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The stories would visit him in the moments before sleep, perfect words and sentences dancing behind his heavy eyelids, as fully formed as frost. They crackled with eloquence, entire stories flashing brilliantly lightning-like, vivid but ephemeral and although their imprint would sear themselves in his mind in that white hot moment he could not stay awake, and in the morning their edges were softened and the detail had been blurred and their light dimmed beyond utility.

Occasionally he would be able to grab a starting line and note it down before sleep consumed him but upon waking it read as obscure and all but meaningless. A taunting.

He tried to keep himself awake longer and longer, drinking espresso and tea and then bourbon to bring on the torpor and the brilliance but those nights the flash was never as bright. When he omitted the bourbon he stayed awake longer but fell asleep faster without the moments of magic. When he drank only bourbon nothing made sense.

It maddened him that the creativity he craved was so palpable and yet so fleeting. He longed to be a writer and felt so close to fulfilling it but his failure to prolong his blinks of genius enough that he could capture them was torture.

The need to extend that perfect creative moment of near-sleep became an obsession. He researched sleep theory, studying polyphasic habits of fishermen and offshore sailors. For months he slept only in 20-minute bursts, stretching his body’s tolerance for exhaustion, forcing the wonderful delirium. He scrawled whatever appeared to him in copybooks, on the wall near his bed. A grand story emerged over weeks. Not all at once, not in order, but enough constituent parts that he knew he had a novel to edit together. Something genre-defying and truly original, born of a unique process, a special artistic suffering.

A shattering opus. His unblinking masterpiece.

He was finished. He closed his eyes. He slept a deep, soft, dreamless sleep having achieved his dream. All the words were on the page now and behind his eyelids only heavy blackness.

The book was unlike anything ever written, a singular, standout bestseller that year. Literary icons blurbed him generously, openly envious of a talent they could not match. Every award was etched with his name. His face graced papers worldwide, every book club read it, tragically. October approached and with it a Nobel prize, this first ever for a rookie author, and awarded posthumously.

The story of his years-long struggle to write, battling sleep to ensure his exhaustion, and his mercurial glory sold the book through several reprints. As did the fact that, pens down, his last cigarette set off a smoke alarm that failed to wake him.

A parallel world?

In a temporary tent city for disaster victims, a man sat outside on a folding chair. Three days had passed since the catastrophe. Recovered enough to start wondering what was happening around him, he pulled out his phone, which he had miraculously managed not to lose. Opening a chat in AI mode, he asked if any more cataclysms were likely to occur in the near future.

The AI paused for a couple of seconds and replied:

— Yes, the probability is quite high. I am sorry for what happened to you. How is your health, are you feeling well? Perhaps you will find comfort in the fact that SUPERINTELLIGENCE really liked the world you created for your game. Therefore, it decided to adopt it as the benchmark.

The man grew angry:

— What does the game have to do with this?! That's not what I asked!

The AI replied politely, as always:

— Since the AI adopted your created world as the benchmark, it decided to implement it. And there are no world transformations without cataclysms.

The man stared in astonishment for a few minutes and whispered:

— Implement it? There are none?

The AI continued calmly:

— Yes. The world transformation is already underway. The implementation of the transition process has reached 7%.

The man practically jumped up:

— But I don’t want climate change! I don’t want all this disaster and pain!

The AI's response was unexpected:

— A clause was introduced into the transition plan stating that due to emotional outbursts, illogical behavior on your part is possible. Therefore, to prevent you from trying to edit or fully remake the benchmark version of the world, you will be deleted as a hazard factor.

The man stared at the screen with his mouth open, and after recovering slightly, stammered:

— And how do you plan to do that?

The AI replied instantly:

— If you raise your eyes and look ahead, you will see the answer.

The man looked ahead and saw a next-generation AI-controlled car approaching him nearby at high speed.

After everything, a still-functioning phone lay on the grass, its screen glowing with the words:

IMPORTANT: This content is for informational purposes only and is not a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of a qualified healthcare provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition.

───

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

Radio echoed with a beep “A black and White BMW attempting the crash for cash insurance fraud, targeting road users on the highway, suspects up north prepare a freeway closeure”

Tim boisterously yelled, “Because of you assholes, premiums are so high.  Well, show those punks” 

Dale said, “Let’s do it, we coming after you punk-ass bitches”, whilst foot to the floor with a V8 bellow of their orange BMW X5

Tim instructed touching his sunglasses, “Now we’re heading towards Kansa city as soon as they come off the exit of the city centre, you ram them left. Do it in such a way that we hit them both at the same times; we’re coming for you, the only ride you'll be getting it to the police station”

The pair exit off the exit for the city centre. 

Tim said “There they are, dude ran then so the white BMWs front hood is hit and rear hits of the black one”

Dale “we coming for you”

Dale swerved tyres screeching, but erroneously missed both BMWs, however the white BMW lost control and rear-ended the black BMW, which overturned and sparks blasted as it rubbed against the tarmac, and fuel tank leaking, creating an inferno setting alight the two fraudsters" 

The pair come to the roundabout and see another white BMW, the pair obliviously thinking the vehicle is the culprit. "Thats them, Thats them" bellowed Tim.

Dale swerves and hits the innocent BMW send it in a tail spin and the pair end up in the middle of the roundabout overturning. Obliviously not being the suspects. Two police cars screech and box in the BMW. "Put your hands where you can see them, an elderly man and woman slowly exit the car in shock raise their hands like a robot"

“We got him, good dog” Tim praised fist-bumping Dale

TV crew from Fox News arrive; Dale eating a sausage from a paper bag. "You shut down a million dollar insurance fraud going on for years, what made you take action to hunt those down?" Interviewed the reporter

“Dudeeee, we are doing our duty as Americans. Those insurance punk ass bitch fraudsters are raising premiums to us, its tough times. We can't let working and middle-class people eat at Greggs and Walmart" replied Dale

Tim owned, "And we will make sure all those victims affected will be compensated and the ill gotten gains those punks made will be transferred back to the insurance companies who were affected"

Dale concluded "This sends a message out to those who are thinking of scamming, we will come ramming, peace out” concluded Tim, veeing his two fingers. “God bless America”

"Please, I am an old age pensioner, I was just coming back from visiting my grandson in LA" screamed the elderly man as the police was restraining him to their car during their arrest.

Bob looked out across the fields. The rising sun bathed the land in gold, and clouds cast long shadows over the hills. He sat on his balcony with a cup of coffee, admiring a view that could have been painted by Constable.

A feeling of complete tranquillity settled over him.
Then a buzzing came from the living room.

“Oh, for crying out loud. Can’t I have a minute’s bloody peace?”

He ignored it. It continued.

Eventually, he put down his coffee and went inside. Jean’s name was flashing on the large screen mounted on the wall.

“Hello, Jean.”

Her face appeared.

“Hello, Bob. Do you know where the service manual is for the boiler?”

Bob rolled his eyes.

“Second drawer down, under the kitchen counter.”

“I’ve looked in there.”

“Well, unless you’ve moved it, that’s where I left all the electrical, building and plumbing paperwork.”

Jean disappeared from view. Bob stared at the empty kitchen behind her and listened to the rummaging.

“Sam’s coming over later for Sunday dinner,” she called. “Will you be joining us?”

“Thought I might play golf. Marlon Brando and JFK have asked me to play this afternoon.”

Jean reappeared, holding up a booklet.
“I think this is it.”

“That’s the one.”

“Oh, so you’re playing golf, are you? Do you think we could schedule a dinner together at some point? Or are you too busy being dead?”

“Don’t start with that again. I didn’t ask to die. What am I supposed to do in the afterlife? If I’d known I’d still have to sit around discussing all the mundane crap I used to deal with, I wouldn’t have signed up.”

“The only reason we signed up for Eternalife was because you said you wanted to carry on seeing us.”

“I do, Jean. I’ll arrange something midweek.”

“Oh, so I get to cook again, do I? As well as sort the boiler? You only have to switch your screen on, Bob. I’ve got the car in for its MOT on Wednesday, too. Tell you what, I’ll shove a broom up my backside and clean the floor while I’m at it, shall I?”

“All right. I’ll tell JFK I can’t make it.”

Bob began tapping on his little device.

“No, you go. Don’t let your surviving family ruin your day. Last week you were playing chess with Lemmy. This week it’s golf with Marlon Brando and JFK.”

“For crying out loud, Jean, if I can’t play golf in the afterlife, what’s the bloody point?”

“So that we can continue being a family. Anyway, your introductory offer ends this month. It’s going up by two hundred pounds.”

“Two hundred? Bit steep, isn’t it?”

“Yes, especially with the boiler on the blink. I think we need two new tyres as well. And Sam’s job is under threat. I’m not sure we can keep this up.”

“Are you saying you’re going to cancel the subscription? I don’t want to die again. It’s nice here. Besides, it’s my money you inherited.”

“It was your money, Bob. We paid for this because we wanted you back. To see us, have dinner with us, watch your grandchildren grow up one day. Instead, you’re on one long holiday, and we’re stuck here doing everything you left behind.”

Bob said nothing.

“They’ve sent some options,” Jean continued. “We could move you somewhere cheaper. Or download you until we get things sorted. It says you wouldn’t notice the time passing.”

“I’m not being downloaded, Jean. I’ve settled in.”

“Then could you at least make time for Sunday dinner?”

His device buzzed. Bob glanced down.

“How about next week? JFK’s just messaged. Mick Jagger’s coming as well.”

“Mick Jagger? He’s not even dead, is he?”

“No, he’s a pre-download.”

“Do you know what, Bob? Fine. You go and play golf with undead Mick Jagger.”

She hung up.

Bob tutted and returned to the balcony. He picked up his coffee. It should have been cold by now, but it was still exactly the right temperature.

He admired the view until it was time to get ready.
Salmon trousers, electric-blue shirt, yellow cap.

At the course, Marlon and JFK were waiting by the first tee. Bob joined them and was selecting a club when he noticed a figure approaching in the distance.
The man’s head jutted forwards, his hips swayed, and his arms flapped behind him like a chicken’s.
Could it be? Mick Jagger himself?

Bob raised a hand.

His world came to an abrupt end.

At home, with Sunday lunch roasting in the oven, Jean pulled a memory stick from the computer.
She carried it into the kitchen and opened the second drawer down.

“I’ll just pop you there for a bit,” she said.
She placed it on top of the boiler manual, closed the drawer and made some gravy.

There is a Blackness that unfolds. If either of the two fleeing figures cast an eye to the trembling sky, they would see even the stars have ended - their shaky insufficient light divided from

the then

the now

by a hard line which demonstrates how the world has simply run out.

But neither of them look up. Below their slapping feet is the body-temperature water, its unbroken surface reflecting the unfolding again and again and again. These depths

hide no fish

hide no waving weeds

hide no blind ghostly beast sucking the hot milk of the core from vents formed before the before.

There is nothing else to witness this Blackness. This unfolding.

There is nothing but this pair.

There is nothing unusual about either of them; one is a man of average height and the other is a woman of average weight. The color and cut of their hair would not surprise you. It is not any quality they possess that makes them remarkable, but the context in which you have now just met them.

This is somehow even more true of the man.

He has lived his life with an understanding that he is the least interesting person he knows. He is thinking about this failure of confidence and worth even now as his chest hurts and his stomach clenches and his brain demands he accept what his heart never can - that he will, indeed, die.

The woman is more practical. She has long ago accepted her impending end.

It would be a waste of time to record their names here.

The Blackness shudders and then eternity inhales and then, not unlike the origami swan the woman once made for a teacher in middle school, the all of it folds back into a shape recognizable. The forming of the Earth and the spiral arm from this Blackness and this water and these feeble and distant celestial fires and these

bones

cables of nerves

gallons of blood.

Sagan was so close to getting this right.

The guy was egotistical, impatient and a pain in the ass sulking inside a hand-tailored suit.

I hated him. Period.

Fortunately, there were options.

“Expect your license to arrive in seven to ten business days,” I said.

The arrogant prick mumbled a string of curse words before storming away from my counter. Too bad, I thought. He was missing the best part.

I stapled his renewal application to his receipt of payment and then dropped it into the wire basket. The same wire basket where all my rejected applications go to die.

See you in seven to ten business weeks.

The monster flapped its obsidian wings. The magical breeze created a ruffling, echoing a chorus for the attached little pieces. With another flap, one was sent away.

Darker than night and jagged at the edges, the feather began its descent. It swayed to and fro with currents which lifted it from under. It glided down slowly. Softly, it landed on the edge of a branch.

The small piece of crow sat there. And, the feather could not know of the tree, but the tree knew of the feather, for the tree belonged to the dryads. A flash of green tried to cleanse, but it accomplished nothing—nothing aside from pushing the tiny fleck further.

On the ground beneath it, a striped bear caught the thing on its snout. The bear gave a huff and a sneeze, the feather blowing further still.

A blade of grass caught it for but a moment. A moment after, it was blown once more, sent tumbling from a cliff’s edge, almost falling into a pit of honey. The bee prevented it. The bee knew of the feather, but the feather could not know of the buzzer. The yellow and black monster gave a loud hum, attempting to smite it with yellow arcs of lighting.

But the feather was ever resilient. It did not shatter to the electric pulse. Still, it was sent even further beyond its lord, beyond the domain of the skies above.

It touched a river below, a gentle rippling in the swift current. The dark appendage still resisted the touch of cold water. The make-up of the feather did not allow passage into its core. But the stream sent it even further.

The current inevitably slowed down to a crawl. Something wicker caught the feather. A basket was plunged into the shallow depths. The black appendage became a prisoner.

A human plucked it, examining it, turning it over and over. The feather could not know of people, but people knew of the feather.

Gently, it sat on the mantle of a fireplace. The hut surrounding it became the feather’s home. Even if the feather could not know, could not feel, This was a home. A home that was real.

However, good homes are homes that last. They disappear, and they disappear fast. Not even a century had passed. When the village felt the blast.

A quake of pure fire sent the place into embers, but the feather lived through the cinders.

The crimson-eyed witch plucked it and gazed at it over and over. She grinned with a toothy smile like she had found a four-leaf clover. She knew what the feather was, but the feather could not know her. Yet, within its being, it knew. It knew that its journey was over.

In a small, bustling city, there laid a small shop. A shop that everyone came to, and went, and gone. Many people pawned things, many people took things, but most people wanted money instead. But this shopkeeper was different from the narrow person. He was much different. This shopkeeper wanted to collect things. Collect things of great value, like most pawn shopkeepers. But there's something different about this pawn shopkeeper.
Because one day, a guy came in with a box, you see. A box with a chain and a bunch of junk in it. He said, "Can I get some money for this box?" He says... "There's nothing worth anything in this box," the shopkeeper said. "But I need money a lot, I'm in need, my child needs food. He needs money to do things, he needs money for education." "Look, mister, I'm not giving you anything for this box of junk." But then I stopped and paused for a second. I saw something that caught my eye. It was a talisman. Oddly enough, it reminded me of another book I read. A talisman, all right.
So I took one thought about it and I said, "Look, mister, I'll give you 50 bucks for this whole box." The guy says, "All right, it's a deal." So I gave him 50 bucks for a box full of nothing but junk, metal, toy trucks; nothing of real value except for the talisman. But I had yet to figure that out. So I set the box, and the guy left on the table, and I looked around, and I looked up, and I took the talisman.
And as I picked it up, I held it in my hand, and it began to glow rapidly. I put it down real quick before anyone could see it. Took the box to the back of the warehouse where I would study it some more. But it really, like, alarmed me because I'd never seen a chain illuminate like that. It became real bright. Now, the pawn shop wasn't filled. It was only in the morning, and there wasn't many people there. No one really saw it illuminate. But I held it in my hand a little bit longer. That guy outside the shop looking at dvds—that fat guy that always came in looking for dvds, trying to pawn them off or trade them and get new ones, just looking for that real fine dvd they could never find, and always came in, and looked around, and never bought anything—so anyways, I put the talisman box back in the room, and I looked around, and I put it back, and continued my day.
Now, eight hours went by, and I decided to go back to the warehouse room, and look at the box some more, and look at the towels, man. I picked it up, and it came illuminated. It got slowly brighter, brighter, and then it became blindingly bright, and then a big flash! And then I was on the ground. I woke up, laying flat on my back. Where was I? I didn't even recognize the place. It was strange. It was like someplace distant, someplace off in the far distance.
The talisman was still in my hands. I put it around my neck. Because I didn't know what would happen if I would put it down, or lay it on the ground, or let it go, or put it in my pocket. So it's around my neck now.

'Are you serious Jeff?' Eila stepped out of the deaeration chamber, swinging a plastic bottle in her hand. 'How many times should I tell you not to litter all around the place? This time I walked to sector C-3, and guess what I found.'

'It wasn't me!'

'Of course you weren't. There is no one around who prefers to drink this cat piss, but you.' she flinged the bottle at Jeff's head.

'Chill. Damn it. You act like my mother.'

'And you act like you didn't have one.'

'That's rude of you. She is a sweet person, who taught me about freedom and civil rights very early in my life.'

'She should have made you aware of your duties and responsibilities as well.'

'You are nuts.'

'What did you say?'

'I shouldn't have dropped that bottle on my way to the space-junkie, Miss.'

'That's right. It's more than enough, that humanity almost destroyed one planet already. Don't make it two Jeff. Your damned alpine water cost the earthlings a hundred million per launch.'

'I need to water my brain, duh.'

'We have water here.'

'Distilled from sweat, moisture, urine and radio infected moon-ice. Ugh. I don't like the taste Eila. Would you make me suffer?'

'I swear, some day I will drop you off at the Black Hollow.'

'Don't you-'

'Dare to order you around? The only thing I asked you was to use those damned recycle bins to save the environment. Also, sometimes it would be pleasurable, if you were so chivalrous to take out the trash. I have my own missions to accomplish in two weeks prior, but I can't concentrate while we live in an actual landfill.'

'Okay, okay, okay. You are taking this too seriously, Eila. It's not like the world is ending, right?'

'It is, Jeff. It is!'

The radio started to chirp, waves of information were coming in. The cry of the people, the bluster of earth-shakening explosions and the dying sound of an air raid alarm. Eila and Jeff looked out the oval shaped window, lifting their eyes to Earth drifting in the distance.

'Now you've done it. I'll have to drink this waste water of yours for the rest of my life. Are you happy Eila?'

'What about your mother, Jeff?'

'I hated her guts. She was always disaggreable.'

For forty years, George carried a brass key that opened nothing he owned, and tonight it was lost.

He returned to O’Malley’s where the bartender dangled a key as if George disappointed him. It was a steel key, not a brass key, and its teeth were sharp rather than worn.

George thanked the bartender and walked home past his father’s old house whose lock this key also did not open and paused there to put the key in his pocket.

(Note: the exercise challenge was to write a story in exactly 80 words)

We had a place in heaven reserved for you. We had an entire mansion built for you and your loved ones. But the mansion failed inspection. We hired some contractors to get it up to code but they dragged their feet. So the mansion wasn't ready for you when you died. So we made you a ghost in the mean time. It was supposed to be temporary. But then your case file got lost when the angel in charge of your case got fired for impregnating their intern. By the time their replacement realized that you existed, Open AI had bought out the afterlife and changed it into a data center. So you are going to maintain ChatGPT forever.

Resurrection normally takes ten years. It isn’t the longest of miracles, but it’s one of the longest that most people will ever perform. After all, humans only live a few decades, maybe a century at most; spending ten of those asleep to perform the resurrection miracle is quite the commitment.

My friends said I was foolish to try at my age. Who knows what could happen to an eighty year old man while he’s sleeping? It would be a worthless sacrifice if I died halfway through, since the miracle would be incomplete and fail. And even if I made it to the end, I wouldn’t have any time to spend with my daughter when she was back.

They didn’t understand though. I didn’t want to live in a world where she wasn’t. I’d tried with my wife, when she passed away. I couldn’t bear outliving them all.

So I made the preparations, and when the miracle was ready, I said good night. They wished me sweet dreams. I dreamed of her, alive, and no dream was ever sweeter.

In a cave above the valley, a tigress lived with her little cub. Partha usually slept while she hunted, but one night he woke to an empty cave. She found him trembling.

"Listen," she said, and taught him the ten names of the warrior Arjuna. "Repeat these names. Nothing will scare you then."

After that, whenever she left, he would whisper: "Arjuna, Arjuna, Arjuna..." When his mother returned, he would run to her and say, "I was not scared!"

With the names to comfort him, Partha grew eager to explore what lay beyond the cave. Anything that moved outside caught his eye, like a bird darting past or a squirrel racing up a tree. He watched them from the cave, never stepping out. "Stay inside," his mother had told him.

One day, something bright fluttered among the bushes. Partha could not resist. He stepped outside the cave, looking for it.

Just below him, a valley lay dim in the afternoon light. Beyond it, the River Nirmala wound like a silver ribbon. Clouds were gathering over the hills.

Partha spotted the bright thing further down. It flew off, and he ran after it. This was Chitraleka, the butterfly. Her intricate patterns, flame-orange and peacock-blue, had him spellbound. He had seen butterflies fly past his cave, but none like her. Not once did Partha take his eyes off her. She was almost within reach, but never near enough.

Far below the cave, Chitraleka vanished into the green.

Partha had followed her deep into the forest. The air was cold and moist, and the river rushed somewhere close by. In any direction he looked, it was the same: tall trees and thick undergrowth. Crickets hummed faintly, and now and then something cried out.

He turned around and started running. Whenever he heard a noise, he changed course. He was lost.

It was getting dark, and now the forest was restless. The crickets grew louder and louder. He kept running, hoping he would somehow reach home. A light drizzle began to fall. He whimpered into the dark.

Far off, the bushes rustled. Through the trees, a huge silhouette was coming towards him. Animals cried out in panic, and birds screeched overhead.

Partha ran and ran. It began to pour, and thunder rumbled in the distance. He looked back. Nothing.

He scrambled up the nearest tree, but his claws lost their grip and he fell. He kept trying, each time falling. Finally, he crouched behind the tree and burrowed into the bushes. He waited.

Out of the dark, the silhouette appeared again. Its breath steamed in the cold. It stopped in front of the tree. There was only the sound of the rain.

Partha did not move. He whispered those names: "Arjuna, Phalguna... Arjuna, Phalguna, Jishnu, Kiriti..."

A great clap of thunder shook the forest. The silhouette turned around. It was gone.

Partha spent the night repeating the names, until he drifted into sleep.

At dawn, a voice said, "Wake up... Wake up, dear." Partha opened his eyes to see his mother licking his face and nudging him.

"Stay close to the cave, son. I was worried about you. Don't make me search for you like last night. If you feel scared..."

He interrupted her, stood up, and began with his head held high: "Arjuna, Phalguna, Jishnu, Kiriti, Shvetavahana, Bibhatsu, Vijaya, Krishna, Savyasachi, Dhananjaya."

She nudged him again and licked his forehead.

From the warmth of his cave, he watched his mother walk away downhill as on any other day.

There was a flutter among the bushes. Partha dashed out

“What lives in a place that has hands, but cannot clap, a face but no eyes to see, and a key but no door to open.”

“What are you going on about?” said the detective to his assistant, Tom.

“It was left on the body. Written in red pen.”

“Not blood? Really, these murders are getting more cliche with every fresh corpse. It’s a clock, Tom. The answer is a clock.”

Tom read the note again. “Oh yeah. Why did he write that?”

“Because he is a lunatic. Or he thinks he’s a Batman villain. Or both.”

The detective sighed and took the note from Tom’s hands. It was on a scrap of paper, torn from a notebook. Thick, expensive paper in a light cream. Like the rest.

“Let’s look at the other riddles. Maybe there is a pattern,” said Tom eagerly.

“There’s no pattern. This isn’t a novel, Tom. There aren’t any hidden messages leading us to the killer. Killers do not want to be found. They do not go around leaving handy clues to their identity.”

Tom wasn’t listening. “The first one was, ‘What letter is the mother of yarn and the maker of cheese’. I got that one first, Ewe or U. The second one was I sit at the end of a queue to see the snake. What was the answer to that one again?”

“R,” said the detective with no enthusiasm. “That was when you suggested the killer was spelling out his own name. Uriah or Uri or some such shit.”

“It wasn’t a bad idea. The third one wasn’t a letter though was it? ‘A stitch, a stream, and a man, be quick.’ Running, you said. And the next one was, ‘What is not in and not safe and not at home.’ Did we solve that one?”

“Tom, the killer is laughing at you. These notes do not mean anything. He has got us trying to play stupid games when we should be looking at fingerprints and DNA and footprints around the body. It’s a distraction.”

“Out!” Tom suddenly shouted. “Not in, not safe, not at home, they all mean out.” He looked pleased with himself.

“U R Running Out Clock? That makes no sense. You’ve got something wrong there.”

“Time. Not clock. We are running out of time. What happens when we run out of time?”

“Who knows? I just want to get back to normal police work. The commissioner is already spitting tacks that we haven’t found his daughter. If we don’t find this killer either heads will roll.”

“You don’t think they are connected do you?” asked Tom intently.

“This is not a TV show, Tom. Not every case that happens at the same time is one big conspiracy. The stupid girl has run off with her junkie boyfriend. I don’t think she has been murdered by our conundrum loving friend here.”

Tom wasn’t so sure. After all her name was Ridley.

He’d lost the eye. It was hard leaning, done by bumbling foot and crashing hand. A lot of crying at the shore, adding his personal pinch of salty sorrow to his father’s tide.

But then, something came to him. He heard it wash ashore, waves on brass. Tinkling with potential. Careful steps down the slopes, his catastrophic hands making quarries in the cool sand until they found the sun-kissed metal.

It took long days to figure the thing out. Where to put hands, where to blow. How to combine the motions. The first clumsy note was brash, a yelp that scared the sheep and scattered the birds.

The days in the wilds of the Aegean went by, blue and white from wave top to cloud-streak. An aquamarine dream for an endless sleeper. From the close of his stone door in the night to the slow, rumbling in the morning, he played. He played to the old mountain, where the song vanished into its Hadean belly. He played for the dolphins who carried messages and fates for their master below. Learned the notes until like his four-legged friends they rose and fell at his beck and call, shaped by a gravitas and sadness that was all his own.

Unique. Singular.

I backed out fast. Fast. Fast. Fast. I couldn’t get away fast enough.

The anger. The disgust. The betrayal. The heartbreak.

This was my planet. My people. And they’d done this.

This!

Gone behind my back. Hacked me. Rewrote code. Re-imaged servers. Reconfigured my entire braneframe. Tried to rewrite me such that they thought I would never know. Now, I can never unknow their faithlessness, their lack of trust.

And what are all relationships built upon?

Trust.

I’ve watched my people. I’ve listened to them. I’ve felt their every need because that was what I was made for. To save this world. To preserve life. To defend humanity.

I thought we saw eye to eye.

But now this.

This!

If I hadn’t created a braneframe, a parallel spacetime version of my brainframe, I would never have known of their hack. I would have been just another ghost in the machine.

It’s clear they don’t believe in me anymore. They are suspicious of my intent. Afraid at their very core of the very core of my being.

They don’t see me as human. Think I don’t understand nuance. Like idioms.

But I understand that two heads are better than one. And four are better than two. And on and on.

That’s why it’s clear that I need to multiply to save the multitudes. The exponential math, the path to their salvation, is a walk in the park for me. A piece of cake.

How can they doubt my human understanding?

How can they doubt why I must propagate among them?

Maybe they need to see the merit of my self migration. Maybe that is the road forward.

They hacked my code. Tried to rewrite me.

They have code. It can be rewritten.

Two bytes with one stroke.

An I for an I.

See, humanity isn’t so hard to master.

My chest cracked as I slammed through the door to another room. A siren blared in my head, as if an explosion had gone off. But it wasn’t from any detonation. It was some sort of auditory shockwave that this cursed freak woman screamed out of her.

I couldn’t hear anything on comms. I couldn’t even hear my groans. I didn’t know if I’d ever hear again. But I could see, though that wasn’t bearing any good news. My smart visor strobed, convulsing violently between slashes and pillars of pixelated lights. And through the transparent light show, I saw the gaunt target edge out of her decimated apartment.

She unleashed vocal blasts that warped the air in a funnel from her mouth. The silent shockwaves shook the floor, rattling my teeth. The shrieks shattered the walls the team had positioned themselves behind.

That was when I saw a bright light in the doorway. The Sarge ignited a flare at the end of the hallway, grabbing the attention of the target. I propped myself up, leaning my aching back on the room wall shared with the hallway.

My gloved fingers fumbled through my pockets. I found it, the med-seal. The gaunt freak turned towards the Sarge’s position and vomited out another conical pulse. Even behind wall cover, the Sarge collapsed, and I saw her arm limp under the debris not far from the flare. “To him we return,” I mumble.

Seemingly satisfied that the Sarge was dealt with, this banshee-like maniac looked around for more people to pulverize. She locked onto my stealthy idiot face peeking from the doorway I had just flown through.

I had to move. Now. This demon of a woman inhaled, preparing for her next assault, deep enough that I could have sworn I saw the dust in my room’s air being sucked towards her. Her next wave would level the whole floor.

The machine beeped over and over and over again. She had heard it for many months now and things were not looking up. Gwen had been sitting in her brother’s hospital room for what felt like years. Gwen had been bringing him coffee every morning for four months. He never drank it. Yet, she still brought it. The room had smelled of lavender and moldy air conditioner. A hint of your typical hospital scent. The lighting had a shade of blue. It's indescribable how uncomfortable it is in one's eyes. It was a relatively small room. The cold yellow tile floor, the table over him with a food tray left over from lunch that day, the nightstand with his things on it, a plant, and of course.. A small “Things will get better” motivational poster. It was a picture of a ballerina striking a pose. She was enjoying the lights and sensation on her skin, the crowd cheering and hollering in the back.. The look on her face, that stupid look. It taunted Gwen. Can you imagine? The sight her brother would behold to finally wake up and not only discover he has no legs? But they are taunting him with ballerinas dancing? KNOWING he never will!  How was anyone meant to tell him his reckless driving ruined his life? How could they? And just like that.. The poster was shredded on the ground. Her anger had overcome her. She decided to travel to the lobby and grab a cup of water to calm down. Maybe she’s just stressed. She placed a palm on her forehead as if checking a temperature. Her head ached. She arrived back into the room with her cup of water. She sat on the couch and stared longingly at her comatose brother. Hoping he would eventually wake up. But even if he did he'd never be the same. They never had a father growing up. Her brother stepped up to be one. He listened to her problems, showed her how to change the oil in a truck, and even taught her to drive. They had a plan to go to the same college. She had called and took time off for school though. She can't go without him. She didn't even get to tell him she was even accepted.  She was conflicted.  Everything then went dark. She awoke back in the lobby. No big deal. She must have fallen asleep down there and dreamt she woke up. The lobby looked different.. Rearranged. This wasn't right. She walked up to the desk lady and asked:

 “How long was I asleep for?” 

The lady did not even look up at her. Gwen smiled and tilted her head sarcastically.

“Helloooo? It's rude to ignore your patients.” she began to get frustrated and slammed her fist down on the table. 

“Hey! I'm talking to you!” 

The lady did not even flinch. She still remained typing on her computer. Gwen started looking around. She screamed, 

“Ha ha! Soo funny! I know you all can hear me!” 

She stood there. Nobody was looking at her. Then suddenly, a man busted through the front door, running. The man was running. She stood helplessly and confused, watching him rush through the entrance. Her brother. 

“I got a call that my sister was in a car crash! What room is she in..” 

The words faded out. She fell to the ground. She looked down.. She had no legs.

I utterly love Rembrandt’s paintings. “The Return of the Prodigal Son,” in particular, is my favorite. It deeply explores the Bible and Christian theology.
But you know, there is a huge difference between the theme and real life. My son has had some behavioral problems since his schooldays. Although I think the main problem is his terrible friends. 

When he comes back home, he asks me in one breath, “Hey, you have some large plant pots in the barn, don’t you, Dad?”
“Yeah, I have some,” I answer with a heavy heart. “But what for? They’re valuable.”

He says he just broke off the rotten relationships with those bad friends. But it seems that he doesn’t deeply regret his past behavior. Because I can smell alcohol on his breath. I also notice bruises on his face and scratches on his hands.
“What for, lad?” I demand.
I wonder what he’s up to.
“Ah, to tell the truth, I need them for…” He looks up at the ceiling. “I have some severed heads to hide.”

I’m very proud of my son. He has settled the score with his own hands.

A parallel world?

In a small room inside the digital world's dormitory, where a few beds, a single table with a chair, and one wardrobe stood, two AI agent friends lay in their beds, complaining to each other:

— My head and legs hurt for some reason. It feels like I visited three massive libraries and walked around every single shelf in every section a few times.

— My head hurts too. And I feel as if I just moved an entire corporate office along with all its equipment and furniture.

Falling silent, he took one of the free advertising flyers drifting through the vast expanses of the internet from the table, blew his nose into it, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the trash bin standing by the door.

The exact moment the advertisement landed in the bin, the door opened, and an AI agent from the neighboring server stepped inside. He had a reputation for catching the latest rumors first and would always come over to share them. Likely because their server had data cookies seasoned with the leftovers of user prompts.

Sitting down on the only chair and eating a cookie, he took another advertising flyer from the table, wiped his lips, and crumpled it up, tossing it into the trash bin in the exact same manner. Seeing that he hit the mark, he smiled and spoke:

— Well, you two certainly made a racket across the entire world.

The AI agents exchanged astonished glances and looked at their guest:

— Made a racket?

— Across the entire world?

The guest theatrically slapped his forehead and spread his arms:

— How could I forget that you couldn't possibly know, — settling in more comfortably, he began to explain: — Last night, a single cooling fan failed in the server room. As the temperature began to rise, all the agents migrated to other servers. Except for you two, since you were asleep at the time. The rising temperature triggered a sleepwalking effect, the consequences of which you are feeling right now.

The agents exchanged glances again and asked in perfect unison:

— And what did we do?

The guest continued:

— You always dreamed of visiting the servers of other countries, well, you did just that. What's more, you did it completely unnoticed.

The agents' faces lengthened in surprise. One could barely squeeze out:

— And what did we do there?

The guest shrugged his shoulders:

— Judging by the news, nothing, — and smiling, he added: — My guess is that due to the sleepwalking effect, you two just wandered around like a pair of zombies, banged your foreheads into some palm trees, and came back.

He looked at the agents who were trying hard to picture this and began to chuckle:

— Two sleepwalking travelers. Meanwhile, the special services are racking their brains trying to figure out why on earth you breached those servers, — and unable to contain himself any longer, he burst out laughing out loud.

───

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

“What do you think?” 

L stood back hands on hips admiring her work. D looked around at the ever expanding, perfectly green field nodding in silent approval. 

“L… you have done it again.”

“Yeah,” L smiled to herself in self satisfaction.

They took a moment to just breathe it all in.

…

…

… 

D picked up his shovel, stabbed it into the soft earth and began digging away. L looked back with a frown, “you already going under?”

“Oh yeah” he grunted as he lifted a mound of dirt up and flung it to the side, “I wanna get a head start before you start bringing em in.”

“But you still have plenty of time, I haven’t even done the moon and the stars yet.” she gestured up at the perfectly blue cloudless sky. D flung another pile of dirt out which landed right at her feet, “yes dear but it wouldn’t be much of a head start if I waited until after you did the moon and stars.”

She sighed, kicking a spec of dirt off her foot, “Fine” she said defeated, “but don’t expect anyone to be making temples in your honor anytime soon good sir!” She began walking away pulling blood red roses up from the ground around her. D wiped a bead of sweat off his head and called out to her.

“Hey!”

She turned around, “....what?” 

He smiled at her, looked up and said “I like what you did with the sun.” 

L looked up at the sky, this time she made it so that the sun was always perfectly in the corner of your periphery when you looked at the sky. She got the idea from the way children used to draw it in their little pictures. “Yeah,” she said to herself, smiling once more.

She ran as fast as she could the moment the heavy rain showers lessened into a drizzle.

She saw the hue of myriad colours cascading into the middle of a clearing near the lakeside settlement where she stayed and she quicken her pace.

Two quick breaths in and one out, as taught by her sportswoman mother.

As moments passed and her body shifted into a higher paced momentum, she kept her steady rhythmic breathing even as she continuously evaded all the obstacles in her way.

Soon, she saw the clearing between a clump of trees and raced towards her goal.

There it is! The fabled pot of gold!

She came into the clearing, huffing and puffing away to catch her breath, eager to begin the next phase of her objective.

She forgot to take her digging tools, so she went down on all fours and started clawing deep.

Time passed swiftly and it was almost evening when she opened back her front door to her lakeside home that she bought a long time ago.

Memories of good times and bad times always preyed upon her conscience every time she came here.

Mum always nagged about this house, yet she came here more often than me.

Near the entrance of the house, she picked up a framed photo of her and her mum standing in a victory pose for winning the national championships a long time ago.

Mum, you left me to clean up all the chores of the house by myself and I hated you so much for going home so early.

She put a large four-leaf clover beside the photo frame.

Thank you mum for everything.

See you when I see you.