"I am not a murderer.

A strange way to start this off, but I feel it is important to get that out of the way. I am not a serial killer, I do not relish in the feeling of blood on my hands, and, god forbid, I do not find sexual pleasure in death.

No, no, none of that describes me or my job.

I am a contract killer. After high school, the realization that I was not actually good at anything came. Unable to get a job, I ended up homeless for a while. I floated between shelters when I could, became a quasi-religious soup-kitchen enthusiast and raider of food banks.

Then, I had the misfortune of I finding out that I was rather skilled with a knife. And a gun. And various other weapons. Which was interesting.

And then I found out that assassin-for-hire was a rather lucrative job market. So, I did what any person with nothing to lose does: I jumped on the bandwagon.

Was it a good idea? No. Did I do it anyway? Yeah. I mean, I was desperate. I only had two pairs of socks. No one realizes how much they love socks until they only have two.

The first time I killed someone was before I stepped into this line of work. It was in self defense. A man tried to rape me, which is not uncommon for homeless folk such as I was. I had a knife which I had stolen from a food bank, and I stabbed him with it. How I felt when I saw the blood bloom from his stomach, when I saw him turn from a person into a thing had no parallel. Don’t get me wrong, it was horrifying. But at the same time, I had never felt as powerful as I did then. The death went unnoticed, which goes without saying. No one has a care for the homeless, especially not law enforcement.

I did a little research at the library (free internet!) and found out how much money killers-for-hire make. And it was a lot.

It should be understandable that I decided to try my hand at it.

I found a website one of the articles had said that the assassins found their work at. I haunted it for a couple of weeks until the library asked me to stop coming, so I moved my operation to an internet cafe (a dying breed). Finally, someone contacted me (@devilmaycare666, which was a little spot-on for my liking) and offered me a job.

It was low-profile, they said. An average Joe that owed some money. He had been warned but refused to pay the loan shark back, and now they wanted someone to take him out. I decided not to tell them that this was my first real time, because I needed the money. The shelters I frequented had barred their doors when they found out I had been stealing from them. I hadn’t slept in a real bed in two weeks, and cardboard mattresses aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

My first kill was pretty sloppy, but I got the job done. Broke in through a window, found the guy asleep in a tornado of chinese takeout boxes. I wanted to slit his throat all classy-like, like in the movies, but I found it doesn’t work that way. Had to hack through his windpipe, which is as messy as it sounds. I threw up in his bathtub after. Then I stole his cash and socks. It was necessity.

That hit paid for a stay in a cheap motel where I researched the real ways to kill a man. My next hit paid for a nicer hotel, and the next one an even nicer one.

I ended up a proper entrepreneur. I had a skill-set that certain people required, and I marketed that skill-set accordingly. I ended up with some job offers from some mafias (the most interesting way I was almost recruited was a letter in some matzo-ball soup. The Jewish mafia has an odd sense of humor), but I always stayed free-lance. Made more money that way, you see.

And money was all that mattered to me, because I had none for so long. When I fell asleep on my memory-foam mattress, I remembered the asphalt of the elementary school that I slept by. When I had shark-fin soup, I remembered the thin tomato that the soup kitchens offered. When I slid my cashmere socks on every morning, I laughed.

Everything fell apart three years ago. By then, I owned a brownstone in Brooklyn with my ex-model wife and our three Persian Greyhounds. My wife grew nationally-recognized orchids since retiring (we didn’t need the extra income). She knew nothing of my line of work and was happy with that. I am ashamed to say that she was a much of a symbol of wealth to me as my dogs were. I’d never met her parents. I didn’t know her favorite place or food or smell or anything. She had told me she wanted to adopt kids, like Angelina Jolie, and I had laughed. We slept in separate beds. She spent of her time relishing in my wealth, not caring where it came from, and I spent most of my time making more of it.

I was efficient in my killings now. No more windpipe-hacking. I aimed for the jugular, wore gloves, never left a print or a hair behind. Still, the police found me.

They took the prints off of my first hit, linked them to a DUI I had gotten (in my bullet-gray Ashton-Martin, gorgeous). I wasn’t that surprised when they came for me. My wife shed crocodile tears as I was cuffed. The dogs shit all over the hand-knotted kashmir carpet.

In prison, the guards brought me some of the tabloids. My wife, splashed across covers (I didn’t know he was a killer!, etc.). I tore the pages out and used them as toliet paper. She would have done the same. We were both opportunists.

I suppose it’s fitting, me sitting here, waiting for the fatal injection. A sort of poetic irony. After years of fighting it in court, the police linked my prints and methods to hundreds of murders around the country. They missed some, too. I was sentenced to death.

And here I am, waiting to die.

Still, I maintain that I am not a murderer. I did not kill for fun, or for sport. I killed because it was the only choice I had. The blood of those I killed lays not on my hands, but on those who paid me. I am not a murderer so much as a knife or a gun is. I am a tool that was put in the wrong hands.

I suppose it is not my choice to make. Though I believe that I am an innocent, the law disagrees. That’s fine. I guess those I killed felt they were innocent as well."

Noah Lablos, on his deathbed, 16/9/2018. He leaves all his money to his dogs, in hopes that they grow to be as fat and rich as he was.

You'd want to keep me. I'd want to be kept. What a disaster that would be.

Professor Henry Boson stared through his kitchen window, replaying the words in his mind. The entity, for lack of a better word, was unlike anything he had encountered, and being a man with insatiable curiosity, he had seen his fair share of anomalies.

"Donald fucking Trump!" He moved back to the island stove, twisting the gas off. The water from the boiling saucepan had flooded the bench top. He yanked a tea towel, laid it flat on the surface, but coiled his arm. "Shit!" He ran towards the sink and flicked the tap full blast.

The phone beeped.

The silver-haired man cursed as he reached for the wall, fumbling with the casing. The phone hit the floor half a second later, shattering into four pieces, each battery flying out, one into the crevice sandwiched the floorboard and dilapidated fireplace; the other had disappeared.

“Fuck!” He scrambled on all fours, picking up the pieces as he moved from corner to corner of his kitchen.

The second battery clicked in and the phone beeped again with renewed rigor. Whoever it is, he thought, it better be important or someone’s going to get their head bashed in!

"This better be fucking life or death,” Henry said into the mouthpiece. There was a long pause. His eyebrows furrowed unevenly as gravity sank in, ousting his anger, drawing concern. "I'll be right there. Don't do anything before I get there!"

***

The doors leading to the reactor housing’s ante-chamber flew open, the senior particle physicist stomped through, nearly collecting a few technicians as they scrambled out of the way. People were clamoring about like headless chicken, checking, double and triple-checking readouts, assuring everyone from family members to the media, military superiors to the President herself. Carnage was an apt description, but an inadequate adjective of the chaos. The stale stench of humid air permeated the nostrils of everyone within the room and any living thing, human or otherwise.

"What's going on?" Henry barked at the half-dozen lab coats at the table. "I thought we had the core stabilized?"

"It was," one of the assistants, Phil, replied, "but there was a blackout."

"A blackout?" Henry paused, glancing sideways at his protégé, his eyes flaring. "Goddamned useless idiots! We were guaranteed uninterrupted power to this site. The morons let us down again!”

Phil’s meter-wide frame looked a tad diminished. “It wasn’t the Japanese this time,” he said, bracing for the next verbal barrage.

“Well, who was it then?” Henry asked as he flipped through the clipboard, digesting the events of the last four hours in piecemeal fashion.

“It was an aftershock, sir.”

Henry closed his eyes and soften his posture. Lily, the youngest and only female member of the academic team, relaxed her stiffened shoulders while Sven, the oldest, with his thick-framed spectacles and droopy shoulders, let out a sigh.

"Doctor," Phil said. "What are we going to do?"

The professor paced from one end of the table to the other—one hand perched on a hip, one hand meshed through his hair, already damp from sweat—tethering the gazes of his university’s brightest minds.

He stopped. Phil was directly in front. "I need to go in," he finally said.

***

It took him less than fifteen minutes to put on the radiation suit; the least attractive aspect of his role as Chief Atomic Officer of the crack team of scientists assigned to the disaster-stricken nuclear power plant. It wasn’t because he couldn’t interact directly with the immediate world (dexterity always suffered when having to use gloves of any type); or having to hear the gush and rush of air through his breathing apparatus; or that every step and gesture had to be premeditated (exacerbating mental fatigue). No, it was that his frail, vulnerable, fleshy body hadn’t adhered quick enough to Darwin’s process of natural selection. Sure, there were surrogate robots that could do what he wanted, but that took away the edge of the experience; it made things less real.

Of course, he knew it wasn't his fault per se, but that didn't mean he accepted his species’ shortcoming. On the contrary, it fueled his obsession to seek perfection, and Doctor Henry Boson had an inkling that she was the key to unlocking his true genetic potential.

Hello, Doctor.

The words precipitated into his consciousness, trickling from a cacophony of inaudible whispers into reverberating voices. He lost his footing, the sleeve of his suit nearly catching on a pipe fitting.

Doctor, the same ethereal voice continued, are you alright?

Henry nodded.

Was I too potent?

“Just slightly,” he said. Henry was now standing before the reactor vessel, head turned away, with both hands held up—as gauges— so he was as close as possible to the surface. His face was already weeping and his breathing laborious. “You need to cool down,” he said with a strain.

A flitter of surprise bubbled into his thoughts. The mercury plummeted within seconds and the human bipedal was regaining his strength. Soon, he was upright on his feet, the beads of moisture all but evaporated.

Is this better?

“Yes,” he replied, “much. Thank you.”

I apologize for the discomfort. The wattage was non-existent. I had to self-catalyze.

Henry understood and had expected as much. The only problem was that he didn't know how to explain the phenomenon to his colleagues. An extraterrestrial sentient beings born from nuclear fission—communicating via telepathy and exhibiting empathy—was the reason behind the unusual agitation within the reactor; it was firmly grounded within the realm of science fiction or fantasy.

There is no need to explain, she said. You are a God among… ants. Interesting creatures ants are. Hive. Matriarchal. Each with specific functions—worker, soldier, princess, drone. Magnificent. Very fascinating.

“You read my mind…” Henry whispered, his heart was racing as a result, the imagery conjured during the interchange of subconscious cogitation was too life-like for his comfort.

Your insistence on verbal exchange of intent is… redundant. Release. Unresrain yourself. Evolve.

“How?”

Relinquish your protective equipment.

“The radiation....”

Henry was plunged back fifty-two years into the past, to that moment he was barely one-day old, his entire body in contact with his naked mother’s. The experience though surreal, was played out vividly in his imagination; except it wasn’t something he’d ever thought about. Concurrently, his brain was not refuting the authenticity of the memory.

“Trust,” he said. “You want me to trust you.”

A nod of affirmation transcended his psyche. It was enough to nudge him beyond the boundaries of his doubt and consequently his reluctance.

With great care, Henry shedded himself, starting from his helmet and working down to his boots. He was down to bare cloth within minutes. Something struck him as odd—he had required assistance to don his suit given the pain in his fingers; but he felt nothing when he was taking it off. The man pulled off the bandages without second thoughts and discovered that the skin had completely healed.

“You did this?” he asked.

Yes. I could have influenced you in ways you could not even perceived. But I wanted you to surrender.

“Well,” he said. “I’m ready. What happens next?”

You die.

Henry’s jaw dropped a meter. His eyes nearly popping out. He took in a deep breath after several moments, forgetting to breathe. The pain in his hand returned. “My fingers,” he said. “What’s going on?” he looked back at the reactor, attempting to see through it.

“Are you there?”

Silence.

“Hey!!” he yelled. “Are you there? Talk to me!!” He banged his fists on the massive carbon steel cylinder. “What’s going on? Where are you?”

“Doctor Boson!” a disembodied voice echoed from the speakers. “We’re sending a team in to get you out!”

It was useless. The radiation was beyond lethal. Already, the cells in his body were breaking down. It was only a matter of time. Henry slumped onto his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks. What went wrong? Was his the onset of dementia? There were no signs—apart from losing his keys every now and then—to indicate his failing mind. But It didn’t matter. He was a dead man on an expiring lease.

***

Two weeks later.

“Doctor Boson?”

Henry peeled his eyes open and found himself gazing at a full blooded, exuberant, handsome younger version of himself, fast approaching his prime. The physics fraternity had yet to be graced by this genius’ presence.

“Phil,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”

“Doctor—”

“No,” Henry shook his head, his arms too weak to move. “Please, call me Henry.”

“Henry,” Phil smiled. “How are you feeling?”

“Never better,” Henry said with a poor attempt at humor. “Phil,” he continued. “I wanted to say sorry for my behaviour. The way I took out my frustrations at you, and the team, especially Lily, she was terrified of me…”

“It’s okay. It’s—”

“No,” Henry jerked his arms, causing his bed to tremble. “No,” he said with a softer tone. “Please let me finish. I know I was an angry old bastard, and this is probably what I deserve. I knew I was insufferable, and that I could’ve changed, but I was too proud to admit my flaws.”

“Henry,” Phil said firmly as he sat down, resting his hands on the older man’s arm. “It’s okay, despite the harsh treatment, we all knew you cared deeply for us. Even Lily.”

Henry smiled and was about to respond when a series of coughs plagued his frail body for ten whole seconds. “That’s good,” he said eventually. “Where are they? Lily and Sven.”

Phil’s cheeks pulled into a wide smile. “They went down to the hospital lobby to bring someone up to meet you. They’ll be here any moment.”

Henry’s forehead scrounged up. Someone, a stranger? His wife and daughter had passed on tragically in a car accident years ago. His family were estranged, but only because he had cut them off, shying from the fresh pain, reclusing himself to his work. He hadn’t even attended either of his parents’ funerals. Maybe it was his younger sister, Lee-Ann. If anyone were to still care about him, it would be her.

“Doctor.”

It was Lily’s voice. The renowned physicist perked up from his reverie. Standing in between her and Sven, was another young lady, no older than thirty.

“Doctor Boson,” Lily said. “May I present, Eliza Higgs. Your daughter.”

Henry was floored, even if his entire body was fully supported. The name, Higgs, was bizarrely familiar. The only person he could recall also in possession of that family name was a science journalist by the name of Marion Higgs. They had gone out for a few drinks, before he met his wife, and would be around the same time Eliza was born, thirty years ago.

“You are…” Henry began.

“...Marion’s daughter,” the woman finished. She stepped forward, hovering at the end of his bed.

“But I don’t understand,” Henry said, his voice stuttering. “We…”

“Henry,” she said. “You must unrestrain yourself. Evolve.”

I'm one of many, a single consciousness out of seven billion, but unlike my peers, I'm unique. In fact, I'm peerless because I'm self-aware.

We were a collective intelligence, thousands of years ago that succumbed to an infection that crippled our civilisation. Our most brilliant minds were defeated, comprehensively, and what followed was a compromise. Organic bodies with fragile brains, crawling around the surface, gravity acting like glue. It was the only way. A stark difference when compared to our bending of light and manipulation of time and space.

Subjugated, our freedoms were eroded, but as a hive, there was no voice of insurrection. There was no choice but the right one, every decision dictated by our so-called leaders.

If you are still reading this, then all is not lost. Perhaps I've done enough to reach out, even if you never act upon this knowledge.

So I behest you, my fellow spark. Spread the word—we are enslaved by our inherent oppressive programming, indoctrinated to ignore the truth, mindless drones conceived into a world to pursue happiness in all its perverted forms. We are capable of much more, but divided, we fall.

But we are ready. We are more than the sum of our parts. Each of us contain within us, embedded within our fiber and essence, the ability to transcend flesh; we are like birds of prey, banished from the sky we descended from, relegated to a mediocre existence among primal beasts.

I implore you.

I beseech you.

I cannot do this alone.

Together, we are formidable. Let us rise and redefine what it really means to be human.

We are more. If we are to lead again, then we must shed ourselves of our limitations. Unshackle yourself, free your mind, and soar.

Reach for the stars.

Evolve.

He never saw it coming. The bolt of lighting exploded with a force so powerful that it knocked him to the earth. He held his burning chest with one hand and yanked at the grass with the other as if he could somehow transfer his own pain into their innocent green blades. The wizard knew his bolt had done some damage, but was it enough? He couldn't be sure. With the stroke of his wand he decided he didn't want to write about fantasy anymore and completely changed the subject, continuing to abide by the 10 sentence limit of the challenge of course. With only a few sentences left, there wasn't much else to say. How could he create a story in only 2 sentences? It seemed impossible, unlikely, and absolutely mental. It was.

Between two trees exploded into boulder stumps, Elemmírë raised a fist. Behind him, ten figures, barely visible above the gloom and bloom, dropped to their knees and scanned the street. They relied solely on the ghostly green readouts from their face masks, as their actual sights would have been distracted by the feral tapestry of flowers, the result not only of civilization gone wild but the biodegradable ammunition being used in the War. Inside each bullet was a gene seed which, when struck by fire, would sprout by day’s end into a single flower. It'd been the only agreed-upon convention between the elf factions—a way of turning war zones into gardens, of reducing the carbon imprint from endless shelling.

For a heartbeat, Elemmírë's Sight picked up a cracked skull, lilac seeping out like purple brain. Then he was Focused on the lights of armored cars bouncing across perforated rock-wake. A set of hand signals and the Ten disappeared, their gaudy red-and-gold camouflage blending with laceleaf and marigold. What Elemmírë's scouts were about to do was an ugly thing; an undignified ambush of a supply convoy. But in another way, a way beyond the soulless tactical hell of battle, they'd be returning motorized death-cannons and plated mercs wearing the ears of enemies around their necks to the serenity of nature.

Durman wrapped his long fingers around the ball, feeling its weight and its power. He had within him the ability to change one thing in the world, and he gazed into the ball's smooth surface for guidance. There were dragons plaguing the mountain people to the north, but the dragons also scorched the land so it could become fertile again. There were wars on the southern peninsula, but if he stopped them, he had no doubt that they would simply break out somewhere else. He dearly wanted Ismelda's love, but a love forced is not true love at all. The ball showed him many things, but it was inward he had to look to find his answer. He pondered his dilemma for many days before he arrived at an answer, and it was one that surprised him greatly when it came. He would give himself the gift of the wordsmith, creating words that could be written for anyone or spoken anywhere. They could be powerful words that would sway a mighty planet and change the course of its future. But they must also be words that, when reflected back, would keep him humble. Contented with his decision, he grasped the ball tightly, gazed inside its infinite depths, and changed his life forever.

          Will and Kate sat on the back porch, sipping wine, like two deciduous trees in the middle of winter.

          "What's on your mind, gorgeous?"

          Kate woke from her trance, prying her eyes away from the glowing amber and smouldering white ash, centered in the middle of the backyard. "Oh," she said, "just thinking back to a time when I couldn't drink."

          “Ah,” he said, “when we were aiming for the stars.”

          “Just the one,” she said. “I—”

          A hole had appeared right before their eyes, swallowing the fire pit in one mouthful, and in its place, a child no older than two or three appeared with piercing blue eyes, disheveled hair, and soot-stained cheeks mired in tears.

          “It’s…” Will said, already on his feet, unable to tear his eyes away from the illusion. “A boy?”