No one came to check on me. I suspect mine was a typical reaction to waking up after 300 years as a head attached to tubes and wires, and, perhaps, a heart. I must have fallen back to sleep because the next thing I knew, I was waking up, again, to the voice of Nurse Aliya.

"Eva?"

I opened my eyes.

"I have several bodies for you to choose from." She pointed to the wall in front of me on which were projected three female bodies. "They are all perfect. You can choose height, hair color and length as well as breast size (only A or B, anything larger causes undue stress on the spine, despite modifications to bone strength). The mass of the body will provide the perfect BMI for the requested height."

"Stop! Please. So, basically I am no longer actually human, right? I'll be some kind of robot?"

She laughed. "Not in your wildest dreams. Robots are a highly advanced species with no need of the sacks of blood and heart pumps humans require to support the brain tissue which is the only viable repository for," she made air quotes, "the soul. Or consciousness. Self-awareness. Whatever you want to call that infinitesimal bit that makes you, you."

I looked confused, I'm sure.

"In early trials, attempts were made to infuse a person's essence into processors, power sources (the soul is pure energy), even memory banks. The merging of man and machine would have been the greatest achievenent of either. But each time, the souls dispersed back into the ether. We could not force a connection.

"So, robots are robots, and humans are humans. They interact, but generally humans gravitate to their own."

"Are you...what are you?"

Once again, she laughed. "Humans are not permitted in the medical field. I am Nurse Aliya, model 225, with optional sensitivity and humor upgrades, at your service."

The isles of the store were nearly empty, most of the food being frozen and decomposed. The light of my H-SUIT reflected off the icy metal shelves. I had eaten all of the freshla from the store closest to my home, so I walked twelve miles to get to this one. The sky was its usual dark, but when I looked through the store's broken roof, I swear I could see stars through the clouds.

“Ahhh, there it is,” I turned the corner and found three packets of the life-saving food on one of the shelves. Grabbing them, I turned and walked towards the exit.

That’s when the light on my H-SUIT flickered off. “Dang it,” I said, pounding it with my fist. The light flickered on, then off again. Mad now, I continued walking towards what I thought was the exit, engulfed in darkness.

My boot hit something hard, and I flew forward. My head hit the concrete and my light sprang back to life. My head was ringing and beeping. Why is my head beeping? I thought to myself. I looked around me for what I tripped on. A round, black bomb was ticking at my feet.

Everything inside me dropped. I stood up, my head spinning. A bomb. I looked closer and almost threw up. A Russian 023 0.3 meter atomic bomb. I just tripped over a nuke. And activated it.

My brain was going haywire now, trying to remember back to when my sister taught me how to disable bombs. Pry off the metal lid, break the wire protection wall, reach through the wire and put your fingers through the ignition hole. Crush the metal plate. I did as my sister told me. But the fingers of my gloves were too wide to fit through the ignition hole.

In my head, I knew I had about thirty seconds before I became nothing but air and fire. I would never make it out. Not unless I shattered the metal plate inside.

My decision was quick, there was no time to think. I ripped the glove off my hand and reached inside the bomb. I could feel the blood in my fingers begin to freeze. Ten… nine… I gritted my teeth and began working my way through the wires. Six… five… what was left of my nerves felt the ignition hole. Three… two… All I could do was hope it worked. My fingers were useless and dead. My vision was blurry. It’s been three seconds since my mental countdown ran out. Worrying I miscounted, beads of sweat formed on my forehead. But I was never wrong. Never.

“It worked,” I laughed. “It really worked.”

I began to move my arm out of the bomb, glancing quickly at my darkened, flaking hand before I shoved it into my glove. Walking home, the image of my frozen fingers was the only thing on my mind. I couldn’t move my fingers or feel anything. I might as well not even have a hand. My skin reminded me of something. Something I forced myself to forget and never think about again.

“Poppy, the wood, it's falling apart.”

“I see that Evie, give me time to think.” My sister’s voice had been bitter and sharp, nowhere close to her usual smooth sing-song voice. We were close to shore, only half a mile away. The ice here was in thin pieces, so the brown-red water showed through.

“We don’t have time, Poppy!” I yelled at her. Tears streamed down her pretty cheeks, pooling up at the bottom of her helmet. The wooden raft we made was crumbling under our weight. It would break soon if we didn’t arrive at shore. The strong wind was pushing us further and further away, and the beach ahead of us was slowly shrinking. The toxic water, steaming and venomous, was melting the wood beneath our feet.

“I’m going to have to push the raft.” Poppy’s voice was blank now. The sort of voice you hear when someone knows they are about to die. Their eyes go cold, and the blood sinks from their face.

I stared at her, and when I spoke my voice was weak, “Poppy, you can’t push us without getting in the water. You’ll… you’ll…” My voice faltered. I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“Yes Evie, I’ll die. And I won’t be pushing us. I’ll be pushing you.” Then she lowered herself into the water, wincing at the hiss the water made.

After the first 500 feet, the water had officially melted through her H-SUIT. After 1000, she could no longer feel her torso. With only 500 feet to go, the toxic water had taken most of her lungs. 100 feet from shore, she was dead. Of what I could see of her burned face, she had died in pain.

Six years. It’s been six years since we washed up on that beach. Six years since I’ve seen another person. But today, I was going to end that streak.

Twelve miles later, I arrived home. The rocket was in my workshop. Its metal sides, rusty and multicolored, had a thin layer of frost on their edges. Three years, twenty-two junkyards, and 6,000 gallons of gasoline later, it was ready. My one-way ticket to freedom. 24,000 miles away was the rest of the world. Two million people living on the moon in safety. And I was going to find them. Find him.

My sister once told me about our father. Poppy described him as horrible. 13 years ago, right after the World Nuclear War ended, the last shuttle to the moon took off. We only had enough money for one ticket. My father took it. That was the last we had seen of him. After he left, my sister and I were forced to face the nuclear winter alone. But after today, I won’t have to be alone ever again.

Today was the day to do it. There hadn’t been a storm in weeks, so the cloud layer was thin. The wind was picking up slightly, just enough that I stumbled when I stepped outside.

I gathered the little of my things that would fit in the rocket. Five packets of freshla, a book, and a deck of cards.

I wheeled the rocket out of my workshop and into the empty street. Once inside, I looked through the windshield towards the sky. The windshield was small, so I could only see straight ahead of me.

I began to start the takeoff protocol. It would take about an hour to finish, so I sat back in the seat and closed my eyes.

An hour later, the quiet beeps from the control panel woke me, along with a howl. It was time. But something was wrong. I looked out the windshield and the sky was white. The rocket was shaking from the wind. A storm.

“Dang it!” I shouted to myself. My fingers typed furiously at the controls, trying to disable the launch. I kept fumbling, I wasn’t used to only having one hand.

Suddenly, something hit the rocket from the back and threw me forward. My helmet hit the control panel, and the glass cracked. My vision was blurry, but I heard the engines start.

When I hit my head, I initiated an automatic launch sequence. This was a newer generation rocket that had landed on the street a few miles away. I had forgotten newer rockets had an automatic start. I cursed science and safety laws as the rocket began spitting out smoke. This rocket was taking off whether I liked it or not.

The storm was worse in the sky. The wind was tossing the rocket around, and I had to keep my hand on the steering throttle to stop it from being flung into the ocean. Shaking, spinning, burning, the rocket flew in every direction. In order to land, I would have to disable the automatic launch sequence. That meant cutting the wires under the control panel and shutting down the rocket’s system. Yesterday I could have done it, the day before. But my hand was useless to me now. I tried to stabilize the throttle with my elbow, as I reached down to rip the wires.

A gust of wind threw the rocket sideways, and my elbow slipped off the throttle. The rocket let out a burst of speed and spun out of control. The hard ground, cold and grey, came closer and closer until that grey was replaced with black.

Color came into my eyes slowly. When my vision cleared, I saw my sister’s smiling face. Her skin was smooth and her cheeks full.

“I missed you, Evie.” She said, reaching out a hand. Her fingers were warm as I grabbed it.

“I missed you too, Poppy.”

Deity exhales

Dust spills and breathes a new life

Spinning into light

Joy, love, innocence

Carefree days of youth divine

Mere child’s glimpse of time

Evolving through years

Life’s measure is full and fast

Will it end or last?

Fate takes aim and curves

The years melt away like snow

A sun’s fading glow

Empty cages fill

The haunted halls of our souls

Regret is tenfold

We sit across from one another at an expensive dining room table in a swanky high rise. I'm pretty sure if the curtains weren't closed, there would be a killer view of Central Park.

Between us is my digital voice recorder, and an analog backup.

After I had modest success with a couple of fictionalized true crime books that became semifamous podcasts, this lady set up an interview at her place. It's just the two of us. She sips from a Yeti stainless steel tumbler and stares at me over the rim. I shift in my seat and swirl my Jameson's in fancy crystal. She smiles through glistening teeth. She licks away a pink sheen and I don't for a second forget what she is, because the scariest monsters are beautiful.

"I can tell you're nervous." Her voice is a whisper of delight and damnation. "I'm fascinated by your work; I'm surprised you accepted my invitation."

"I couldn't resist my chance to follow Rice's footsteps."

She scoffs. "Anne had many things wrong, but enough was right that I'm sure she was acquainted with the family."

Some family. They never hesitate to fuck each other over as much as they fuck each other.

She continues. "I found the conclusions of your first novel fascinating. It was masterful how you implied supernatural causes without expressly embracing them."

"You mean vampires, and there's nothing super about you."

She tries to hide her shock. "Go on," she grins like a crocodile.

"I know you know."

"You were visited by my cousins."

"You're all related in a way, which makes your swinger parties the weirdest family reunions outside Alabama."

She laughs, and the throaty chuckle stirs me in ways I'm not comfortable being stirred.

I shift in my seat, nodding. "I've met your kind before."

"It's interesting that shortly after you were...advised...to point your book towards obvious fiction, my cousin disappeared."

"I'm sorry for the loss of your lover."

Her eyes narrow. "Even rabbits scratch and bite when cornered."

"Maybe I'm no ordinary rabbit."

When she laughs again, fear lances up my spine.

"Why'd you come here?"

"I'd like to have my own spin on the interview."

"For whom?"

"Maybe just my blog."

"Have you ever considered dreaming bigger?"

She steps from behind the table and peeks outside.

As fancy as this apartment is, it's missing something that most people wouldn't notice. This table, that china cabinet sitting over to my left, the drawers in the kitchen, none of it has silver.

The only sterling in the house is in the Glock I empty into her turned back.

Just like that, she went from thinking about eating me to turning her back and dying at my feet.

I calmly reload.

The recorder is rolling, so I savor an action-movie moment; I decide to forgive myself the cliche.

"I dream of a world where the dead stay dead," I declare before giving her what remains of thirty pieces of silver. "Nothing super at all," I mumble.

The day before my birthday

This challenge ended

To judge my wordplay

And cleverness defended

Tasked with a long poem written

To change the world or just one life

OK, you can say I've bitten

To meet criteria that suffice

So here it lies

A poem about nothing

And the space it occupies

Further exam says I'm bluffing

I've got nothing to say

And a meter to say it in

Be it take a night or a day

I just do what I've been bidden

I can drop names of import

Like Jesus, Nietzsche, or Freud

Or even God as a last resort

Or deny Him to the void

As long as it sounds deep

It will get some attention

From the literary sheep

Who thrive on pretension

I want to please the ones who like Shakespeare

And wax iambic—I amb what I amb

To make the statements that soon disappear

They're written temporarily in jam

For those who like Dickenson

I can choose a meter for

A singsong Caruso, like Robinson

Gilligan and more

For ee cummings fans

I ups so many floating words say

Punctuations all **%^%

And sensibility's defrayed

And once I wrote a limerick

That was--like this poem--a trick

It didn't mean a thing

And couldn't help from being

A poem written by a prick

And haikus lose me

In terseness and in nonsense

Too few words to see

And free form is just

An excuse

To vomit jabberwocky

And -ish from my jibber

As I pine about truth and justice and

The American weigh

Your options carefully

Writing pall-mall and willy nilly

Until I can throw in

Someone like Camus in the mix

It's just absurd!

If you read this backward

It can certainly serve

As a self-righteous op-ed

Of opinion that strikes a nerve

You just can't beat

Pithy and laconic

But this poem can neither meet

Metaphyzzy or ironic

Yesterday was the 4th of September

Labor Day for expectant mothers

The day before my birthday

Cooking dogs and burgers with others

One day we'll all be dead

And history won't remember

The cow we grilled or us we fed

On that 4th day in September

But words and rhymes are cheap

And come easily without fail

The bullshit in long poems is deep

When everything's on sale!