The night sky over Silicon Valley buzzed with drones, a constant, artificial starlight cast down from Damian Sinclair’s floating fleet. Like his mind, they were ever watchful, scanning, analyzing, bending the shadows to reveal every hidden movement. Below, in his quiet glass tower, Damian watched the city pulse to his rhythm—a symphony of algorithms and innovations, all in his image. His reflection in the window seemed ageless, unchanging, a mere echo of his own genetic perfection. Somewhere, in cryogenic storage far beneath his feet, lay millions of embryos, each one a small monument to his genius. For Damian, this was no mere experiment. It was his greatest work—his legacy—crafted cell by cell to outlive them all.

A red button flashed on Damian’s desk. Damian strolled over and leaned into the microphone. “Yes, Tara?”

“Mr. Sinclair,” a cool voice breathed, “They’re ready for you.”

He cracked his neck and marched over to his office’s elevator. A grin slowly crept onto his face on the way down to the Keynote Arena. The doors opened to the sound of thunderous applause coming from behind the thick, silver curtain. Damian grabbed a microphone from a meek assistant, stepped through the curtain, and took in the sight of thousands of his admirers, from industry figures to reporters to the lucky few fans that had coughed up the ten grand it took to secure a seat there.

“My friends, today we are gathered to witness history in the making.” He could see a wave of spectators leaning in on the edge of their seats.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you today not as a mere innovator or CEO, but as a steward of our collective future. We live in an age of incredible achievement and unparalleled fragility. Our world is more connected, more technologically advanced than ever before—and yet, we’re more vulnerable to global threats: climate catastrophes, pandemics, political instability, rampant infertility. One unfortunate crisis, one moment of oversight, and the diverse tapestry of human achievement could unravel.” He paused, letting the silence stretch as he scanned their faces, leaning in, hungry to know his next words. “And only we—yes, we here—can prevent that.”

Behind him, a giant screen showed a cell failing to undergo meiosis, shriveling in a petri dish. It was replaced by a plump infant smiling down at the audience with icy blue eyes.

“That’s why I created Project Genesis, a comprehensive repository of the human gene pool, a vault designed to secure the full spectrum of humanity’s diversity. In this vault, we will store the DNA of individuals from every background, every corner of the globe. It’s a legacy library, preserving the finest details of who we are for generations to come.

“Imagine a future—a hundred, even a thousand years from now—when unforeseen events have altered the face of the Earth, and there’s a need to restore humanity’s genetic essence. Future generations will look to Project Genesis as the beacon of their heritage, able to rebuild a diverse, vibrant human population with all of our strengths and talents intact.

“This isn’t about me. It isn’t about you. It’s about the survival of humanity’s best qualities. Every artist, every scientist, every teacher, every visionary—we are collecting the DNA of pioneers and everyday heroes alike so that humanity will always have a path forward, no matter what happens.” Images of Aristotle, Leonardo da Vinci, and Albert Einstein flashed on the screen. The images faded away to reveal a video feed that panned across the audience.

“Project Genesis isn’t a replacement for human life; it’s a safety net. A precaution. And as your steward, I believe it’s my duty to take this step now. Because if we don’t preserve ourselves, who will?” The crowd roared with excitement.

“You may recall providing a DNA sample with your entry here today. My gift to you all is that each one of you will be part of the first generation of this monumental archive. You will be the mothers and fathers of the future, regardless of the limitations biology may have placed on you.”

A collective gasp escaped from the audience and made way for another round of applause. Damian’s grin grew wider. The crowd didn’t know the first phase was already complete.

Damian walked back behind the curtain and took the elevator back to his office. He pressed a button on his desk and a large monitor lowered down from the ceiling. The news was already buzzing about his announcement. Headlines scrolled across the screen. “Eccentric CEO pledges to save the world.” “Sinclair Enterprises, the nexus between humanity and progress.” “Damian Sinclair champions biodiversity.”

Damian leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together. “Savior of the world” sure had a nice ring to it. It was true, too. At least, it would feel true to the citizens of the world. They would get to feel important and useful, which is as close to a sense of purpose as any mere human could hope for in the modern age.

Damian believed in the power of predictability and perfection. He felt that entropy was an unavoidable eventuality in a chaotic world, but it was his own purpose to harness that random disorder and turn it into a force for good—his own definition of the common good, that is. Human beings were messy, flawed, dangers to themselves and others. Replacing humanity with clones was a necessary evil—and “evil” itself? Such a subjective word.

- - - - - - - - - -

That night, Damian could hardly sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about the millions of new beginnings resting safely in cryogenic freezers in the sub-basement. The first trials had been massively successful. All key performance metrics had been easily met, and not a whisper of it had escaped the top-secret lab. He felt the urge to check on his little ones.

Damian had a dozen children scattered across the world, each born via a carefully chosen surrogate. Each surrogate had been handsomely paid to bring progeny into the world, though a couple had turned down the money, as they felt it was a sufficient honor to give Mr. Sinclair the gift of life. He didn’t have relationships with these children. When they came of age, they would receive access to a hefty trust set up in their names. Until then, they were of little use to him. He would bring them out for photo ops to maintain his carefully constructed image of Damian Sinclair, benefactor and father to the modern world.

But these embryos—these were all his. When the time was right to release the rest into the world, he would release his tight grasp on their cryogenic chambers and unleash them throughout the planet—and beyond. Space was the final frontier, and he had already begun populating it with various satellites and probes in anticipation of a global catastrophic event. It was only a matter of time until humans finished wrecking the great planet they had been undeservedly gifted.

Damian pulled back the black silk sheets and stepped into his gilded slippers. He stopped at the wall of windows and took in the sight of his empire. Below, skyscrapers reached up toward his tower up above, obscuring the colonies of humans marching on the drab pavement underneath. Their lives were so… inconsequential. So meaningless until the moment Damian had deigned to give them something to hope for.

He pulled a white lab coat over himself. He hadn’t checked on the babies since the big announcement. Damian padded over to the elevator and clicked the button that led him down to the sub-basement. He felt the air grow colder and his breath crystallize into the air as he descended.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. He stepped into the gleaming white corridor and the doors closed behind him. He made his way down the long hall and past the row of heavy metal doors. He stopped with his right foot still hovering over a miniscule speck of dust on the white marble floor. He cursed the cleaning crew under his breath and vowed to relieve someone of their duties the next morning. Damian stepped over the impurity and toward the gold door at the end of the hall, the imperfection still fixed firmly in his mind.

He scanned his lanyard at the door and it slid open to reveal a massive laboratory. Rows of giant freezers stretched through the lab and lined every wall. He turned to a screen next to the door reading -272.5º C and frowned. This would not do. The embryos had to sit at exactly Absolute Zero to be preserved until their deployment. He angrily tapped at the screen to set it to -273.15º C.

Damian strolled through the rows of freezers and held a hand up to the frosty glass. Here laid the next step for humanity. The culmination of his decades of hard work. As he strolled past each cryogenic chamber, his gaze softened to a faint smile. Here lay the next step for humanity, his meticulously designed children, preserved at the very edge of absolute zero. And it was all his. His legacy.

During the day, few people had the privilege of access to this secret unit—only the top scientists and trusted engineers he had hand-picked. During the night, the place was empty. This was his sanctuary, where he could shout his dreams and lofty ambitions out to no one but his army of embryos.

Reaching out, he pressed a palm to the frosty glass, whispering to the embryos, “One day, little ones. One day, you’ll have the world. And when you do… it will be my world.”

---------------------

Note—This is a full novel I've written that I'm working on getting a literary agent for. Please message me if you're interested.

1999: the year my country fell. You can still find it standing, just barely, hobbling along on one leg as serpents nip at its heels. But that's the year everything changed.

Venezuela was a proud country, a rich country, even. My people had grown fat off the rich oil reserves nestled deep underground, had thrived as the epicenter of Latin American media. As with most periods of boundless prosperity, there's always something lurking in the shadows, ready to snuff out its light. There's always someone waiting in the wings for their chance to leech off the power and wealth my country once laid claim to.

No one ever really predicts that their home country will fall. Not just a simple tumble, either, but a chaotic descent into a black pit with vipers squirming around in the darkness below. My people are dying of hunger while up to their necks in the thick tar that once fed them, slowly drowning as it fills their mouths. How can a nation fall into such extreme poverty while sitting on such rich reserves of liquid gold? The answer: greed. Egomaniacs just have to come and ruin everything.

First they brought their promises: promises of growth, of wealth, that all those hungry mouths piled high in the slums of Petare would pull themselves out of poverty if they just elected one man. The populist. The common man. The thief. They donned their red shirts and tagged buildings with political slogans. They campaigned for a man who pledged to take all their worries away if we just handed him a little bit of power. Just a little, to start. That's all he needed, right?

He got his picture taken with the poor farmers in their shantytowns, shook their hands, told them to their faces that things would all be different. I guess he was right about that. Things were never the same once he entered office.

Everything comes at a price. Venezuela was sold to the highest bidder and ransacked until all that remained was hyperinflation and nationalized industries. The landscape slowly changed as the buildings came down. Companies started leaving the country, fleeing behind the first wave of migration.

1999. The year the first wave of Venezuelans first left in search of new homes. Among them, a young couple with a toddler in tow. She was too young then to understand why she had to leave the rest of her family behind, to understand why she had to go to a new school where everyone spoke a strange language she had only started to pick up from international television shows. The kids made fun of her for the rice and beans in her lunchbox. She never did like peanut butter.

As the years passed, the infrastructure back home slowly crumbled. The earth reclaimed power lines, growing thick tangles of vines around the aging equipment. Turquoise waves once lapped at clean, white-powder shores. Now waves of blackouts ran through the country several times per week, sometimes even per day.

The years brought more waves of migration out of the country. Some were more welcoming than others. Some could not possibly understand what it was like to have to start over in a strange land with a strange language, trying every day to forget that they might not ever see home again. As long as I was the "right" skin color, they could pick and choose when to conveniently forget that I was different. But god, they didn't let me forget it when it supported their narrative. Some would look at me like a specimen on a glass slide, marveling at my lack of a pesky accent.

Most of my family is scattered across the globe now. I guess I should be grateful at that fact. At least they're not stuck back home under the thumb of an oppressive regime. But I can't help but think of spending holidays at my grandpa's ranch, collecting eggs from the chicken coop in the morning and climbing up to pick avocados from the tree. We'll never be in one place again. We're doomed to live out the rest of our lives thousands of miles apart.

When things get just a smidge safer, we're able to lower our defenses and visit home once more. It's bittersweet, knowing we can never stay and knowing we'll always leave someone behind. But these times are few and far between as crime continues to take hold of my country. Narco-terrorists rule the land, kidnapping people when it conveniences them. You can't wear brand-name clothes or visible jewelry or it'll be ripped off your neck in the street. You can't pull out your phone at a traffic light, or a motorcycle will drive up and take it from your hands at gunpoint.

What hurts to see is that so many Venezuelans still walk around with their red hats adorned with eight stars of the new flag. When Chavez came in, he changed the Constitution like it was a page in his scrapbook. He added an eighth star to the flag without explanation. My family believes it was meant to represent him. A terrible stain on the nation for the end of time. He's long gone now, but his circle remains in power. The corrupt line continues to pass down governance and an ever-increasing wealth built off the broken backs of my people.

I should be thankful that my parents had the good sense to see Chavez for who—or what—he really was twenty-five years ago. And I am, up to a point. But it's clouded by my resentment for the Venezuela that could have been. The Venezuela that should be today. My country was pillaged and stripped down to its bones, leaving death and destruction in its wake.

It's easy for us now in the first world to put this worst case scenario out of our minds. We're separated by oceans and years from the worst of it. It could never happen here, right? We grow complacent. We plug our ears and cover our eyes to avoid seeing those raiding the national coffers for their own benefit. We think it's just something that happens to other people. I hope to god they're right. Because I can't do this all over again.

Tom’s breath froze in the air as he hurried through the woods. He could feel it following him—heavy footsteps, ragged breathing. His heart pounded.

Finally, he reached the cabin and slammed the door shut. Safe.

A knock echoed from the door. "Let me in, Tom," a familiar voice called.

His blood froze. It was Lisa, his wife… but he had buried her last week.

Panicking, he opened the door, but no one was there. He turned around—and found Lisa smiling at him.

"Thanks for letting me in," she whispered.

He looked down. His own body lay lifeless on the floor.

The parking lot was empty. Detective Claire Ross stood by her car, the cold ocean wind tugging at her coat as she looked across the quiet marina. The fading light of dusk cast long shadows over the town, and the familiar hum of waves breaking against the shore was the only sound cutting through the silence. This place—so peaceful, so ordinary—was a far cry from the chaos she’d left behind in the city. But something felt wrong. The stillness of the town held an uneasy weight, and Claire couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t just the ocean that hid secrets beneath the surface. Ethan Morrow had disappeared here, and if the rumors were true, he wouldn’t be the last.

A week ago, two officers were sent for a wellness check at Ethan’s studio apartment. When no one responded, they forced their way in to find that the place had been ransacked. Drawers were wide open, ripped sketchbook pages were scattered across the floor, and half-finished canvases sat in a cluttered pile. The officers carefully searched the studio with their flashlights. Tucked into a corner of the bathroom mirror, they found a note reading only: “They come in threes.”

Today, Claire had visited the art gallery where Ethan’s latest paintings had been displayed. She had loved sketching before she was promoted to Detective. She would sit curled up on the chaise in her old room and bring to life figures on the page. Now, all she could seem to draw were figures in distress. Bodies in crime scene pictures. Children crying in interrogation rooms. All the images she still saw when she shut her eyes tight.

Claire walked through the door and breathed in the familiar smell of turpentine. A tall young woman with a mess of curls piled on top of her head walked toward her.

“How can I help you?” She asked cheerily.

Claire pulled out her badge. “I’m Detective Claire Ross. I’m here to investigate the disappearance of Ethan Morrow. I understand he has a few paintings here.”

“Oh, Ethan. Yes, he’s quite prolific. Almost everything you see here today is actually his.”

“Do you know him well?”

“He comes in here pretty regularly with something new for me to hang up. This last batch of paintings is all from the last couple months. Let me show you his work.”

She walked Claire over to a large, dark canvas in the middle of the room. Claire had an awful feeling in the pit of her stomach when she looked at it. They say good art makes you feel something. Claire felt cold, felt dread. She took out her phone to snap a few photos.

Claire looked around and noticed the common theme: each painting looked almost normal if you didn’t look too closely, but when you did, you could see three hooded figures hidden in each one. Sometimes they were hiding behind a tree, or in a reflection in the mirror. The one in the middle was the only one that featured them prominently, three cloaks coming out of a dark void.

Claire could hear her heart pounding in her head. She mumbled thanks to the young woman and hurried out the door. She could barely catch her breath once she was out of there and back in the parking lot. Something about those paintings felt suffocating. Claire stood by her car for a while, watching the gray waves lap at the rocks.

• • • • •

The next day, the Detective met the woman who reported Ethan’s disappearance, his ex-girlfriend, Maria. Maria clutched a tissue that she used to dab away the tears in her eyes. Claire placed a reassuring hand on Maria’s shoulder and let her quietly sob for a minute.

“This isn’t like him. He hasn’t been himself,” Maria cried. “He was acting frantic in the days leading up to his disappearance. Muttering about something coming for him. Not just something, they. They’re coming for him. When I tried asking him about it, he pretended he had no idea what I was talking about.”

“Ma’am, was there anyone Ethan wasn’t getting along with?”

“Everyone loved—loves Ethan.” She blew her nose. “Especially me.”

Claire’s phone vibrated and she stepped away to take the call.

“Detective? Ethan Morrow’s phone records just came in. There have been a lot of calls in the past couple weeks to this one number, registered to Professor Thomas Morton. He’s over at the university, he teaches history. Can you go check him out?”

“Can do, I’ll be there in twenty.”

When Claire walked into the university’s staff wing, the faint smell of old books hit her. Old books with a hint of turpentine. She figured either she still had the scent of the art gallery etched in her nostrils, or the art professor had their studio nearby.

“Hey!” A voice called out down the hallway. “What are you doing here, young lady?”

Claire couldn’t stop a chuckle from slipping out. No one had called her “young lady” since she roamed these halls fifteen years ago. She held out her badge as she walked over. The man was elderly, with a thick tweed jacket and a wiry gray mustache.

“Oh, ma’am, please excuse me. The students love to run around here between classes and muddy up the floors.”

“I’m Detective Claire Ross. I’m looking for Professor Morton?”

The man smiled and reached out a hand. “In the flesh.”

Claire met his hand and he shook hers vigorously. He had a peculiar look in his eye.

“Come, Detective, let’s sit in my office.”

He led her to a small, dark room filled with stacks of old books. The turpentine smell was slightly stronger here. She carefully sat down on the wooden chair in front of his desk as he snaked his way through the stacks of books and into his own chair.

“So, what brings you here?”

The Detective crossed her legs and straightened her skirt. “I’m here to talk to you about Ethan Morrow.”

“Ethan, huh? Smart boy. I was helping him with a little history project. Yes, what sort of trouble did he get himself into?”

“He disappeared. I’m talking to anyone who knows him and might be able to give me some clues to help find him.”

“Oh, he’s a young man, you know how they are. He’s probably off camping or with a new girlfriend.”

“Actually, I spoke to his girlfriend. She seemed pretty concerned. Did he seem… off to you lately?”

“Ethan’s an odd duck. I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. He’s probably at home, working on a new painting.”

“Unfortunately, it looked like someone tore his place apart.”

The Professor hesitated and smiled. “These things happen around these parts.”

“What do you mean? Disappearances?”

The Professor got up and gently shut his door. He lowered his voice. “What do you know about them?”

“Know… about what? Honestly, I’m new to this precinct. I just got transferred last month. It was rather… abrupt.”

The Professor leaned back in his chair and shut the blinds behind him. “New in town. So you haven’t been here for one yet.”

“I—I mean, I’ve investigated disappearances before. Usually found them, too. A lot of young people run away. But this seems different.”

The Professor shook his head. “This is different. Seven years ago, a young woman disappeared. She was working on a mural for a local restaurant and then, poof. She was gone. Like she was never even there. Seven years before that, the painter who owned one of the galleries in town vanished.”

“Are you saying there’s a pattern?”

Professor Morton whispered hoarsely. “Yes. Ethan and I were looking into it. But I must warn you. Things are not always as they seem here.”

He stood up and gestured toward the door. “You must leave now, and make sure you aren't followed. That’s all I can say.”

Claire walked toward the door and paused when she reached it. She looked back at Professor Morton and saw how wide his eyes had gotten. His hands were trembling. She knew better than to say another word. Clearly he was sticking his neck out by talking to her, and she didn’t want to wait around to watch it be slit.

The Detective wanted to learn more about the disappearances Professor Morton had mentioned, but she dared not reach back out to him. She didn’t know why, but she felt that it would put him in danger. She decided to head to the town library next to investigate herself, the old-school way.

She exchanged pleasantries with the librarian, who then led her to the archive section. Claire looked through old newspaper clippings until she found them on a shelf almost hidden out of sight: a missing woman seven years ago, another seven years before that, with the line of mysterious disappearances continuing as far as the archives went back. Always an artist. Always a painting of hooded figures or strange symbols completed just prior to their death. Never any closure for the families. These clippings had been filed away in the corner of the room and at the bottom of the file box, almost as if someone didn’t want them to be found.

• • • • •

The Detective headed back to the station. When she got to her desk, she sunk into her chair and rubbed her temples.

Claire felt a shiver up her spine. This was bigger than just one disappearance. This was a pattern. This was almost… ritualistic. What secrets did this town hold? What had Claire gotten herself into when she took this job? Her thoughts were interrupted by a rookie plopping a worn journal on her desk.

“Hey, uh, sorry to bother you, Detective Ross. We found this in Ethan’s studio. It got mixed up in the evidence locker, but I just found it today. I don’t know if you got a chance to look at this yet.”

He scurried away as Claire opened the journal. There were words scribbled manically with mysterious symbols drawn in a heavy hand throughout the pages. She had seen these symbols somewhere before, but she couldn’t place where. She called over the rookie.

“Hey, Murphy! Come over here for a sec. You grew up in this town, right?”

He answered sheepishly, “Yes ma’am, all my life.”

“Have you seen these symbols before?” She handed the journal to Officer Murphy and waited for him to flip through.

“Detective, ma’am, these symbols are carved into the stone and brick around this town. This is above the door to the town hall, and you can find these ones in the stained glass at the church.”

He thumbed through the pages until he reached the last entry in the journal. His brow furrowed. “Uh, Detective? You’re going to want to see this.”

He handed her the open journal. She read Ethan’s last entry:

I know now. How couldn’t I see this before? I know who it is now. I just have to make everyone else know, too. But I have to be careful. They’re coming closer now. I can almost feel their breath on my neck everywhere I go.

She shut the journal and dismissed Officer Murphy. Who was Ethan talking about? Is it the same person the Professor was afraid of? Claire swallowed the fear in her throat. She had no choice but to continue digging. Her mind was screaming at her to turn back now before it was too late. But the Detective in her couldn’t rest without answers.

• • • • •

The next morning, Claire was up before the sun. She could hardly sleep with all the questions swimming in her mind. She was at the town hall just as they were unlocking the doors. She looked up and saw the symbol the rookie had pointed out carved just above the door, like he had said. A man sat in dirty, tattered clothing on a sheet of cardboard right outside with his face obscured by a dark hoodie. Claire squinted and noticed the same symbol drawn on the cardboard, so small she nearly missed it. She hurried inside.

Claire knocked on the mayor’s office door. A voice called out for her to come in. She slipped in and shut the door behind her. There was something familiar about the painting framed above the mayor’s head. Claire gestured to it.

“Is that… an Ethan Morrow?”

The man nodded. “Hello, Detective Ross. Yes, I’m a big fan of his work.”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

“He’s also a personal friend. Why, Detective, if I didn’t know better, I would think I’m being interrogated. I take it this has something to do with his disappearance?”

“For now, this is just a conversation. But I’m getting pretty tired of going in circles, and something tells me you know more than you’re letting on.”

“What do you know?” The mayor asked nervously.

“I know about the string of disappearances every seven years. I know it’s always artists. I know about the symbols all around town. And I think you have something to do with it.”

The mayor blinked rapidly. “Oh. Well, I guess you know most of it. But you’re wrong on that last part.”

The door creaked open and the man who was sitting outside was standing in the doorway. He smelled of intense body odor mixed with turpentine. There was something familiar about this man. Claire walked toward him to get a closer look, despite the stench now wafting into the room. She was stopped in her tracks.

“It—it can’t be,” Claire said breathlessly.

Ethan Morrow stood before her, a dirtied husk of the once vibrant painter he had been. Claire spun around to look at both men.

“You’re back! But—how? What happened to you?”

The mayor whispered fiercely, “Ethan, what are you doing out of hiding?”

“I just can’t stand back anymore. And you can’t keep me hidden.”

Claire put a hand on his shoulder. “Ethan, it’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. You’re safe. And we can get you to a very nice hospital.”

He swatted her hand away. “You still don’t get it. I came to warn you. You’re the one who’s in danger.”

She stepped back. The mayor cleared his throat and pressed a button on his office phone.

“Come collect the garbage,” he said coolly.

In seconds, two large men were at the door and hauling Ethan away as he kicked and yelled.

“You won’t get away with this—you can’t! You can’t do this!”

The door slammed shut.

“So, Detective. Take a seat.”

Claire sat down hesitantly. “What’s going on?”

“Curtains, dear. The play has ended. You played your part beautifully. You investigated this case just as we thought you would, went down the very path we laid for you. Since you have about an hour before the ritual begins, do you have any parting questions?”

“What ritual?”

“Those symbols you found are part of how we summon our ancestors. The other part is you, Claire. The thick red essence of life that flows through your veins. Coursing through you as your heart beats out of your chest now.” He inhaled deeply. “It smells so sweet.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Claire screamed as cuffs bound her wrists to the arms of the chair.

“We’re going to… repurpose you. You hadn’t created anything in a while, but the Old Ones were such fans of your prior work. Such energy, such life in your paintings. Your blood will complete the ritual. And with that, we will maintain our pact to continue sustaining our generations of wealth. I, who manage this town during the day, and the others, who rule from the shadows.” He traced a finger across the tear streaming down her cheek. “You were chosen. Your arrival was foretold.”

Claire struggled against the cuffs, her breath quickening as she fought to stay calm. The mayor smiled, watching her panic, his eyes dark and cold. “There’s no use fighting, Detective,” he said softly. “The Old Ones demand a sacrifice. And you—” he leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear, “you’re the final stroke of the masterpiece we’ve been creating for centuries.”

Claire’s mind raced, desperately searching for a way out, for any chance at survival. Her pulse thundered in her ears as her eyes darted around the room, landing on the mayor’s phone. If she could reach it, maybe she could call for help. But with her hands bound and the mayor standing so close, she knew it was a long shot.

“Why artists?” she spat, trying to buy herself time. “Why sacrifice us?”

“Because you create. Your talent, your life, your very essence fuels the town’s fortune. The energy of creation, the spark of inspiration—it’s the most powerful force. And once we drain you of that… we’ll thrive for another seven years.”

The door creaked open again, and a hooded figure stepped in, holding a ceremonial knife. The blade shone in the dim light. Claire’s heart skipped a beat. This was it. She was trapped.

But then, just as the hooded figure approached her, the ground beneath them rumbled. The windows rattled, and the room seemed to shift, as if the very air had thickened. The mayor’s smile faltered.

Suddenly, the door burst open. Ethan Morrow, ragged and frantic, shoved the two large men aside and stormed into the room. “Stop!” he shouted, his voice hoarse. “You’ve misunderstood. The Old Ones—they don’t want her. They want you!”

The mayor whirled around, his face twisted with disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

Ethan lunged forward, grabbing the knife from the hooded figure’s hand and pointing it at the mayor. “You’ve misread the symbols. The town’s fortune hasn’t been sustained by the artists’ deaths—it’s been feeding on the corruption of its leaders.” He locked eyes with Claire. “The ritual’s never been about artists. It’s about those who exploit them.”

For a split second, time seemed to freeze. The mayor’s face twisted with rage as the ground beneath them shook again, harder this time. The walls groaned as cracks began to spread. The ancient forces the town had invoked were awakening—angry, hungry.

And they had come for him.

A lot of young folks wander around aimlessly searching for a purpose, for a dream to work toward. They’ll spend years unsure of where to work and who to be. Not Steven. He knew exactly who he wanted to be.

He wanted to be Don Draper, marching through an agency in a polished suit. One hand holding a glass of bourbon, one hand gripping a lit cigar. A pleasant secretary who laughs too much at his jokes, a jolly client clapping him on the back, and an award on his desk. He had it all figured out.

Today, he walked toward the glass tower he had only seen from afar during his visits to Manhattan. He was going to make his dreams happen in the next hour. He pushed through the revolving door and felt a wall of cold air hit him. The air cooled the beads of sweat that had gathered on his brow.

He walked up to the marble semicircle that enveloped the receptionists. A young woman in stiletto heels stepped away from the desk as Steven approached. The stone-faced receptionist didn’t look up.

“You must be here for an interview, too,” she sighed. “ID?”

Steven frowned and looked over at the young woman who was now waiting for her elevator. He thought he was the only candidate at this stage. She looked young and she was chewing on her fingernails. Clearly she wasn’t going to pose a threat, at least. He showed the receptionist his driver’s license.

“Go up to the 17th floor. When you get there, ask for Mr. Roberts.”

Steven walked over to the elevator just as the doors were closing. Suddenly, a stiletto popped out between the doors to stop them from closing.

“Sorry about that, didn’t see you coming!” She smiled at him.

He stepped in and spun on his heel to face the doors, pretending not to notice her.

“What floor?” She asked softly behind him.

He glanced at the elevator buttons with number 17 lit up. “Uh, same.”

He felt annoyed at her intrusion into his world. Who did she think she was? Just another girl in a skirt. No, he thought to himself. She’s not here to interview for this Director role. What was I thinking? She’s here for an open secretary position. Hell, she’ll probably end up being my secretary after today — if she’s qualified, of course.

The elevator climbed up and the doors opened at the 17th floor. Steven marched ahead of the young woman and looked down at the elderly receptionist.

“I’m here for Mr. Roberts.”

The receptionist’s eyes shifted over to the woman behind him. “And you?”

“Oh, I’m here to see Mr. Roberts, too.” She smiled warmly.

This VP sounds like a busy man if he’s even handling the interviews for the secretary, thought Steven.

The receptionist peered down through her glasses onto a sheet of paper in front of her. “Ah yes. Monica and Steven. Well, Steven, you’re almost an hour early. Monica, Mr. Roberts is waiting for you in his office just down this hallway.”

She motioned toward a stiff gray couch on the right side of the lobby and started furiously typing away at her laptop. Steven plopped down on the couch as if it were the beanbag in his room and sighed loudly. The receptionist gave him a quick look that he failed to notice.

Steven was making himself comfortable. He could get used to an office like this. He decided to wait until the end of the interview to ask Mr. Roberts what his office would look like. He imagined a large mahogany desk with a buttery leather chair. Bookshelves would line the walls, filled with pages he would never need to read. He wasn’t like those other oafs hunched over their laptops. He knew he was a once-in-a-generation talent. His mother told him so.

After a while, he heard heels clacking down the hallway. Monica appeared at the front desk with a smile. She thanked the receptionist profusely for helping her with directions on the phone earlier and walked out.

The receptionist called out, “Steven, Mr. Roberts will see you now.”

Without a word, he strode down the hallway and toward a rectangular glass aquarium of an office. Mr. Roberts sat at a sleek desk in the middle. He gestured at the chair in front of him and waited for Steven to sit down.

“Steven, is it? I—”

“Yes,” he interrupted, “and I’m eager to show you why I’m the right choice—the only choice—for this Director role.”

Mr. Roberts didn’t let his amusement show as he corrected him. “Junior Copy Director. This is an entry-level role. No managerial responsibilities. You would be, in essence, directing your own writing with many levels of supervisors above you.”

He paused before asking, “So why advertising?”

Steven let out a condescending chuckle. “Advertisers control how the world thinks. People often don’t know about it, and even when they think they do, they still don’t realize all the invisible forces working behind the scenes to change what they eat, what they think, who they are. We’re sculptors of the modern human consciousness. Masters of the subliminal.” He leaned back in his chair.

Mr. Roberts knew some part of this was the dark truth of his industry. But to so brazenly admit a hunger for control on a societal level seemed twisted. Perverse. Utterly Machiavellian. He saw the beauty of his craft: weaving words together to educate, to inspire. It cut him deeply to hear someone so young sound so… corrupt. He worried that television was giving the new generation the wrong ideas.

“So… why my agency?”

Steven leaned forward and folded his hands on Mr. Roberts’ desk. “Because you need me. I keep up on awards shows. I know you guys haven’t won at Cannes for a few years. I’m not some pencil pusher. My ideas are different. Bigger. And most importantly, they’re going to be award winners. It won’t even take a year.”

Mr. Roberts gave a tight-lipped smile. “You know it’s not all about the awards, son. Awards actually cost us money to enter. And they’re just an opportunity for us industry geezers to pat each other on the back every now and then. It’s great work that keeps the lights on.”

Steven resisted the urge to roll his eyes. This guy has clearly gotten to where he is because he knew the right people. I’m not impressed. He clearly thinks too small, too simply. But I can put up with it for a year or two until I take his job. I know how these ad guys think though. I can fit in.

Steven grasped a delicate gold picture frame on the desk holding a photo of a pleasant woman in her 40s. “This the ol’ ball and chain?” Mr. Roberts nodded uncomfortably. “She’s a…fine girl. My wife, she stays home with the kids. She’s a good girl. Keeps herself in shape.”

Mr. Roberts didn’t blink. He resented when men referred to their wives like that, like symbols of oppression or accessories they picked up at the store. He adored Martha, and she adored him. They supported each other wholeheartedly. His patience was now wearing thin. He’d had enough of this arrogant young man. He stood up and extended his hand.

“Well, Steven—”

Steven shot up and shook his hand aggressively. “So I got the job? Great! When will I meet my secretary—or, I mean, executive assistant? Actually, I think I already met her, that young girl who came in here before me. Did she get the job too?”

Mr. Roberts caught his breath. He was a combination of unimpressed and overwhelmed.

He just wanted this to end. “Oh, she got the job, alright. This job. I just interviewed you as a courtesy because you came all the way here from New Jersey.”

Steven quickly pulled his hand away and balled his hands into fists. “This is a mistake.

Clearly you got our portfolios mixed up. Here, I brought a copy—”

“No, I don’t think I did.” He picked up a manila folder. “Here it is. Steven Thompson. ‘Have a very Oreo day?’ ‘Just eat it?’ These are your award-winning ideas? Get out of my sight.”

“You—you’re going to regret this. You all will. My wife’s father is a big-time attorney and he will take you to court if you so much as think of stealing one of these ideas.”

Mr. Roberts laughed as Steven stomped out, fuming. He spent the entire walk to the bus stop thinking of witty comebacks he would never get the chance to use. He angrily called his house landline on speakerphone.

An elderly woman picked up the phone. “Yes, dear. How did it go?”

“I didn’t get the job, mom, it’s total bull! They had some quota to fill and gave it to this awful girl.”

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay, I’m making your favorite—lasagna for dinner. I’ll take your suit to the dry cleaner’s tomorrow.”

He continued loudly complaining into his phone as people passed and stared. When the bus came, he abruptly hung up the phone and switched to watching Mad Men at full volume. Don Draper’s dapper suit filled the screen. Steven fixed his tie.

I love to create. I picked up a pencil when I was 3 years old and started to draw my world. As soon as I knew how to make words, I created them too. I made up stories and fantasy worlds and made-up languages for those worlds. I wrote sad poems and filled up journal pages with all the words that made me want to cry. All the words I wanted so badly to scream.

I still create today, too. Not as much as when times were slower. Quieter. Simpler. Now I have to fit in short bursts of creativity between virtual meetings and doctor's appointments. Sometimes I'll find that I've run out of words to say after a long day of work. I've said them all in small talk and emails. My identity as an artist stops where my career begins.

Some people insist there's a way I can have it all. Have I looked into monetizing my graphic design? Have I put my illustrations on Etsy? Ultimately, what they're asking is: is it making you money?

In their eyes, it only counts if you monetize it. You can't be allowed to just enjoy something. You can't want to create for yourself. You have to give yourself away to be valuable.

A creative hooker. Someone who strips their ego and bares their soul on the page for the enjoyment of others, with a token dollar thrown at them. They hate it now. They remember when they started, blinded by the prospect of getting paid to do what they love. Now they sit disillusioned in front of a laptop. They're on their fourth coffee of the day — whatever it takes to meet those deadlines. They haven't done it for pleasure in months.

I didn't want that to be me. I didn't want to hate what I once loved. I didn't want to grow to resent my passion. By separating my two lives, I protect it. I allow it to ebb and flow and grow alongside me. There are some things you just can't force. And there are some things I'm just not willing to give away.

The waves bring in electric blue specks of bioluminescence scattered in the wet, glass sheets left on the coast. You sit there with the shimmering sea washing over your legs. You look out across the water at the green mountains rising above the horizon. You heard the opposite coast hasn't been inhabited yet. There's a cargo ship hovering over the surface transporting the materials to build a landing dock.

You lean your head back and rest on your arms. The sun reflects in Saturn's golden rings and reaches out to touch the nebula behind the clouds. Somewhere in those clouds of dust is your old home, floating in the void of space across the solar system.

The air is filled with the gentle crashing of the waves and solar wind blowing through the purple palm trees. You turn your head and see the the sand glittering with a sprinkling of native diamonds. Back home, this beach would have been picked clean by scavengers looking to make a quick buck at the pawn shop. Here, they're worthless.

As otherworldly as this planet feels, there's something infinitely comforting about living a life free from economic woes. Happiness isn't a given anywhere, of course, but you would rather cry against the backdrop of a tropical sunset. People were much too unhappy on Earth, lacking too much of what they need to thrive. This place is supposed to be the first step in humanity's second chance.

You needed a second chance. A do-over to reset all the mistakes of years past. You didn't pick the right school or job or friends. You were never going to retire over there. You were going to work up until the end, still thinking of all those vacations you never got to take. You might have ended up meeting someone and raising 2.5 kids who will never have a college fund. Or you could come here.

So, you thought about those imaginary kids and how they would grow up even worse off than you had with the way our world is going. Home base just doesn't feel like a home anymore. You thought about taking a trip to some island nation a few thousand miles away, where the sand is littered with broken glass and the less fortunate beg tourists for scraps of food.

That's when you walked into my agency. I showed you this poster and you couldn't take your eyes off it. A new start, you said. So, we packed you up for your new life in the 12th colony. Half of the previous 11 planets had turned out to be uninhabitable; the other half we made uninhabitable.

In a way, this is a destination agency. Travel is so... transient. We get you to where you need to truly be. Here on Alpha X-12, we don't let fate's wicked hand make the rules. We give people like you the new life they were looking for. Call it retirement, or vacation. Whatever makes you feel more comfortable. What we're doing is building the future — a post-economy society surrounded by more riches than you can ever imagine.

So lay out on the diamond-studded powder and catch the meteor shower in the evenings. Relax. There's nowhere else you need to be. There's nothing else you need to do but give this planet the life it so desperately craved. You're finally home.

He and I used to count down the days to it. When the day came, he would iron the navy suit I loved and I would wear the purple dress he bought me for our first anniversary. We would dance a silent waltz around the living room, giggling like school children into the night. Sometimes we would miss our reservation and have to eat takeout in our fancy outfits.

He made sure to bring me a flower for every year we had spent together. Last year, I woke up to a basket filled with four dozen and one roses. This morning, I reached over to wrap my arms around him and embraced nothing but a cold, empty bed. Old habits are hard to break.

Now, the same date marked on my calendar feels like a black stain on the year. It's just a day that reminds me that the strong man I loved is gone. I don't hear his goofy chuckle at the television, or the sound of his sports radio echoing through the kitchen. These days, I hear nothing but the sound of my own two feet shuffling through this empty house. I feel suffocated by his absence.

I sit down on my couch, next to his spot. I can hear his voice in my ears: "Darling, everything I have is yours. Everything, that is, except this spot when my game's on. You know I get a weird angle from the other side of the couch."

He was an odd duck like that. I would tease him about how passionate he got about baseball. He would tease me when I cried while watching my soaps. No one tells you about those little things you'll miss so dearly. The banal stability of long-term partnership is comforting in ways you don't expect. When it's gone, it's like the rug is being pulled out from under you over and over from the moment you wake up to the moment your exhausted brain finally lets you fall asleep.

The doorbell rings. I shake my head and snap myself out of my pity party. I send the metaphorical guests home, sweep the floor, and get my head on straight. He wouldn't have wanted to see me like this.

I look through the peephole and see a giant bouquet of roses. My stomach does a flip as my heart beats out of my chest. Logically, I know he's not going to be holding the flowers this time. My heart doesn't quite get the message, though. I see a familiar smile peek out from behind the roses.

"Hey, grandma," he says.

"Oh—Oh, sweet pea! Please come in. Get out of the rain." I open the door wider and wave him in.

He struggles to set the vase down on the dining table.

He nervously runs his hand through his hair. "50 roses, right?"

"What's that, dear?"

"50 roses for 50 years?"

My face falls. "Yes, this would've been the big year."

He clasps my hands in his. "It still can be—still is. Mom told me about your tradition and all us grandkids are going to keep it up. So happy 50th anniversary, grandma."

He pulls me into a big hug and just holds me for a while. Before I know it, my lip begins to tremble and the dam breaks. Tears start streaming down my cheeks as my shoulders rise and fall sharply with every deep sob. I've already cried every last drop I had because I missed him. These tears are new, they're—happy. Happy because I have such a caring bunch of grandchildren. Happy because I was fortunate enough to once have been loved by him.

I finally manage to regain my breath. My grandson steps back and rifles around in his pocket. "I almost forgot—I have something for you."

He pulls out an envelope with my name written on the front in handwriting I hadn't seen in the past year. "Mom gave this to me. She said grandpa gave it to her just before—before the end to keep until the big day."

I'm shocked, though I shouldn't be. It was just like him to leave me one last surprise. I carefully pull out a folded-up letter and reach for my reading glasses.

* * * * *

Darling,

I knew that if I let you think I forgot our 50th anniversary, you would've raised me from the dead just to kill me for it. I know I'm nearing the end of my book, but our story continues to live on. I want you to know how much you mean to me, dear. Some folks are unlucky enough to never fall in love, and here I am, getting to fall in love with you over and over again.

First, I fell in love with your mind. And no, not just because you helped me keep my own head screwed on straight. No, you were smart as a whip and the top of our class all those years ago. I guess now that you can't divorce me, I can admit that I wasn't half bad at calculus. I just wanted to study with the pretty lady with the sparkling eyes.

Then, I fell in love with your heart. You guard your heart, dear, but only because you're capable of loving so deeply. You taught me how to be vulnerable and how to protect something with my life. You taught me what it really felt like to cherish someone and cherish a partnership. And darling, I cherished you until the end.

One day, you told me the good news. That day, I fell in love with you as a mother. You sacrificed for us to have the beautiful family we have today. You created life and gave me the children who taught me how to love someone more than life itself. You taught me how to always put our family first.

Some see marriage as a big decision you make one day: "I do." I see it as choosing someone every day for the rest of your life. So thank you, darling. Thank you for letting me choose you. Thank you for choosing me back. And most importantly on this day, as I'm palling around with Roberto Clemente up in the clouds, happy anniversary.

Don't let all that love go to waste, dear. Take all the love you gave me every day and give it back to the not-so-little-ones we love so much. Be nicer to yourself. Know that our kids all hope to be just like us when they get old and gray, too. We did alright.

* * * * *

I close the letter and smile.

"Are you okay, grandma?"

"Yeah." The clouds part to let a sunbeam through the living room window. "We're okay."