Sample Border

Candelabra

Multiplicity, colors and candlesticks,
Branches outstretched, arms flailing,
desperate for air, burning, dying...

DAI-MECH-KATANA-CRON

The Last Hour

Jump: IN

59:59

14:59

Oh god oh god oh god, I thought, panic-stricken as my car swerved wildly all over the road. Emily was at the back seat, wailing, her cries of despair and hopelessness drowning out the music that only minutes ago was soothing her almost into slumber.

"Please don't cry, baby. Mommy's here. Everything's gonna be all right," I kept repeating, like some desperate chant, tears flowing profusely down my cheeks. We were going to die, me and my sweet precious little Emily, on this dark quiet god-forsaken road, a random victim of some crazed psychopath driving a black SUV. And I don't even know what I did to -

The SUV rammed violently at the back of my car, sending us skidding off the road and falling into a ditch. We were stuck. I looked back to check on Emily. She was still firmly strapped to her baby car seat, her small innocent eyes looking all at once afraid, bewildered and somehow betrayed.

A flash of anger surged within me. I will not let anything bad happen to my Emily. Not while I'm alive. I suddenly remembered Ted lying helpless on his hospital bed, so thin and nearly lifeless. I recalled the words I said to him during the last minutes of his life:

"Don't worry about me or Emily, Ted. We'll get by. I can take care of myself, and I will always protect our precious baby. You just please do your damnedest to get better, okay?"

And then he was gone. That was two years ago, and while it sure as hell was hard, what with the mortgage and credit card payments on top of Ted's medical expenses and then funeral bills, we did eventually get by as I promised. Fuck, I even just got a promotion, and there was Allan who was sweet on me, and I think he just might maybe be the one, or at least the closest that I'll ever -

"Waaaahhh," Emily let out a long shriek of fear, jolting me back to the now. "Shhhhhhhhh," I whispered as I unbuckled my seatbelt. I dialed Allan's cell number, but in my heart I knew it was no good. There was no signal.

There's a baseball bat though, I thought. Allan forgot and left it one time when he had to hitch a ride with me. It was in the trunk. I'll use it to whack the head of the fucker driving the SUV. Preying on innocent mothers and helpless babies. He's going to get what he deserves. I was in good physical shape, eating well and running regularly. I'm sure I can bash brains with the best of them.

I quickly got out of the car and went towards the trunk. It was smashed in and stuck in such a way that you couldn't get it open, with or without a key. Fuck! I heard the sound of an engine coming around. He was here, and I had no weapon to protect Emily with. I began to sob uncontrollably as I went back to my precious baby girl. I had to try to get us away. If only you were here, Ted.

"Shhhhhhhh," I said, trying to hush Emily up, and of course failing utterly. It was almost comical, as I lifted my closed hand with the pointer finger up, its tip touching my lips. The universal sign of PLEASE BE QUIET, I thought. I unfastened Emily's strap, placed her to my breast, and began to run as fast as I've ever had in my entire life. Adrenaline pumping, I thought maybe I can outrun him. I was a fast runner. I was probably the fastest runner in our neighborhood, and if I can outrun Manuel with his top-of-the-line running shoes and digital sports gear and other do-hickeys, maybe -

He yanked my hair and I fell down on my back. I looked up and saw a dark man at one with the shadows. Emily was on my chest, suddenly and surprisingly silent now. Maybe she was listening to my heart beating a quadrillion times per minute. As I lay down on the moist wet grass, part of me wanted to just close my eyes and stay down, while the other part wanted to get up and -

I saw a hand clutch tightly around the small neck of my little baby, as she was lifted by the dark man, then tossed away, discarded like a ragged doll. I heard a soft thud as the man came on top of me.

"No!" I screamed out, kicking him between his legs. He fell down, moaning like a son-of-a-bitch. I quickly got up, thinking that maybe Emily wasn't hurt that bad. Maybe there was still a sliver of a chance that things can turn out okay. Maybe I kicked the fucker in the balls so hard he was never going to get up, and I could get Emily and maybe use his own car to drive out to safety, maybe call Allan as soon as I get a signal and we could call the police and -

Then I felt the most unbearable pain, a long sharp knife slicing my back in half. I fell down sobbing. I knew in my mind that it was all over. I was dying. "I'm sorry," I whispered repeatedly to Ted. He was there; I could feel his presence as I lay on the thick dark grass, the moist musty smell filling the air around me. I felt another stab, then another, and again. "Emily," I cried out, as I felt my life slowly drain away from m-

45:01

00:01

Jump: OUT

I opened my eyes, disoriented. It always took a few minutes for a person to adjust his bearings after a jump. I'm probably one of the few who've made the most jumps in the entire world, and even I still can't get used to it. I wonder if they've fixed that with the new models.

I looked around, my own memories rushing back like a tsunami as my brain flushed out remnants of the memory extract ("memtract" for short) I just experienced.

"Ahhhhh," I moaned. It always hurts a bit; two, three seconds tops, then I'm okay.

I heard a voice asking me, "So? Is it a keeper?"

It was Jacob, the jump technician in charge. He sounded understandably eager. Each time I get a memtract that's a "keeper", he gets a good piece of the cut. And the more unique the extract, the larger the cut. And this really was a good one, a victim of the serial killer the press had dubbed the Widow Slayer.

I put both my hands to where my ears were supposed to be and heard sounds of gears turning, then the "jumpsuit" helmet was off. I pressed a couple of buttons from my chest down to my crotch and lept out of the jump pod as it opened up. I was in a hurry, and wanted to finish this thing as soon as possible.

"Is he waiting outside?" I asked Jacob. "Yup," he answered back and I couldn’t help but smile. It used to be that I had to look for the next of kin of these victims. When I started collecting memtracts of victims of violent crimes, it took weeks and some times even months before they agreed. Sometimes they even looked at me like I was some sort of parasite feeding on the misfortune of others, trying to profit from their misery.

I wasn't always like this, I reflected. It used to be that I took my job as a prosecutor with gusto and fervor like you wouldn't believe. I was going to root out the evil doers and make the city crime-free. That was a long time ago. And it wasn't like I got swallowed by corruption or disillusioned by city politics or anything like that. I just got tired. And married. Now I had to worry about putting food on the table. So I had to look for every small racket that might present itself to keep my wife Clarice happy.

Which is why I a.) just jumped into the last sixty minutes of Amy Ramirez's life, the Widow Slayer's latest victim, b.) was counting how much I have to give Jacob for his help in accessing evidence of a case that wasn't even assigned to me, and c.) was on my way to pay Amy's estranged good-for-nothing addict of a brother into selling the last hour of Amy's time on this god-forsaken piece-of-shit of a planet.

Jump technology. Incredible, I thought. Just five years and it had revolutionized the way we solved crimes and prosecuted cases. Using a jumpsuit developed by (appropriately enough) Jump Technologies Inc., a person goes into this chamber they call a jump pod and accesses memories extracted from the brain of a dead person. Apparently, if the brain is intact (with minimal deterioration), the last minutes before he died can be captured using a trans-bio-mechanical fusion process that I can't even begin to pretend to understand. Anyway, the long and short of it is that we get to experience everything during the last hour (anything beyond that is fuzzy, I'm told, and can damage your own brain) of a person's life. And when I say everything, I mean everything, from his thoughts, what he smelled, saw, tasted, felt and heard. And if he is the victim of murder, we just might be able to find out who his killer was. Amazing, isn't it?

I saw a skinny nervous man sitting inside my office. I walked in, greeted him with the words, "Hey, Jimmy?"

"Hey, man," he said with a quaking voice. "I signed the papers you gave me," as he held a thick set of documents, looking at me like he needed some sort of approval.

"That's good," I told him, involuntarily looking at my watch. Fast and quick, I just might make it for dinner with Clarice.

"Hey man, can I ask you something?" Jimmy said. Fuck, I thought. Hope I can finish this in thirty minutes. "Sure, Jimmy. Ask away."

"What are you planning to do with Amy's, uhmmm, you know, memtract thing?"

Ah, I thought. This was a usual question from heirs of victims who don't really give a fuck, but didn't want to appear so. Most of the time I tell them some bullshit about putting these memtracts into some cutting-edge giant database linked into each and every one of the Global Crime Units, which in turn check each and every little detail of each and every memory in order to better fight the good fight. They swallow this crap more easily now because of crime shows like Multiple Emmy-Award Winning Jump Street 60 (which is actually a series co-produced by Jump Technologies under their new management). With Jimmy though, I decided to be brutally honest, just because I felt like it, and it was quicker.

"Okay, Jimmy. I'm gonna lay it all bare for you," I began. "Ever watched an episode of Jump Street Sixty? Well, that's part of the plan of Jump Technologies, the company who created jump technology, to introduce the concept of jumping as a new global pastime. Initially, when JumpTech was founded, it was envisioned only as a tool to solve crimes and murders, much like the internet was supposed to be a military tool. However, JumpTech's new management wants to make jumping available to the average Joe, who would pay them to experience death without actually dying or getting so much as a pinch on the cheek. Over the last two years, they've been developing smaller and probably more ergonomic jump pods. The plan is to set up 'jump centers' all across the globe. It's a creative idea, and I think it will fly. I mean, have you ever wondered what it would be like to die?"

"Yeah, I guess," Jimmy answered, but I wasn't sure if he was really getting it, or if he actually cared. But I felt like explaining myself.

"Anyway, sometime ago I was approached by JumpTech agents to collect memtracts of victims of violent crimes. The more unique, the higher the price. So, for the last two years of my life, instead of doing my job right the way it ought to be done, I've been collecting the memtracts of victims of violent deaths. Car crashes, suicides, rape and homicide, sodomy and homicide, you name it. I even have one involving cannibalism. And it wasn't easy. The whole sixty minutes should be engaging or it has to at least involve some interesting twist, not just full of talk, coffee drinking, or contemplating-the-meaning-of-life-before-I-get-bludgeoned like roadkill or what not. This last one," I said, waving the documents he gave to me, "is my 100^th memtract, and my ticket out of this shithole." I opened my bag and took out a wad of bills and offered it to Jimmy. "Don't spend it all at once."

Jimmy's eager eyes flickered as he grabbed the money and placed it in his knapsack. It was clear that I didn't get through to him, as I watched him scurry away from my office. Who cares, I thought, and looked again at my watch. Damn, it took me a little over thirty minutes. If I run, take the shortcut, and don't look back, I can still make it for dinner just a few minutes late.

09:59

Actually, I was supposed to collect 101 violent death memtracts, I thought, as I walked towards an alley. It was a shortcut only few people knew about, including my wife. In fact, I learned about it from her. I knew these streets pretty well, but she was the one who grew up here, alongside the thugs and drug dealers. But that was a long time ago. She probably wouldn't know anyone living here now, I mused. My mind wandered a bit as I maneuvered my way along a narrowed section of the alley. I think I have at least seven memtracts involving death in a dark alley, and I'm sure I've rejected a couple for being repetitive.

They wanted to call the product '101 Ways to Die', then with a lower caption saying, 'Murder and Other Violent Deaths'. I don't know if that's any good, and I don't care. I'll try to talk them into just taking 100, and if they don't, maybe I can reevaluate some of the old ones I've rejected. Perhaps one of those stabbed-in-a-dark-alley rejects. My cell phone rang.

"Clarice," I said. She was asking me if it was any good. "Yeah. 100 memtracts," I said. She asked me if I needed one more. "I'm gonna talk to them. 100 is as good as 101. I'm sure I can convince them. If I can't, I'll just reconsider some of the old ones." She asked me where I was. "Yeah, I already told you I was going to use your shortcut. Yeah, the one that cuts across- yeah, that's the one. I'm right here in the middle. No, there's no one here. It's perfectly safe. I'll be there in a few -

I felt a sharp pain cut across my lower back. I looked down and saw the tip of a large blade protruding out of my belly. I turned, but it was dark. I couldn't see my killer, and it seemed like he was wearing a mask. Fuck, I thought, as I fell down on the floor. I started feeling wetness around me as he came on top, raising his knife. Blood, my blood, I thought, as the red liquid soaked my clothes. This is all your fault, Clarice, I thought, as I felt another stab. You just had to insist that I go this way. What would it matter if I was a little late for your stupid dinner. And as I lay down on the cold hard cement, I -

00:01

Jump: OUT

Things To Do Before Killing Yourself

You sit at your father’s study desk. You use his keys to unlock the top center drawer, looking for something, and finding it. It feels heavy. You set it on the desk, your mind a little numb.

You stare at your father’s handgun.

You take it and examine it carefully. The six-shooter was fully-loaded, well oiled, and definitely crying out for some action. You grip the handle firmly with your hand and point its nose at your right temple, pointer finger lodged on the trigger.

This is it, you think. There’s really not much point in living anymore without her. You just can’t stand the pain. Just too much of it.

As you hold the trigger, you think of her. Alicia.

---

You met her during her school orientation, she a freshman, you a sophomore “volunteer coordinator” for the event. From the very start, the two of you hit it off. After a few weeks of busy courtship, the two of you became an item. You think back and recall the endless phone conversations the two of you had. The leisurely walks in the park. The stolen kisses in the dark. The awkward exploration of your bodies. The first time you made love.

“Oh God,” you cry out softly, snapping back to the present. Your trigger finger trembles uncontrollably. It had been a perfect time. A time now lost. What’s the point in living if it’s a life without her?

So this is how your life is going to end, you muse. Body slumped over your father’s desk, blood pool on the obviously fake Persian carpet. You’re not overly concerned about going to Hell. Or Heaven, for that matter. As far as you’re concerned, God doesn’t exist and when a person dies, he simply ceases to exist. The existential bullshit the world has churned out over the ages is simply that: BULLSHIT. God was simply a product of man’s inability to come to terms with his own purposeless existence.

“Ha-ha,” you laugh, despite yourself. How very YOU to philosophize, while about to commit suicide. How better it would be if you simply stopped to exist. No more tears. No more pain. No more Alicia.

And no more Chad.

It came as a shock to you when Alicia told you about Chad. Apparently, she had been seeing him behind your back a few months before her confession. You remember her crying. It just happened, she said. I never meant to hurt you, she said. Lies. All lies. All BULLSHIT.

Are they together this very moment? At this very point in time, as you go through the prelude of taking your own life, are they in his god damn pad, on his semen-stained bed, fucking each other’s brains out?

Rage fills your entire being. As you press the single-action revolver on your right temple, you suddenly have an epiphany. And, like all epiphanies, it comes to you with such power that it leaves you a little off. A little unhinged.

Yes, you’ve accepted that tonight, you’re going to die. This has a calming effect on you, as you feel the anger rapidly subsiding, replaced by an awareness of a cold mind. Calculating.

Of course, you don’t have to kill yourself right this very moment, you think. Maybe you can have a little fun before the end comes? After all, you still had things to do.

And scores to settle.

---

The condominium is a new one, barely occupied. You ring the doorbell of Chad's unit. You weren’t sure if he knew you by face, but assumed that he did. You really didn’t have a plan, but you were sure you could blast the door open with your gun. In any case, it didn’t matter. The door was already open, and you hear loud heavy metal blasting from a pretty awesome sound system. You go in quickly, then lock the door.

“Alicia, baby, you can’t bring all your books here. Be reasonable. This apartment has little space as it is.”

You smirk as you recall your own arguments with your bitch of an ex-girlfriend.

“Yes, yes. I know. I know. No. Come on, babe, don’t be so stubborn. I have most of the boxes here. There’s two left in the car. I promise. By the time you get here, everything will be in order. Okay. Love you too. Bye.”

You take that as your cue, and rush to him.

“Hello, Chad,” you say as you point your gun towards his left knee. You see the surprised look on his face and couldn’t resist pulling the trigger. You hear a loud BANG and see Chad go down. He screams loudly, wailing like an unattended baby. Very unmanly, you think. You decide that it’s time you two had a chat.

“Nice place you got here, Chaddy-boy,” you shout, competing with the loud surround-sound music. Chaddy-boy. Pretty funny. Sometimes you can be so witty, you think.

“I bet the girls really like it here. The quintessential bachelor's pad. How many have you brought up here, huh? How many screamed as you fucked them in the ass, huh? Alicia screamed too, I’ll bet. She likes that, you know. She likes to scream. I’m sure you know that too. Fucking prick!”

You hit his face with the gun. You hear his jaw breaking. God, what a god damn satisfying sound, you think.

Chad was losing a lot of blood. He was on the floor, moaning and whining. It seemed as if he was begging you to spare his life, but with his cracked jaw, he was too incoherent for you to understand.

“Look at you, man,” you say. “So fucking pathetic. I can’t believe Alicia left me for you.”

Chad crawls over to you, gripping your leg. He was definitely begging. Christ, you think. What a loser.

You point your gun at the top of his head, as you whisper, “Don’t worry, buddy. Your bitch of a girlfriend is gonna be next.”

You squeeze the trigger tightly. The BANG gets lost amidst the ear-shattering music of heavy metal rock.

---

You hear the sound of keys rattling. Alicia. She was here and it was about time. You had been sitting on Chad’s sofa for hours (you already turned the music off). You kept thinking that with Chad gone, maybe Alicia would come back to you. You weren’t even sure if you’d want her back if she wanted to. A guy’s got to have his pride, you think.

The door knob turns and in comes Alicia. “Chad, I’m home,” she says.

You don’t answer back. You wait for the sound of the door closing.

You’re struck with the smell of her perfume. My God. Memories of happier times flood your mind. Not now, you think. Be strong, you chastise yourself. A guy’s got to have his fucking pride, you repeat.

You hear the sound of a door close, then the muffled sound of running water. She’s in the bathroom. You imagine her wet and naked, and decide that you had to have her for one last time before this night is over.

You kick the bathroom door open. You see the look of surprise on her face, but only for a moment. She now looks at you furiously.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she screams. She takes her towel and quickly wraps it around herself.

“Don’t worry, babe. Nothing I haven't seen before,” you say, grinning.

She comes towards you, pushing you outside the bathroom. “Chad!” she calls out. “CHAD!”

She pushes you until you lose your balance and fall down. She continues calling out to her dead pathetic loser of a boyfriend. You decide to enlighten her as to why her “Chaddy-boy” (he-he) wasn't responding.

“I think I saw him in the bedroom,” you say with a smile.

Alicia looks at you suspiciously, with a touch of fear. Then off she went.

---

It took about seven seconds before she was screaming again. A different kind of scream this time. Deep and fearful, bordering on hysteria. You decide that you like it.

You go to her, tucking your gun down the back of your waist. You see her bent down on her knees, a few inches away from Chad’s limp and headless body.

“He was like that when I got here,” you say lamely. No way she was going to believe you, but you had to say something, right?

She barely hears you. She was still in a daze, tears streaming uncontrollably down her cheeks.

You caress her long black hair, saying, “Shhhhh… It’s okay; it’s okay. I’m here, baby.” You start fondling her breasts.

She suddenly shrieks and stands up. Before you knew it, she slaps you hard on your face. You look at her, astounded by her affront. You grab her forcefully by the hair, then swing her towards the bed.

“Bitch,” you whisper, angry and aroused as she lay down helpless and crying on the mattress. You reach for your gun with your right hand as you climb on top of her, pressing her chest with your left. You wanted her badly. If only she could just stop fighting you and enjoy this like she used to.

She spits at your face. Her eyes focuses on you, defiant and daring. You get even more aroused by her spirit. You wanted to break it. You wanted to break her. But most of all, you wanted her to stop squirming. You aim your gun at her right foot. BANG. Let’s see how she continues to fight you with that, you think wryly.

It works, although her screams were now louder. She was clearly in pain, not that you care. Her shrieking annoys you, though. How the fuck can you rape her decently with all that screaming?

You begin to look for some cloth, a towel maybe. Anything to wrap around her mouth and muffle her up. Maybe you could tie her hands as well. You stand up and leave the bedroom, looking around the apartment.

You hear a window break. Fuck, you think. You hear another one, then another. The whole world was going to hear her now. You hear the sound of things crashing outside. Fuck. The people down on the street were sure to notice now. You had to shut her up. Permanently. You’re just gonna have to rape her when she’s dead.

You go to the room and see her on the phone. It looks (and sounds) to you that she had just finished stating the address to the operator. Smart bitch, you think. This angers you all the more. You aim your gun at the receiver. BANG. It breaks into pieces, along with half her right hand. There was blood all over now. Fucking gross, you think. Time to shut her up for good.

You hesitatingly aim for her chest. Oh well, you think. You probably didn’t have enough time to rape her anyway, so there was no need to keep her breasts in good condition. You suspect that the cops would be here very soon.

Suddenly, she lurches at you; her good left hand reaching for your gun while her bloodied right hand (three fingers left) scratched your face. You hear the loud BANG as your shot goes wild, smashing a window. This girl is just too much, you think. You press the nozzle of your gun on her stomach and pull the trigger.

BANG! Hot wet blood burst all over your shirt and pants. Chunks of what used to be body organs fall to the floor.

Then silence. You could get used to it, you think. No more shouting, no more screams. You feel lighter now. A sense of blissful peace.

You start recalling the things you did today. You killed Chad. That was immensely satisfying. Alicia Dearest was dead too, but you didn’t get to fuck her one last time; damn. Still, all in all, not bad for a day’s work.

Oh well, now it’s your turn. You better do this quickly. You hear the rush of footsteps. Probably cops.

You aim the gun in your mouth because you saw someone do it like that in a movie once. It didn’t really matter where you aim as long as it gets the job done, you think. You say a prayer to no being in particular, and slowly squeeze the trigger. Goodbye, fucked-up world.

CLICK.

You squeeze the trigger again. Must be some mistake.

CLICK again.

You hear the voices of several men shouting at you. You feel someone grab you. Someone else kicks you from behind and you fall, your body pressed down to the floor. Your nose touches the blood-soaked vinyl tiles.

Old Couple Sitting Together

Sitting and Talking

Old Couple Sitting Apart

Girl Sitting and Waiting

Wanted: Storyteller

 

The room was entirely white.

He looked at the walls, the ceiling, the floor. All white. In fact, the only thing that wasn't white was himself. That, and the chair he was sitting on. He got up, turned around, and backed up a bit to study the chair.

It was a wooden chair, and not a particularly interesting one as wooden chairs go. After gazing at it for a few seconds, his mind began to drift. Fuzzily, he tried to think of where he was, tried to recall where he had been before being here. He had absolutely no idea.

And something else was nagging him. He had this overwhelming sense of certainty, mixed with a dash of dread, that not knowing where he was should be the least of his problems. Something more primordial should be bothering him. He thought harder, then realized what it was.

He didn't know who the hell he was.

A door suddenly materialized. It opened and out came a rotund man clad in surprisingly Hawaiian shirt and shorts. He came forward and offered his hand, saying, “Hello, Andrew. I'm Nate.”

“Andrew?” he asked, still ridiculously transfixed at the man's shirt. It was just so yellow. “Is that my name?”

“Well, no, but calling you Adam would have been too cliche.” Nate answered with a smile. “You like the shirt?”

“It's uhmmm... yellow,” Andrew managed to say.

“Ha-ha, good answer,” Nate commented, still with that easy smile. ”Anyway, we should probably begin the orientation. Walk with me, Andrew.”

It was all white again, only now the whiteness was vast and seemed infinite. Still, it was a comfortable white. Soothing and peaceful. Nate began to speak.

“What you need to know, Andrew, is that you've been recruited,” Nate said, “to tell stories.”

"Excuse me?" Andrew asked.

"We want you to make up stories, Andrew," Nate said.

Andrew fell silent, as he absorbed the statement. It felt right somehow.

Then his eyebrows furrowed. He still had no idea who he was.

As if reading his thoughts, Nate said, "You can't remember who you are because we made you forget. It was with your consent, mind you. Memories are irrelevant to the work you're going to be doing, you see. They're just so much baggage," he concluded, nodding.

"What precisely am I supposed to do, Nate?"  Andrew asked. "This work, you said that I'm supposed write stories? What kind of stories?"

"Whatever kind you like, Andrew,"  Nate answered, adding, "It's really entirely up to you. And you don't write them, like on paper or type them on a computer or typewriter. You tell them. With your mind. Let me explain some more."

The vast whiteness was suddenly filled with people. It was chaotic, but it was an orderly sort of chaos. There were people all around Andrew. And above him and below. There were shouts, cries, laughter and an occasional scream of pure delight. There was a pretty Eurasian-looking girl with colorfully dyed hair wearing skimpy shorts, blowing a bubblegum.  There was a guy dressed in a Santa Claus suit lively cursing in French. And not just people. There was an alligator standing upright, holding a toy gun with one hand and a slurpee with the other. It was all too weird, Andrew thought.

"These are storytellers, Andrew. I'm of them, by the way. And soon, you too. But we're not storytellers in the conventional sense. We're the world's storytellers. We tell the world's stories."

Andrew frowned, not comprehending. "I don't understand," he said.

"Yeah, sorry about that. I'm not explaining it right," Nate admitted, twisting his mouth and scratching his nose. "We're not people, Andrew. We're more like celestial beings or cosmic entities. And we live beyond the fabric of reality, outside the realm of time and space."

"Ummm, okay…" Andrew muttered, still unsure.

"Yup. Think of your old world as a blank page, Andrew. As a writer, what do you do with a blank page? You fill it up with words that tell a story. The world is like this really really large notebook. Some pages have already been filled, most are still blank, and its up to us to continue filling the blank ones up."

"I'm dead, right?" Andrew suddenly said, a look of despair crossing his face. Then it brightened a bit. "I'm dead and you're an angel and you're here to take me to heaven, and offer me a job…?" he said as his voice trailed off, skeptical of his own train of thought.

Nate sighed wearily, his face suddenly old and full of wrinkles. Was he wrong in thinking that Andrew could be up for the job? But what else could he do? There was certainly no turning back now. The die was cast and all he could do was hope that Andrew's creative mind could make that imaginative leap. He pressed on.

"Heaven and hell, angels and demons, they're just stories, Andrew. Very beautiful and effective stories, I admit, at least for a time, but they're basically just stories. Everything you know, I mean, everything you used to know, they were all just stories we made up here. I can even introduce you to the groups who came up with Christianity, automobiles, dinosaurs,  and 9-11, but that's for another day. First thing though, you've got to grasp the concept of what we do.

"You see, Andrew, the world was created, then it was left to us to tell its stories. You ever heard the expression 'God is in the details'? Well, God isn't, not in a hands-on sense. It's us, Andrew. We're in the details. Or more accurately, we are in charge of the details. Of course what we do has to conform to his grand plan, but it's a very broad plan, and there's a lot of elbow room for us to get creative.

"God delegated the task of telling stories to our kind. The beings you saw earlier, that alligator and chick with the colored hair, and did you notice the armadillo with the blue-tooth earpiece? No? Anyway, that's us Andrew. Storytellers. And our task is to tell the greatest, most beautiful, most wonderful stories we can imagine for this world. We started telling stories the moment life began.

"Basically, you're given a folder with a person's name written on it. That person whose name is written in the folder is your charge. The folder will also contain some information about him. More importantly, it would have two dates. His date of birth, and the date of his death. What happens in-between, well, that's entirely up to the storyteller.

"Is she going to be a warrior, a criminal, a rockstar, or a one-eyed monkey in the middle of the African jungles? Will he be the next Hitler or Einstein or Messiah, or will he live most of his life in a secluded forest talking to squirrels and raping sheep?How many children will she bear? Grandchildren? How many lovers, friends? Will she make a mean baked macaroni that's the envy of her entire neighborhood? The story of his or her life will be entirely your responsibility. It's hard and challenging work, Andrew, but if you're truly a storyteller at core, its going to be the ultimate high.

"And you have to coordinate your plans with other storytellers. For instance, if your story involves a bombing or plane crash, with a lot of people dying at the same time, you have talk with other storytellers and collaborate with them. It's all connected and it can be very frustrating, and fun and crazy at times. But in the end, when you do good work, I guarantee that you'll feel a great rush of satisfaction that's just indescribable. Imagine the feeling of having finished writing a novel or short story that you think rocks, and everyone agreeing with you. Then imagine that hitting the bestseller list for, say, sixty weeks. Now, imagine that feeling multiplied a hundred-fold. That would only be an inkling of the feeling I'm talking about. In any case, you'll soon get the chance to feel it.

"We're bound by certain rules, of course. Some rules change, but the basic ones, the important ones, they stay the same. You'll learn about them as you go along. Just remember, like any story worth its salt, it has to make sense."

Andrew nodded. He was having a hard time absorbing everything, but somehow, he thought he understood the gist of what Nate was saying. He looked around and noticed that the vast whiteness was gone. They were standing at the very edge of time and space. He had no idea how he knew this, but he knew it was true, just as he knew that the bright blue planet in front of him was Earth. It was Earth at the beginning of time, so fresh, angry, full of possibilities and about to burst.

"Before you start telling new stories, you need to know all the stories we've told so far since life began. Continuity's one of those basic rules I mentioned, Andrew," Nate explained. The room began to swirl and the universe opened up all its secrets. Andrew took Nate's offered hand, and together they walked through all of time and space since creation.

After an eternity, they finished and came back.

"Wow," Andrew commented, the awe clearly obvious in his voice. He had just witnessed 'everything'.

"Yeah, it's quite something, isn't it?" Nate said.

Andrew looked around, then asked, "Where are we, Nate?"

Nate didn't answer. He didn't have to. They were in what was obviously a delivery room. Instead, he said, "Come. I have one last thing to show you."

A mother was in labor. The doctors were telling her to push. The baby was coming.

"Take this," Nate gave Andrew a green capsule. Andrew took it, then swallowed.

"Now tell your story, Andrew," Nate said.

Andrew felt his mind and world expand. This is it, Andrew thought. He took one deep breath. He was nervous and excited. He knew that this was his destiny, to tell stories. He couldn't remember who he was or what he did before all this, but he was sure it had something to do with telling stories. A novelist maybe. A screenwriter? Poet? Hack? At the very soul of his being, he knew he was a storyteller. After all, why else would he have been recruited to do this kind of work?

He brushed aside all these thoughts and concentrated on the task at hand. He was going to tell the baby's story. Instantly, the world became his very own playground, and he entered the baby's mind, becoming one with his charge. He/She spoke:

"My parents named me Christmas. Surname, Winters. Yes, that would make me Christmas Winters. I know. It think it's a pretty damn cool name too."

As Andrew began unraveling Christmas' story, images swirled in his mind. No, not just images. Also sound, smell, taste, texture, thought. And everything else in-between. The feeling was unlike anything he had ever experienced. At first, he thought that it would simply be like writing a story, where he tried his best to get into his characters' minds. There was always that sense of disassociation, try as he might to connect with them.This was entirely different though. It was a seamless integration, a perfect fusion of creator and created. Christ, it was the ultimate writing experience. He went back to work.

"We were quite poor, although I never really felt it when I was young. Both my parents worked real hard, and there came a time when things started to look up a bit. I think I was around twelve at the time. I remember praying for my parents to become real rich because they deserved to be happy, the way they struggled so hard for us. I had a younger brother named Jeremy, by the way. We began getting bigger and more expensive presents, and started to go to movies more often. I remember one time when mom and dad took us to watch this play. The tickets cost a lot, but dad insisted. Jeremy didn't enjoy it, and I think dad only wanted us to go because he knew mom would love it. Me? I was spellbound. Immediately after watching the play, I went all over our house, trying on every shirt, dress, curtain, pillow case. Anything that could be used as a costume. I talked in weird accents that were supposed to be French, Chinese, Hebrew, Aramaic, and one particular alien tongue I called Daikatoranian. It was such a perfect time, probably the last time we were all so happy. My mom was diagnosed with cancer shortly after that, and died the next year."

Tears flowed from Andrew's eyes. He was intimately connected with Christmas, knew everything about her. Even those she didn't know herself. He was her mother, father, neighbor, dog, lover. He was her creator in every sense that mattered, and he loved every little thing about her. Each idea. Each gesture. Every dream and failure, quirk and pet peeve. He was pleased with her imperfections and inconsistencies. And mostly, her good heart.  He felt her immense sorrow at the tragic loss of her mother. He continued on.

"Dad had suffered so much when we lost mom. He didn't become an alcoholic or anything like that. There was one time though, when I came home from school late because we had choir practice and found him sitting on the couch, alone in the dark. My mom had already been dead for about four years. He'd apparently drank a few beers, and not being used to it, he got drunk easily. I asked him if he was okay, and he said no. Then he cried, and said that he'll never be okay again because mom was dead. Mom had been his north star and she was dead and he was lost and it was all so hard and he was so very sorry he couldn't be a good father to us anymore. I went to my dad and hugged him real tight. I told him I missed mom too, so very much, and he was still a good father to us. I assured him that he had absolutely nothing to be sorry about. Then Jeremy entered the room, still sleepy-eyed. He saw us hugging and said that he wanted a hug too. We all laughed and cried, and it was such a Kodak moment. I'll cherish it for as long as I live.

"I went to college on a scholarship, then took up medicine. I graduated at the top of my class. On graduation day, my dad told me that if mom was still alive, she'd probably be so proud she'd weep so loud and embarrass us all. That made me cry because I knew it was true.

"I met Stewart at the public library. I was treating this nine-year old kid with what seemed to be a rare disease and was reading up on the matter. Nine years old! I wondered if this world of ours will ever make sense, and if God actually existed. Probably not, I bitterly concluded. If He did, He certainly wouldn't allow a little boy to have some incurable disease and die, right? What would be the point? My mind was so distracted with these questions that I didn't notice this guy coming up to me until he spoke, asking me if I was okay. I answered that I was fine, a little annoyed. Then he said that if I was fine, maybe I should flip over the book I was reading, so he could read its cover title. Apparently, I'd been holding it upside-down."

Andrew smiled, pleased with how his/her story was progressing. It's the details that count, right? And this was only the beginning. His Christmas still had so much to do, so many lives to touch. She was an angel with the purest of heart, and Andrew loved her immensely. He began forming his thoughts. There was the accidental kiss at her cousin Shawn's birthday party, Stewart's sudden proposal, at a comic convention, of all places. Then the garden wedding. Her first child, her promotion as chief of -

"Andrew," Nate whispered. The whisper fell on deaf ears. Andrew was still caught up in his storytelling. Nate reached for his shoulder and gave Andrew a slight shake.

"What?" Andrew asked, annoyed by the interruption.

He was back at the hospital. He saw the doctors shaking their heads. Their posture was that of failure. Instead of a baby's wail, there was only a deafening silence, until Andrew heard the most heart-breaking sound of all.

A mother's cry.

Andrew's entire being filled with shock and grief. The feeling of loss was so intense, he seemed to be suffocating, drowning in despair and hopelessness. He felt so desperately confused. And decidedly angry. He had been played for a fool, he thought.

Andrew grabbed Nate by the neck and pushed him against the hospital wall. "She can't be dead! There's still so much to tell! Bring her back!" he demanded, his eyes menacing.

"Calm down, Andrew," Nate advised, trying to pry away Andrew's fingers from his neck. "You're ruining my shirt."

Andrew released his grip and looked at Nate with pleading eyes. A wooden chair materialized near Nate and he took it to Andrew. "Sit down, Andrew," he said softly. Andrew sat and pleaded hopefully, "I still have so much to tell."

"I know, but this was just a test. The green capsule was sort of a trial version of what would actually happen once you become part of us. We couldn't very well hand you an assignment without a test run, could we? We had to see if you grasp the idea of our work, and clearly you do. You're a natural, Andrew."

"What about Christmas?" Andrew asked, ignoring Nate's praise.

Nate sighed, then spoke, "The child you named Christmas was a charge of mine. This is her file," Nate said, showing Andrew the contents of a folder. "She lived for about twenty seconds. But within those twenty seconds, I told her story. Of her seeing a glimpse of her loving mother, and hearing the tender voices of her doctors. She felt the love and concern around her, and with the amount of time she had been given, that was the best she or anyone else could have hoped for. She died very very young, but she died having known and felt love.

"Sometimes, we get assignments like this, Andrew. Where you will have only hours to tell your charge's story, even minutes. It shouldn't make a difference though. The length of time your charge is alive isn't what matters. What matters is how the life is lived, and that depends entirely on you, and how you tell his or her story."

Nate held a red capsule and offered it to Andrew. "This is the real deal, Andrew," Nate said.

Andrew took it.

"When you feel you're ready to begin work, swallow the capsule. Once you do that, you will become one with us. Initially, you'll get one folder. One charge to handle, one life to live, one story to tell. Once you get used to the work, you'll get more and more folders, and you'll tell multiple stories simultaneously. I'm confident you're up to the job. Just be as creative as you can and let your imagination run wild. And don't hold back. 

A piece of advise I can give, one that I've learned through experience, is that the best stories are the ones that move the heart."

Then Nate disappeared. Andrew opened his palm face up, and looked contemplatively at the small red capsule.

---------

"Christ, I'm glad I'm not in that white room anymore. I swear, all that infinite brightness was killing me," Nate complained to a bearded old man. They were in a black room, completely enveloped in darkness, except for the glittering red ash at the tip of the cigar the old bearded man was smoking.

"Do you think he's ready for this?" the old bearded man asked, concern in his voice.

"Yeah, he's ready. He's a natural at this. Even I wasn't this good on my trial run. And you weren't so hot yourself," Nate said spitefully.

"Fuck. They installed a completely new system that time. We had to learn the language entirely from scratch," the old bearded man argued and spat contemptuously. "What does it matter anyway? The die is cast, and there's no turning back now, is there?"

"No," Nate agreed matter-of-factly.

"So the puppet is made to think he's a puppet master. And the puppet's real master? Is he still the one pulling the strings?" the old bearded man brooded, not really expecting an answer. He added, "You think all this is going to help us in the end?"

"It's all risky, but I think it'll pay off. It's certainly going to shake things up a bit, make for a more interesting story. Ultimately, isn't that what we're all after?" he reasoned out. "Anyway, we sure as hell weren't going places with your ideas," Nate added.

"True," the old man conceded. "You think anyone noticed the change? With the rules, I mean. I thought that couldn't happen anymore, considering the last time," the old man said in a whisper as he took another puff.

"Nah, I don't think anyone's noticed. After all, everyone's comfortable in their own niches. I'm pretty sure we're the only ones to find out. At least for now."

"And when they do finally notice, we'll be far ahead of the game it won't even matter."

With a contemplative face, the old bearded man puffed his cigar one last time, then stubbed it out. They sat silently in complete and utter blackness. There was really nothing else to say, so neither spoke another word.

----------

Andrew stared at the red capsule. He placed it close to his left eye, and looked at it intently. There were lights flashing inside, an infinite circuitry of blinks and cursors. He imagined how it would feel to become one with the world, to begin telling its/his stories. If he could feel so good with a test, how much better was he going to feel hooked up with the actual deal? There was really nothing to consider.

He placed the capsule on top of his thumbnail and flicked it upwards. He caught the capsule with his mouth and swallowed it.

He found himself sitting at a desk. His desk, he instinctively knew. There was one single blue folder on top of it. He eagerly picked it up, flipped it open, and browsed through its sparse data.

Yao Chen Ma. Born on October 31, 1970, at precisely 2:47 AM. Date of death: January 4, 2032, time at 6:23 AM.

Andrew did the math. His charge would live for sixty-two years. Was that time enough to tell a particularly good story?

He was going to make sure it was.

Scream

A Taste of Idunn

Pages 8-10 courtesy of Mike Hong.

Time and Again

Have you ever felt that you weren't living the life you were supposed to live? That somehow you got sidetracked from your destiny and now you can't get back on track? Sometimes at night I would stare at the stars and wonder if I was meant to do something more than give comfort to old people while they slowly journey into the sunset of their lives. Then the next morning I'd get an e-mail from Joey, asking me why I haven't sent money for his tuition yet. Or maybe a call from mom about some unpaid water or electric bill. I'd forget all about my existential musings and focus on reality. You see, my dad died young so my mother had to raise us on her own. Now that I'm older, it's my turn to support the family.

My name is Stephanie Reyes and I work as a caregiver. I've been at St. Matthew's Home for about a year now, and it isn't too bad. It's this first class facility Right in the Middle of Nowhere, Nevada, U.S.A. where rich families send their old and crippled grandparents to wither and die with a modicum of dignity and more importantly, out of their sight. I know it's a cynical way of looking at things but that's my opinion. This kind of thing just isn't right. It should be the children's duty to take care of their parents in their old age, not farm out the work to other people. I guess I shouldn't be complaining though. Without that kind of attitude I wouldn't have this job.

I guess my life isn't really any different from other Filipinos I know here. We all have identical stories, the same reasons for working here. Probably the only thing mildly interesting about me is that I can speak four other languages other than Filipino. There's English of course, some Spanish and Japanese, and a little bit of French. And my family is, at least according to my mom, supposed to be distantly related to the Alcantaras. They're this fabulously old super-rich clan of Spanish descent in the Philippines. They own the biggest companies with interests ranging from telecommunications, mining, shipping, land development, retail trade, and just about any business you can think of. I did a paper on them and learned a lot about their history, starting with their great matriarch and visionary Doña Annabella. Couldn't confirm or deny my mom's claim though.

“So have you guys finished packing yet?” I asked my brother. It was my day-off. I was at a local internet shop chatting with my brother on-line. He and mom were going on a trip to attend the wedding of some distant cousin.

“I have, but mom hasn't. You know how she is. But I guess it's alright. The pier isn't that far anyway.”

“I don't see why you just don't go by plane. It's much faster.”

“No way! A plane's much faster than a boat? You've got anything to back up that claim?"

“Oh I'm sorry. I thought I was talking to a med student, not a lawyer,” I countered.

“Yeah, whatever,” he answered back, laughing. “I think it's pretty cool. I've never traveled by boat before. I think mom's finally finished packing.”

My cellphone began to ring. “Okay, no problem. Listen, my phone's buzzing. Just tell mom I said hi. Have a safe trip, okay? Have fun at the wedding.”

“Okay. Love you, sis. Over and out.” The webcam went blank. I looked at my phone to see who was calling. It was Mr. Brown.

---

Allan Brown was an old resident of St. Matthew's. No one knows much about him or his past, and he never got any visitors. Sometimes I would imagine that he used to be a secret agent, maybe during World War II. Someone like the character Sean Connery played in The Rock. He even has this small “S” tattoo near his left ear which I think stands for “SPY.” I have a fanciful mind, so sue me. Anyway, he's polite and friendly, and over the years, the we've developed a special friendship.

I answered, “Hello, Al. What's up?”

Al's voice was hesitant and apologetic. “Stef, I'm sorry to be calling you on your day off,” he said, then blurted, “But she's here!”

“Who?” I asked.

“Alice!” he shouted.

“Who's Alice?”

“My fiance!”

Before I could think of an appropriate reply, Al said, “Please come, Stef. Please.”

“Where's she now?” I asked.

“She's with Mrs. Wang. Hurry up, please!"

Mrs. Wang was the head administrator of St. Matthew's. She's nice, but very strict.

Resigning to the idea that I was probably not going to get to read that new Kinsella book I just borrowed, I said, “Okay, I'll be right there.”

---

Her name really was Alice. Alice Reynolds. She wasn't Al's fiance though.

She was his granddaughter.

Alice was in her mid-twenties. She was accompanied by a Mr. David Finch, an attorney. He looked in his mid-thirties and did most of the talking.

“Sir, your real name,” the lawyer began, “Is Alistair Reynolds. Your wife was Alice Reynolds. This is your granddaughter,” he said, presenting Alice to him.

“Hi, grandpa,” Alice said. It was all very awkward, but I felt happy for Al. I was glad that someone finally came for him. At the same time I felt a little jealous of Alice, and my heart ached for the company of mom and Joey.

“Alice?” he whispered.

“Everyone tells me I look exactly like grandma when she was young,” she said, handing out an old photograph of a beautiful dignified-looking woman. The resemblance was uncanny.

“I work for the law firm Crenshaw Brady & Locke,” David began. “We handle the estate of Mrs. Reynolds, who died about two years ago. Before her death, Mrs. Reynolds gave our firm some letters to give to Ms. Alice on specific future dates.

“Yesterday, I sought out Ms. Alice to give her the first letter. She opened it and was informed of the present whereabouts of her grandfather. In the letter, Ms. Reynolds also asked that our firm to send a lawyer to accompany her here today to have her meet her grandfather,” explained David.

Alistair was dumbfounded. He was still holding the picture of his late wife in his hand. It was probably a little too overwhelming to absorb at once. “Alistair?” he muttered.

“What else did the letter say?” I asked David. He didn't seem bothered that I was butting into this business, not being family. For an attorney, he didn't seem all that bad.

“Well, other than the instructions to come here, I'm supposed to take all of you out to dinner at the fanciest restaurant in town.”

Al looked at me, waiting for an answer. Can you say fillet-mignon?

---

We were sitting at the Cafe Rafael of the Midtown Mansions, one of the fanciest restaurants this side of town. Only the rich come here, and apparently, the Reynolds family owns a good chunk of it. We'd already eaten dinner and was listening intently to David. He's been talking most of the evening about Mrs. Reynolds' trust while we peppered him with questions.

“Do you remember anything about your past?” David asked Al.

“Every now and then I seem to recall something,” Al struggled to explain, “My mind gets these glimpses, but when I concentrate, they slip away,” he said.

“Well, you were married to Alice Sinclair in the year 1930. Shortly thereafter you and your wife began a small business selling automobile parts and accessories. Not long after that you began building your own, forming Dirk Industries. You had two sons, Jim and Alice's father, Peter. He died of cancer about five years ago,” David said. Alice nodded.

“I'm sorry. I don't remember Jim or Peter or Dirk Industries. I think I remember Alice, but I'm not even sure of that. It's all so fuzzy. When I try harder, I feel a pounding in my head. God, it's so hard,” he sighed.

“Maybe you should get some rest,” I told Al. “Where are you guys staying? What happens tomorrow?”

“Well,” David said, smiling, “Tomorrow I give Ms. Alice here another letter."

---

We met for breakfast at the cafeteria. Alice had already read the second letter. She gave it to Al. Having poor eyesight, Al asked me to read it to him. It began:

My dearest Alice,

How is the lawyer from Crenshaw doing? Is he helping you out? I told Mr. Crenshaw that I wanted him to personally handle this for me, but I'm pretty sure he's going to hand this down to a junior associate or some new kid, my being dead and all. He's a pompous ass, but he knows his job. Anyway, by now you've probably met your grandfather. How is he? Does he remember you? Probably not. His memory was failing when he left. You were just a little girl then. I'm sure he has a lot of questions, as do you, but I assure you that everything will be explained in due time. At this point, I just want you to get reacquainted.

I've outlined an itinerary for you for the day, which I'll attach to this letter soon as I finish it. I hope you'll follow it to the letter (yes, the pun was intended). I want you to visit certain places there. Maybe a little trip down memory lane is just the right thing for everyone.

Please tell your grandfather I love him and miss him, and all will be clear soon. I love you as well, my dear sweet Alice.

Your grandmother,

Alice

We spent the day revisiting parts of the town where much of their love story unfolded. They're really a pretty sight. I wonder why I haven't noticed them before. We went to the town museum where Alice and Al spent many of their weekends together. We visited the local university where they both studied. Finally, we went the old town library. Through her letter, Alice's grandmother actually guided us to an old book with a hand-drawing of a heart and arrow. Right beside it was a note which said "Alistair love Alice". It was so sweet. Seeing the note, Al looked at me. I searched his eyes. Was he starting to remember?

Alice and I put him to bed. It was still early and the three of us weren't tired or sleepy yet. Besides, David told Mrs. Wang that they still needed to consult me on Mr. Reynold's condition and Mrs. Wang was only too happy to bill his law firm for the overtime. We went to a bar and ordered some martinis.

“So, how long have you been living here in the States?” asked Alice.

“A little over three years,” I replied.

“Must be hard, being alone and all. You have family back in the Philippines?”

“Just my mom and a little brother. You? Any family besides your grandfather?”

“Oh yeah. My mom, two brothers and three sisters. Uncle Jim and three cousins.”

"So why'd your grandmother pick you to come here?"

“I don't really know. I've always been her favorite, I guess. When she was dying, she wanted me to be at her side. I was in New York at the time. They told me that she held on until I finally saw her. She whispered something to me before she died.”

“Oh? What?”

“She said she was sorry. I think she was apologizing because I had to go all the way from New York just to see her. That was how it was with grandma. She was always so kind to me. When other people talk about her, they always say she was shrewd and even cunning, but I never saw that side of her. She was always a dear to me, always so sweet and caring.”

“Must be nice to have so much family. And now you got your grandfather back.”

“It is incredible, isn't it? Family is the most important thing,” Alice said, then looked at David. “I thought my grandfather died in a car accident.”

“Hey don't look at me, Alice. I wasn't even working at Crenshaw when your grandmother died. I think she and Mr. Crenshaw planned the whole accident bit, but I don't know. The police report said his car fell on a cliff. There was an explosion and so no body was recovered. Hey, this was about twenty years ago.”

“But why?” I asked. It made no sense.

“I think at that time he was beginning to develop memory loss. He was around sixty then, right?”

“So when Al started to lose his memory his wife decides to fake his death?" I asked. "I thought they were a perfectly happy couple.”

“They were," Alice said. "They were always in each other's arms, smiling and laughing. I know they were smart in business, but I think they were also devoted to each other.”

“So, why?” I pestered. Alice's cellphone began to ring. She answered, saying “Honey, how did it go?” She stood up and excused herself.

“I don't know,” David replied. “Maybe tomorrow's letter will give us the answers?” He said, pointing at his bag.

“Yeah, maybe,” I said. He was somewhat attractive, in a boy-next-door kind of way.

“Tomorrow then?” he asked.

“It's a date,” I said, winking.

---

David was driving, with me at the passenger seat. Al and Alice were at the back. Mrs. Reynolds' third letter told us to go to this one particular place in the woods at the outskirts of town. She was very specific about it. There was even a map attached to her letter. We were told how many steps to take and in what direction. There was even an “X” marking the exact spot.

“I think this is it. Did you bring the shovel, David?” I joked.

“Sorry, I think I left it at home, along with my light-saber and bazooka,” he quipped. I thought it was pretty funny. I looked at Alice to see if she also found it amusing. She was looking at her grandfather.

“What's wrong, grandpa?” she asked, concerned.

“I don't know...” Al answered, his voice trailing off. “Something familiar about this place..." He shook his head. “It's all so confusing. Damn it!” he shouted. “This place. You. The picture. Everything. My head hurts. The pain is unbearable.”

David went to Al's side. He said something to him in a low voice. Obviously, he didn't want anyone else to hear, including me and Alice. He then handed a letter to Al, and gave him reading glasses. Apparently, I wasn't going to know what was written in that letter. Al sat down near a small boulder and put the glasses on. He tore the letter open.

David came up to me and Alice.

“It's part of the instructions Mrs. Reynolds gave us,” he explained. “I don't know what the letter contains. Swear to God.”

Alice and I looked at David, unsure of how to react. What was in the letter? Al seemed to be reading it over and over, as if trying to absorb every word. His eyes squinted; his brows furrowed. His face went through an array of emotions. Sadness, bewilderment, anger, sorrow, defiance, and finally, a sort of resignation. He stood up.

“David,” he called out.

The three of us went near him, but he held up his hand and stopped us. “Just David,” he pleaded. He looked broken and defeated.

“Yes, sir,” David said.

“Do you have a lighter?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” David replied and offered it to him.

Al took the lighter, and began burning the letter.

---

“I guess it was a little dramatic, but she told me to burn it,” Al said. “I'm sure she even arranged for David here to bring a lighter. Am I right?” We were going back to St. Matthew's.

“Well, there was an instruction to have a lighter handy at all times during this entire trip,” David admitted.

“But why? What was in the letter?” I asked.

“It was very personal and kind of embarrassing to tell. You see, this spot is very special to us as a couple, if you know what I mean,” Al said with a smile. I didn't buy it. Alice on the other hand, seemed overjoyed.

“Grandpa!” Alice laughed.

“It's true. Speaking of which, when do I get to meet your boyfriend? David tells me he's coming here soon?”

“Fiancé, grandpa. Alex. He's going to head out here later tonight and will probably arrive early morning.”

“Are you sure? He has to leave by eight. Call him to make sure, okay? I want him to be here in time for breakfast.”

“Okay. I'm calling him now,” she said, paused, the continued, “Alex, grandpa says I should remind you that you have to leave by eight, okay? I'm not kidding. He really did say that. Okay. I love you too. Drive carefully, okay?”

I went besides Al and asked, “Al, what was really in that letter?”

“It was about our first time,” he said, smiling. I could tell it was a fake smile because I've seen it on so many of the other patients at St. Matthew's. Never on Al until now. I was pissed.

“Cut the crap, Al. Why are you lying to me? What could the letter have said to make you do this? You don't even really remember anything, do you?”

“I don't have to remember to do the right thing for my family," he answered. Then his anger wavered and he said, “I'm sorry, Stef. I truly am. But please stay out of this. It's a family thing, and it's really none of your business.”

---

I arrived at my apartment a little over nine. I felt angry and confused. I thought I knew Al. I consider him as my closest friend here, maybe the only real one. Now it's as if I hardly know him at all. I knew he was hiding something, What I may never find out. What the hell did the letter really say?

I checked my answering machine and found five messages. I hardly get any messages. I pressed the PLAY button.

“Stef, this is your cousin Sally. Sally Pozon. I'm not sure if you'd remember me. Your mother and brother was supposed to attend the wedding of my sister and, oh I don't know how to tell you this. You see, there was this accident...”

I froze.

“Your mother and brother died, Stef. I'm so sorry. They just recovered the bodies and it's been confirmed. This typhoon came out from nowhere and the entire ship flipped. They say there are bodies everywhere. More than a hundred bodies have been recovered, around fifty are still missing and presumed dead. It's a mess here. They've been searching non-stop, but the -

I left. I didn't want to hear anymore.

---

I was back at the bar where just yesterday, Alice, David and I had a good time drinking. Yesterday, I also had a mother and brother.

Oh God, was it really true? I wanted to deny it. I don't even remember a cousin named Sally. She could be lying. Maybe when I go back to my apartment I'll hear mom leaving me a message saying that they've arrived safely and that the wedding was fabulous. Then she'd start pestering me about when I'm going to find a boyfriend and maybe a husband so she can have that grandchild she's always wanted. Then Joey will tell me about a girl she met at the party who asked for his phone number. Then I'd laugh and say, “In your dreams, pal.”

But that wasn't going to happen. Deep inside, I knew they were both gone. I was all alone. I didn't even have enough money to go back home. I sent all my hard earned money to my mom and she didn't even have the decency to stay alive and spend it. Oh God, why am I here? I miss my mom and my Joey and I'm all alone in this godforsaken bar drinking beer which I don't even really like.

Tears began to flow again and I wiped them with my sleeve. I took another sip of beer. I was on my sixth one. I wasn't having too much success drowning my sorrow, despite the liquor. Then someone tapped my shoulder.

“Stef?” David asked.

“David!” I cried. I wrapped my arms around him and sobbed.

“What' wrong?” he asked. “Does this have anything to do with Mr. Reynolds?”

“No, no. It's nothing,” I said. I didn't want to share my pain. I didn't even really know much about David.

“Are you sure? If not, what is it then? Come on, you can tell me,” he said, his voice warm and soothing.

“It's nothing really. I'm just drunk.”

“Well, that's true enough,” he said. He paused a while and then decided, “Let's go to my room, okay? I'll sleep on the coach. You're in no condition to travel tonight.”

He carried me to the elevator and took me upstairs to his room. Some other guy might have taken advantage of my condition, but David was quite the gentleman. I think my mom would've liked him. Joey wouldn't though. He's protective that way, even though I'm her big sister.

He laid me down on the king-sized bed. My head was swirling, my eyes out of focus. He was saying something, but I was having a hard time understanding him.

“Stef, I'm gonna go down and withdraw some cash, okay? It's just around the corner so it won't take long. Just lie down and rest, okay?”

Then he left, leaving me drunk and alone. Just like my dad. Just like my mother and brother. Just like Mr. Brown a.k.a. Mr. Reynolds. They all leave.Why couldn't they just ride a plane like ordinary people do? They had the money for the fucking plane ride, for God's sake. I send them everything I earn here. Now they're dead and for what, to save a few bucks? Oh God, I want to go home. Oh God...

I stood up and stumbled, falling to the ground, face down. I tried to get up. I raised my head and saw black leather.

It was David's bag. The one that he said contained Mrs. Reynolds' letters. Those goddamn letters.

I got up and grabbed the bag. I opened its flap and turned it upside down. Folders and manila envelops came tumbling down. I began searching through the pile. Most of it were about other cases. Then I found one envelop addressed to Ms. Alice Reynolds. The feminine writing on its surface confirmed my suspicion. This was Mrs. Reynolds letter. I looked at the date written on it. Tomorrow morning. I ripped it open and began reading. It began:

My dearest Alice,

By the time you read this, it would all be over and done with. Everything would be the way it should be, the way it's destined to be. I hope that in time you would be able to forgive us. I'm sure you won't look at your grandfather the same way after you finish with this letter. That's partly why I wanted you to spend time with him. I hope you'll remember his sweetness. His kindness and innocence. He really is a good soul.

I'll try to explain everything, my dear. It's a bit complicated and I'm not sure I fully understand it all myself. You see, I met your father for the first time at the spot you were at yesterday if Mr. Crenshaw did as he was told and brought you and your grandfather there. I still remember that faithful night.

I was walking alone that night. Usually my cousin Abner walks with me, but he was feeling ill then. There was really nothing to fear then. Life was peaceful and safe, not like now with all the random killings and robbery.

Anyway, I was looking up at the sky and stars then. The dark sky was filled with bright stars and I was enthralled.

The wind began to blow in every direction and a slow rumbling sound filled the air around me. I saw this immense disc hovering above the trees. I had blinking lights of different colors. I hid between the trees, scared. Then the sound stopped and the wind faded. I looked out again for the disc. It was gone.

Frightened but curious, I began looking for any sign of what just happened. I've already heard of some of these supposed alien encounters from science fiction magazines and newspapers but never believed them.

Looking around, I saw this patch of flattened grass, shaped like a circle. In the middle of it was a man. A naked man.

It was your grandfather.

He looked alert and his eyes brightened when he saw me. He didn't seem the least embarrassed that he was naked. I don't think he was even aware of it. He called out to me, asking me where he was. I shied away, but he came up to me.

“Please,” he said to me, “Help me. Where am I?”

I told him where he was. He shook his head, as if things didn't make sense. Then he began talking. He said his name was Alexander Rossdale. He was a student at New York University.

He said he just resumed driving his Toyota (at the time I had no idea what this was) on the Nevada highway after stopping at a diner for a late dinner. He was on his way to see her fiance when this flying disc came hovering on top of him. The next thing he remembered was lying on this patch of grass.

I was fascinated. This naked guy appears out of nowhere and begins rambling about the future. I began peppering him with questions. He seemed too confused not to answer. Maybe it was helping him get his bearings. I asked him the exact date and time of the alien encounter. I asked him the name of the diner (Catherine's Diner). I asked him if he remembered anything when he was inside the disc. He squinted his eyes and concentrated, but he did, he screamed in pain. Then I asked him to tell me everything that happened after the year 1928. He told me about the different wars. Who the different Presidents-to-be were. About telephones and computers. Germany and the Nazis. About the Kennedy assassination, communism and China, the different political scandals. About American and Japanese automobiles, electronics. Betamax, VCRs, CDs. The Soviets and Russians. There were other things he told me that I don't remember. It was all jumbled, and I tried to absorb as many bits and pieces as I could.

Then he placed his his palm on his forehead. He shrieked and fell to the ground. I ran home and told Abner about him. We took some of his clothes and dressed Alex up. Then Abner called some of his boys and they carried him to the hospital.

When Alex woke up, he was a blank. He didn't know his name, where he came from.

I wrote down as much of what he told me and memorized it all. When I was sure I committed everything to memory. I burned it all. No one should know what I know. It was my secret, and mine alone.

I eventually told Alex about it. By this time, he had accepted his memory loss and lived with us for a while. He was now known as Alistair Reynolds, a name I picked. It sounded so dignified but not pompous. We fell in love. He eventually proposed. Before I accepted, I told him about that night and all the things he said. I wanted no secrets between us.

We moved to the city shortly after we were married and started selling automobile parts. Cars were going to be big and we bet everything we had on them. Of course it paid of. Reynolds Enterprises became Dirk Industries when we bought a majority stake of an ailing car manufacturer and turned it around. Eventually it became Dirk International and now we have offices all over the world, and interests ranging from microchips to bio-engineered food. Guided by the information Alistair gave me, we succeeded in almost every undertaking we delved into. We had two fine strong sons.

Then you were born. My sweet Alice. I had nothing to do with naming you, by the way. Your mother insisted that you be named after me, and of course I agreed. You were such an angel. Your grandfather was so enthralled with you. We loved you from the moment we saw you, more than all our other grandchildren.

Then I began to notice something. Every time your grandfather saw you, he would have this blank confused stare. Then he'd shake it off and pretend everything was fine. The more you grew up, the more this occurred. Eventually, I talked him into seeing a doctor.

The doctor told us that Alistair was suffering some mild form of Alzheimer's. I'm not sure if its that's really the case, or maybe it's because of what was done to him during his abduction. I think it was both. But the problem wasn't his forgetting. It was his remembering.

He began to remember bits and pieces from his real past. His real childhood, living in 1970s. He had headaches, and every time he had them, his nose would bleed. It's as if his brain couldn't accept the reality of his two different timelines. The mark near his left ear would swell as well. His condition got worst every time he got near you. We knew it was only going to get worst the older you became.

So we concocted this crazy scheme of faking his own death. He had to separate himself from his family, from me. And from you.

Yesterday, if everything went according to plan, Alistair would have been given a letter by the lawyer accompanying you. The letter would be the one written by Alistair himself, explaining everything. About how we really met, our life together and why we both planned to make it appear he'd died and why he ended up in St. Matthew's. Alistair said that recognize his own handwriting, and would know that what was written was entirely true.

More importantly, it explained why he had to make sure Alexander Rossdale would be on his way to visit his fiance's grandfather at the correct time and place for the sake of our family legacy and fortune.

As I said at the beginning of this letter, by the time you read this it would have been all over. Your fiance would have already been taken by the flying disc. I can only say I'm sorry, my sweet child. I know it must be hard and I hope you understand. Please remember that this wasn't my decision alone but Alistair's as well. I know its very confusing and all, but there was really no choice. Alex had to be there to be abducted and the aliens or whatever they were or are had to send him to 1928 at that very spot where we first met.

I really don't know what else to say except that I'm truly sorry. Fate and Destiny are inexplicably entwined, and we have no control over them.

Your grandmother,

Alice

I sat there, trying to absorb everything I just read. This was all too much for one day. My mother and brother just died. And now this? I didn't even know what to make of it.

Then I felt this resolve in me. I looked at my watch. Catherine's Diner. I looked around the room. David hadn't come back yet. The car key had been left at the bed table. I grabbed it and ran to the elevator. I gave the key to the valet attendant. Hurry up, I said to myself. My adrenaline was pumping.

The driver brought the car up front and I got into the driver's seat. I looked at the rear view mirror and saw David coming around the corner. He began running towards me. I floored the accelerator and was gone.

I arrived at Catherine's Diner and looked around the parking lot. There was just one Toyota so I knew it had to be Alex's. I went inside the diner.

There was this young guy sitting at the bar, eating a burger. He looked shy but with a happy face. I went up to him.

“Hi,” I said.

“Uhhh, hello,” he answered, unsure.

“My name is Stephanie Reyes,” I told him.

“Ummm, pleased to meet you, Ms. Reyes,” he said, then added, “My name is Alexander. Rossdale. Alex for short.” He held out his hand.

I shook it, tears forming at the corner of my eye. “I'm pleased to meet you too,” I said, my voice cracking with emotion. Then I ran out of the diner.

I went back to David's car, started it, then as I was crying my eyes out, rammed the side of Alex's Toyota, displacing his front left tire wheel. I wasn't going to let him do any traveling tonight. People in the diner began looking, maybe even Alex himself. I didn't care anymore. I drove off.

About twenty-minutes after driving out of the diner, I was on the Nevada highway. The sky was bright and filled with stars. The air was hot and dusty. I looked up and saw a disc hovering above me. I stopped the car.

I shouted at it. “He isn't coming, you know. I made sure of it. He has a fiance. Her name's Alice and she's a nice girl. It just isn't right to take him away from her. They're going to get married. Have babies. Start a family. I don't care what her grandmother says or what her grandfather from the future who's actually the same guy says.”

I paused, my voice quivering.

“Take me instead,” I begged.

I didn't know I was going to say that until I did. It did make sense. I had nothing to lose anymore. I had no family. My life was meaningless without my mother and brother. My only real friend at St. Matthew's had abandoned me. I was living in a foreign country and couldn't even go back home if I wanted to. I had nothing to live for anymore.

As if considering what I said, the disc fell silent, hovering above me. Then the lights began blinking fast and the air swirled. I think it just decided to take me up on my bet.

“Can I make a request before you experiment on me or whatever it is you plan on doing ?” I asked. What's the harm, right? “When you put me back on earth, if you do, I was hoping you'd put me in the Philippines instead of here? It's this archipelago near the Southeast, you see. I grew up there and it's really the only place I feel at home. I know you don't have to do this, being a technologically advanced race and all but I think -”

A white light flashed all around me. Everything went blank.

---

I heard noises. Someone was approaching me. I was lying naked in a ditch somewhere, covered in dirt and mud.

A voice called out. “Is someone there?”

It was a male voice, and he was speaking in Spanish.

I yelled back, “Help me,” I said. Then there was a rope. “Grab onto it. I'll pull you out,” he said.

When I got out I laid on my back, breathing and panting. The air was humid and dry. What a rotten climate. I started to wipe the mud away from my body. I looked at the man who pulled me out and saw him staring at me. Then he looked away.

“I'm sorry, señorita. You're naked. I, ummm, I'm sorry,” he stuttered. He removed his coat, then offered it to me without glancing back. “Here, señorita. Please take it.”

I took his coat and wrapped it around me. “Thank you,” I said. Then asked, “Do you have a pen and paper?”

“Si, señorita. I do,” he replied, perplexed at my request. Then he went to his carriage to get them. If I'm right and things were going to happen like the way it did with Alex, I was only going to be able to hold on to my memories for a few minutes. I had to write as much of it down on paper.

He hurried back and gave me the pen and paper. "I always carry pen and paper, señorita. I'm a writer, you see. Well, I'm planning to be," he said. I scribbled, oblivious to his words. Then I noticed he was looking at me, trying to decipher what I was writing. I smiled at him and said, “Thank you again for everything. This must seem very perplexing, señor...?”

“Alcantara. Miguel Alcantara,” he said. Alcantara, I thought. Then he added, “And your name, señorita?”

“Annabella,” I answered without hesitation. I continued scribbling again, more frantic. I needed to write down everything I knew.

Family's the most important thing after all.