From 50 million miles away it more resembles a clear, LED light bulb plugged in amongst strings of yellowish, incandescent ones than it does a blue planet, but that clear tint is unique in the night sky, and therefore beautiful. The eye is drawn to it, and lingers upon it wistfully, as a moth does a flame. The light looks inviting to an alien creature. Alien creatures desire a place to call home above all else. I know this, because I am now an alien. No wonder then that human life somehow found its way to that light so many millions of years ago. You would bend to pick up a golden rock at your feet, and you would strive to reach a silver light in the darkness. It is impossible to look up at Earth from this distance without gasping, as you would gasp if the rug of life were suddenly pulled out from under your feet.

From our module on Mars the night sky is astonishingly brilliant. There is little in the way of atmosphere to distort the strange constellations that are visible from this different site angle, nor are there city lights to degrade their brilliance, only the tritium reds and greens glowing from the monitors and guages of the many consoles inside the module.

High overhead, much higher than Earth’s golden, dream-stirring moon, a weak Martian moon blushes pale pink, like candlelight seen through cotton candy. Soon will come another moon, this one smaller and much closer than Earth’s. This one is frighteningly close as it trails by at a discernible, unlunar-like speed. This moon is not round, but is only “roundish.” It was clearly once a meteorite that is now as trapped as we are inside the tub-drain vortex of Mars’ gravitational pull. This moon is so close that you can distinguish it‘s bulges, and it’s crags without the aid of a glass as it snail crawls past you three times a day.

The nighttime landscape seen through the pinkish moonlight is the same as the daytime landscape in that it is desert-like, and barren. Somehow, even at night, there is the rusted, pinkish tint to go with the metallic odor that poisons the air, and the iron ore flavor that bites at your tongue, even in the recycled oxygen of the module.

In our bunk my partner sleeps. She is not whom I would have chosen, but she is my partner, and she is a good, sensible one. I am likely not the one she would have chosen either, but we have, over these two years, travelled together, feared together, worked together, cried together, and now we have also loved together, as the scientists said that we would. Those scientists seem to know everything, except what might come next. Should we ever get back to Earth, I wonder if she and I would part? Is it love we feel toward one another, or is it need? Does it even matter? Regardless, I am happy to have her, as she is a woman, and she makes it feel like love.

She wakes, and climbs up beside me. Together we watch the Earth glow among the lesser stars as we think our thoughts. Ours are different thoughts, surely, but also the same... as we are both humans, and alone, but we are at least alone together.

It’s been twenty-four months since the lottery. It’s been twenty-four months since the destruction of Tokyo. And it’s been twenty-four months since I last saw you.

You were left behind. I made the cut. You didn’t.

We all saw it coming. The threat of nuclear fallout had been looming over us for decades. Hiroshima. Nagasaki. We all know how that story goes. Nuclear weapons were suddenly in the public eye, and military groups scrambled to perfect them.

After creating the world’s most powerful nuclear bomb, years before we were born, a group known as the Renovators announced their intentions: to eradicate the world’s largest cities. Soon, they would rebuild the world how it was intended to be.

Filtered. Uncontaminated. Pure.

Those who just wanted to save their hides fled to designated regions of the world, where the Renovators put them to work. For people with a conscience, there was nowhere to go.

They started with Beijing. The city was dying anyway- overpopulation had taken a toll. Plague, famine, pollution. It was only a matter of time. The bomb put them out of their misery, really.

Delhi was a shame. Full of millionaires and billionaires, their legacies obliterated in the blink of an eye. Not to mention the immense casualties.

Cairo shook everyone. It was before we were born, but my grandfather told me about the day he heard the news. They say there used to be pyramids, built thousands of years ago. Some thought they were built by aliens, but I know better. There are no aliens in space. There’s nothing but a hollow emptiness that sucks your soul out in its gaping maw.

Mumbai was destroyed the year we were born. Would that be thirty years ago already? I’ve lost track of time. It seems to pass differently up here, suspended among the stars and dust and broken dreams.

I remember the destruction of São Paulo. They broadcast it live on the screens, straight into our homes. It was exhilarating in a horrifying sort of way until they showed the bodies. Strewn about, twisted, charred; they were no longer recognizable as human. I’d spent the better half of the evening losing my dinner over the bathroom toilet.

Shanghai was destroyed the following summer. Bombings were getting closer and closer together, the stakes were growing higher, but the news no longer surprised us. Another city reduced to rubble, another memorial to the millions of people murdered. They burned down the memorials anyway.

Mexico City came and went in the blink of an eye. Hardly got any news coverage. Partially because the Dictator couldn’t give less of a shit about them, but partially because of how close it was- they didn’t want to risk panic. The nukes were approaching, and it would only be a moment before they came to the United States.

Then New York City. We’d all expected it, but it didn’t make it any less terrifying. Dropped the bombs straight on Times Square. It was a beautiful place, full of lights and life and buildings that scraped against the sky itself. But it doesn’t look like that anymore. I remember hunkering down in the basement with you as we listened to the transistor radio- a relic, really. It was the first time I’d felt the panic. They were so close, and there was nothing we could do about it.

Tokyo was the last to fall. Or so we thought. Slowly, but surely, the Renovators’ presence faded into the background. We knew we didn’t have long before they returned with a stronger plan. For those of us who refused to pledge our allegiance, Earth wasn’t safe anymore.

So as the Renovators schemed, we turned our sights to the stars.

It was meant to be a secret, but word got out before long. Rumblings and mutterings of a trip to space spread, rumors of a lottery that would save us all. So, naturally, when the project was announced, I entered my name.

I didn’t expect to win. Out of the billions of people that remained, why should my name be chosen? But it was.

And yours wasn’t.

I tried to reason with them. Tried to barter to bring you along. But they said no, and you said no. Live, you said. And keep on living. For me.

Twenty-four months ago, they came to our house. I pulled you close and breathed your floral scent. Tears wet my shirt and your shirt and for but a moment, there were no boundaries between us, nothing holding us back, just two bodies intertwined for what would be the last time.

And then I left you.

Twenty-one months ago, after three months of grueling training, I boarded one of the seven ships that would carry us into space. It was to be a staggered takeoff, with one week in between each launch, and I was on the first ship to leave. There were enough provisions for five people on each ship. Five people in seven ships, one on each of seven continents. Thirty-five people to survive.

Billions to die.

They called it a lottery, but it wasn’t. They’d picked us for a reason. We were the healthy ones, the mentally sound ones, the young ones, the spry ones, the clever ones. Left behind were the weak ones, the elderly ones, the disabled ones, the ill ones, the injured ones, the children, the parents, and the rest of the world.

And we were going to create a new life. A new generation. A new world. Mars awaited us, ready to be shaped by human touch.

I was ready.

The crew was interesting, to say the least. We’d grown close over the two-year journey; as close as you could grow when you spoke different languages. But they never could have replaced you.

My first crewmate Harin was from Greenland, and they’d left their life as a pharmaceutical tech behind. They’d lived alone, with only their dog for company. They thought they were inconspicuous, but I often caught them with tears in their eyes whenever they mentioned that dog. I never worked up the courage to ask what had become of it.

Alejandra had lived in Mexico City as a child, but her parents had smuggled her into the United States before their home was destroyed. Her mother had escaped with her, but her father had stayed behind in the city. He died along with it. She’d had to say goodbye to her mother before leaving on the trip.

Yaniel was from Cuba, a country not unfamiliar with nuclear weapons. Born into poverty, he and his younger brother had lived on the streets. He often wondered aloud how his brother was doing without him.

Last but not least, Maddox was Canadian, and she’d been one of the engineers who worked on both the biosphere and the ships. The scientists had sent one up with each of us. She was a truly brilliant mind, and the only one keeping us sane.

God, it was a horrid trip. Pissing in bags and then drinking it, eating nothing but dehydrated dust that they called food, cramped in tight quarters in a giant metal bullet that split through the sky. Spending twenty-one months with four other people in a room the size of a broom closet is the definition of hell.

But we were the strong ones. We could survive anything.

Right?

Hours turned into days turned into weeks turned into months turned into nearly two years before we’d entered Mars’s atmosphere.

And now it’s been one week since we landed on Mars. It’s been one week since I stepped foot into the biodome. It’s been one week since they threw me into this room.

There are no windows. Only a solid titanium door, locked from the outside. Me. My suit. The chair. The sounds of my breath. The screen. The clock.

And the button.

It’s mounted to the wall in front of where I’m strapped into the chair. Small, blue, inconspicuous.

They’ve explained to me over and over what the button will do.

My companions’ screams tear through the insulated walls. That means they haven’t given in either. Yet.

But it’s over.

Because while the Renovators were silent, they’d been devising a plan.

A plan to go to Mars.

A plan to cultivate the best specimens from Earth, to test them, to grow and repopulate, and eventually take us back when the weaklings on Earth were gone.

And we had fallen for it.

Maddox comes into my room sometimes. She shows me your battered face upon the screen. Sometimes you say my name in your fevered sleep. It leaves a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. Or maybe that’s just the blood.

They’re killing you.

She says I have a choice. If I push the button, they’ll spare you. They’ll bring you here.

If I push the button, the bombs go off.

The bombs will go off anyway, she says. Points at the clock on the wall. It’s steadily ticking down. Now, it reads 00:34:02. Thirty-four minutes until the bombs detonate. Thirty-four minutes until the entirety of Earth is destroyed.

00:31:39

This is the seventh time she’s done this; the seventh time she’s given me this speech. The clock started at 168 hours. Now, we’re down to half an hour.

00:30:02

The second ship was supposed to arrive today. I hope they’re treated better than us- after all, they won’t have any family members to use as leverage. The world will be dead.

00:28:45

Maddox says you sit in a cell in their facility, not unlike the one I’m in. She says the ships are ready. She says the button is on a delay. She says there will be enough time to evacuate you from the planet before the bombs go off.

00:26:22

She says I’ll see you again.

00:25:47

The world’s blowing up anyway. There’s nothing I can do about it. If I don’t press the button, you die along with it.

00:24:36

If I press the button, you are saved. But I will be the one responsible for the world’s destruction.

00:22:11

I can guess who’s on my companions’ screens. Harin’s dog. Alejandra’s mother. Yaniel’s brother.

00:20:19

Only one of us can press the button. If I press it, I kill them all. If they press it, they kill you. It’s a cruel test, a test to discover the strongest among us.

00:16:33

Are you strong? Maddox asks me. Or are you weak?

00:13:24

I wish she would shut up.

00:10:52

Are you strong? Or are you weak?

00:09:49

I miss you.

00:08:25

Strong? Or weak?

00:07:33

Your face flashes in my mind. Your honeycomb skin, the sparkle in your eyes, the smile

dancing across your lips.

00:06:57

What are you?

00:05:22

That same face is now bruised. Bloodied. Missing teeth. Fingernails ripped from your

hands. Sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. A skeleton of your former self.

00:04:43

Answer me.

00:03:19

For you, I am weak.

00:02:54

You told me to live for you.

00:01:35

But I cannot live without you.

00:00:10

I press the button.

In which Princess Sarah declares her One True Love to her mother the queen, displays her skill in swordplay to a Group of Passing Nuns, and meets a Wayward Wizard.

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far, away, there lived a princess named Sarah. Princess Sarah, like every princess, was rapturously beautiful and endlessly kind and sweet. But unlike every princess, Princess Sarah did not enjoy the endless balls. It wasn’t that she disliked dancing or wearing lovely dresses, but she found that she deeply disliked being paraded in front of people and disliked even more knowing that they were talking about her. When in a large crowd, Princess Sarah liked best to look at any of them at little as possible. For example, when our story began, Princess Sarah was currently in a Very Important State Meeting with her mother the queen, paying very little attention to what anyone was saying, and paying a great deal of attention to her drawing.

“It is time for us to consider potential suitors for our daughter the princess,” announced Queen Elaine.

Princess Sarah stopped sketching in her notebook and looked up at her mother and the councilors. “What?” she said.

“My dear princess, you must pay attention,” simpered Princess Sarah’s least favorite councilor, Lord Dorin. “The queen has been speaking of the future of the kingdom.”

“It may not come to pass for a few years yet,” continued the queen, “but we must begin to look for suitable future kings.”

“Or maybe not,” muttered Princess Sarah, returning to her drawing of the room and its inhabitants.

“What was that, princess?” asked her mother, her voice dangerously calm.

Princess Sarah straightened up in her chair.

“I will never marry, Mother,” she declared dramatically. “For I have only One True Love!”

One of the councilors (the skinny one that Sarah had secretly drawn as a broom in her sketch) gasped loudly. “How romantic,” he whispered to the person next to him (Councilor with a Moustache #1).

“And who, pray tell,” continued the queen icily, “is your One True Love?”

“My One True Love,” responded Princess Sarah, “is….is….”

“No doubt it’s Prince Michael, I heard all the young ladies are head over heels for him,” whispered Councilor with a Moustache #4 to his neighbor.

“Certainly not,” said Princess Sarah, insulted. “My One True Love…is Orienne.”

“Orienne!” sighed the Broom Councilor dramatically.

“Isn’t Orienne the name of the princess’ pet dragon?” murmured Lady Jetta (Princess Sarah’s favorite councilor and by far the one she was most afraid of).

“Orienne is indeed a dragon,” cut in the queen smoothly. “My dear princess, everyone’s One True Love is of course their pet, but I speak of the good of the kingdom-“

“As do I!” declared Princess Sarah. “I cannot possibly think of marriage until I can be assured of Orienne’s eternal happiness.”

“Nevertheless,” continued the queen. “We will begin to review suitors for the princess.”

~~~

Princess Sarah slumped into her favorite chair in her chambers, the one that her lady-in-waiting Leah sat in while she embroidered. Every time Leah finished with a color of thread, she would simply knot that thread into the fabric of the chair so that she didn’t lose the thread, but then she tended to just leave the loose threads there instead of retrieving them later, so the chair now rather resembled a colorful stringy beast.

“What’s wrong?” Lady Leah inquired.

“My mother’s such a-“

“Turpentine,” interrupted Leah.

“What?” said Sarah, confused.

“A princess must never use Unsavory Language, especially against the Rulers of the Realm, and particularly when that Ruler happens to be One’s Own Mother,” recited Lady Leah. “Remember? The etiquette lesson yesterday?”

“Oh yes,” said Princess Sarah. “Well then, my mother is such a…turpentine. And a complete Arsenic too!”

“Ooh, that one’s a little poisonous,” commented Lady Leah.

“Leah,” declared Princess Sarah, “fetch me my sword. I feel like defeating a few tyrants today.”

~~~

Once she was appropriately attired in her fighting costume (which consisted, unfortunately, of too-big colorful trousers stolen from a troubadour, her most sensible slippers, and a worn-out tunic found abandoned outside a tavern) and had her many long braids and curls safely tucked away into a turban fashioned by Lady Leah’s skillful hands, Princess Sarah was ready to depart the castle. Secretly, of course. She leaned out the window.

“Orienne!” she called. “Orienne!”

A small green dragon lazily flapped up to the window.

“Yes?” it inquired.

“I desire to- “

“Slay tyrants, yes, I know,” yawned Orienne. The tiny dragon gingerly took the back of Princess Sarah’s collar in her teeth and carried her safely down to the courtyard below, then returned to fetch Lady Leah down the same manner.

(For those of you doubting the ability of a dragon only the size of Princess Sarah’s hand to be able to bear her entire body weight, you have obviously not done your research. Dragons are very strong and can carry more than one hundred times their own body weight. Consider reading Eccolman’s Treatise on the Properties of Dragons and Other Magical Creatures to educate yourself.)

“I think I shall stay home this time,” remarked Orienne to herself.

“Oh no you don’t,” said Princess Sarah. “I need your dragonsmist to disguise me! Otherwise someone will recognize me and my mother will find out and that would be the End of My Life.”

“Seems a bit dramatic,” murmured Lady Leah.

“Fine, fine,” yawned Orienne. “But I’m not flying to wherever you’re finding tyrants this time. I’m going to sleep on that bear’s back.”

“Bear?” questioned Leah and Sarah simultaneously. They looked over at the entrance to the courtyard, and sure enough, a large black bear was ambling through, preceded by various servants and courtiers fleeing left and right with periodic screams.

“Not again!” groaned Leah.

“Really,” said Princess Sarah, “you should never have let that troubadour experiment on your dog, Leah.”

“He’s an alchemist,” snapped Leah.

“Perhaps,” inserted Orienne, “but alchemists turn things into gold, and this one turns dogs into bears.”

“And not even consistently,” added Sarah.

“He’s trying,” grunted Leah, as she tugged on the bear’s massive neck. “Come on, Zwingli. At least try to turn back into a dog.” Completely unconcerned, Zwingli licked his mistress’ face with his massive bear tongue and ambled away. Orienne flew over and alit on his back, curling into a small coil of green scales.

“Well then,” said Princess Sarah, “He seems to have some idea where he’s going, so let’s follow.”

“I’m going to kill that alchemist,” muttered Leah to herself, trudging after Princess Sarah, Orienne, and Zwingli.

~~~

Orienne lifted her head, gave her wings a few sleepy flaps, and looked around. Zwingli had changed from a large black bear into a middling sized black dog, but other than that the landscape appeared to be the same idyllic countryside as it had been two hours ago. “Well, it seems that no tyrants are out tyrannizing today, so what say we go home?”

“To what, nap some more?” said Princess Sarah crossly. “That’s all you’ve been doing.”

“I conserve my energy,” said Orienne loftily. “You’ve no idea how much energy it takes to project a dragonsmist.

“Yes, but you haven’t been projecting dragonsmist at all,” argued Sarah. “All you’ve been doing is napping, all day, just like you do-“

“Shhh,” hissed Leah. “Someone’s coming.”

Around a bend in the road a group of people began to appear. Orienne hastily threw a dragonsmist over Princess Sarah, ensuring that whoever it was wouldn’t recognize her as her royal self. Sarah drew her sword, readying for battle. The Potential Tyrants came into view.

“Nuns,” groaned Princess Sarah. “They’re all nuns.”

“Tyrannical nuns!” laughed Orienne, rolling around on Zwingli’s back. “Watch out, they might baptize you while you’re not looking!”

“Shut up, Orienne,” Sarah muttered, sheathing her sword.

“Oh, kind ladies!” cried one of the younger nuns. “Would you lend us your aid? We are quite lost.”

“Where are you trying to get to?” asked Leah promptly.

“Millston,” answered an older nun with an oddly purplish face.

“Eleven miles further down this same road,” said Princess Sarah impatiently.

“Thank you, young lady, although I could do without that tone,” said the Purplish Nun sternly. “What’s that sword for? Are you carrying it for your brother?”

Princess Sarah straightened up. “No,” she said proudly. “I am a skilled swordswoman. My express purpose in coming out today was to fight tyrants.”

“You ought to fight Sister Wendell then,” whispered a very short nun to the much taller nun next to her.

“What?” asked the tall nun.

“I don’t fight nuns,” said Princess Sarah scornfully.

“I heard that,” said the Purplish Nun (or, as we now realize her rightful name is, Sister Wendell). “And you are quite right not to fight a holy woman. It would be against God’s express word-“

“When did God say that?” interrupted Leah.

“What?” asked Sister Wendell.

“When did God say, ’Don’t fight nuns? I don’t recall ever hearing a sermon preached on-“

“Stand and deliver,” said a sudden voice from behind them. The nuns gasped, and the Taller Nun fainted (unfortunately on top of the Very Short Nun, who, unable to balance her weight, crumpled in a heap of habits).

“A highwayman! Perfect!” cried Sarah, spinning around and drawing her sword.

Standing in the road was a Dashing Highwayman with drawn sword, a Lesser Accomplice lurking in the background, and a disgruntled looking old man bound in ropes.

“Oh,” said the Dashing Highwayman, looking uncertain. “Usually when I say that people just stand and deliver.”

“Not I,” said Princess Sarah. “I have come to fight tyrants.”

“Ah,” said the Dashing Highwayman. “Well, that would be me, I suppose. On garde, then?”

Sarah raised her sword, and– disarmed the Dashing Highwayman in one blow.

“Gosh, you’re not very good, are you?” said Princess Sarah in surprise.

“Well, that’s mean,” grumbled the Dashing Highwayman. “It’s not as if I get a great deal of practice.”

“You ought to practice your craft more,” said Sarah severely. “You can hardly hope to be a good highwayman if you expect people to just stand and deliver and not put up any sort of fight.”

“Well, to be fair, he did think he was just robbing nuns today,” murmured Leah.

“Come on, pick up your sword,” said Princess Sarah.

“What?” said the Dashing Highwayman.

“What?!” shrieked the Group of Nuns (except of course for the Taller Nun, who was still quite unconscious, and the Very Short Nun, who had not managed to crawl out from under her).

“Pick up your sword,” repeated Sarah. “I’m going to give you a lesson in swordplay. Come on now, feet apart.”

The Dashing Highwayman hesitantly picked up his sword and got into position. “You know, I never did really want to be a Highwayman,” he stated. “It’s just the family business, you know. Someone’s got to do it.”

“And you do a marvelous job,” leered the Lesser Accomplice from the background.

“Shut up, Harold, you know I only let you tag along to keep an eye on that wizard,” growled the Dashing Highwayman, panting from the exertion of fending off Princess Sarah’s expert blows.

“He’s a wizard?” asked Sarah, disarming the Dashing Highwayman yet again.

“Yes,” stated the Dashing Highwayman, stooping to pick up his sword from the road. “I tried to rob him a few days ago, but he’s only got magical things that I don’t know how to use, and I’m afraid if I let him go now he’ll put some sort of awful spell on me.”

“Oh, for heavens’ sake!” cried Leah. “This is all ridiculous.” She turned to the wizard. “Do you promise not to bespell him if we untie you?” she asked.

“Yes,” gabbled the wizard. Sarah quickly cut his bonds.

“I was lying,” said the wizard smugly, and threw a yellowish powder all over the Dashing Highwayman, who sat down suddenly in a fit of coughing.

“What was that?” cried Leah. Sarah raised her sword at the wizard.

“Turmeric,” said the wizard. “But he’ll never be able to rob someone again! He’ll have to be quite honest, a perfect saint from now on!” he cackled.

“Oh, well that’s all right then, coughed the Dashing No-Longer-A-Highwayman. “So long as I have a good excuse.” His face began to turn quite red from the coughing.

“Have some water,” said Leah politely, pulling out a small leather bottle.

“Thank you,” he coughed, then drank deeply.

“But what am I to do?” moaned the Lesser Accomplice. “All I’m fit for is Accomplicing. I can’t possibly be a Highwayman on my own!”

“I will not let such a soul go astray,” said Sister Wendell soulfully. “You shall rob and steal no more. My dear sisters, here is where I leave you. The Lord has called me to minister to this poor soul. You must make your way to Millston without my expert guidance.”

“Yay!” a younger nun cheered briefly, muffled quickly by the Taller Nun, who had regained consciousness and helped her Very Short friend to her feet.

“We shall rely on the Lord, Sister Wendell,” intoned the Taller Nun. “God go with you.”

“And with you. Now, come, Harold, you are an Accomplice of the Lord now, and I must teach you your prayers.”

“I know my prayers,” leered the Lesser Accomplice, trotting eagerly after Sister Wendell. “Pater noster, qui es in…”

The Dashing No-Longer-A-Highwayman turned suddenly to the Group of Nuns. “I don’t suppose I could assist you?” he asked. “I know my way to Millston quite well, I’ve robbed its highways many times.”

“Well, yes, I suppose,” stammered the Taller Nun. “I suppose that would be helpful.”

“In fact,” said the Very Short Nun, thinking of the Taller Nun’s unfortunate fainting spells, “are you looking for a permanent position? We could use a bodyguard. You know, to defend us against highwaymen.”

“Sister Wendell says the Lord will do that…” said one of the youngest nuns uncertainly.

“And just look, the Lord provided us with a nice bodyguard who knows all about highwaymen. That is, if you’re willing, of course,” said the Very Short Nun, turning to the Dashing Now-a-Bodyguard.

“Yes, that would be lovely, thank you,” he said, smiling.

A shriek suddenly came from behind them, reminiscent of a forgotten teakettle.

“But what about ME?!” screeched the wizard.

Everyone stared blankly at him.

“What about you?” Princess Sarah finally said.

The wizard puffed himself up. “I am one of the last of the Wayward Wizards, great is my power, I who­–“

“Don’t you mean ‘wicked wizards’?” interrupted Leah.

“Certainly not!” shrieked the Wayward Wizard. “A Wicked Wizard is something decidedly different. I am a Wayward Wizard, and I have never in all my two hundred and fifty-seven years come across such blatant disrespect of my arts. First I am subjected to an attack by a second-rate Dashing Highwayman and his Lesser Accomplice, and then he has the nerve to enjoy my Terrible Curse?! I have never been so insulted in all my days!” The wizard began to pace angrily back and forth in the road. “I am enraged, I am flabbergasted, I am OUTRAGED!”

“Perhaps if you take some deep breaths,” ventured a Younger Nun timidly.

“DEEP BREATHS!” raged the Wayward Wizard. “DEEP BREATHS! I AM FINISHED!” He shoved a carved wooden box into Princess Sarah’s hands. “You take my wizard’s box, what do I care for the magical arts, I’ll simply go into early retirement, who cares what my sister says!”

Princess Sarah looked at the box, bemused. “Wizard’s box? Isn’t it supposed to be a wizard’s book?” she asked.

“BOOK! Hah!” fumed the Wayward Wizard. “That is positively, absolutely, and certainly the VERY LAST STRAW!” And with that, the wizard suddenly and completely disappeared. The sudden silence of it was so shocking that the Taller Nun fainted again, but fortunately the Dashing Bodyguard managed to catch her before she toppled back onto the Very Short Nun (much to the Very Short Nun’s relief).

“Well then,” said the Very Short Nun. “I supposed we had better be off.”

“But–“ said Princess Sarah.

“But what?” replied Leah.

“I– well, I haven’t delivered anyone from any tyrants yet. The Dashing Highwayman didn’t really count.”

“Oh, you delivered us from Sister Wendell though!” cried a Younger Nun.

“And you delivered me from my Tyrannical Fate of being a highwayman,” said the Dashing Bodyguard.

“And I daresay you delivered probably quite a lot of people from the future curses of a tyrannical Wayward Wizard,” remarked Leah.

“Well,” said Sarah dubiously. “I suppose that is enough delivering for one day, although I wish there had been more swordplay.”

“Thanks for the lessons, by the way,” said the Dashing Bodyguard.

“I see you’ve got a wizard’s box now,” observed Orienne, who had woken from her refreshing nap and was poking around in the box. “Maybe you’ll finally manage to do your own disguises for once.”

“Disguises?” asked the Dashing Bodyguard.

“Is that a dragon?” shrieked a Younger Nun.

“Has your dog always been a bear?” the Very Tall Nun asked, confused (and still groggy from her recent fainting spell).

Leah turned suddenly to Zwingli. “I really am going to kill that alchemist one day.”

And with Princess Sarah having learned that the Tyrant is not always the most obvious foe, and with potential new Magical Skills, our story now comes to an end.

Disposable Pull-Up pants are not just for big boy toddlers refusing to relinquish parental enslavement. They are not just for ancient unshaven Grampy stiffly propped up in the corner of your velveteen couch. They are also for the toiletless traveler refusing to take the chance of being seen with their pants down while seeking relief on the shoulder of the New Jersey Turnpike.

Conveniently interspersed every few exits, yes, there are so called comfort stations and I can see why some genius decided to call a place where one takes a dump a comfort station, since it is especially comfort-able to release the beast and drain the vein but I do wonder, when the term comfort station was first coined, couldn't there have been an innocent roadie or two walking in to one of those non descript cinder block buildings flummoxed at the sight of nothing but latrines and sinks while expecting a hug and a chicken pot pie? So why, one might ask, would any respectable person take on the odds of exposing their hiney, or worse yet, the flip side to an innocent traveling nun, in conjunction with the potential of being charged with indecent exposure by the potty police, when just off road indoors, there is privacy; comfort to be had?

I place the blame squarely on the sinister spiky spherical ever flitting Coronavirus particles. Even masked, those nasty tiny boogers are just itching to climb into either one of your nostrils, I know it and you know it, which is why when I knew I had to make a four plus hour trip I thought, but what about a bathroom break? And then I instantly thought, as if I googled it, "Why not?" Who but me will know what's under my shorts? Besides the handsome lady on the TV commercial does an awfully sexy spin lifting up her skirt and portrays a facial expression of deep contentment wearing them, so why wouldn't I dash off to Walmart for a pack of Depends?

I surmised the adult diapers would be located in the feminine hygiene aisle, and I was correct. As soon as my eyes locked in on the neon blue plastic six pack marked Depends, I happened to notice a nosey lurking cart inspector. You know the type. The person who sets their alarm at 5:30 a.m., not to go to work, but to walk the streets dragging their sleepy dog behind them as a decoy with the express purpose of slyly peeking into your recycle bin, counting the number of empty beer bottles. Who are they? The AA police? So I waited until she moved on but I wasn't taking any chances. Even though I didn't need any pads or plugs, I grabbed a few packages to conceal the necessary contraband from view. And there she was, as expected, still lurking just around the bend as I made my way to the self check-out registers pretending not to look into my cart. So just to let her know two could play, I made sure to stare just a little too long into her cart, finishing our encounter with a "what's up" to her with my chin, exemplifying "How do you like it? Take that!"

Go figure, as luck would not have it, the bar code didn't work. Feeling for a second like drop kicking the unmentionable under the register, before I could make my next move Slick Willy with the "how can I help you" button prominently pinned to his chest is on me like white on rice. Never making eye contact, he took care of my problem so fast, when he whipped the package into the plastic shopping bag, for a second I wasn't sure if he had decided to drop kick the package under the register for me as a kind gesture.

After making it home, I looked in my bathroom mirror noticing the red blotches on my neck had subsided when I decided it might be in my best interest to test drive my purchase right then and there, since it would not be cool to experience the results of failure whilst crossing the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, coming out on the other side sitting in a yellow puddle on top of my fabric upholstery. No need for any further details, let's just wrap this up by taking my word for it that the product works, calling this disclosure a one time anonymous review of the product.

Five Star.

And thankfully, afterall, like a big boy, I was dry when I arrived at my destination, so other than my happy ending, there is no point to this story, but that doesn't make the unused product any less useful.

It is a hard thing, to look like something out of a horror tale, but over the years I have grown used to people avoiding me, or looking at me with addled faces, and wide eyes. It is more unusual for a stranger to smile at their first sight of me than it is for them not to. It’s the scarring left behind after the surgeries that shocks them, or it could be the patchy hair, or my rough, poor clothing. My name is Gerald Harper, but I go by Possum. They stitched the name Possum onto the scratchy blue shirts they gave me to work in, shirts that must be clean when I put them on or else Ms. Leona will send me home to change. Because they sewed that name on the shirts, I am now Possum to everyone who stands in front of me. The name often draws a smile when my appearance cannot, which is ok by me. The name Possum is probably a joke, but I don’t know what the joke is, so it doesn’t bother me. I can’t let it bother me, because the people who call me Possum are the closest people left to me in this world.

I work at the First America Building, the tallest building in Macon. I clean there... a lot. I clean the floors, I clean the restrooms, the breakrooms, the offices, and I empty the wastebaskets whether or not they are full. It is a good job, and I work with nice people, mostly. One of those nice people is Ms. Leona. When I got a letter from the courthouse and couldn’t figure out the big words, I took it to Ms. Leona. She said I’d been selected for jury duty, that all patriotic Americans must take their turns doing jury duty, and that I might get to cast the vote deciding whether someone is guilty or innocent in a very important trial, and maybe decide whether or not they go home, or to prison afterward. That first day I took some pride in being invited to the jury duty, but then later that night, when I was alone in my apartment, it got frightening to consider. I looked at that letter until I got a nervous stomach, and I wished I could fold it back up exactly as it was and send it back to the courthouse.

~

The trial was about to begin. I was sitting in the courtroom’s jury box with the other members of the jury when she looked at me and smiled.

As I pointed out earlier, it it a strange thing for me to be smiled at. I was sitting in my seat when she smiled, seated with the others, but alone. I am most always alone. It had flooded me with relief though to find that I wouldn’t be alone in deciding whether or not someone went to prison, just as it was relieving to find that most of the others in the jury box with me were real nice, and mostly helpful, friendly people. Before we were escorted into the courtroom we all ate tiny sandwiches together at a big table where we got to visit with each other for awhile, although I mostly stayed quiet. I am usually mostly quiet. After that a man in uniform read us the court’s rules. We listened politely while we drank iced tea poured from a glass pitcher. It was all real nice.

She was pretty, the smiling woman was, with beautiful, straight teeth, but her smile was empty, and didn’t make it all the way up to her eyes. I knew that smile well. It was the smile of someone lost, of someone falling through life’s cracks. Hers was a familiar smile that made me think of my mother, a woman who had taken her fair share of kickings from life, even after she was down. I looked around to see who the woman might be smiling at, but there was no one else looking her way. Sometimes things take a little longer to register with me than they do with most people, but I am not dumb. The doctors said that I was “neurologically impaired” after my surgeries, which means slow, I guess. I pointed at myself by way of asking the lady if it was me she was smiling at. When I pointed, her smile grew all the way up into her eyes this time. It was a beautiful smile then, filled with kindness for another sorry soul. I soon enough learned that her name was Adrienne Harlow, and that she was the person whose fate our jury would be deciding.

After a lot of people talked for a long time it began to sound, even to someone who is a mite slow, that this lady Adrienne Harlow, the one with the smile, had killed her own husband by running him over with a car. The question was whether she did it on purpose, or was it accidental? And if she did it on purpose, what was the reason she done it? The gist of what they said, of course, was that it ain’t alright to kill people, least of all your own husband, but I kept thinking about all those times I heard my own Momma say when I would ask her about my absent dad. “If your father was here I would shoot the son-of-a-bitch,” so I expected it was something a lot of wives wished to do.

When the talking was over the judge sent us back to the room where the iced tea waited, so we could do some more talking it over. I drank my tea quietly, but my fellow jurist, Mr. Vernon T. Lund, had a lot to say about how evil Ms. Adrienne Harlow was, how she ought to be put to death, and that we should not let ourselves be fooled by the fact that she was a woman.

Well, of course she was a woman. Nobody was being fooled by that! And of course she wasn’t evil, she only had an angry moment, which we all have from time to time, especially when we discover we’ve been cheated. Sometimes those cheatings can build up inside a person until they are like to burst. I couldn’t figure exactly what it was Mr. Harlow cheated her out of to make her run over him with her car, but it must have been something she held dear.

When it was decided by the loudest jury members that Adrienne Harlow was guilty, papers were passed around for us to place our “guilty” or “innocent” votes on. I scratched my X next to “innocent” on my piece of paper. I scratched it with a pen so fancy that I stuck it in my pocket afterwards when no one was looking. Across the table I watched as Mrs. Jenkins did the very same thing with her pen. I was startled to see her wink at me when she noticed me watching her do it, as though she knew I wouldn’t tell.

Mr. Lund‘s face turned to crimson when he pulled my paper out of his coffee can. I knew it was mine by the way it was folded. I felt bad that he was so angry, but Mrs. Harlow’s smile had made me feel a kinship with her that I didn’t feel with many people. At a time when she desperately needed an ally, without even knowing what she was doing she had reached out to the right person. That last ditch, last chance smile had been a cry for help that won her something that fancy words never could have... my loyalty. With that smile she chose me, “the freak,” to be her white knight, and she chose wisely. That smile was her standard, and her cross to bear. When she passed it to me, I determined that nothing bad would happen to her on my watch.

“I thought we were all decided! Who changed their mind?” Mr. Lund did his best to keep his voice steady, but in his anger spittle flew across the table and onto my only dress shirt.

I cleared my throat, digging deep inside for courage. “It was me that voted innocent, Mr. Lund. I can’t help wondering what exactly will happen to Mrs. Harlow if I vote guilty?” I didn’t think it was so much to ask, but Mr. Lund acted as if I’d dropped a cricket down his britches.

“Why, what would happen to her is she would get what she deserves, she would get the death sentence for killing her husband,” Mr. Lund stammered in his excitement! “Justice would be served. Don’t you understand that?”

“But what would ‘happen’ to her?” My voice cracked from fear of speaking up in front of the group.

Mr Lund was flustered now. “Why, she would die by lethal injection, like all convicted murderers in Georgia do nowadays. Now then, shall we vote again?”

“Wait. What is ‘lethal injection?’”

Mr. Lund was exasperated. “I don’t know, it’s drugs that they put into a syringe, and shoot into a body to kill it, I suppose.”

There was no more talk after that. The coffee can made its way around the table once more. When Mr. Lund pulled the papers from the can this time the most crinkled up one was still checked “innocent.” “Are you kidding me? What about this do you not understand? Are you stupid? I suppose the little retard is going to hang this jury!”

Ignoring his insult, I asked him in a lowered voice, practically a whisper. “Can you tell us what those drugs will do to her?”

A nice gentleman named Mr. Peabody answered my question this time. “The drugs will relax all of her muscles until they stop working, and finally her heart and lungs, until she is dead. It is not a nice thought, is it?”

“Does anyone know what that will feel like for her? I mean, while it is happening?”

Mr. Lund forced himself to stay somewhat calm. “Who cares what it feels like? She is fixing to be dead, and then she won’t feel a thing!”

My voice lowered even more, but I stood my ground. “I care. It will be me doing it to her, and you should care too.”

The coffee can made its way around the table once more, and we each dropped in our cards. This time there were three papers marked “innocent.” I looked over at Mrs. Jenkins, suspecting that one of those papers was hers. It was me who winked at her this time.

“Son!” Mr. Lund bellowed. “Don’t you see what you’ve done? Do you think it’s alright for folks to go around killing one another and getting away with it? What good can come from this foolishness?”

“I don’t know about all of that, Mr. Lund, but tell us, why do you think she ran her husband over?”

“It’s all in the evidence transcripts. It’s in that paperwork over there that you haven’t bothered to read! Or are you too dumb to read it?”

“Maybe I am too dumb to read it, but those lawyers in the courtroom said it was because he was cheating on her. What would you do if your wife was cheating you like he was doing to her?”

Vernon Lund smiled now, sure that he had me. “I don’t know what I’d do son, but I sure hope to hell that I wouldn’t kill her for doing it.”

“No, of course you wouldn’t kill her. Why would you? You are bigger, and stronger than she is, so you wouldn’t have to. You could beat her, or cheat her back without worry... you could do just about anything you wanted to do to a weaker person, because you are a bully Mr. Lund. You would bully her just like you are trying to bully me. But Mrs. Harlow couldn’t bully Mr. Harlow, could she? She was angry, and hurt, and she only had the one thing to do if she wanted to get away from his meanness.”

With our points made, the can was passed around once more. This time there were six innocent votes.

“Jesus Christ! Are you people siding with this freak show? You can’t be serious?”

“Mr. Lund, the reason I asked how you think those drugs will feel entering her body is because I think I know. Have you ever been close to death before? I have. I’ve been so close to death that my fingers and toes stiffened with it. I’ve had my blood chilled, and my heart stopped while the doctors prodded around in my skull, cutting out the bad pieces they found in there. Those drugs feel cold going in, Mr. Lund. Not cold like that iced tea there, but a deep inside cold that’s trying to freeze you up forever, a cold that moves a little further through your veins with each pulse. You can feel it inching up your arms, pumping slowly, oozing up to where you live, and breath, and think, and you can’t stop it, Mr Lund. You can only lie there as you try to summon up courage. You can only pray that you are stronger than that drug is, that it can’t put you down. You try to hold your eyes open, afraid that if they close they will never open up again. You pray that maybe you will wake up after, and the nightmare will be over. I woke up from my nightmare Mr. Lund. I only hope Mrs. Harlow gets that second chance.”

Vernon Lund bowed his head. He was beat. He could see it in every face around the table, and he even felt it in his own heart. Our little group lined up, and we made our way back to the jury box. From across the room Adrienne Harlow’s eyes found mine, only this time it was my turn to smile.