Look, I need you to understand something right off the bat—I'm not an idiot. (Well, mostly not an idiot. The jury's still out on my decision to wear Crocs to a robbery, but we'll get to that tragic footwear choice later.) You might be wondering why someone with a bachelor's degree in Contemporary Philosophy—yes, I know, LAUGH IT UP—would end up pointing a trembling finger-gun at a Korean corner store owner at 3:47 AM on a Tuesday. The answer involves three maxed-out credit cards, a gambling addiction I swear I totally have under control, and an ex-girlfriend who took my cat in the breakup. (Mr. Whiskers, if you're reading this somehow, I miss you buddy.)

But here's the thing about desperate times and desperate measures—they're basically first cousins who shouldn't date but totally are, you know what I mean?

The fluorescent lights in Kim's Quick-Stop buzzed like thoughts in my anxiety-riddled brain—incessant, flickering, probably in need of professional attention. I'd been standing in the chips aisle for twenty minutes, pretending to have an existential crisis over Doritos flavors (Cool Ranch vs. Nacho Cheese as a metaphor for the duality of man), while actually having a very real existential crisis about everything else.

My hand was in my pocket, wrapped around absolutely nothing, which—if we're being philosophical about it—is a pretty apt metaphor for my entire life strategy. The plan was simple: walk up to the counter, pretend to have a gun, grab the cash, exit stage left, pay off Kenny the bookie before he introduces my kneecaps to his favorite baseball bat. TOTALLY FOOLPROOF, RIGHT?

Wrong. So cosmically, catastrophically wrong that future civilizations will probably discover the wrongness fossilized in sedimentary rock layers and build entire religions around avoiding such spectacular failures.

Because here's what they don't tell you about robbing corner stores—the owner might be a former Olympic speed-walker. (I'm not making this up. There's literally a faded photo behind the counter of Mr. Kim power-walking his way to bronze in Seoul '88, a fact I probably should have noticed during my previous 3 AM taquito runs.) They also don't tell you that Crocs—even in Adventure Mode with the heel strap engaged—are surprisingly poor getaway shoes.

"Empty the register!" I shouted, my voice cracking like I was going through puberty all over again. (Note to self: if you ever attempt armed robbery again—WHICH YOU WON'T—maybe try voice coaching first?)

Mr. Kim looked at my pocket—my very obviously empty pocket—then at my Crocs (lime green, because if you're going to make questionable life choices, why not make them VISIBLE FROM SPACE), and did something I hadn't factored into my brilliant plan.

He laughed.

Not just a chuckle, mind you. We're talking full-body, shoulders-shaking, tears-in-eyes LAUGHTER that made me feel like I should either join in or offer to workshop better material for next time.

"You want money?" he wheezed between guffaws. "Maybe first you buy better shoes, eh?"

And that's when my fight-or-flight response kicked in, except—because I'm me—it manifested as more of a deer-in-headlights-then-trip-over-own-feet response. As I stumbled backward, my Croc caught on the edge of a display stand, sending approximately 847 packets of beef jerky cascading through the air like meaty confetti.

In the ensuing chaos—as I lay there, covered in teriyaki-flavored shame—Mr. Kim didn't call the cops. Instead, he made me tea. TEA. Earl Grey, served in a chipped mug that said "World's Okayest Speed Walker."

"You seem like you're having bad time," he said, sliding the mug across the counter to where I sat, thoroughly defeated, still picking beef jerky crumbs out of my hair. "Want to talk about it?"

And you know what? I did. I really, really did.

(Though I still maintain that the Crocs were a bold fashion choice, not a failure. Some people just aren't ready for that level of comfort-forward criminality.)

Kooky King Kong kapellmeister

just jabbering gibberish (A - K)

Again, another awkward ambitious

arduous attempt at alphabetically

arranging atrociously ambiguously

absolutely asinine avoidable alliteration.

Because...? Basically bonafide belching,

bobbing, bumbling, bohemian beastie boy,

bereft bummer, bleeds blasé blues, begetting

bloviated boilerplate bildungsroman,

boasting bougainvillea background.

Civil, clever clover chomping, cheap

chipper cool cutthroat clueless clodhopper,

chafed centenary, codifies communication

cryptically, challenging capable, certifiably

cheerful college coed.

Divine dapper daredevil, deft, destitute,

doddering, dorky dude, dummkopf Dagwood

descendent, dagnabbit, demands daring

dedicated doodling, dubious, dynamite,

deaf dwarf, diehard doppelganger, Doctor

Demento double, declaring depraved

daffy dis(pense)able dufus Donald Duck

derailed democracy devastatingly defunct.

Eccentric, edified English exile,

effervescent, elementary, echinoderm

eating egghead, Earthling, excretes,

etches, ejaculates, effortless exceptional

emphatic effluvium enraging eminent,

eschatologically entranced, elongated

elasmobranchii, emerald eyed Ebenezer,

effectively experiments, emulates epochal

eczema epidemic, elevating, escalating,

exaggerating enmity, enduring exhausting

emphysema.

Freed fentanyl fueled, fickle figurative

flippant fiddler, fiendishly filmy, fishy,

fluke, flamboyantly frivolous, fictitious,

felonious, fallacious, fabulously fatalistic,

flabbergasted, fettered, flustered, facile,

faceless, feckless, financially forked,

foregone, forlorn futile fulsome, freckled

feverish, foo fighting, faulty, freezing,

fleeting famously failing forecaster, flubs

"FAKE" fundamental fibber fiat, fabricating

fiery fissile fractured fios faculties.

Gamesomeness goads gawky, gingerly,

goofily graceful, grandiloquent gent, gallant,

genteel, geico, guppy gecko, gabbling gaffes,

gagging, gamboling, gestating, gesticulating,

garlic, gnashing, gobbling, gyrating,

gruesomely grinning, grappling, gnomadic

giggly, grubby, gastrointestinally grumpy

gewgaw gazing gesticulating guy,

geographically generically germane,

gungho, grave gremlin, grumbling, guiding,

guaranteeing, guerilla gripped gatling guns

ginning gumpshun.

Hello! Herewith halfway harmless hazmat,

haphazard haggard, hectored, hastily,

hurriedly, harriedly hammered, handsomely

hackneyed, heathen, hellbent hillbilly, hirsute,

hidden hippie, huffy humanoid, hexed, heady,

Hellenistic, holistic, hermetic, hedonistic

heterosexual Homo sapiens historical heirloom,

homeless, hopeful, holy, hee haw heretical hobo.

Indefatigable, iconographic, iconic, idealistic,

idyllic, inimitable, idiosyncratic, ineffable,

irreverently issuing idiotic, indifferent, inert,

ineffectual, ingeniously iniquitous, immaterial,

insignificant, indubitable, inexplicable, ignoble

itches, ineffectually illustriously illuminating

immovable infused ichthyosaurus implanted

inside igneous intrusions immensely

imperturbable improbable.

Jovial jabbering jinxed January jokester

just jimmying jabberwocky

justifying jangling jarring juvenile jibberish

jubilantly jousting jittering

jazzy jawbreaking jumble

justifying, jostling, Jesus;

junior jowly janissary joyful Jekyll

joined jumbo Jewess jolly Jane;

jammed jello junket jiggled

jeopardized jingled jugs.

Kooky knucklehead klutz

knowingly kneaded, kicked, killed

knobby kneed kleptomanic.

I have always been fascinated by F. Scott Fitzgerald - and with his clearly detailed preoccupation of love, clearly demonstrated in his works. Herein lies a fictionalized account of Fitzgerald's possible musings on just such a topic.

*“I'm not sentimental--I'm as romantic as you are. The idea, you know,

is that the sentimental person thinks things will last--the romantic

person has a desperate confidence that they won't.”

― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise*

Mariposa was seated a small, round table in the Café Secretos in Tarragona, Spain, patiently awaiting the arrival of her night’s date. Tarragona, though somewhat small, was a busy city nonetheless due to the bullfights. It was entirely possible Santiago had been delayed by unforeseen events since he was employed by El Arena Tarraco where the bullring was housed. Looking toward the door but not seeing Santiago, Mariposa reassured herself he would arrive very soon. He had promised, after all, tonight would be a new beginning and a very special night. Even though the two had known each other for a year now, previously having met through mutual friends, this evening would be their first date.

Mariposa drank from her glass of Sangria, enjoying its blend of rich, fragrant wines embodied with hints of fruit and aromatic spices. Despite steadily sipping of the wine's essence as she waited, she was unable to quell the butterflies floating about in her stomach. The anticipation to see Santiago only seemed to grow by the minute. She looked forward to whatever an evening spent with him might bring. Love....or el amor....was a splendid feeling.

A bit nervously, Mariposa glanced about the dimly lit room, her attention focusing on the wall to the right. On it hung a beautiful painting of a brave torero or bullfighter. A vibrant, red cape draped the torero’s arm, seeming to sway with motion despite the stillness of the artwork. The artist had accurately captured the bull’s furious eyes as he poised on the precipice of an attack, his horns thrust forward. The painting was so lifelike, a shiver ran down the length of Mariposa’s spine. Quickly, she diverted her eyes, finding refuge in an uninteresting map of Tarragona covering the left wall. She had never much cared for the bullfights despite their popularity and found even such renditions of their brutality revolting.

Drinking from the Sangria, her attention was drawn to two men who sat conversing at another table in the corner. They drank from beautifully etched crystal glasses filled with the Green Fairy or Absinthe. While no law had been passed outlawing the liquor like in Paris, the milky green alcohol was still considered by many to be taboo, its effects strong and unpredictable. One gentleman was handsome, tall, and blonde-haired, while the other was shorter, stockier, had dark hair, and wore a mustache. Whatever the two men discussed, it was obvious to any who observed their conversation was heated. Eventually, the stockier gentleman rose in haste, clearly agitated. His chair thudded as it fell to the floor as he abruptly vacated the café.

A bit surprised by their public disagreement, Mariposa quickly looked away, again hoping to see Santiago coming through the doors. Such was not the case. Curious, she glanced back at the lone remaining gentleman. The man locked eyes with her, gave a charming smile, and shrugged his shoulders. When she somewhat timidly returned his smile, he rose, straightened the overturned chair, and then picked up his drink before leisurely heading her way.

“May I sit for a bit, señorita? I fear my friend has unexpectedly left me all alone, and I find myself in need of companionship,” he flashed a charming smile and not waiting for her answer, he took a seat at her table.

Mariposa was surprised yet again by the man’s boldness but did not wish to rouse a scene. “Sí,” she reluctantly agreed but then quickly added, “Please know, however, my date will arrive very soon, señor.”

“He’s a lucky man - your date, my dear,” the tall, slender man said as he settled himself more comfortably. “By the way, the name's Scott,” he said with a brilliant smile. Mariposa was sure such a handsome face and charming smile had impressed many a woman wherever this man traveled.

“Buenas noches, Scott. My name is Mariposa,” she said, introducing herself.

“So, Mariposa, are you waiting for your sweetheart - tu novio?” he asked. It was obvious from the man’s voice he was American.

“Oh, no – I mean sí!” Mariposa blushed as she answered him with a shy smile. “But this will be our first date, señor.”

Silence reigned for a long moment as the man seated before her returned her gaze, as though studying every nuance or look in her dark eyes. In the background, lovely strains of a Spanish guitar filled the air, enhancing the silence of the moment and the next words the man spoke.

With exerted concentration, the handsome gentleman began, “Ah, but el amor is so very splendid and beautiful when it’s young, is it not, Mariposa? Even still, as time passes, it so often becomes such a damning element that leads our lives.” His glorious smile dimmed. “I should know, you see,” he added as he held, holding up his left hand so she could see the ring, which indicated he was married. He shook his head and pushed loose strands of falling blonde hair back. “At best, you can’t live with love, and you can’t bear to live without it either.” His handsome smile returned, albeit a bit ruefully, with the last declaration.

Mariposa was uncertain how to respond. Who was this American and why did he have such a dismal view of love? El amor or love was a wonderfully captivating emotion. More so, why was this man inclined to share his personal, sad reflection of love with her? It was obvious he’d drunk far too much. Mariposa surmised such was most likely the reason he and his friend had argued. Mayhap it was a subject of love about which they had argued.

“Señor,” she began, but the man immediately held up his hand, interrupting.

“Please, I insist you call me Scott, my dear,” he said, his blue eyes entreating in his supplication.

“Scott,” she said hesitantly. “Perhaps you’ve had a bit too much to drink.” Mariposa looked around the room nervously, as though she were doing something illegal. “Isn’t this drink… this absinthe…era muy mala, sí, Señor” Mariposa whispered as she pointed at the milky, green drink on the table in front of him, indicating the drink was very bad for any who drank of it. She would never dare to drink of the dangerous, green drink.

Scott rose his glass, staring in wonder at the green drink it held. “But my sweet, young señorita, did you not know such intense and glorious pleasures are derived from the depths of the dangerous and the forbidden?”

Mariposa blushed at his words and quickly changed the subject. “Where is your wife tonight, señor…Scott?” she corrected herself.

The man gave another rueful smile. “I fear she finds her glorious pleasures in the forbidden as well, but unfortunately, just not with me,” he sighed. Mariposa felt it embodied an immeasurable depth of regret and unrequited love. Scott continued, “Alas, my wife has scampered off in an unknown direction with her friends in hopes of more exciting times. She grows weary of intense, heated discussions betwixt my friend and I - as you have just witnessed.”

“I see,” Mariposa said, genuinely feeling compassion for this man and his misfortunes in friendship and love.

“But do you, Mariposa? Do you really, really see?” Scott asked, watching her and awaiting an answer.

Not sure how to respond, Mariposa once again steered the conversation in a new direction. “Why are you in Tarragona, Scott? You’re not from here, but do you work here?” she asked.

“Si, Tarragona is a lovely city, its sea so inspiring and relaxing. I am visiting my dearest friend while attempting to write my novel, my dear – at least on good days. On bad days, like today, I drink more than I should and also argue more than I should with my friend." He laughed before taking a drink of absinthe again before continuing. "I suppose one could say that I tend to drink - and argue – all too frequently.”

“Oh! You are a writer! ¡Que interesante! It must be so interesting to be a writer. Por favor…..please tell me what your novel is about.” Mariposa was genuinely interested.

Scott smiled his beautiful smile and nonchalantly leaned back, obviously pleased by her keen interest. “Well, should I tell you, my sweet? It’s a topic we’ve discussed this very night and about which I’ve argued with my best friend. You see, I love writing about love. Do you not find it ironic, considering the poor view of el amor I’ve been painting?”

Mariposa nodded. Indeed, she did find it ironic. How strange such a man – with such a disparaging view of love - would choose to write books about it. Then again, el amor was a wonderful topic, discussed by many scholars and artists throughout the years.

“Please allow me to explain a bit, my pretty Spanish butterfly,” Scott said, his elbow casually propped across the table as he stared intently at Mariposa. “I write about el amor, my dear, because I cannot help but do so. I fear I am a hopeless romantic who refuses to give up on achieving love’s wondrous bounties in my life.” He relaxed in the chair as he drank from his drink again before continuing. “I have a prevailing need to know and understand love, to have it fill me to the depths of my being. I crave love with a passion, with an intense need extending beyond food.” He picked up his nearly empty glass and waved it in the air. “And believe it or not, sweet Mariposa, I crave el amor more than I crave even this foolish poison.”

Scott emptied his remaining drink before adding, “Hope for such things springs eternal, does it not?”

Before Mariposa could respond, however, he rose, declaring it was time for yet another drink before making his way to the bar. She watched as he ordered another glass of absinthe, wondering how much he could actually drink before he succumbed to the heavy drink’s effect. While Scott lingered at the bar, Santiago entered the café, immediately finding and joining Mariposa at her table.

Mariposa rose, sweetly kissing Santiago’s cheek. The smile she gave assured him she was pleased beyond measure to see him.

“I am so sorry I’m late, querida. I was detained at work,” Santiago said.

Mariposa smiled. “No es una problema. It is not a problem - you are here now, and I am so happy to see you, Santiago.”

The two were so focused on each other they failed to see Scott approach the table. Pausing, he interrupted the two, taking a moment to introduce himself to Mariposa’s newly arrived date. In his hand, he held a fresh drink of absinthe.

“I see tu novio – or rather, your amigo or your friend - has arrived,” Scott said, giving Santiago a smile and extending his hand in greeting.

“I fear my companion left unexpectedly, and since I was a bit lonely, señor, I insisted Mariposa keep me company until you arrived. We enjoyed a very interesting conversation on the question of love. I may very well have bored her with my recitations and earnest opinions.” Scott laughed with his words.

Santiago’s brow rose in surprise, but nonplussed, Scott continued. “I shared my secrets with your lovely Mariposa for you see, I am a hopeless romantic. I truly believe el amor will win the day for all. Do you not agree, señor?" But Scott didn't await Santiago's response. "Ah, I can see from the way you look at this delicate and beautiful Spanish butterfly, this may well be true.” Suddenly, Scott gave a gracious bow and with the utmost sincerity, he added, “I pray el amor will triumph in your lives for it is most easy to discern it’s already an eager bud on the precipice of a full and beautiful blossom.”

Just like that, as suddenly as he had appeared at their table, Scott was gone, heading back to his own table. The friend with whom he’d argued earlier had returned and waited for Scott to rejoin him. As Scott neared the table, his friend rose. The two men hugged and laughed as they patted each other's back. Resuming their seats, they began another intense conversation.

Mariposa nervously turned to Santiago. The look on his face was not what she had expected. Instead of anger or even irritation, Santiago watched in her in wide-eyed amazement.

“Santiago, por favor,” she began. “Please. I did not know how to tell him to leave after he sat at my table. He began to talk about such serious things like love, and I found him to be such a sad man, always hoping and searching for love.”

Santiago continued to stare in disbelief. “Mariposa, do you not know who that señor is?” he asked, clearly amazed Mariposa appeared none the wiser.

“No,” she shrugged. “He said his name is Scott, and I know he’s an American, but…...”

“Querida, he is none other than the famous American writer, F. Scott Fitzgerald – and, he’s now sitting with Ernest Hemingway, another famous American writer. The two are well known throughout Tarragona for their carousing ways and heated conversations. They drink nothing but absinthe and champagne all day and night – or so the story goes,” Santiago said as he eyed the two men with open curiosity.

“F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway? No, I do not know who they are, but Scott did say he is a writer.” Mariposa watched the two men seated across the room, a new view of Scott taking root. She needed to buy one of his books just to see how he wrote about el amor. She may be wrong, but she was sure his writing would prove to be encantador - or ever so lovely.

Mariposa glanced at Santiago and with conviction, she said, “Famous American writer or no, I’d much rather be sitting here with you, Santiago. Together we will enjoy beautiful night.”

Santiago picked up Mariposa's hand and kissed it sweetly. “And I would rather be with you, querida. Still,” his brows rose as he added, “not just anyone can say that they met F. Scott Fitzgerald and discussed love on their very first date! Maybe you should write about this famous encounter, Mariposa.”

“No, I don’t think so. I will leave the writing to the two experts,” she said. The couple laughed as they began their first night of many shared nights ahead.

As though borne from a moment of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s most profoundly prophetic words, a lifetime of deep, abiding love and long years together was in the stars for Mariposa and Santiago. And who can really say for sure? Perhaps it was all because of one hopeless romantic’s words, spoken on a fateful night so long ago, this couple’s love triumphed to such beautiful heights precisely as predicted. Regardless, there is little to no doubt F. Scott Fitzgerald would have been immensely pleased, even though a wee bit envious, too, of the love discovered by these two over the course of long lives spent as one.

*“They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.”

― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise*

Cynthia Calder, 11.22.24

Hiraeth. The home that I need. The home that is supposed to be safe. A home I can only find in my head, a place I cannot go but I want desperately. Some place, where I can never be, what I can never see, what I will never smell, Unfelt, and forever away. A home that isn't even a home.

Nostalgia. I yearning so deep in my soul, it hurts. A curse forever embedded. The smell of blood that brings back horrors. The smell of cologne or perfume that makes you want to cry. The old scents of books, the worlds we can never relive or have. The sound of shoes squeaking, remembering when they would have ran to me, but now they cannot.

Hope. Something that I cannot get rid of. There will always be a flicker, but hope means it's not there. You hope he would be yours. You hope they will live through it. Hope, a new torcher of it's own because it gives you something to hold onto tightly just to rip it away in the most painful way.

Might. He might have lived. They might have made it. A place where there could have ended differently. Might. A word that means there could have been a different outcome, meaning that it's coming out as a blame on one person. They might have made it if only, only I had done something different.

Forgotten. To never have another person whisper to you, or hold you. To come to a home that no longer remembers anything when you remember. The pain of realizing you were never important enough to be remembered.

Wished. I wished it was different. A wish is made when there is only hope, no logical sense or real chance. A wish that cannot come true, because wishes don't exist.

God. The only person who has watched over every death, held all of the human kind. The only person who mourns the loss of every life because they saw all. They knew all, they met all, they were all. And still there can be no stop to death.

Almost. They were almost there, he almost lived, I almost saved it. It almost finished. He was almost born. She was almost redeemed. He was almost forgiven. She was almost loved. He was almost not alone.

Last. Alone, desolate. Broken, but moving on because they are the last. The dwindling fear, the hope that last did not just mean one. A lonely number, a lonely status. She was the last to see them. It was the last sunrise. The last chance. The last life. The last piece.

Tara watches the steam rise from her coffee in precise helical patterns, the way heat always dissipates in accordance with the second law of thermodynamics. She thinks about entropy, how all systems tend toward disorder, how even the careful structures built of love and shared mornings begin to dissolve. James is saying something about needing to talk, his voice carrying that familiar frequency she has learned to recognize, the one that signals emotional turbulence barely concealed by forced calm. The afternoon light through the kitchen window catches the dancing dust between them, suspended in Brownian motion, random and purposeless like the words forming between his pauses.

He says he’s been thinking, and she already feels the framework of their life together starting to fracture. She notices the micro-expressions she once memorized: the subtle twitch in his left eye, the unconscious movements of his hands that betray the effort behind his measured tone. She wants to tell him about quantum entanglement, how two particles remain connected across any distance once they’ve interacted, how they affect each other in ways that defy logic and laws. Maybe if she could explain this, he would understand what it means to try to untangle two lives so deeply intertwined. Instead, she says she knows, because she does. She has known in the quiet, cellular way that bodies know when to change, to divide, to surrender.

The silence between them grows like a living thing, filling the space with its presence. She observes how their breathing no longer syncs, how the rhythm of shared sleep and shared life has fractured into jagged, mismatched patterns. He is explaining about growing apart, about wanting different things, about how love sometimes isn’t enough. The words feel both too simple and too heavy, like trying to map a fractal with straight lines, and she begins to catalog the physicality of pain. Elevated heart rate. Constricted throat. Cortisol and adrenaline spilling into her bloodstream as if preparing her for a battle that isn’t there.

She thinks about binding energy, about how even the strongest atomic bonds can be broken with sufficient force, about how matter cannot be destroyed but only transformed. She wonders what they will become, these two people who have shared a bed and a bathroom, the easy intimacy of familiar routines. She says maybe he’s right, because the scientific method demands she follow the evidence, even when it leads to failure, even when it breaks apart hypotheses that once felt unshakable.

The space between them stretches, expands, an invisible force pulling them apart like galaxies adrift in an accelerating universe. She watches him collect his keys and wallet, small acts of departure rendered monumental in their finality. She thinks about conservation, how nothing is truly lost but only changes form, but the thought feels hollow. When he pauses at the door, she sees him suspended in a moment of wave-particle duality, leaving and not leaving, until the act of observation collapses the uncertainty into fact. He leaves.

She sits alone in the kitchen—her kitchen now—and watches the steam rise from her coffee in precise helical patterns, dissipating into the air as heat always does. She thinks about entropy, about how all systems tend toward disorder, about the inevitable unraveling of even the most careful designs.

She traces the familiar path of his vertebrae—thirty-three notches of bone she's memorized like prayer beads, like stations of the cross. Each touch an absolution neither of them deserves.

Time stretches. Contracts. Pools like candle wax in the hollow of his throat.

They don't speak because words would make it real, would crystallize this ending into something neither can take back. Instead: the whisper of sheets, the staccato rhythm of breath held too long and released too soon, the wet sound of mouths meeting and parting. Meeting and parting. Meeting and—

His hands remember things his mind wants to forget. The exact curve where hip meets thigh. That spot behind her left knee that makes her gasp, makes her arch like a bow string pulled taut. He's mapped her body in the dark so many times he could navigate it blind, could find true north in the constellation of freckles across her shoulder blades.

"Don't," she says when he tries to be gentle. Because gentle would break her. Because gentle would mean acknowledging what comes after.

The late afternoon light filters through gauzy curtains—the same curtains that have witnessed a hundred secret afternoons, a hundred stolen hours. Today the light feels different. Thinner. More precarious. Like it might shatter if they move too suddenly or breathe too deep.

He watches the shadows play across her skin and thinks about quantum physics—how light can be both particle and wave, how it can exist in two states simultaneously. Like them: both ending and eternal. Both here and already gone.

She bites his shoulder hard enough to leave marks that will fade before morning. Before he goes home to a different bed, a different life. Her nails dig crescents into his back—tiny bruised parentheses containing everything they've left unsaid.

The ceiling fan turns lazy circles above them. Around and around and—stop thinking. Stop. Just feel this: skin salt-slick with sweat, muscles trembling on the edge of release, the particular gravity of bodies falling into familiar patterns for the last time.

When it happens, it happens like this: a cascade of small surrenders. The way her breath catches. The way his hands tighten on her hips. The way time fractures and reforms around them. Like a wave breaking. Like a star collapsing. Like the end of all things.

After, they lie in the wreckage of what they've done—what they've been doing—bodies cooling in the artificial breeze. The space between them grows by microns, by millimeters, by miles. Already she can feel him receding, becoming memory.

She doesn't watch him dress. Doesn't watch him check his phone or straighten his tie or gather the scattered pieces of the life he's going back to. Instead she studies the ceiling, counting cracks in the plaster like rings in a tree—measuring time in concentric circles of regret.

At the door, he pauses. Opens his mouth. Closes it. What could words possibly add or subtract from this moment?

The click of the latch is so soft it's almost inaudible. Almost.

She lies there until the shadows lengthen and the day bleeds into dusk, until she can no longer smell him on her skin or feel the ghost-print of his hands on her body. Until she becomes singular again. Indivisible. Whole.

Or something like it.

For some people, dreams are nebulous nothings that disappear upon awakening, never to be remembered or discussed again. I have always had very vivid dreams. As I got older, my dreams began to encompass a full cast of characters and were so detailed I started writing them down so I could turn them into stories, or simply to remember the bizarre.

Sometimes I felt as if I truly lived only while I slept.

I often cry when I wake up.

Increasingly, dreams are the one place I feel safe and happy. Apparently, I am not alone in this sentiment given the overwhelming worldwide popularity of Lifesadream. Its first iteration years ago was as a virtual reality therapy program used to treat a variety of mental illnesses. Known as DreamTherapy, it incorporated positron emission tomography along with deep transcranial magnetic stimulation and a neuroelectro converter that transformed electric signals to images for review, aiding in more effective, targeted therapy. The success rate was nearly 100%, but even now the cost remains beyond the reach of most.

Subsequently, the makers of DreamTherapy modified it for use in the rehabilitation of criminals and enemies of the state (terrorists) with a program called NeuroRehab. Except in government usage, I doubt NeuroRehab will live beyond the experimental stages given the cost (executions cost pennies and the rise of penal labor camps has diminished interest in costly rehabilitation). Even so, to date, five serial killers, 13,012 rapists and 1,469 school shooters have been reintegrated into society as fully functional members thanks to NeuroRehab.

For some reason, none of those included from the enemy of the state group have survived the transcranial magnetic stimulation. I don't know why. They're still experimenting. Of course, there are plenty of subjects for testing, so I suspect it's only a matter of time before, one way or another, domestic discord is eliminated completely.

When DreamTherapy's proprietary technology patent expired, Lifesadream, a division of Neuralink, combined the existing technologies with an implantable neuronano chip that allows everyone to live in their dreams, or, for a more reasonable price, to relive their most precious memories over and over again.

Last year they introduced the neurocable and I've been trying to participate in the program ever since. Until the neurocable, you could only live in your own mind; but with the neurocable, two can exist in the mind of one.

After months of waiting, hoping and refreshing the waitlist page ad nauseum, three weeks ago I won the Lifesadream lottery. The waitlist has had millions of names since they first went live. So far, some one million people across the globe have entered Lifesadream facilities. In order to accommodate as many people as possible domestically, the U.S. government provided, at low cost to Neuralink, thousands of expropriated libraries and university campuses that had fallen into disuse.

As soon as I got the call, I quit my job and sold our house. Yesterday morning, I signed over power of attorney and our savings to the Lifesadream Foundation. They will use the money to maintain and care for my husband and I as we live out the remainder of our lives in my mind. My dreams. As I look at my husband sitting in his favorite chair, eyes vacant, I cannot wait.

**********

"Are you comfortable, Mrs. Pickering?"

It was evening. I was laying in a soft bed in a room that was probably a professor's office back in the day. The body suit in which they'd dressed me gently massaged my limbs. My husband was in the other bed, sleeping under a white comforter. There was an IV line in his arm, the bag hanging to the left of his bed. Mine was to my right. There were armchairs as well. We were surrounded by nurses and the surgeon we'd met that morning. A machine with various monitors stood between our beds, embedded in the wall and there was a desk with a chair and a monitor near the door. The windows were high up and I could see the sky was a pretty purple that would soon fade to black.

"Yes, thank you."

"Dr. Woburn..."

"Call me Maynard..."

"Dr. Woburn will be inserting the neuronano chip through the nasal cavity. It is painless and relatively quick. We'll start with Mr. Pickering and then we'll insert yours.

"Next, we'll attach the electromagnetic coils to both of you. We will wait until you fall asleep naturally since sedatives might affect your dreams, and then we will connect the neuro cable into the ports we placed above your ears this morning.

"Do you have any questions?"

"Do we ever wake up?"

She glanced at her tablet and said, "You have the lifetime package so we will keep you under until you die of natural causes. We will use the transcranial magnetic stimulator to maintain a state of infinite REM for both you and Mr. Pickering."

"What happens to people who don't have the lifetime package?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

"The package. Some choose the End of Life package in which case we put them under and then after 24 hours, we inject them with Pentobarbital. Some, like you, choose the Lifetime package and we keep them until they pass. Some with a partner choose the Until Death Do Us Part package in which case we keep them under until one dies and then awaken the other who can then decide whether to go back under with an end of life package or go home. Depends on the desire and the available funds, of course.

"Some choose the Memory Lane package and run a series of isolated memories for a set period determined by price. At the end of that period they are awakened and go back to their lives. It's a kind of vacation for some people. It's a great stress reliever. I do it once a month."

"If he dies first, will I still dream with him?"

"That is unclear at this time, but it is possible."

"What have others said?"

"At this time, all our clients making use of the neurocable are still in a joint state of REM."

"There haven't been any deaths?"

The nurses exchanged a glance. "At this time, all our clients remain in a state of REM, either alone or with a partner."

"What happens if I die first?"

"As stated in the contract, if the dominant party predeceases the partner, the partner will be removed to our hospice facilities and kept comfortable until their passing."

"What if he dies first?"

"He will be cremated and buried with you upon your expiration."

"So, this is it. I won't see you or this room again?"

"All things being equal, no."

"Okay." I took a deep breath. "Thank you for all you are doing and will do for us. The world had gotten almost unbearable for us. For me. It was so bad I looked forward to sleeping every night as a short escape. I can't believe we can actually, truly live happily ever after now. It's a dream come true. Literally." I laughed. The nurses smiled.

"Are you ready, Mrs. Pickering?"

I looked over at my husband of 42 years.

"Yes."

**********

"Baby?"

As I slowly awakened, I felt my husband's arms around me, his body strong and warm. I opened my eyes, "Eddie?"

"Morning, baby," he said, kissing me softly. "You wouldn't believe the dream I had. I swear I was dreaming our whole life all night."

"Really?" I said, running a hand through hair that was thick, curly and brown.

"Yeah, it was wild. We had a kid, I started my own business, you taught physics for 30 years and then retired to take care of me because I got early onset Alzheimer's. It was a nightmare! I was so glad when I woke up this morning and it was all just a dream."

Looking into his eyes, I smile. "Me too, my love," I leaned up to kiss him. "Me, too."

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.

Darkness comes and goes. But the light of the world will remain even when you can't see it. No matter how dark it gets, the smallest pinprick of light can become a beacon for us all. It's so hard for me to remember that sometimes.

That's why I write, why all my characters are so broken. Because I am too, and I just want us all to figure it out together. Not how to fix ourselves, but to realize that there's nothing to be fixed.

Sometimes it takes me a long while to remember that the only thing that eclipses my hatred for humanity, is my love for it. The hands that reach out through their own darkness to push others to the light. The ones with little who give everything. The ones that even when drowning in dread still crack a joke to keep us laughing so we can finally take a break from crying.

I think everyday about killing myself. I have to be honest about that. But beyond that, even in my most lucid moments when I can break free from the cage long enough to take a breath, I find myself filled with apathy for my own life. Something that I know many of us feel.

I urge both the soul of the shell writing this and any who read it to remember the light, your light, may seem like a candle in the wind to you. But it's a bonfire to me.

My sweet Coco was much like a feline deity, born from ancient days of Egyptian glory. His beauty, elegance, and massive ability to love surpassed boundaries, leaving their mark in a connection beyond the norm. I always swore he was smarter than any human I knew. Somehow, he could convey his needs and thoughts in a telepathic way that amazed even me. Coco and I had a deal: whoever went first needed to return and visit the other. He has remained true in this promise, visiting in my dreams when least expected. Needless to say, the reunions are achingly bittersweet.