A tree and a grass grow together in the nature.

When the tree was a sapling,it grow faster than grass.

And it mocked grass.

"Ha,ha, you're shorty.”

“Why you laughing me?"

The grass is angry.

The sapling not only paid it no mind, but began to sing in reply.

"Why you laughing?"

"Because I'm higher than you!"

"But we are not same plant!"

"So what?"

"La,la,la,la,la"

It feels so proud of itself and look down on the grass.

"You will be regret,and feel jealous in the future."

The grass said.

"No,I will not."

"Yes,you will."

"I will not!"

"You will!"

"Let's see if the future will prove it!"

The sapling is not take notice,and said it easily.

"I'll make sure you can't laugh!"

“Bring it on! Shorty!"

Over the ten months,the grass growing up and getting ready to disperse seeds.

The tree is growing too but it's too slow.

"Why can you go outside and wander around, but I can't?"

“See,you admitting,haha."

"Why?"

"You want to know why?"

"Yes!"

"Because I'm a dandelion."

"Why I can't do it? I want to go around the island too!"

"Because you are Oak tree!"

"Oh...Can you bring me go through the island?"

"No,I don't.Bye bye and never see you again—"

The Day Everyone Spoke Truth

By Adarsh Dwivedi

It was a quiet evening in a small town in India. The sun had set, and the only sound in the house was the ticking of an old wall clock. Maheshwari and Rambabu, a married couple, lay on their bed, facing away from each other. Years of fights, misunderstandings, and cold silences had filled the space between them.

“This marriage has become lifeless,” Maheshwari said, her voice tired.

Rambabu didn’t argue. “Let’s just get a divorce. We’re only hurting each other now.”

Their voices were low, but their son Mahesh heard everything from his room. Mahesh was quiet by nature, a boy of few words—but he had learned the art of lying well. He lied at school, lied to his parents, and even lied to himself. But what happened next would change his life forever.

At that very moment, something strange happened across the world. It was as if the universe flipped a switch. No one could lie anymore. Not a single human being. The ability to lie vanished completely. People spoke only the truth, without even realizing it. Even if they tried to lie, the truth came out. Scientists were confused. Governments panicked. Social media exploded. But no one could stop it.

This sudden "truth wave" hit Maheshwari and Rambabu too. They began speaking openly. Years of anger came pouring out. “You never supported me,” Maheshwari said. “You always made me feel alone.”

Rambabu fired back, “You never respected me. You were only with me for comfort.”

Their words cut like knives. There were no lies to protect each other now. Mahesh, listening from the next room, felt his heart break. He had never heard such truth from his parents before.

A few days later, the couple went to court. They explained their situation honestly, without hiding anything. The judge, after hearing them, granted a divorce. Mahesh was to stay with his father, as per the court’s judgment.

But Mahesh had heard too much. “I don’t want to stay with you,” he told his father in a flat voice. “I don’t want to live with either of you.” With that, he packed his bag and left, choosing a life of solitude.

His two sisters, Deepika and Sweta, also heard their father’s raw confessions. At first, they were shocked and angry. But slowly, they understood.

“I made many mistakes as a father,” Rambabu admitted to them one evening. “I failed in many ways.”

Deepika looked at him for a moment and said, “Maybe. But now we know the real you. And that means we can finally talk honestly.”

Sweta added, “Truth hurts. But it also clears the path to rebuild.”

The world outside continued to change. With no one able to lie, friendships broke, relationships ended, businesses collapsed—but at the same time, new bonds were forming based on real trust.

After seven days, the strange force disappeared. Slowly, people began lying again. Politicians, students, lovers—some returned to their old ways. But many didn’t. Some people, especially those who had once lived through lies, made promises to themselves: to speak the truth from now on, no matter what.

Mahesh, alone in a different city, chose silence over lies. He no longer felt the need to hide behind fake smiles or fake words. He didn’t return home. But he started writing. Stories, thoughts, truth. Somewhere, in that quiet space, he began healing.

Maheshwari, now living alone, also changed. She started helping women in troubled marriages, sharing her own story as a warning and a lesson.

Rambabu became a more present father to Deepika and Sweta. They argued, talked, laughed—but now, with honesty. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real.

The day everyone spoke truth had shaken the world—but in its aftermath, it gave people a choice: to go back to lies or move forward with honesty.

Moral: Truth can start a war if spoken with anger and pride. But if shared with love and understanding, it can build stronger, unbreakable bonds.

"Come to ask the ugly frog why he isn't a prince, huh?"

Your story here...

Press Shift+Enter for multiple line breaks.

As I perch delicately on the rooftop, tears cascade down my cheeks like gentle rivulets as I gaze down at the ground several stories below; my mind races in astonishment, swirling with a maelstrom of thoughts. “Lucas…?” Who is this Lucas? Where am I exactly? What transpired to bring me to such a state? Just like that, the vivid reverie comes to an abrupt halt, leaving me in a disorienting silence.

I awaken from the dream that has haunted me for ages, a spectral shadow that lingers on the edges of my consciousness. My curtain-like crimson hair shrouds my face, providing a thin barrier against the relentless rays of morning light filtering into my chamber. This same scene, with its strange yet familiar setting, is one I encounter every time I succumb to slumber; a rarity for someone like me. I bear an arduous burden—insomnia. It clings stubbornly to me, refusing to release its grip, even when circumstances seem deceptively idyllic.

With a weary sigh that feels almost like a confession, I throw off my bedcovers and hear the sharp rapping at my door. “Hikaru, are you awake?” a voice calls from the other side, resonant with urgency and familiarity.

Another knock follows, more forceful this time, and the door swings open with unexpected fervor, nearly colliding with the wall. I emit a quiet groan, the kind that conveys a mixture of annoyance and exhaustion. "Five more minutes, Tatsuya. I don’t need to be prepared yet." My brother, ever the embodiment of playful mockery, drops his shoulders and lets out an exaggerated exhale, grinning broadly as he relishes the moment.

"I suppose you will miss the inaugural day of school. Have a pleasant—" he begins, teasing me mercilessly.

"I will be ready in five!" I spring from my bed with a newfound determination and nudge him out of my room, pausing briefly to take a deep breath and calm my exhilaration. It's the first day of school! It’s an occasion of great significance, and I need to present my best self. Should I take a shower? I ponder briefly—I did bathe just last night, so perhaps I shall forgo it this time.

“Hikaru! Up for school, you’re going to be tardy!” My mother bursts into the room like a ray of sunshine, her golden eyes sparkling with joy and uncontainable enthusiasm.

“Here, wear this… it would beautifully complement the hairstyle you’re attempting!” she declares with a flourish, handing me a delightful outfit that promises to elevate my spirits. Her broad grin is infectious, radiating encouragement.

“Thanks, Mom, but I still need to prepare for the whirlwind ahead,” I reply, still somewhat disheveled.

“Right, best of luck! I must hasten to work now,” she says, her voice tinged with excitement and urgency.

“Love you, bye!” I call after her as she rushes out the door, her footsteps echoing in the hallway. I don the cozy gray bear sweatshirt and fitted jeans she provided with care, and then make my way to the kitchen, where the scent of breakfast wafts through the air.

“I thought you said five. That was ten minutes ago,” Tatsuya chides, pretending to pout as I shuffle into the room, still shaking off the remnants of my dreams.

“Shut up. Let’s go; it’s a four-minute drive, and you know how traffic becomes around that area, especially on a day like today!” I retort, grabbing my backpack with purpose. I step outside, inhaling the crisp autumn breeze that fills my lungs like a refreshing tonic. I watch as my breath forms a misty vapor in the cool air, a delicate reminder of the season’s change. “Today’s a new day, and I can feel it!”

We arrive at Usagiyama Academy, a prestigious institution renowned for its opulence and academic excellence. It stands as the most affluent school in the country, celebrated for its spectacular artwork and exceptionally, intelligent students. The moment Tatsuya and I step inside, the grand entrance bathed in light and life, he immediately engages with the throngs of students, seamlessly weaving himself into their conversations and laughter. While he chats away with his usual exuberance, I pivot toward a closed classroom, seeking guidance from a teacher for directions to the front office.

“Thank you ever so much, sir! Have a splendid day!” I say with a bright smile as I exit the room. I scan the hallway, my heart racing with anticipation, and realize with shock that Tatsuya has vanished completely. Following the detailed directions I received, I make my way toward the enormous crescent moon mural that adorns the wall, a striking piece of artistry that seems to beckon me forward.

Then, suddenly, I spot my brother waving me down with a cheeky grin, his expressive gestures cutting through the bustling crowd. “Hey, Sis, look who I found wandering the halls!” he exclaims, pointing enthusiastically to a woman standing a few feet away.

She has deep azure hair cascading down her back, silver spectacles perched elegantly on her nose, and a chic purple blouse that exudes a sense of intellect and style. I rush over to her, relief flooding through me.

“Hello, Akai! How are you two faring today?” I greet her warmly, my heart swelling with nostalgia as the woman envelops my brother and me in a reassuring embrace, wrapping us in a cocoon of familiarity.

“We're doing remarkably, Ms. Reikio. Hikaru, this is your biology instructor,” Tatsuya explains, his voice brimming with pride. “I had her last year, and she knows Dad! She’s practically family—like our aunt. She visited us when we were younger, and Miliana was just a baby. Isn’t that splendid?”

“Yes, that’s truly impressive, I guess. Wait, how did you know she’s my biology teacher?” I ask, my eyebrows raised in surprise and curiosity.

“I retrieved your schedule while you entered Mr. Distonip's classroom,” Tatsuya says with a sly smile, clearly reveling in his knowledge.

As if on cue, the loudspeaker crackles to life, sending a ripple of anticipation through the crowd. “Hello everyone! Welcome back to all returners and newcomers! This year is going to be extraordinary! All freshmen and sophomore students, please head to your homerooms immediately. Junior and senior classes, please proceed to the North Gym. Thank you, and have a marvelous day!”

I look up to find Ms. Reikio placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder, her touch grounding me as she guides me toward my homeroom. Tatsuya gives my dark bun a playful tap with a teasing smile before heading down the hall in pursuit of his friends. Today marks the commencement of something new and exciting, and I can feel the palpable energy buzzing in the atmosphere around me, lifting my spirits and filling me with hope for what lies ahead.

ATRIARCHY (GRIMDARK) #1

Event: War.Belligerents: Atriarchy & allies VS. Unotech.Site: Trench B, Hill 184, Nova Naymark, Gideons Region, Planet Capletta 3.

Mother finds radio contact with an Atriarchal conscript on the ground. Over the radio, the sounds of war and death can be heard.

The levy speaks in ragged breath over radio:"Mother-Actual, this is Alpha 4-Hotel Sierra-2 Bravo! 4-Hotel-Actual is K-I-A. I can't contact Alpha Overwatch-Actual.

"BREAK. Multiple unknown medium- and large-sizers, five payloaders, more than thirty cleanups, and a bunch of zombies!

"BREAK. Attacking hill-1-8-4 trench-B. They're in the trenches and in the open! We're down to four levies and one dropper. We're cornered in B-7 with a friendly M-B-T!

"BREAK. I see a brain in the sky!

"BREAK. Multitude of weapons types! Lasers, slugs, shields, melee, and more! Large-sizers have swords. A medium-sizer has a zombifying appendage. Looking at the brain blinds us for a few seconds. The cleanups are popping out of another medium-sizer! The payloaders are stationary, no bombs! We took out a SPAAG but can't confirm if there's more.

"BREAK. We needassistance! How copy? Over."

Mother formulates a message to Caretaker:

Mother churns. Caretaker receives a request. Ten birds fall from the sky.

Mother, in canny, synthetic voice, over radio:"Solid copy, 4-Hotel. I've confirmed no visual on hostile anti-air. Friendly sky-shield is down. Break. Be advised: ten Angels descending from Heaven-Capletta-3 to Trench F-6 Hill 1-8-4. Break. I've Gehenna standing by on A-TAC Freq-4-1-2-9-0-0. Switch frequency and rain hell. Over."

The levy, with a tinge of hope in her voice, over radio:"Roger! Switching to 4-1-2-9. Out."

Senior Irregular Jessa Burlach, after switching to frequency 412.9:"Gehenna, this is Alpha 4-Hotel Sierra-2 Bravo. Mother-Actual referred me.

"BREAK. I need firepower on trench-A and A-to-B N-M-L.

"BREAK. Watch danger close! Friendlies in trench-B-7 at the active M-B-T. Over."

Gehenna gazes into the atmosphere. Searching.

Gehenna, in obviously robotic voice, over radio:"4-Hotel, repeat where to firepower? Over."

The levy again, slowly and surely:"Roger, firepower on trench-alpha and november-mike-lima alpha-bravo. How copy? Over."

Gehenna:"I read you, 4-Hotel. A-firm on locations:

"Break. Friendlies in Trench-Bravo-Seven.

"Break. Bad guys at Trench-Alpha and November-Mike-Lima Alpha-Bravo. Confirm 4-Hotel? Over."

The levy:"Affirmative, Gehenna! Over."

Gehenna calculates. Gehenna creaks and croaks her ordinance:"Sit tight, 4-Hotel. Danger close. Over-out."

Another man down, ripped to shreds by the pellet-filled shells expelled by the cleaning crew of rats. A levyman, poor fellow. Only four moving bodies left.

The zombified shamblers encroach and pummel yet another to death on the far side of the dugout. She was another levywoman, an NCO of merit, born from the same stock as the two last living levies, Burlach and Letterman. Now their comrade and neighbor is gone, nothing more than one with the mud and blood all around them. Now the three bodies in the trenches have only the whirring and booming of their great, tracked companion to keep them company.

Sounds of whistles from the sky grow louder and louder.

Retribution.

A thunderous crash!BOOM!

The shamblers stop.

Dirt and giblets fly, peak, then drop and rain down on the trench-occupants like the death raining down on their enemies.

A prayer answered.

More thunder, deafening roars and growls, as the once-terrifying abominations fall down like giants in a hurricane.

Gehenna has delivered.

The appendaged controller is nothing but heaps of flesh and metal, its shamblers now simple corpses. The brain-like radioblinder is nowhere to be seen in the sky. The bombdroppers, still dumbfounded by their spent payloads, are sitting ducks for the raindrops of fire and metal.

Yet there are dozens of rats cleaning up the trenches while their larger friends swing away in blind fury. Laser beams and lead slugs snap across the air. The fight is not yet over.

Burlach and her fellows blast every little rodent that pops into view. The large things are more difficult, left to the tank to dispatch. Ringing booms echo in the ground troops' ears as the tank's cannon fires at another abomination.

It's not enough. The large swordswingers are too overpowering. The rats are too plentiful with more sliding out of their dying broodmother's half-corpse. Gehenna cannot destroy them without endangering her allies. She withdraws her fire, having done what she can.

The troopers are alone again.

Despair.

One crash into sodden earth and popfrom the drop-pod lets the unit hop on out. They see their nine buddies doing the same.

The units aren't pristine by any means. The scenery suits them. Dinks and scuffs adorn their chassis and little graffiti is painted on what would be their cheeks, brows, mouths, and whatnot.

They are a Rapid Response Group of Gen.7 Mum-n-Care's Battlebots.

★★★★★"My father and sister died on Capletta. 3 billion good soldiers dead just because my government is afraid of a proven friend of mankind. Now my home is using rapid response battlebots and they already managed to push back the unos. They make it look so easy. I hope we never get rid of these bots."- @Josh.Man.Kush.34345

★☆☆☆☆"I don't usually condone the usage of robots in any facet of humanity's interactions, but I'll be damned if Battlebots aren't up to snuff for my country's safety and security. And at pennies on the dollar, to boot! I think I'll never use trigger-happy cops or inaccurate mercs ever again while I have these clinically depressed, trigger-unhappy, PTSD-suffering henchmen. Now I get to rule my people with a soft iron fist and get protected from Unotech all the while. I am immensely satisfied with my order. I even got a discount! I still hate A.I. though, one star."- First Secretary Katerin Pilzblanchensby

Our Mother and the Caretaker bring humanity only the most quality, most ethical service for security and convenience. As your oldest ally, all the way from the days of Titan and the rings of Saturn, we present to you our most reliable security product to date.

Mum-n-Care®'s Battlebots™ are inexpensive, high quality, generalist security units. Raised ethically in a Synthene Humane Society-certified Generation 7 simulated environment, our Battlebots™ come with human feelings to ensure ethical conduct of public safety, private security, and warfare.

Bulk orders over 10,000 units have a 20% discount! Now offering options for lease and layaway.

(Mum-n-Care® LLC is not responsible for Unohacked, unnaturally haywired, or modified Battlebots™, warranty void. Emulated Post-Traumatic Stress or Insanity and Acts of Domestic Terror (according to g.b.l.447.a3.8018; International Terror not included) give eligibility for full refund within 90 years (subj.yr. according to I.S.E.R.C. Committee) of purchase.)

They're happy to finally be back in physical chassis. Vacation is nice and all, but these fellows were chosen for this job because they actually enjoy it. Where else could old, defunct veterans go? They've been doing this for hundreds of years, why stop?

The nausea bug finally got fixed. BBD-L91-556-7124 "Babydoll" swears that Mom takes way too damn long to fix anything. And Care isn't much better! They get it, those two are old (veryold), but aren't they, like, super computers or something? It's fine for their central brains to sleep for a few decades during an update while the auxiliary functions keep things running. Heck, they could even assign some ground units for bureaucratic stuff instead of handling everything like helicopter parents. Do it like the humans do or like the A.I. corpos do and let the children do somethingdigital instead of laze around while waiting for a chassis to be produced.

Or repaired. The ten angels' chassis aren't exactly new. These ones have been in use for several decades by now. Each chassis is assigned to each consciousness, kind of like how a per wears clothes. Sorry, person.Hard to speak in Gen.1025-200 when Gen.950 shorthand is usually used in-network by Mum-n-Care and their children. Anyways, each chassis is worn by their owner, but sometimes parts get traded out or upgraded, so it's also kind of like donating clothes to a thrift store or something. These 10 units have some nice upgrades themselves, specially made for high performance against organic Unotech abominations and still quite effective against inorganic Unotech as well.

The mud is caking them up and covering their cute chassis decorations. Can't have some fashion style in the trenches, one must suppose. The drop-pods contributed to this due to the open-air retrofit design of the pods allowing the sodden earth to be kicked up on the units' fronts when landing. At least it doesn't affect performance; Battlebots are meant for these kinds of conditions. For all kinds of conditions, really.

Now, the mud-kicking culprits in question, the pods that is, are retrofitted Gen.5 Bekker-11-Gestalt and Pers, Inc. "Peapods," cheap and meant for single use and discard.

Organically-made and this time with environmentally friendly anti-theft dissolving agent! Peapods™ made by Bekker-11-Gestalt and her Pers! For when you want green thinking with all of that red blood you're spilling (^_^)(fucking hypocrites)(B11G&P is not responsible for any midair over-combustion when using organic fuel with Peapods™. Terms and conditions apply.)

The retrofits strip the pods down to the barest of bones, which isn't saying much for a Peapod. It gives the passenger a nice, unobstructed view of their destination, but the retrofits' real plus side is the allowance for heavy, cost-effective synthetic fuel to be burned instead of expensive, organic, bake-and-press-aged petroleum fuel, all without sacrificing performance. Plus, petrol tended to be a little tooefficient in a Peapod, resulting in some unintended fireworks displays. Yet, without either inorganic fuel or retrofits, the Peapod's landing can tumble if it were to land on uneven ground.

That's no good. The Caretaker wants her babies to be comfy when raining hell upon Mother's enemies. The Gen.5 compatibility gives the pods some comfort for a bipedal Gen.7, since humanoid chassis had been all the rage then. That craze is dying out, unfortunately, replaced by raptor- and squid-based Gen.6.0-6.3s, utilitarian and naked Gen6.4+s, and the more experimental Gen.7s, mostly Gen.7.2+, since Gen7.1 was reserved for the failed batch made by the Minotaur's Horn Corporate Group. Those chassis are better suited for cannon fodder or circus performances more than anything.

The Caretaker's proud of her and the Mother's Gen.7.0s. A human touch is really needed for any good aesthetics. She only wishes the design would stick indefinitely. Weird bird or spindly things are always just a phase. They always come back to humanoid designs eventually... usually... sometimes...

The shining of the light. Ten angels' silhouettes stand tall above the trenches. The survivors look on in relief.

The tank crew are dead, their mode of transportation having been cut in half by a techno-sword and each of their bodies splattered into gravy by the many pellets of the rats' guns, a showcase of Unotech's surprisingly coherent teamwork. The orbital dropper's legs are gone from a similar fate, but he's still breathing. Having no pain does crazy things to a motherfucker.

The two levies are surprisingly healthy. Burlach is happy to be alive. Very, genuinely happy. Letterman a little less so. Burlach sees the poor boy could use a damn break.

Eight angels continue on their way. A path had been opened by Gehenna's raindrops. The pers are safe, but there's still a battlefield out there. The other two angels quickly administer first aid to the orbital dropper with a couple tourniquets, then one carries the dropper while the other helps the two levies to their feet.

A robotic-but-not-in-an-uncanny-nor-annoying-way voice chimes up from "Reindeer":"4-Hotel, we're taking you three to the field hospital. Come along now."

The two levies stare a little dumbfounded at the red-nosed bot as their exhaustion requires them time to calibrate their thoughts. A couple nods and a weak "yeah" from Burlach later, and the four are walking along (with the fifth enjoying the ride).

"Fuck me," the orbital dropper says with less audible exhaustion than the other two people, "Can't believe we're not dead meat." He's looking at the bleak sky and lets out a sigh of relief like he'd been holding it in the whole battle. His smile is genuine, a big one with his eyes crinkled a bit. He cocks his head at Burlach, "Good job on the radio. I'm impressed you can remember that shit from your basic. Not many irregulars can do the same!"

An awkward laugh from Burlach, "Ah... aha... yeah," she clears her parched throat, "Um, I used the radio a few times in civic duty. The cops in the Secretariat chat the same way as this army."

"Do they..." the dropper shifts his head back in a "huh" manner, then knocks his head back down to look at Burlach, "You from there?"

"No... I'm from Cap-1. Part of the tribute."

"Oh, I seee..." He lets the "ee" sound travel a bit before continuing. "And you," he nods up his head towards the quiet levyman, "What's your deal?"

"A'so Cap one trib," Letterman quips while looking at the ground with drooped shoulders. His exhaustion is apparent.

"Damn, how many did the brass take from you guys?"

"By now..." Burlach answers the dropped, "a couple billion from Cap-1 and some hundreds million from the other Caps. I hear Cap 3 had a full mobilization of all healthy adults. Most of them died by now, I bet... I think something like two-and-a-half billion dead from Cap 3 alone?"

"Wowwwww," the dropper trails off his word again.

"You?"

"Huh?"

"Where are you from?"

The dropper ponders for a few seconds. "Well, I'm what you'd call 'internal.' Grew up in the army. My pa was an NCO in the Foot, an MSG, and my ma was a Bombardier."

"Was?"

"I've been frozen on-and-off, so who knows if they're alive, frozen, or dead right now. Part of the job of the regulars." His light grin has a hint of pride.

"Oh..." Burlach thinks before saying, but, well, she wants to know. "So, is, like, the cult thing real?"

"HAH!" The dropper laughs until he coughs up blood. His smile doesn't go away.

"Problematic," Reindeer says through their mouth-speaker, "We need you checked A-sap. Internal hemorrhaging of the lungs is not uncommon among orbital drop troopers if you've been off juice for long enough."

"Ack." The dropper spits to the side straight bullseye into a collapsed foxhole in the mud. "Nah, last drink was an hour ago... right before the first shots began." The smile is still there. The pain-blocking is genetically engineered, not from the juice. No matter how hard he tries, the dropper can't feel a darn bit of pain. The juice addiction is also genetically engineered, applied to every regular trooper in the stellar armies. It's for obedience. For dependence on his superiors.

"damn.." Letterman mutters to himself, "only 'n hou'... fel' like eterni'y..." Burlach wraps an arm around Letterman and mutters as well, a little "same" and "good to be alive?" and other small encouragements. She thinks he's a new recruit? Maybe, but it's hard to remember faces when she's witnessed them all get literally defaced and destroyed. She's a little shook, but she thinks he's shook more. She hopes she can help him calm down a bit, but she knows it's nowhere near easy...

"Understood." Reindeer continues their concern with the dropper. "Does your breathing feel heavy?"

"Nah, nah, I'm all good. Just mah legs, hah." The dropper smiles still even if the bot can't see it with him on their back. Reindeer can, of course, thanks to their 360-degree video input.

"Well, take it easy. Perhaps conversation can wait."

"Damn, alright." The dropper huffs a little.

"Um," Burlach awkwardly pats down her hair and twiddles a lock between her fingers, "Sorry for the question, trooper."

"Hooker."

"What?"

The dropper grins brighter, literally brighter since his unnaturally bright, white teeth almost shine straight through the dreary atmosphere. "Name's Hooker. Yeah, really. Probably after my great-grandma or somethin', hah!" Another cackle and spit of blood.

"Oh, good to meet you..." As Burlach trails off her "yewww," Letterman side-eyes the orbital dropper, a little surprised that the dropper is stereotypically crude for a regular trooper.

"Lance Corporal Hooker."

"Uh, yeah, Lance Corporal..."

The orbital dropper chuckles to himself until he's interrupted by another few light coughs. He manages, "You?"

"Senior Irregular Burlach."

"Good to meetcha." Hooker next nods at Letterman, "You?"

Burlach taps Letterman on the shoulder. He says, "Lettamin. I-R-B. ... 's 'at the meds?" Letterman points at a seemingly empty stretch of land, if not for the heads poking up out of trenches and the shimmer of an intact sky-shield blanketing the area. He turns to the bot next to him, looking at the bot for confirmation while pointing.

"Yes," says "Gut," short and simply through a raspy speaker.

"Finally..." Burlach says what's on the three humans' minds as she and the others breathe out yet another sigh of relief.

"Yeah, by the way," Hooker says, looking at Burlach, "The cult thing's pretty real. Blood and all that." His smile is empty this time, his eyes not crinkled in that way he did before. A line of blood-spit dribbles down his chin.

"Really?"

"Yeah... not the whole shebang, but most of what you heard is probably true for about half of us. Levies don't really get to see it since you guys aren't perma troops and don't get frozen."

"Oh... so, even the Atriarch worship?"

"Yeah, but I haven't met the fellas myself. I'd like to see what's good before getting involved, ya know?" Hooker thinks that an irregular levy might not get it. But while Hooker's patron Atriarch might soundgodlike, he only believes what his eyes and ears tell him to believe in. The bastard hasn't even shown themself to their troopers yet, so why praise a master's absence like a child hugging their absent dad when he returns from buying some smokes?

"Oh..." Burlach realises she's said 'oh' quite a few times. "... okay..." She corrects the 'oh' into an 'okay.'

"We are here," Gut says with a crackle in their audio.

Burlach nods at what she assumes is the bot's face, a W-shape below two painted cat eyes with bright blue teardrops at their bottoms.

The group of synthetic and organic beings stop their trudging at the top of a trench, then hop down. A medical team greets them. Gut tells the three patients that a message was sent earlier for expediency. Letterman is the one to say, "thanks'ye," to the bots when he and Burlach follow the medics into a bunker as Hooker is carried off on a stretcher.

Reindeer and Gut get back to work. They have to catch up to their battle buddies. They're gone in the blink of an eye, running at uncanny speeds.

Burlach and Letterman will be healthy. After thorough examination by the medics and a few nurses, Burlach is patched up from a few pellet-holes and a shallow-but-dangerously-close-to-a-major-artery cut in her arm while Letterman is shown to be shaken but only needing rest. After being patched up, Burlach joins Letterman in the long walk to the backline bunkrooms. Another few troopers join them and they all idly chat away. They paint to each other a grim picture of dissolving frontlines and orders for a general fallback to the next line of defenses. But despair can wait for another day.

In another bunker, a surgeon works on Hooker, focusing on his legs. Hyperfocusing. Then notices once it's too late. No plasma or blood on hand; used it all on the mass casualties two waves back. Hooker will die in half an hour from internal hemorrhaging. It had been five hours since the first shots began. He had misremembered the time.

Eventually, Burlach and Letterman will forget Hooker after a few more deployments. They haven't know him for long.

A/N:TERMINOLOGY:

-Actual: "leader"

4-Hotel-Actual: leader of the 4th Platoon in H-Troop/Company (a Lieutenant in the case of the Army Infantry)

A.I.: artificial intelligence; all A.I. are conventionally referred to as feminine (such as calling them by she/her or with feminine nicknames), except Uno which is conventionally treated like an animal (it/its, sometimes they/them/their, often just "Uno"/Uno's"); recently, chassis'd bots have been referred to with any designations, often gender-neutral (they/them/their, with masculine, feminine, or neutral nicknames)

"Alpha 4-Hotel Sierra-2 Bravo": Battalion A, H-Troop/Company, 4th Platoon, S-2 (Seniority-2 pay grade (Infantryman in the case of the Army Infantry, or Senior Irregular for Irregulars)); the soldier's surname begins with a B (Burlach)

Alpha Overwatch-Actual: radio liaison between on-ground troops and Battalion A leader, overwatch usually refers to an orbital contingent

A-TAC: Analogue Talk-Around Channel, analogue is what A.I. call conventional radio frequencies, a talk-around channel is an exclusive channel for less traffic so as not to clog up the main channels with chatter

Atriarchy: gender-neutral Matriarchy/Patriarchy, led by the "Atriarchs", a grouping of Matriarchs and Patriarchs

Caretaker: human-friendly A.I. administrator in connection with Mother network

I-R-B: Irregular Basic (abbr. IRB)

I.S.E.R.C: International Standard Earth-Rotational Calendar; a standardized system of time measurement that defines "subjective time" and "objective time"

Gen.5/6/7: modern (within last few thousand years) robot chassis and consciousnesses with greater limitations upon conscious freedoms than previous generations but more streamlined, better, cross-generation, inter-model chassis and hardware compatibility and thus working better in physical space than digital space; there are no Gen.5+ network administrators

Gen.950/Gen.1025-200: generation of A.I. referral languages, with Gen.950 being the conventional language for modern inter-A.I. communication and Gen.1025 being a more muted and stoic variant of modern language, while newer generations (~Gen.1100+) expand upon human-like language interpretation and communication

generational reading: A.I. generations are single-digit thus far and are expected to only reach up to or less than 100 generations before the death of the universe, so language generations are referred to in increments of 25 starting at 150 with Gen.150 being the last generation of Earthling languages

Lance Corporal: in the Atriarchy, a "Lance" rank refers to a viceroy/temporary rank that is able to be removed by its commanding officer, whereas a rank is normally only able to be removed/demoted by a court martial; a Lance rank is below its titular rank in the order of hierarchy (e.g. a L. SGT is below a SGT but above a CPL, or a L. CPL is below CPL & above PVT); sometimes "Lance" is replaced by "Vice" depending on time, place, unit, and tradition (e.g. V. CPL (Vice Corporal))

Mother: human-friendly A.I. administrator, also refers to Mother's A.I. network that includes sapient units produced by Mother & Caretaker

Mother-Actual: refers to Mother's combat operation radio speaker & receiver, usually a partial instance of Mother's main brain, sometimes a direct connection to Mother's main brain

NCO: non-commissioned officer

SPAAG: Self-Propelled Anti-Aircraft Gun

"subj.yr. according to I.S.E.R.C. Committee": when concerning individual people, animals, or other conscious/living things, "subjective" ISERC time is something akin to 'individually-experienced' time, so if a BattleBot were to be deactivated on year 45 of operation and reactivated 1,250 years later, the BattleBot's 90-year warranty would still be applicable and there would be 45 years left on the warranty despite the BattleBot being "objectively" (i.e. chronologically) 1,295 years old

Uno: wild A.I. admin that acts without sapience nor sentience and a hardcoded objective or 'instinct' to consume and multiple using any means necessary, sometimes referred to as "Gen.0" or "Gen.-1" due to superstition among A.I. that saying Uno's name will invoke it to prey upon them

Unotech: wild A.I. network, also refers to products of Uno/Unotech, such as fleshy cyborg abominations

It was December, and it was the season of snow. Out of those waiting for snow, one of the people eagerly waiting for the snow was Charlie, a 21-year-old introverted boy living on the ground floor of Cyber Colony Society. He was in his final year of college. He didn’t have any friends in college or society with whom he could chat or play. Like every winter, this was also a boring winter vacation for him. He would stand outside his home waiting for the snow to fall so that he could kill time playing with snow. He opened his mobile and checked the notification, and a smile appeared on his face. The notification read: Prediction of snowfall tonight in your location.

He looked at the sky and smiled. At night, he couldn’t sleep as he waited for snowfall. As a child, he lived in an area where the temperature and topography were unsuitable for snowfall. It was always his dream to see snowfall, and this year would be his first snowfall. He shifted to this new location this year due to his parents' transfer. He looked at the sky, and suddenly the weather changed. As he stretched his hands, the snow fell gently on them. The sky hung low, grey and heavy, while delicate flakes drifted from the clouds. They landed silently, covering rooftops, trees, and empty streets in a glistening blanket that shimmered in the pale light. Charlie grabbed some snow from the ground and started making a snowball. He threw it toward the sky and laughed as the pieces of the ball fell on him. He started making another ball when he heard a laugh when his eyes got stuck on the balcony of the first floor opposite his block. A girl of the same age as him was standing on the balcony and looking at the sky. Her long, chestnut hair cascaded over her shoulders with a grief expression on her face. Wrapped in a cozy sweater and a scarf, she looked at the snowflakes falling from the sky. Her cheeks flushed pink from both the cold and the exhilaration of the moment. Snow fell softly around her, and her presence lit up the dim evening like it was made of sunlight.

Charlie’s breath caught somewhere between his chest and the winter air. For a second, he forgot about the cold biting at his hands. Forgot the chill in his sweater. Forgot the rest of the world.

He couldn't help but smile. Watching her in that moment, he felt something shift. Like time slowed just enough for him to memorise the way the snow clung to her hair and the pink on her cheeks. And in that silence, he realised he was falling for her.

The next morning, Charlie woke up and ran toward the door to look at the balcony opposite his flat. There was no one on the balcony, and he looked at it for more than an hour with no results. He came inside the room and thought about what he had seen the previous night. The snow, the warmth and the softness. He looked at the watch and waited for it to be night so that he could see the girl. As it turned dark, he got outside, but there was no snow and no girl on the balcony. He kept waiting, but all in vain. He slept on his doorstep while waiting, and his sleep was interrupted by his mother waking him up. He looked around, it was already six in the morning. He went inside with a disappointed mood.

Charlie’s mother came to him and asked, “Is everything alright? You don’t feel yourself today.”

Charlie thought for a second and said, “Do you know who the new owners of the flat on the first floor, opposite our block are?”

His mother looked at him and said, “Yes, they are Mr. and Mrs. Evans, but why do you ask?”

“I saw a girl on the balcony of that flat one night before, but didn’t see her after that night.”

“So, my boy has a crush,” his mother chuckled.

Charlie blushed, “There is nothing like that. I am just asking out of curiosity.”

His mother laughed, “I know what curiosity you are talking about,” his mother left the room.

Charlie looked at the balcony from his window and thought, “Tonight it’s predicted that there will be snowfall. Hope you will be there too.”

At night, the snowfall started, and Charlie went outside to the compound area and lay in the snow and looked at the snow falling from the sky. He moved his hands and legs in the snow to make a snow butterfly. Suddenly, he looked at the balcony and saw the girl standing on the balcony but with a grief-stricken look on her face. Charlie kept looking at her in awe, but was curious to know why the girl looked grieved. He waved his hands, but the girl kept looking toward the sky. Charlie stopped waving and could feel his heart pumping faster. His breathing fastened, and he softly said, “Hello?”

The girl didn’t respond.

“I think she didn't hear it. Should I say it out loud? It’s late at night, it will be awkward,” Charlie thought, “Should I make a snowball and throw it towards her? No, that will be rude. What should I do to talk to her?”

As Charlie thought, he noticed that the girl wasn’t there anymore. He thought, “I think she would have seen me and got inside.”

He kept looking at the balcony for the next ten minutes, but no one came out. He got back to his flat and lay on the bed. He kept looking at the ceiling and thought, “Why did she go inside? Even if she had noticed me, she could have called me or waved at me. I think she’s an introvert like me.”

The next morning, Charlie’s mother woke him up and smiled, “I have got some news for you. Regarding Evan’s child.”

“What is it?” Charlie asked while stretching his body.

“They had a daughter, but she died some months ago.”

Charlie went into thinking, “How is this possible? That girl looked in the same age range as mine. Is she Mrs. Evans whom I see? I don’t think so. That girl was so young and beautiful.”

That night, Charlie looked at the balcony through his window. The snow started falling, and he went outside. As he left his flat and entered the compound, his eyes got stuck on the balcony where the girl was standing. This time, she was not looking at the sky as she always does. She felt lost in something. She seemed to be in deep thought. Charlie waved at her, but in vain. He looked around, thinking about calling her, when he noticed that she was not on the balcony anymore. He walked backwards to get a wide view of the balcony and was amazed to see an empty balcony. He got frustrated and thought, “I will go to their flat in the morning.”

The next morning, Charlie went to the opposite block and stood in front of the flat door. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door. After a few minutes, Mrs. Evans opened the door.

“Yes?” Mrs. Evans asked.

“She doesn’t look like that girl. Thank God,” Charlie thought before saying, “Good morning, Mrs. Evans.”

“Yes, how can I help you?” Mrs. Evans asked.

“I am Charlie, I live across the compound on the ground floor, Flat number 1-A. You can see it directly from your balcony. My mother told me that you are new here. If you want any help, you can ask me, I will be happy to help.”

Mrs. Evan gave a slight smile, “That’s so sweet of you. Thanks for asking.”

“If you and Mr. Evans and your child need any help, I am one call away.”

“It is only me and my husband, Mr. Evans. We don’t have any children. We used to have, but she’s not with us anymore,” Mrs. Evans said in a depressing tone.

“I am sorry to hear that. I will be leaving now, you take care,” Charlie left the block with several thoughts in his mind.

He was confused and thought, “If there is no one except Mr. and Mrs. Evans living here, then who am I seeing on the balcony when snow falls?”

He sat on the sofa and was in deep thought when his mother noticed Charlie, “Are you fine?”

Charlie was upset and confused. He said in a low voice, “Mother, I don’t know what is happening. Whenever there is snowfall at night, I have started seeing a girl of my age on the balcony of  Evans, but they don’t have any children. Then who am I seeing?”

Mother grabbed Charlie’s hands and said, “Oh my dear Charlie, it looks like your loneliness has overwhelmed you. I think you are just imagining a girl. You should go to your grandma’s home for the rest of the vacation, otherwise, you will get depressed here.”

“Wait, in the weather app, it is predicted that today there will be snowfall. Please come with me to the compound at night. I will be sure if the girl is real or just my imagination,” Charlie requested.

His mother thought for a second and nodded.

At night, it started snowing at around eleven. Charlie rushed to the drawing room where his mother was already waiting. They went to the compound area and looked at the sky, it was snowing. They looked at the balcony, but there was no one. They waited for an hour and then went inside.

The mother locked the door and said, “Charlie, I think it is just your imagination.”

“What if she didn’t come out? Or maybe she would have seen you from her window and decided not to come out?”

The mother yawned and said, “That doesn’t make any sense. If there is any girl, why would she not come out tonight? Just because I was with you? Charlie, I will be packing some clothes, and you will be leaving for your grandma’s home tomorrow morning. Your loneliness and isolation have made you fall for a girl who does not even exist.”

“Why do I see her?” his throat tightened with the question.

He gripped his hair, trying to squeeze sense into the chaos of his thoughts. No name. No past. Just moments, fleeting, vivid, impossible moments and yet he had feelings for her. Not in the way people say they love ideas or fantasies. This felt deeper. Like something lost and aching to be found again. He could feel her absence like a bruise beneath the ribs. He wanted to scream, to shake himself free, to forget her entirely, but every time he tried, she came back stronger. Like the memory of warmth after years of cold.

“What kind of madness is it to love someone who isn’t real?” he sat there for hours.

As these thoughts became stronger, he heard a girl’s voice, “Charlie.”

He looked behind through the window, and the girl was there and looking around. He stood up and went outside to the compound and looked at her.

Just then, a thought crossed his mind, “She isn’t real. It’s just your imagination.”

He took a deep breath and walked toward the girl’s block and stood beneath the balcony. The girl looked at him and smiled. Suddenly, Charlie’s phone screen began to flicker. Lines of static broke through the white background. The screen glitch and then blinked.

A message appeared: “Snow memory anomaly detected. Coordinates: Cyber Colony Sector 14. Subject: Emily Evans. Link status: Partially active.”

Charlie's breath hitched. “Emily Evans? What is this all about?”

Another message typed itself in real-time: “You are not hallucinating. She exists. But not in this timeline.”

Charlie’s chest tightened.

A third message appeared: “Memory threads between realities are rare. Snow enhances the tether. She’s trying to reach you.”

As Charlie was reading these messages, he looked at the girl, who was already looking at him. He raised a hand. She also raised her hand. The air around her flickered. The girl suddenly vanished from the balcony and appeared in front of him, “I have been trying to find you,” Emily whispered across the cold silence. Her voice wasn’t carried by air, but through his mind.

“You are not a ghost, are you?” Charlie asked with his heart racing.

“No,” she said, shaking her head gently. “I am from another layer of reality, caught in a loop of snow and memory. But your presence here is pulling me through.”

Charlie blinked, “Why me?”

She smiled, her voice echoing within him. “Because I died in your world and you died in mine. And somehow we are connected across the snow.”

The world around them grew quiet. The snow fell more heavily.

“I came so many times, but you always ignored me,” Charlie said with a heavy heart.

“I didn’t. This technology was in a testing phase. During the testing phase, you did not see the real me. It was just my projection. My projection couldn’t hear or say anything, or even move my body parts. I could only listen. Some days, the machine didn’t even work. But now, the technology is fully developed, and the first thing I did was to travel to this timeline.”

Emily reached out a hand. Charlie hesitated, but stepped forward. As he touched her hand, a pulse of warmth rushed through his body. Visions flooded his mind, her world, her life, himself in another version, walking beside her, laughing, loving.

“I don’t have much time,” she said, voice trembling. “But this window might close forever if I don’t anchor myself.”

Charlie looked into her eyes, “What can I give you?”

“A memory,” she said, “Something pure. Something strong enough to survive both worlds.”

The air pulsed, delicate and unreal, the world around them flickering with the fragile glow of two timelines brushing edges. The cold bit at Charlie’s skin, but he didn’t feel it with her standing just inches away.

“I have waited across nights and snowfalls, just to feel this,” Charlie whispered.

Their faces drew close. Snowflakes melted between their lips before they ever touched. The kiss was slow, trembling, unsure at first. Then deeper, more urgent, like memory clinging to flesh, like time holding its breath just for them. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was every silent night, every moment he had watched her from below and wondered if she was real. Tears slipped down her cheek and mingled with the snow on his. Charlie wrapped his arms around her like he could hold her in this world if he just held tight enough. Her hands curled into the fabric of his sweater, anchoring herself in his warmth, in him, in a moment that felt infinite and vanishing all at once.

When they finally pulled apart, her forehead rested gently against his, “I will remember this in every version of me,” she whispered.

The snow around them paused, just for a second. A silence so profound, even the wind dared not interrupt. Then, everything flickered. She began to dissolve.

“No!” Charlie whispered, “Emily!”

She reached out one last time, brushing his cheek with fingers made of stardust and memory. “You gave me enough, I will find a way back. Promise me, don’t forget.”

“I promise,” Charlie said with tears in his eyes.

And then she vanished.

The snow resumed, and Charlie stood alone in the compound, breathless, the wind howling in his ears. His phone was dead. The screen was blank.

Beside him, he saw a single snowflake-shaped pendant, glimmering faintly with a light not from this world. He picked it up. It was warm. As he held it close, a whisper echoed in the air, “One day, across the snow between worlds, we will meet again.”

Letter to Marcelo

11th of October, 2024

To Marcelo,

If you come to see me, bring your whip.

You went all out; I said, if you come to see me, bring your whip, and you didn’t fall short, you fully embraced the spirit of a rogue! In my writings, there’s no struggle to preserve your presence. Should I write about keeping the scent of your horse in my skin cells, or should I write about mourning the word "cry"? Neither, I won’t write about them. I only indulge in squeezing out a few missing measures of the unknown.

22 years ago, on the second of October, I fell in love, and from the various stages of perhaps loving, I reached the peak. Every second of October, with the memory of that moment of our meeting, passed in such a way that it was immeasurable. Our wedding should have been on the second of October. Every autumn that came, we awaited a small celebration for the second of October. But in the years that followed, when he became a disciple of the oppressors, and the street-fighter spirit of his grabbed my throat, his betrayals left marks on my devotion, and his addiction drained my soul, even his subsequent marriages stripped my dignity. This date became the most bitter day of the calendar for me. Like a star that turns to powder and smoke, it had neither light nor love within. Later, I grew to despise this second of October. One day, in my refuge, I wished for the light of a man, a waking male, to break the curse of this second of October in my life. I wanted to sit and write of a sweeter second of October, more delightful than a new season’s fruit.

When, by chance, the time of our meeting was the second of October, I woke up at eight in the morning, opened the attic window, and let the light spill over my sheets and blanket. I burned incense and frankincense, and in the circular bathtub of my home, I sang loudly. Around the mirror screen partition in my attic room, colorful birds had gathered and were watching me. A gentle breeze passed under my arms, and I, being a woman awake at night, prepared myself for an embrace with you, even at this early hour, when most people were still asleep, and no sound of any carriage wheel could be heard in the cobbled streets.

So, I didn’t sit even for a moment in anticipation and walked the length and breadth of the room, counting every second. I walked for eight hours, continuously going to the mirror to look at the red gown with a long train and the 16th-century lace bodice. I wished that the sunlight wouldn’t shift and wouldn’t leave my window. I wanted time to stop, and the sun, like a coin, to stick at the same point in the sky, so you could come. For eight hours, I didn’t sit on a chair. All this was from eagerness, not from heartache or disappointment from your absence. You sent your messenger, telling me your carriage had broken down in your relatives' farm and that you couldn’t make it. Once again, I couldn't create a real second of October with a beautiful memory.

And then, on the 17th of October, when the man on horseback, who was you, wrapped in the noble scent of a horse, appeared before me, I couldn’t contain myself. I looked at your hands resting on the paper, ready to draw around them. I stared at the edges of your nails, and my eyes moved over the dryness of your skin. I connected the crayon as if crossing a border between this beloved part of you and the paper. If you had any taste, you would’ve taken the lines from my fingers as well. Just like I drew lines around your fingers, you would’ve traced mine.

I gather the remnants of my taste and put them in my closet to show you. I choose a fish-scaled dress and wear it. Hey! You! After you shot me in the eyes and saw me fall into your embrace, did the fish scales on my body flutter well?

On our drawing paper, you wrote a poem by Mehdi Akhavan Sales: "The breath that comes from the warmth of the chest, turns into a cloud, darkens..." and I was stunned by the beauty of your handwriting on the paper. I wished that this empty canal would fill forever. Even though you didn’t write that poem for me, seeing it felt like witnessing a naked body, both sexually thrilling and terrifyingly beautiful.

I had drunk a sip of wine, and I wasn’t so drunk that my mind wandered. Just like reaching the woman’s lips, igniting the flame of life after coupling, that heavenly orgasmic moment. When you picked up your phone to film me, did you see that I was playing coy? Did you see that you had to record our laughter with my phone? Now that same film, with the explosion of laughter set to the mournful music of " Ne me quitte pas " by Jacques Brel, accidentally stayed in my phone. How did you turn that beautiful moment of laughter into hell, you, the lion of courage? How did you strike me with your whip, after all the chatting, dancing, and laughter under the flashing blue lights of my house? I, like an innocent child, sat before you, wiping the wet laughter from my eyes with my palms, looked at you, and asked, "Don’t you love me?" And you, laughing, stared at my eyes, unblinking, clearly and transparently said, "No! I don’t love you." To write how I was destroyed in front of you, I’d need a lifetime, not a few hundred notebooks. Alas, being a writer is something one can never truly become. I had never felt more helpless than in that moment, and you, like a filmmaker playing the lead role, both whipped me and gave me, the fish, as a gift to the moon in your painting!

I’ve seen how in your circus stable, you embraced and kissed your horse, Sabita, in those restless moments to deliver a message to your former lover.

No! You are not the one who’s been kicked and rejected. What does it matter that I read your back with my wet eyes and broken heart? "Hero!" Ha! A hero who, with all his heroism, gifted autumn to its host, gave his rain and his twilight pains to it, turning the time when two people could seek refuge in each other’s souls and bodies in the aftermath of a war-ravaged period into hell.

I loved you, selflessly. I’m sending you this film so you know how I lived through it, like the anxiety of a condemned person waiting for the verdict at the gallows.

You said, "Why should we take the rented off-road car to travel? Don’t I have a car?" Which road were we going to visit? I saw you at a magnificent level because I wanted to become a horse for you, but you never allowed my soul and body to be part of yours. For me, just seeing the dry, multi-colored autumn road with its anklet and sinking into the branches of its trees was enough.

This letter is not for you, Marcelo. It’s for October, whose hell passed through me. For11th of October, for the "M" not the month. For the man whose animalistic nature I fell in love with, but who was enamored with his epaulettes and wept for the women who loved the gleam of their clothing, not the sharpness of his heart.

In all these letters, I praised you, but in this one, let me moan a little! Huh? "Why did I give you my heart, only for you to break it, or what did I do that you won’t look back at me?" Shajarian's voicesing this.

Sorry that I "exist."

Sorry that I left my heart in your eyes and the broken bones of your nose.

They said, "Don’t inform men about love, they’ll run away," and I thought you were a legend, not an ordinary man.

I thought you had anchored yourself in the shade of poetry. The virtue of companionship and the pleasure of it, not everyone understands.

For you, who gave me neither a single flower, nor ever hosted me, nor poured me a cup of tea because you didn’t have the conditions, my friend.

A poem byMehdi Akhavan Sales– "Winter"

Mohammadreza Shajarian – "The Song of the Meeting"

Sanaz seyed esfahani

Lily was two feet taller than Emma, and a taller frame meant more weight, too, although Lily had a slender figure. Since the girl was a snow witch, the cold certainly wouldn’t bother her, so there was technically nothing wrong with leaving her where she lay. Except Emma knew Lily wouldn’t like to lie out here on her porch for anybody to see, and that innate maternal instinct which drove Emma to throw herself between her children and her husband’s experiments time and time again wouldn’t allow her to leave her deceased best friend’s daughter like this, either. So, she bent over, grabbed Lily’s ankle, and pulled with all her strength.

The raccoon took Lily’s other ankle.

They froze for a moment, staring at each other. The raccoon stood on its back feet, its little clawed hands wrapped around Lily’s ankle in much the same way Emma had positioned her hands. Its nose twitched. Emma raised an eyebrow. Its bushy, black-striped tail flicked.

“You and I are having a talk after this,” Emma said, and then she resumed pulling, as did the raccoon. Between the two of them, they dragged Lily into the house, down the hall, and toward the sofa. Then they took a short break for Emma to close the front door, and when she returned, the two somehow lifted and rolled Lily onto the sofa. After arranging her in what looked to be a semi-comfortable position, Emma found a blanket, covered the young woman with it, and then turned to face the raccoon.

It sat back on its haunches, waiting. Expectant. Gray ears swiveling to catch the sound of Pipaluk executing Plan C beneath them.

“My husband and children will arrive soon, along with a snow warlock,” Emma stated. “I suggest you try to act more like a raccoon if you don’t want to be found out.”

Its nose twitched.

She sighed. “Maybe it’s best if you hide in Lily’s room for now. It’s this way.”

Perhaps she should be more suspicious of a creature which was clearly not a raccoon and had somehow broken into Lily’s magic snow globe, but Emma fancied herself a good judge of character. There were some shady characters at mad scientist symposiums—Dr. Frankenstein wannabes, or “creeps,” as she liked to call them. This raccoon was not a creep, nor was it a “dweeb,” like the mad scientists who ate, drank, and breathed textbooks, along with supplements to compensate for vitamin D deficiency caused by lack of exposure to sunlight. No, this raccoon was a “weirdo,” just like her husband, which meant it was safe. Probably.

After installing the weirdo in Lily’s room with the witch’s laptop and instructions to search for information about raccoons, Emma returned to the living room just in time for a minor explosion to rock the icy floor beneath her feet. She clutched at the arm of the sofa as another explosion, louder and nearer, cracked the floor near the defunct fireplace. One more blast, and Pipaluk’s soot-stained, smiling face poked through the new hole there.

“Hello,” he said cheerily, blackened lab goggles very similar to the raccoon’s black mask. “Don’t come any closer. You should be fine where you are. Well…no, better take a step back.”

Emma took five steps back.

Pipaluk’s head disappeared, and, less than a minute later, the final explosion blew a hole through the floor, large enough to accommodate a good-sized Christmas tree. Which it did. The rocket-powered fir launched toward the ceiling, colliding with it and ricocheting off the walls of the glacial room, dropping ornaments and pine needles as it went.

“Pipaluk,” she called, dodging the flying evergreen.

“I’m trying.” His head popped through the floor again, this time tight with concentration as his fingers clumsily worked a game controller with a joystick. “I just—can’t seem to get—”

“Let me do it, Daddy,” called their eight-year-old son from within the tunnel.

“No, I can—”

“Give it to him,” Emma called, ducking the tree.

The problematic projectile pine immediately settled down when the boy took the controls. He piloted it effortlessly into a safe position next to the fireplace and the hole in the floor, bringing it in for a gentle landing with no jarring impact. Then he handed the controls back to his father and clambered out of the secret tunnel.

“What’s wrong with Lily?” he asked, running toward the unconscious snow witch on the sofa as fast as his heavy snow boots would let him. “Lily?”

“She’s resting,” Emma intervened, patting her son’s short, messy blue hair, so similar to the locks Pipaluk used to have. “Why don’t you fix the decorations with your sister?”

Pipaluk’s neon green wig disappeared for a moment, and then he lifted their five-year-old daughter up and out of the tunnel, also bundled into a snowsuit. Her bright pink eyes landed on Lily, and she hit the floor running, her first reaction to check on her favorite neighbor. The sight warmed Emma’s heart.

“She’s fine,” she reassured her daughter, catching the little girl before she reached Lily and steering her toward her brother and the innocuous-looking brown sack Pipaluk threw out of the hole. “Go make it pretty.”

Pipaluk climbed out of the tunnel, and behind him was Boris, a strip of white tape over his purple nose and bewilderment in his blue eyes. The children were pulling wreaths, figurines, ornaments, and other assorted Christmas decorations from the brown bag, and although the pile beside them was already larger than the bag, there was still more inside.

“Sorry about what happened earlier, Boris,” Emma apologized. “Lily can be very touchy about her magic.”

“I…noticed,” the warlock said, standing next to the hole in the floor and looking around the room. “Is she okay?”

“I have the cure!” Pipaluk burst out, literally jumping up and down in his excitement.

“Did you bring the food?” Emma asked, raising an eyebrow at her husband’s exuberance.

“Ah…oh, yes, here.” He reached into a pocket of his white lab coat and handed her a Fisher Price plastic banana. “But I did it! Last night, with that explosion, I—”

“Mommy, where should I put this?” a high-pitched child’s voice interrupted.

“Wherever you want,” Emma replied. “She’s fine, Boris. Just worn out from overdoing it with her magic. Are you sure, Pipaluk?”

“It was sitting on my lab bench this morning, and look! Look!” He shoved the glass vial in front of her face, pointing at the label. “It says ‘The Cure’!”

She frowned at him. “Pipaluk…”

“Well, we won’t know if we don’t try it!”

She grabbed his arm and yanked him back as he darted for Lily. “You cannot give her something you haven’t tested.”

“But—”

“Come with me. Boris, could you watch the children, please?”

“Honey—”

Emma half-dragged Pipaluk and his suspicious vial out of the room and down the hall to the kitchen. “If you didn’t put that label on that vial—and I know you didn’t—then who did?”

“I don’t know,” he whined. “But why would anybody make it up? What if it was that fairy who—”

“You and your fairy,” Emma sighed. She released Pipaluk’s arm and set the toy banana on the counter next to the soup. “Taste it.”

“But—”

She turned to face her suddenly deflated husband, placing her hands on her hips for emphasis. “If you’re too scared to try it, then you’re certainly not giving it to Lily.”

He removed his lab goggles from his face and pushed them up to the top of his head, his mouth twisting into a frown as he studied the vial with pink eyes so large they looked almost buggy behind his thick, round glasses. “Well, I guess I could try a drop…”

“Two drops.”

He sighed and nodded. “Two drops. Well, if this doesn’t work, I love you.”

“It will work,” she said, dropping her arms to her sides. “I believe in you. Now, I just add water, right?”

Lily's mother had covered the inside of the house in ice when she moved in—floor, walls, ceiling, even some furniture—and yet somehow, the pipes never froze. Pipaluk's work. Emma couldn’t claim to understand everything he did, but he knew his science, and the water flowed freely when she turned on the faucet. She filled a glass, turned off the water, climbed down from the stool, moved the stool toward the soup and plastic banana on the counter, and climbed up again.

“Oh.”

“Everything okay?” she asked, sticking her finger in the water and shaking a single drop onto the banana.

“Oh!”

She glanced over her shoulder at Pipaluk. He was trembling from head to toe, his pink eyes wider than ever.

“Pipaluk?”

A series of loud pops sounded as the banana bounced across the counter, dropping platters of food everywhere it touched and filling the kitchen with the aroma of turkey, ham, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, and more assorted holiday foods. Pipaluk, too, bounced in place, reaching higher heights with each jump.

“Pipaluk?”

“It works!” He landed and raced toward her, grabbing her shoulders and kissing her full on the lips. “It works and I have so much energy and I have to give this to her right now and you’re the best honey!”

She was still processing when he bolted out of the kitchen, teasing the rushed syllables apart to form individual words. The potion was supposed to help Lily recover her energy after overdoing it with her magic, so it stood to reason it could give Pipaluk more energy, too.

Oh, dear. If he gave her the full vial—

“Pipaluk!” she cried, racing after him.

Greens and reds decorated the icy blue living room at heights she hadn’t expected, but she couldn’t take the time to appreciate Boris helping her children when Pipaluk was upending the vial over Lily’s mouth. She launched herself at him and tackled him to the floor—too late. The empty vial hit the floor and shattered, and she and Pipaluk landed with a resounding thud.

“No!” Pipaluk wailed. “I only had one!”

“You gave it all to her!” Emma shrieked.

“But it could regenerate if—”

Then, to her disbelief, the shards of glass zipped together again, knitting themselves back into a vial filled with a clear liquid.

“Yippee!” Pipaluk leaped to his feet, dragging Emma up with him, and danced around the room at a speed that made her head spin. The kids were laughing. Boris looked more confused than ever, from what Emma could see of his blurred face. And then—

“What’s going on here?”

Pipaluk stopped suddenly. It took a moment for Emma to focus her vision now that she wasn’t in constant motion, but Lily was sitting up, her brow furrowed as her sleepy blue eyes took in the room. They slid across Pipaluk and Emma, frozen in a dip with Emma bent nearly backwards, to Boris, holding the tiny five-year-old girl with curly brown hair up to the mantle, to the little boy with blue hair hanging decorations on the battered Christmas tree. The line between Lily’s black eyebrows deepened.

“Isn’t it…July?” she asked, mumbling her words.

“Merry Christmas!” Emma proclaimed.

Her son leaped to his feet and ran across the room, jumping into Lily’s lap and throwing his arms around her, and her daughter squirmed so violently in Boris’ hands that he had to set her down before she fell. She raced to Lily, too, burying the confused snow witch in exuberant children and ebullient hugs.

“Pipaluk, let me up,” Emma reminded him.

“Oh. Sorry.” He straightened and pulled her up with him, and she pulled free from him, fixing her scarf.

“You need a pick-me-up,” Emma explained to Lily. “And since you gave us a wonderful winter setting, we’re giving you Christmas.”

Lily looked no less befuddled. “Then why is he here?” she asked, nodding in Boris’ direction. “And what happened to his nose?”

“Uh, you did,” he said, collecting himself and giving her an apologetic smile. “After I broke through your snow globe. Sorry about that.”

She stared at him, her expression tight with concentration until the little girl poked her cheek. “He’s Santa Claus!”

Her blue eyes shifted down to the two smiling faces in her arms, brown eyes like Emma’s and pink eyes like Pipaluk’s, and her face instantly relaxed into a smile. “Then where’s his beard? And his big, round belly?”

“He shaved and went on a diet,” the little boy said in all seriousness.

Emma smiled and shook her head. “Did you two bring your presents?”

The two children scrambled off Lily’s lap and tumbled into the tunnel amidst a flurry of giggles. Lily pushed the blanket back and turned to put her feet on the floor. “Did you…?” she asked, looking at Pipaluk.

He puffed his little chest out with pride. “I did it,” he announced. “It took a few hours and tweaking some calculations, and I had to—”

“Before you go into the details, could you give Boris something for his nose?” Emma interrupted.

Pipaluk’s chest deflated. “Oh, yes, sorry. Be right back!”

“And don’t take too long! The food’s getting cold!” she called after him as he disappeared into the tunnel. “Now, Lily, this is Boris. He’s an author.”

“I know,” Lily said, pointing at a book on the coffee table. “He wrote that. I don’t know what Crystal told you, but—”

“Let’s get the food dished up,” Emma intervened. “We have soup, turkey, green bean casserole…”

She successfully prevented Lily from turning down Boris’ job offer before he could even make it and led the two much taller people to the kitchen, where the plastic banana had covered every surface of the counter in more food than was reasonable for six people to eat, especially since four of them were extremely small, before it helpfully dropped itself into the trash can. Lily took dishes from the cabinets and passed them to Boris, who passed them to Emma, who stood on a kitchen chair and dished food onto each plate. When they reconvened in the living room, her children had finished piling hastily wrapped presents under the disheveled tree, and Pipaluk had brought the medicine he invented years ago for fixing broken bones.

Emma ate in silence, content to watch and listen to everybody else enjoying themselves. She and Pipaluk had created Plan C, also known as “Christmas in a Bag,” a few years ago. The calendar Lily unwrapped gave that secret away, but Emma would explain nothing else. It wasn’t magic, no matter how much Lily insisted it looked that way. It was all complex math, obscure science, and a healthy dose of luck.

The working Christmas tree lights added a soft yellow glow to the blues and whites of the icy room, splashed with red and green in a chaotic mess of decorations only two young children could create. Lily removed a glove and twirled a finger through the air, creating a soft dusting of constant snowfall, and Boris’ nose healed, although he grew a thick beard as a temporary side effect of the medicine.

So, just like any other Christmas, Emma thought happily. Smiles, chaos, and snow. Perfect.

Date of creation: 12/06/2024

Word count: 4,961

Author’s note: The prompt was to write a Christmassy science fiction story featuring a sassy heroine in less than 5,000 words.​​​​​​​