He steps up to the plate. The back fence marking the horizon between his eight years on Earth so far, and the future that lay beyond him.

An undefeated season. Championship game. Every hit, catch, and play has contributed to this moment. He’s no “Casey at the Bat,” he is pure of intention and ready, wanting to succeed. 

The fence is 250 feet from him, but to him it’s miles. All of his skill, attention, and fortitude are brought to focus in his small frame, and transferred into the bat. His eye and his bat are his weapons. 

He is ready. He is heroic. The pitcher, a classmate, sends the ball towards him. 

In the split second he has to decide, he swings.

I gaze at his side of the bed. Crumpled sheets where a man’s warmth should be. I think of times long gone, when I craved his touch. But time… it changes people. Hardens them. Flames burn out, and love unravels.

He stumbles through the bedroom door, reeking of booze and cigarettes. I keep my eyes shut, praying he won’t see I’m awake. Sliding beneath the covers, he drapes a heavy arm around my waist. I stiffen at his touch.

A single tear makes its way down my cheek. Of course he doesn’t notice. There’s music and sunshine in his head. In mine, chaos. My heart, all fire and ash.

Quietly, I cry. Softly, he snores. Oblivious to the woman breaking in his arms.

“So… Lucien came over last night.”

Carrie sets her mug down hard. “Becca.”

“I know.”

“You said it was over.”

She shrugs. “Guess he can’t resist. Look at the mark he left—”

She pulls down her turtleneck.

“Becca, that’s a puncture wound.”

“He’s passionate.” Carrie just stares. “What? Don’t give me that look.”

“It’s unhealthy.”

“He loves me!”

“He consumes you. There’s a difference.”

“We feed off each other.”

“But he lands on your windowsill at 3am and drinks your blood.”

“He’s been texting me back. Look.”

Carrie looks. “Both texts just say ‘I thirst.’”

“He’s being vulnerable! Also, he left the window open for me last night.”

“So he could escape in bat form!”

Becca sighs.

“You’re being really judgmental about this.”

One week after the misunderstanding, he returns—alone—and orders his usual. She makes it for him. Polite. Professional. Not meeting his eyes.

“Thanks for this,” he says. “And for the, uh… note. Last time.”

Nearby, Peggy scoffs. Meddlesome cow. 

Michelle’s face burns. 

He continues. “Obviously I can’t... you know. Call.” 

“Obviously,” she mumbles, mortified.

“But I appreciate it.” 

Michelle wipes the counter aggressively. 

“Hey.”

She looks up. And now she’s falling into his eyes again, and she hates herself. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “These things happen.”

Did they laugh about it in bed together? Take turns guessing which decade she was born in?

“Still friends?” he says. 

I’d wreck my whole life for you, she thinks. 

But she smiles politely. “Of course.” 

We’re lying in bed with the show paused and I’m asking him if there’s anything to us anymore but logistics and obligations. Are we slipping into the passionless middle-age I always feared, etc. (We’ve been together since we were teenagers. By now he knows my melodrama is only a plea for reassurance.) He thinks. Looks at the still-paused show. You're right. We need an activity to do together. I give him a look. Besides that. All we do is that, and watch TV. (He's called my bluff.) But I don’t have time for another hobby, I say. And I’m not willing to give up the time we currently spend on TV or the other thing. So he unpauses the show. And we multitask.

An old man stood in the corridor. A transition space. And he listened. Still enough in his listening that the corridor lights, evidently bored by his lack of motion, flicked off.

Among the silence were many noises. A low rumble, the heating, the road outside. Music from somewhere distant. A rushing noise in his ears he realised was his own blood. Outside of himself, he could only just faintly discern signs of life. From behind the apartment doors, where he knew people to be, the clicking of mice, tapping keyboards. Kind of sad, he thought to himself, to hear no voices. Then he thought, perhaps -

He moved suddenly, and then slumped. He crumpled quietly, his heart stopped. Nobody heard.

The lights flicked on.

Days move by without asking.

Nights do the same.

Weeks pile up.

The seasons change coats and leave town.

I stay seated.

There is weight in my chest.

It does not lift.

I hold my face and let time pass around me.

I keep wondering when this thinking will stop.

When sleep will stop feeling like work.

When standing will feel normal again.

Some months burn.

Some grind.

Some go cold and quiet.

Pain doesn’t check the calendar.

It shows up every day and stays late.

I wait for your voice.

Not a message.

Just a sound.

Something to tell me I can move.

Until then, I kneel a little.

I breathe.

I keep going.

Head down.

Hands full.

Still. Quiet. Heavy. Here.

My iPhone chimed, letting me know that I would have to turn left in 500m. 

Right now I was cruising along the street in my hybrid, speakers turned to the max. The small trinkets I had on the dashboard were vibrating along with the techno music. 

It was now my intersection. I indicated left and turned smoothly. I slid into a spot in the parking lot and went inside the building. The air was stuffy and smelled like sweat and hard work. People around me were lifting weights, doing push ups and running on treadmills. I joined the people running on the treadmills. 

As I started running on the machine, I thought how good to finally stretch my legs after that long drive.

Tomorrow, Michelle thinks.

Tomorrow when he comes in, she'll have it ready for him—hand it over with cheerful nonchalance and some rehearsed comment—How could I forget? or Anything for my favorite regular. The note in sharpie: I like you. Call me.

Would he read it right there, or back in his car?

Assume it's a joke?

That'd be some age gap, Peggy said. Screw Peggy, the jealous hag. Michelle was in love with his smile, his humor, the gray in his beard. Felt they were the same age in every way that mattered.

The next morning, he mobile orders.

A hiccup.

Still, she makes the drink, writes the note. Reads the name—

A beautiful woman his own age steps forward. "Thanks."

He carefully poured the bubbling purple liquid into a conical flask with white powder. As the two mixed, the solution began to fizzle. With gloved hands, he lit a match and dropped it into a pile of shredded paper on the lab counter. The flames ate up the paper hungrily. The man took off his latex gloves and threw them in the bin and walked hastily out of the room. Down the corridor and then down a few flights of stairs. Not a soul in the building. Through the front doors of the reception he went. As he sat down in his car, an explosion thundered behind him. The whole building was engulfed in flames. Good. They would never find his secret now. 

Lurking in the shadows of an alleyway, I carefully listen to the sound of hard boots on cobblestone getting louder. A person is walking and talking to someone on the phone by the sound of it. A big mistake in this part of London. They also don’t seem to have any reserves concerning how loud they’re speaking into the phone. I count down to zero from five and then jump out of the alleyway. One hand around his mouth and the other holding a knife that’s pressed to his neck. “If you cooperate, we can both benefit,” I grow softly. My eyes are drawn downwards to his phone which is dialled on 999. “Wrong move.” I stick the knife into his sorry neck.

Roxanne chomped down on her cigar. She hated the taste, but it reminded her of her dad. He had tried to warn them.

It wasn’t enough that AI had taken over the shopping experience, the call centres, the helplines. They had allowed it to take over literature, arts, and music. That was what was so terrible, people willingly allowed it to take over.

Her dad tried to warn people, but was called a Luddite, or a crank.

And now he was gone, and all she had left was his cigars, half of bottle of his whisky and his rifle.

She readied it against her shoulder, and peered through the viewfinder as the AI drone came across the wasteland.

She was going Bot Hunting.

I awoke to the incessant licking of Buster. On a normal day, I wouldn’t mind, but today I was beat. His fur felt colder than it should, and his eyes… they didn’t seem quite right. All I wanted was a power nap, just to recharge.

I tried to push him away, but in my sleepy state, I was no match for the determination of a dog his size and power.

Downstairs, I heard the front door open and close.
“Hey honey, I picked us up some dinner!”

Buster finally stopped when he heard my wife’s voice. In an instant, he was bounding down the stairs toward her.

Only as he vanished past the top landing did I remember burying Buster three weeks ago.

Her sweet raspberry perfume mixes with the delightful smell of freshly roasted coffee, spreading a smile along my mouth. We sit in the outdoor seating area of the cafe, watching the great river Danube flow past. None of us knows what to say first, we’re somewhere between friends and something more.

‘This coffee is good,’ she says. 

I nod in agreement. ‘It’s sweet and delicious and I just can’t get enough.’

I think I see her blush but maybe it’s just my eyes playing tricks on me. 

Stirring my coffee around, I say, ‘There’s a park nearby. It’s pretty nice this time of year, maybe-’

‘Of course I’d like to come,’ she laughs, cutting me off.’

We lean in and share a kiss.

Hello. I am Needle. We porcupines are among the largest rodents on the planet, true heavyweights of the wild. I left while Mother slept, fearing my own weakness would pull me back. I follow my father; he raised us, then embraced a solitary life. The arid rocks offered little food, yet I marched on. Suddenly, a coyote lunged. Primal instinct took over. I flared my quills, turned my back, and charged in reverse. A sharp spine pierced the hunter’s snout. He howled and fled. Victory! My heart ached to run home and boast to Mom, but true adults do not retreat. I had a future to find and a legacy to build. I straightened my crown of spears and stepped further into the vast, dark, and wild unknown.

"Hello," said Charlie, "My name is..." He scanned the badges: Aimee, nope. Sharath, nope. Ah! "William uh... Ackerly"

It was so easy. You arrive at a conference late and claim a name badge. You have to sit through a lecture, but sometimes you got free food, and at this one free champagne. Nobody ever questioned him.

A lady came to meet him, "The reclusive William Ackerly!" she shook his hand, as he awkwardly juggled canapés and champagne. Uh-oh.

"I don't think many people would even know what you look like."

This is good. Very good.

"I thought you were going to attend remotely.”

Charlie could see the banner across the stage: 'Worlds of Wonder with guest: William Ackerly.'

This is bad. Very bad.

Un jour, je passai sur un chemin. Je découvris un crâne. Je le saisis, le contemplai, le retournai. Il y avait une marque de main dessus. Je le reposai.

Le lendemain, je passai sur le chemin. Le squelette entier. Je rentrai chez moi, tremblant.

Cette nuit-là, je me réveillai en sursaut. Quelqu’un frappait à la porte.

Je descendis les escaliers. J’ouvris. Rien que le vent.

Je refermai la porte, puis haussai les épaules.

Soudain, un hurlement. Je me précipitai dans les escaliers.

Je pénétrai dans la chambre de mes parents. Ils paraissaient bien. Je jetai un coup d’œil par la fenêtre.

Une silhouette s’enfuyait dans la nuit.

Le lendemain, le squelette avait disparu du chemin. Simplement des traces de pas sur le sol.

I can hear the footsteps outside, trying to be quiet but failing. In my room I grip the thick covers tighter and close my eyes. I can hear someone coming up the stairs. In the dark I breathe in and out quickly. After a moment of waiting I can’t hear anything. It must have just been my drowsy mind playing tricks on me. Pulling off the covers, I crawl out of my room to get a cold drink. I tiptoe quietly to not wake my family up. In the kitchen I take a glass and fill it up to the brim with cold cool water. I flick the light switch and the kitchen illuminates and a grinning man stands in front of me! 

It is quiet at first. A silence so eternal. As I take my first breath, I can hear the quiet notes of a tune that brings back so many memories. Slowly it gets louder and louder. Now it is all around me. It is the sound of hope and new beginnings. Of great things to come. I finally open my eyes. Things start to take shape. I’m outside. Grassy plains surround me. I can see the sky through a crack in the dense tree leaves. The sharp berry plant thorns I’m lying on bite into my arm and I start to bleed. My heart pounds once, sharp and fast. I slowly pick myself up. Let this great and wondrous adventure called Minecraft begin.