its hands, and only, “Of course,” escaped.

***

Of course there was a fight.

I felt not a smidgen of pity for the boy wheeled away on a gurney. The other students’ testimony claimed he taunted Cien all day, striking it multiple times before Cien retaliated with a one-hit KO.

Unwise to upset an unsheathed weapon.

The worry surging through my gut was only magnified by the hissing crowd in the hallways as I made my way to the art room in the far back corner of the school. Cien had locked itself inside and knocked out anyone who came near.

This was the opposite of getting along with others. Had Cien lost all reason, all control? Would we have to fight?

Could I win?

The principal jiggled the locked handle, but his commentary sounded distant and distorted, like a deep whale song. When my fingers touched the door, it swung open. No light rained from the fixtures above. The sun barely dared to peek through closed blinds.

I wandered between leaning canvases, nose crinkling at the astringent smell.

“Cien?” I croaked, throat stinging. “I’m here for you.” I kept my stance wide and hips bent, ready.

Canvases fell like dominos, fortress walls crumbling. Behind them, rays streaming through a crooked shade shone upon pale skin, dark hair, and glittering bronze eyes. The navy jacket was torn at its shoulder and elbow, coral tie lopsided and frayed.

I knelt before this ethereal creature, crumpled papers crackling beneath my knees. The yellow notebook lay on its lap, held with reverence like a gospel by a saint.

“Cien, do you think it’s right to hurt so many people?”

Its gaze jumped to me, glossier than I had ever seen it. “They were annoying.”

“I didn’t ask why you did it, only if you thought it was right.”

My legs trembled in the silence, papers beneath whispering their fear. If this weapon decided we were not worth protecting, what would I have to do?

Its eyes caught the light and flashed. Vertical pupils convulsed, reminding me this wasn’t a simple child.

This was the hundredth imperfect copy of a captured alien soldier. And it was crying.

“They follow no logic,” it sobbed, and I sighed.

“When you cry like that, you look so very human.”

Cien’s long arms wrapped me in a hug. Warm tears seeped through my shirt. I was raising this thing that would one day be able to crush me, rip me apart, yet its embrace was so gentle, arms shaking, so scared.

A whisper wafted into my ears. “Would it be a bad thing if I wanted to be human?”

Yes, I thought. We need something stronger than a mere human.

***

The odor of old bacon grease permeated the square porch as I stepped out the door. It latched behind me with a subtle click, but Cien gave no response to the sound, no greeting for me. Beyond my child’s motionless silhouette, the tired sun sunk beneath a crown of ruby clouds and false stars filled the sky like spilled rhinestones.

Tomorrow’s sunrise would mark eighteen years with Cien at my side.

This beautiful, lithe creature faced the west, arid breeze tugging at light, loose fabric and unable to lift the thick braid cast over one shoulder. The yellow tablet rested in its large hands, and a hot spark of curiosity pushed me forward, nibbling at the rope of dread that held me in place.

What did the last line on the last page say?

Cien’s posture possessed a rigidity rare for this nimble being. My heart clenched. Bad news. Something Cien didn’t want to do, but what?

Eighteen. How many young men had gone off to war at the same age? How many of them never returned?

I wasn’t ready to let this child go. Maybe if the false stars had done anything other than hover, if they destroyed cities, stole precious resources, or kidnapped citizens, I might have seen the need, the urgency. Was I selfish? Yes. I would have admitted that if it meant I could have kept Cien a little longer.

Brown eyes turned to me, squinting as they scoured my expression. I stood straighter and smoothed out my face, trying to appear stronger than I was.

“Do you think it’s right?” My voice cracked.

Cien shook its head. “I don’t want it to be.”

I swallowed. “Do your wants outweigh the needs of the world?”

Its chin tilted. “It says, ‘Destroy Lane and return to headquarters.’”

I tried to swallow again, but my mouth was dry.

“It can be interpreted in many ways,” Cien said quickly, notebook dropped beneath rushed steps. I stumbled back, avoiding those eager hands, heart strangled in my throat.

My, “How?” escaped as a squeal. I had raised this warrior to be stronger than me in every way. I wouldn’t have stood a chance now, even if I had wanted to fight.

“We could destroy your identity, go on the run.”

Vision blurring, I realized this was a final test. I was not strong enough to let Cien go, but was it strong enough to let me go? Would the selfishness planted in this child’s heart by my example flourish? Or was Cien stronger than even that?

“Sometimes the obvious answer is the right one,” I whispered through a sob.

Firm arms encircled me, and I felt their tremors, the quickening of Cien’s heart beneath its ribs.

“It’s okay,” it assured me. “I’ll take care of everything.”

A sharp rap met the back of my neck, and the world faded.

I picked a blue and a green crayon.

The feeling is strong.

I cannot fight it.

I must.

I eat them.

I am a marine.

(Thank you all for your service)

Hearts break, tears fall, people leave

Hearts heal, tears still fall, people stay

You’re hurt now, but you’ll get stronger

Cliches ring true:

•what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger

•this too shall pass

Minutes pass and the pain stings a little less

Sing a song. Don’t care if anyone hears you-

Dance to the beat. If they’re looking it’s because they wanna dance too.

Kiss the boy. Make his night. Feel his skin.

Laugh loud. Show your smile.

Wear the short dress, your legs won’t always look like they do right now.

Let your hair down. Be thankful you have it.

Live your truth and show the world who you are, let your soul shine and don’t give any fucks.

Protect your heart, but don’t hoard it.

Girl, be brave.

No matter how you spin it, a thousand-pound apex predator is going to be dangerous, especially one whose mouth is filled with a steady supply of disposable teeth. So yes, technically, you might one day die from a shark attack while swimming in the ocean. On average, though, sharks only kill five people worldwide in a year. Given that the global population is currently nudging up on eight billion, the chance that you're one of those five is miniscule at best. The grand majority of shark attacks aren't because a vicious killing machine wants to grab a tasty human as a snack - in fact, most people attacked by sharks are spat back out after that first bite. The shark mistakes the person for a seal - particularly those on surfboards with their feet hanging off the end, or offering a similar silhouette from below - and, realizing its mistake, leaves in search of tastier prey. Sharks are a lot like babies in that they explore the world by putting it in their mouth, the difference being that from one a curious nibble can be fatal while from the other it leaves you somewhat sticky.

And while we're on the subject, I will repeat the refrain: sharks are dangerous. But you know what animal is responsible for far more human deaths per year? Deer. Yes, those adorable Bambis are responsible for hundreds of fatal car crashes in the U.S. alone every year. Other dangerous animals include dogs, snakes, scorpions, spiders, horses, and cows. Then there's drunk drivers, distracted drivers, airplane crashes, train derailments, lightning strikes, cancer, heart failure, falling down stairs. Oh, and all the ways to die that you really should have known better but are still statistically more likely than shark attack. These include: shaking vending machines, champagne corks, ladders, hot tap water, and hippos. So yes, sharks are dangerous. They have evolved to be dangerous. But if you take a minute to think about it rationally, you would be better off swimming in the ocean every day and never driving your car (statistically speaking). Or consider this: you are far more likely to die by falling out of bed than by shark attack. So if you make it to breakfast, there's no reason for you to worry about the sharks. Let them continue taking care of the ecosystem. Like cockroaches, sharks have been around since long before our ancestors and, if we continue to let these elegant creatures maintain ocean health, they very well might be around long after we are gone.

Okay, so I really like these.

I. I Came.

I Saw.

I made it Awkward.

II. Just because you went to college and got a degree doesn't mean you have common sense. You don't need a degree for that.

III. Light travels faster than sound. That's why some poeple appear smart untill they speak.

IV. I'm sorry, but even a trained contortionist would have a hard time bending to see from that view!