Prose

Detective Maverick Probert looked down at the body in front of him. It was lying in the dark, dew drenched grass and stared past him with sunken spheres of shimmering, milky froth. Above them was a tangled mass of shiny, slick, black wires. Below the sunken spheres were a large, misshapen mound with two cavernous openings and a wide, wailing ravine with jagged, ivory shards. A thick, black, glistening ooze had seemingly escaped from both. The body’s skin was a sleek, bleached, faintly translucent sheet that revealed swollen, inky veins. Its limbs were broken and bent into bewildering, abstract shapes. The body gave off an overwhelming, musty yet biting smell. Detective Maverick was stunned by the sight. Time passed, but he stood there transfixed. He couldn’t will himself to move nor to make a sound. Then, finally, he muttered: "Damn, I make for an ugly corpse."

Red, yellow, white, yellow... I counted the colours of the countless flowers that covered her identity.

All these flowers were flowers I had collected as a child. From the tiniest daisies, to dandelions and the biggest sunflowers and lilies. Those that I had collected with my twin sister to put over our mother’s grave.

These flowers were all distant and hidden memories that she bought back into my life at the age of 27.

I do not know her age, though. She utters things but information stays the quietest. I thought that our second Valentines together would be the turning point; but nothing changed. I called her ‘Maggie’, and she responded. Meanwhile I over-shared the details of my childhood, she never seemed to reciprocate.

Her confession too, was a shy point. I saw her daily in my flower shop. The array of beautiful flowers doubled with each day. I soon figured were the flowers I laid my hands on during the previous day. She never came to buy anything, but either came in or watched outside the glass, twirling a piece of paper in her fingers. The flowers on her head blocked me from seeing where her eyes looked towards.

One day, she came up to me, tapping my shoulder. She pointed at the fresh roses in stock, lending me a letter. It was plain and not yet glued, motioning with her hands she hurried me to open its contents. Inside was a note:

“I’m sorry for staring so long. Can I have one of those, maybe your heart too?”

It was handwritten, the crooked letters formed strings of beautiful lettering. On the same level as the beauty of her skin, the darker toned skin colour held the same softness as silk.

At that moment a million things raced my head, but there wasn’t much time to think it over.

As I said yes, I felt that, in the same time, I had just started the best time of my life, but also sank into an isolation of despair.

Today marked the third Valentines together. As we sat at home (she refused going to a restaurant this year) I took glances at the number of flowers on her head, taking breaks to take a bite at my dish. Ever since I switched to working from home to be able to spend time with her (she showed herself to be more needy than I could sustain with the florist profession), I found the number of flowers decline. At that point she began speaking in a natural manner. Seeming not to get censored by flowers over her head. But anything she spoke was a plea to buy a house plant.

We already had a steady amount, fuchsias, orchids, chrysanthemums... The list could go on. But the size of the apartment carried a burden, since everything was already crammed. So, I tried my best to ignore her plea, no matter how bad I’d feel.

As I watched her, some features came to stand out: there were first traces of hair I saw. It covered her head down to the start of her neck, it bore a black colour. The front of her face remained coloured with an array of flowers.

She noticed me staring and looked right back at me. I froze.

“I’m sorry, you looked very beautiful.”

She carried no response except for standing up to carry the plates back into the kitchen.

Our fourth Valentines, in one word, was a “mess”.

Our day consisted of being at home. In the course of the year, she declined in flowers, I could see her forehead now. Her talking has become quicker and breathier. She sounded panicked even if trying to be calm. She stopped pleading after a fight last September, where she got kicked out for a week. Only to find she had been laying at my doorstep, a pile of wilted flowers around her. I still could not see her eyes and even if I tried hard enough, she would look away or move.

That evening, I tried to force information out of her, again. As we sat on the couch, the television blaring a romantic comedy of her choice, I looked at her. The movie didn’t suit my taste anyway.

“Maggie.”

She turned towards me but looked back as she saw me leaning close.

“Maggie, how old are you?”

She shed no time to answer:

“I am twenty-five years old.”

The answer stuck to me eerily. She didn’t even bother to look up from the screen as it flashed across the flowers on her head. Over the years the flowers became less enthusiastic than they were when she used to visit the flower shop. It made me sad, but at the same time, curiosity led me to see her face once the flowers wilt. She could wear a beautiful face but hide it with piles of insecurity morphed into yellow dandelions.

“Maggie, where were you born?”

“In the garden.”

Once again, no bother to look back at me.

“What do you mean?”

“Stop asking questions, please.”

But I pushed further.

“I told you about myself, would it hurt to do the same?”

“No, stop.”

With that, she stood up and went to our bedroom. As I followed, she shut the door in my face. Hearing a click on the other side, I stopped any efforts.

On the fifth Valentines, I sat in the hospital. Even the sunny day felt cold and unforgiving inside the room. My darling laid on the thin mattress, covered with a thick blanket I bought from home. The night before I found her on the bathroom floor. The tiles around her covered in dried petals and fresh red blood. Despite no visible wounds, her body covered in bruising as blood gushed from her mouth in a thin stream.

Luckily, the two of us lived close to the emergency department, so as soon I saw her, I bolted out of the door with her in my arms.

As I ran down the street in broad daylight, people coupled around me at certain parts of the way. I felt judged. I didn’t cause the bruising over her beautiful skin; but I felt like every single stranger on the street thought so. I felt like I had to yell “I didn’t hurt her!”, but they still wouldn’t listen.

I began running as I felt the movements of her ribs hitch under my hand. Blood was still running down her lip and absorbing into my grey shirt.

Soon enough, I ran through the emergency room doors. Leaving bloody marks on them as I pushed through. I kept her in my arms as I begged the nurse at the reception to get the team right away. They came and today did J only get the diagnosis: overdose of blood thinners.

She is yet to wake up, but the doctors have predicted a quick recovery. For now, I’ll spend the Valentine, with my sickly, pale Valentine.

The sixth Valentine, our last.

I woke up to a familiar smell. Eerily familiar smell. I frightened to open my eyes as the metallic smell felt surreal, but it must be something up with the apartment, no?

No matter how hard I tried to open my eyes, fear clamped at my heart. I felt Maggi laying in front of me, at peace. Although far away. Dismissing the obvious wrong feeling, I moved towards her, my eyes still closed.

This relief ended, quick. I felt the mattress and pillow turn cold. Not the usual, silly cold they would hold on cold winter nights. The mattress and pillows were sticky, the metallic smell multiplied, and I could feel my skin dampen. I wasted no time to open my eyes.

There she lay, her face completely uncovered for the first time. Blood pooled around her and the last of the wilted flowers were in a pile beside the bed. Upon a detailed look, I noticed the lack of movement in her chest.

I felt calm, scarily so. Laying by a deceased body is something I’ve never done. But it left me feeling numb in the moment.

I picked up my phone off the bedside cabinet. Lifting it up, only to find a note underneath. As I typed in the emergency line number, I opened the piece of paper with a single hand.

“Thank you. I’m sorry. My name is Daylily.”

It was late in the evening. Every home in the town had a black sinister darkness lurking inside of it. On the streets were only the bravest ones or maybe only the utmost foolish. It is a myth; once last light dies out on the sun dial and day slowly fades. Dark kingdom shall arise and that is where shadows rule with their cold breath. Its servants will visit the sanctuary and any living soul that was left on the street will tremble from fear, not letting out a single breath in the wake of the Servant.

Dark phantom slowly stepped over small gravel covered pathway. Every step it took seemed slow, heavy, burdened by the world itself. Old gray rags hung over his entire body, making his face but a black void. With each step, in the dead silence of the night wind carried the sounds of chains slowly crawling over the gravel path, leaving two distinct lines.

Slowly the phantom came to where his destiny calls him. Old building was stretching above him high into the emptyness of pure black starless sky. Three large black marble stairs led to a giant dark wooden doors. From the dark void of his hood; cold, hard and slow breathing could be heard. He knew. He knew that again, that duty is upon him. There was another traveler he needed to pray for. In that cold, truly dark night, sound of chains rang again. Every step louder then the last, slowly the phantom made his way up the three stairs. In front of him were giant doors decorated by artworks depicting celebrations, dragons and fairies dancing in the sky, immortals and high elves sharing drinks and exchanging knowledge, numerous women and their men celebrating their newborn children. "Life is full of irony." Thought the phantom as large wooden doors creeked open. Doors engraved with celebration of life served as a gateway into death. Heavy scent of wax filled the air in front of the Sanctuary.

Slowly the phantom vanished in the dark of the building. Inside of the building there were black marble pillars on both left and right side. Pillars lead straight into the center of the room, where a platform resided with an altar on top of it. Phantom slowly reached for his rags that covered his head. Thin, long boney fingers pulled the hood off of its head. Revealing old wrinkly face of a woman. Grayish red hair was falling over her shoulders. Her eyes green as jade looked towards the heart of the Sanctuary. She headed over to it. There was a book there laying surrounded by wax candles that slowly but surely encased the book in its entirety. As it is now, it seemed as if you would never be able to turn even a single page of the book. However, it was as if wax was never even there, womans experienced eyes looked at it. Yet another set of empty pages adorned the book just waiting to be filled. Woman breathes in heavily in sorrow; and looks around. Everywhere her gaze fell, the walls, the archways and high wall statues of unknown gods and heroes, were covered in candles, they were everywhere, thousands upon thousands of them. Decorated stone floor was entirely covered with candles. Wax was slowly flowing down from the church walls like a collection of stalactites. There were millions upon millions of candles and each and every one represented a living, undying soul. If anyone saw this, they would stand on her place in admiration of the view, but she knew better.

She looked at every single candle, wether it was small or big it didn't matter, with a saddened look. In front of her eyes flashed images of a child dying at arms of enemies after being sent to war. She saw wars, all the people, their thoughts, their unfulfilled wishes, their mourning families. She lived trough every single moment of pain a prisoner went trough during his tortures. It is said, you can not judge a man without walking trough life in his shoes. So for her to judge them she had to live as they lived, drink as they drank, and die as they died. The old lady closed her eyes. Sore from the experience. She opened a new page in the book. Took a quill and started filling in the empty chapters. She was sad. This book was so thin in the beginning. She used to be so happy. During the times immortals were still in this worl such a book did not exist, however as immortals started dissappearing from this world one day it appeared in front of her and gave her purpose. She was there so nothing gets truly forgotten. As the years passed, thicker and thicker the book became. She stopped counting the pages long time ago. And here we are again. Yet another lifetime of pages needed to be filled in. She silently started writing, living trough the man's life, she wrote it down, sentence by sentence. Slowly as the last sentence came to its end; small flame appeared above the book. It was blue. "Ahh, you were a good man I see." primeval and old voice whispered. It was the womans voice. Old hands cupped the flame underneath, guarding it like a drop of water on her palm. Slowly she walked to the old gray candle near the doorway. "Here you will be. Closest to the rest of the world so you can hear the whispers of the wind carrying the messages left by your family." The flame jumped from old womans hand onto the gray candle. Old jade eyes watched the blue flame burning peacefully. Woman started a chant to protect the flame and dedicate it. In the end she said: "May this light shine in front of your soul as your guide so you can find your place in the afterlife."

Silent tear slid down the woman's face as she put the rags back over her head. Moment before her face was covered in darkness final moments of this mans life flashed in her eyes.

Slowly, the phantom walked out into the cold night. Leaving candle lit tale behind him. The cold winds started whispering. Even the world felt the grief left behind; the unforgotten memories.

It was a dark night indeed.

It was a harmless joke, at first. I’ve been geeky all my life, so my family wasn’t even surprised when I requested them to inscribe ̋GAME OVER. CONTINUE?˝ on my tombstone with a little slot for coins. I thought I’d leave a little trace of my humorous personality on the mortal world. My days were purely spent on watching over my masterpiece and looking for any potential troublemakers who would appreciate it. Nobody found it amusing except a group of rowdy teenagers one Halloween night, 10 years after I had settled in the after-life. They obviously had a few drinks and were eager to mess with the deceased so I’ve taken upon myself to entertain them for a short while. A strange whisper in the wind that sends shivers down your spine never hurt anybody. You could sense the gloomy atmosphere around them but they just kept going in one direction, to the very end of the cemetery where my grave was situated. I figured I finally had some visitors so I stepped aside to see what would happen next. After all, they seemed to be determined to find what they were looking for. They stopped in front of my grave and I shivered. They put one strangely looking penny in. Nothing happened at first, but after a few moments I felt a sudden pull and an increase in my weight. I opened my eyes, which I didn’t even know I’d closed, to find myself back in my grave. My mind was racing. I didn’t understand what just happened. My first instinct was to kick, so I did. I kicked my leg up and surprisingly the wood snapped. I dug my way up the dirt almost too easily. When I reached the surface, the first thing I heard was screaming and rushing of footsteps. All the children ran away except for a dark-haired girl with a skull on her shirt. We made eye contact and she laughed. ˝Gaia is waiting.˝, she said with the scariest smirk I have ever seen. ̋Who?˝, I mumbled, still dumbfounded, but she left the question hanging in the air while pointing to the distance.

My world is sometimes painted with one colour. Sometimes it is black and sometimes white. I have already become familiar with such a living environment. I thought it was quite normal until I discovered a picture. Initially, it seemed appropriate to my life because it was monochrome, but something or someone in it stirred up a wave of thoughts. The creative skilful brush of Italian Baroque painting, named Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, painted a portrait based on Greek mythology. With my first look, in my mind, there was the thirst for colour. However I looked at the picture, it looked somewhat monotonous, dark. Maybe it is not like that, but I have ruined my vision with a sepia filter. The portrait is really weird. Who is that young man at all? Why did it get stuck in my mind?

Once upon a time in a distant country, a beautiful young man named Narcissus lived. He was so beautiful that every girl would fall in love with him as soon as she saw him. One nymph was following Narcissus because she was enchanted by his beauty, but Narcissus cruelly refused her. He removed her eyes full of love and covered himself with insensitivity and selfishness. The inconsolable girl prayed to the gods to punish him for his roughness, and the prayer was granted by the goddess Nemezid. She shared happiness and misfortune to the people, in accordance with their credits. She gave Narcissus a misfortune that being him results in falling in love with his own reflection on the water. It was the culmination of the evolution of Narcissus’ egoism. He passed away broken-hearted and went to Hades, where he was constantly followed by his reflection on the waters of the Stiks River.

Since then, our problems have also begun that have been named after Narcissus. That limit of selfishness is following all about us in our family and life communities, no matter how aware we are of it. The selfishness is in the disapproval of the environment and the different people who enter our lives on a daily basis. We close ourselves in illusions about personal perfection and completeness.

Everyone’s selfishness, of course, begins and ends with “me”. “Ego”, which in Latin means “me”, is the cause of our every disapproval. Unfortunately, we get it at a young age and that is how we transfer it. As long as we have it, we are enough for ourselves. Only when we lose the ego we find the peace and fullness of coexistence. As long as our selfishness leads us, we will never find real peace. True peace is found only in the unselfish self-giving that we should promote every day of our being. We would be happy with ourselves, and others would be more satisfied with us. So a small price of peace and satisfaction - forget your ego.

Why do we consider ourselves the best? We raise ourselves on a pedestal, ourselves, our personality and everything we do. The world is a huge colour palette, and our life is a canvas that we paint from birth to death. Every man on earth is a colour on a rich painting palette. No matter how different we are, different shades, we are all a community. Miles can separate us, but we are all on the same planet, the same palette. If we think that we live alone crowning ourselves for the kings of our ideals, we live self-sufficiently, and such a life will soon scatter like a drop of early morning dew. Then we will be able to understand how poor we were because we only revered ourselves. Why can we not accept other people in their living communities?

Croat, Serb, Bosnian - what kind of virtue or flaw does this give a person? Aren’t we all invited first and foremost as people, then as members of a nation, to meet other people? We have this happiness, the blessing to live in multiethnic communities where we have the opportunity to meet the culture and traditions of all Slavic peoples, but we do not appreciate it ... We rather proudly present the flag, than being an example of the culture of our people. We are not even aware of what the historical story of the nation draws on each of its members. Do I look into my reflection on the water?

A half-moon or a cross on a necklace around the neck? Can we downplay a person just for that? Every religion in its basic moral principles is a sign of love. I am convinced that both Jesus and Muhammed did not seek to expose religious intolerance among religions and religious communities. Love is not expressed by spitting on another's beliefs, on other ideals. If we are stomping and spitting over others, does not mean we raise our own religion because we are a disgraceful member of the congregation, not her pride. Remember! Love your own, respect others!

Do I look into my reflection on the water?

Spanish, English, French, Serbian, Croatian ... So many harmonic notes complement the spoken expression of people from all parts of the Earth. How many languages you know, so much is your worth. The old folk treasure also carries us this proverb, but we often decide to make our own inner urge to deny everything foreign and to evaluate ours only. I believe that all the languages in the world, thousands of them, are a great fortune and that they also contribute to the beauty of the canvas of our short human life. The more we know them, the more we accept and meet other people. Do I look into my reflection on the water?

Fat or thin, tall or short, black or white? Is it important? In the 21st century, the disapproval based on the bodily characteristics of a person makes us utterly uncivilized. Our level of emancipation in relation to the ancient racial, sexual or any other divisions is miserable. So, does my body have to talk about my whole life? I would never agree with that. How the perishable body we all see equal to the value of the spiritual value that we can only perceive by interaction with the environment. Guided by physical characteristics, we have to accept and support every person we meet in everyday life, but by the quality of spirit, we can choose people ourselves. Often we will be surprised by the kind of peculiar spirit exists in the outer weird body… Do I look into my reflection on the water?

Do you Narcissus? How many times have you caught yourself in these words staring into the water and rejecting the wealth and love that other people carry within themselves? You just refuse them because they are different, not like you, you do not have the same ideals. Leave your character on the water, let his selfishness be taken by the waves and currents, and you take a brush and paint the canvas of your life until it's too late ... Accept any difference that is brought to you on a new day. Let them be your shades which you will paint your lifetime of the largest spectrum(?).

Create a peak using a colour palette. Combine yellow and red, your spirit should be a warm combination of colours to enrich others who live alongside you. Breathe in love into communion and fulfil your life goal, be a person, be a Christian, and that means being happy so everyone who breathes and grows beside you will be equally valuable and happy regardless of the differences that merge us, not dissociate us.

Do not just live, breathe and grow with others without reflecting your face on the water!

If we are not our brother's keeper, at least let us not be his executioner.

- Marlon Brando

On Cain, we are all brothers and sisters. I, like all Cainars, came into existence through the Making, and was born of my people and of the earth. I am a maketh now, and I will finally be able to participate in the Making. I am very excited and very scared too. The Elders say that the first time is the hardest, because you are overwhelmed by the infinite force of nature, pulling you down into a bottomless abyss. But with help from others, one always pulls through. The Web is not as when you make a connection with your partner, which is pure pleasure, and the easiest thing there is. There is no physical pleasure in the Making, in entering the Web, only that of fulfilment of the soul and of knowing you have helped give life. There is much to learn before a Cainar reaches the age of maketh and can take part in the Making. The body and mind must be trained hard for the arduous task, to the point where you have absolute control of your muscles and of every fibre of your tentacles. That way, the connection with Cain is strong, and the Web is strong. Yes, no matter how infinite the nature is, the Web is always stronger, and it always endures. If you stumble, it will pick you up, if you’re drowning, it fishes you out, and if you’re lost, it shows you the path. The Making is not without a price. Nature gives, but it takes also, its abyss’s heavy hand, unbiased, reaching for one proud soul and tearing it away from the Web. A life is taken so that new ones can be created. But, we are willing to take the risk, we are willing to pay this price. I am ready to pay it too.

I am afraid, but Eshwa, my partner, is now a maketh too, and we shall enter the Web together, which gives me joy, and courage also.

I can’t remember when the war started. It might’ve been a couple of millennia ago, maybe even more. I am very old now and my memories escape me. I still remember the Old Days, though, when things were different. We had no wars then, and no hate, because if you raised a

hand against a fellow Cainar, you raised a hand against a brother, and one never did that. Sometimes, I still think that I could’ve done more, tried harder, but that’s just sentiment getting to me. I know I tried my best, I know I did, but that still doesn’t always keep away the blame. He just wouldn’t listen, not even to me. He couldn’t bear that when Eshwa put down her life for the Making, no life was given back. The abyss took her, but Cain granted nothing in return – and so Atravel, blinded by rage and sadness, reciprocated. Fear grew, and with it the strength of the Web lessened with every Making. Eshwa’s case was only the start. Many followed. Cain started taking more and more, and providing less and less, reversing the formula, and before long, the Nayers, following in Atravel’s footsteps, were as many as the Willing. The brotherhood was broken and the bond lost.

I am weary of all the fighting, but that doesn’t matter very much now. We are, I think, reaching the end of our journey. There’s very few of us left, and even if we united once more, I doubt the Web would be strong enough to prevail over Cain. I fear our bodies might not even remember how to do it. We have not been one with each other, or with Cain, for far too long.

But, I am not yet hopeless. I believe, as I always have, in the law of reversibility. If something goes one way, it can go back too. Perhaps we too could go back and wake the forgotten bond once again.

I don’t know what the future will bring, but we shall see. We shall see.

‘Hey, Atravel!’

‘What is it?’

‘Do you think there could ever be war on Cain?’

‘Oh, come on, Adelfas, don’t be ridiculous! What kind of question is that!? Where’s all this even coming from!? You’re scaring me! You know that we’re not like other races.’

‘I know, yes, but it’s just, I sometimes wonder, you know, hearing all those stories from elsewhere. It worries me, I guess.’

‘Well, don’t. I told you already, we ain’t like them. They’re not one people, one family. We are all connected, all born from the same, sensing each other, living for each other. It’s just different. They can’t understand that.’

‘I know, but still, we’re not that different from them. They love as we do. Who says we cannot hate as they do?’

Atravel laughed loudly, and then took hold of Adelfas’ hand. His face was shining like one of the many moons of Cain, soothing and free. He suddenly jumped to his feet and pulled Adelfas up, his smile still stretched across his face.

‘Come on, brother, let’s not waste time talking of hate when we have love to spend,’ he said contentedly, and started walking home, with his eyes fixed on Cain’s setting sun. Adelfas smiled too, and followed after him.

Cal ran through the empty alley. He might've lost ‘em but he wasn’t sure, his own steps confusing him. He rested, panting, behind an old dumpster. The Commissioner's face smiled to him from a huge neon sign, as if cheering for him. "Those Militia bastards are actually getting better," he thought. Cal knew he only had 2 minutes before the curfew started. "Come on, left-right, left-right, what did all those hours of running away from problems do for you?" He logged into his home address with practiced movement and climbed the usual 5 flights of stairs, realizing he really needed to get in shape if he wanted to keep on running from the bots. Cal took off his coat as he walked into the damp apartment which still smelled of the previous owners' cats. He approached the battered fridge with an old man's walk, pulling out the last bottle of bourbon he had stashed earlier. 2-day-old mail he completely forgot about was on the table, including the usual Empire propaganda, ‘If your parents are reminiscing about the old and mentioning gold, tell the Commissioner, he wants to know!’ "I am the old”, Cal pushed through his teeth. He made a couple of lanky steps and put his coat onto the hanger taking a bite from the cold shawarma from yesterday evening. Cal’s apartment consisted of three rooms, a bathroom, a living room, which also served as the bedroom, and an old kitchen, which was basically a lone refrigerator. The building was built in the olden days, under Obama, and it was one of the few left untouched by the Empire. They probably thought a building full of old men would not pose a threat to the system, and Cal agreed with them. He slipped the landlady ten bucks and became the only non-grey-haired tenant.

Things weren’t always as bad as this. The few memories he had from his childhood were happy ones. Cal was born 30 December 1999. His mom wanted him to be born in the new millennium, thinking that way they would leave behind all the bad things from the past. Pop didn’t care, he was a pragmatic man. Cal studied sociology at NYU and it was around his senior year when the left and the right party united, creating the Big Coalition. He always thought something like that would happen because they were the best at putting aside their differences when it came to profit. “When it comes to money, everyone is of the same religion.” The quote popped into Cal’s head like déjà-vu. He couldn’t remember who said it, but it was probably some French guy. Everything revolved around memory since the Commissioner proclaimed the American Empire. Or to put it better, about erasing and demolishing the collective memory of the old world. And god damn it, it worked pretty well. Hell, he couldn’t even remember his mom’s face and he was only 35. Since all food was produced by the Empire they controlled both the supply and the consumption. All Empire issued stamps could be exchanged for food if there was any at the moment, and it all had the same metallic lead aftertaste. Lead in your food, accompanied by a strict brainwashing propaganda, will do wonders to your brain, turn it into mush. That’s why Cal turned to smuggling. It was probably the most dangerous job out there, but hell, Cal knew it was either that or revealing his existence to the Empire and being sent to one of the food processing factories..

Cal knew goods were abundant because the same Mexicans that traded with the Empire traded with him when some of the goods fell off the back of a truck. But smuggling became much harder since the third generation of bots was released. “They cannot be artificial, they just look too realistic,” Cal had thought when he had blazed one of them with an old Smith & Wesson laser gun, and instead of seeing a splash of blood, felt the strong metallic smell of burnt cables and wrecked microchips. All this reminded Cal of an old movie his parents had loved, made even before he was born, The Dominator, or something like that, about this android robot guy chasing some girl through old America. “Well Pop, you always said that stuff was some mumbo-jumbo crap, but look at me now,” Cal thought, suddenly realizing he emptied almost half of the bottle.

Getting drunk was not an option because you never knew when you could expect a visit from the fuzz. Cal knew that in a couple of years the Empire will have achieved its goal. The new kids were bred to know only of the Commissioner and his heroic overthrow of the corporations, and the old world was presented as a nightmare they had successfully escaped from. Soon the old will die, or they will simply forget how the world used to be and the memory will perish. That would be the point of no return. Cal tried to preserve the memory of the old world for as long as he could, trying to get ahold of as much stuff as possible which would serve as relicts of a time long gone. He stood up and went to the coat hanger to take this book Doc gave him out of his coat pocket. “You have to read this, it’s amazing, and I think it’s the only copy that’s left out there. This guy had to be a prophet or something!” he remembered Doc telling him. “1984, gosh who would name a book after a year, is it an almanac or what,” Cal thought chucking the book aside. The Empire gave their best shot at destroying all books, movies and music that could stand witness to how life was before, and they did a pretty good job. Virtually no old movies or books existed. Some of the music was preserved, because the Empire hadn’t counted on people keeping their gramophones and old records. Cal had his pop’s old gramophone, it was the only thing he held dear in his life. He had a couple of records which he listened to frantically: Shostakovich, Chopin, Pearl Jam, Khachaturian, Soundgarden. He wasn’t in the mood for something heavy so, moving carefully as if defusing a bomb, he put on Shostakovich. Waltz No. 2 started playing and he turned it down a bit so as not to draw any unwanted attention. He sank into the moth-eaten chair and let himself slide into his bourbon-infused thoughts.

A sudden flash of memory came to him: going to church with his mom. He remembered only her voice, reprimanding him, “Calvin, be nice and listen to the preacher.” He always found the sermons boring and never grew up into a religious person. Today, religion was a strong ally of the Empire. People were indoctrinated by it, taught that God was almighty, and that the Commissioner was his chosen representative on Earth. The youth firmly believed it, and most of the adults pretended to buy into it because they knew it was the safest way. In 2024 abortion became punishable by death, but it was only to give the Empire the chance to control the birthrate in order to get ahold of the kids at an early age, enroll them into their kindergartens and educate them into docile followers. When the commissioner was asked how the third-generation robots fit into the whole religious only-God-can-create-life picture, the answer was simple: “God realized we work too much, so he provided our scientists with the knowledge to create a disposable workforce.” Workforce my ass. Nevertheless, that was the last time anyone questioned the Commissioner. Rumor has it that he used to be an overly ambitious office clerk, an errand boy in the last president’s office who slowly built his way up through the ranks of the Oval Office and eventually ended up pulling the strings to the president’s downfall and his own installment as the Emperor. The term Commissioner was a derogatory one, still used by some though. Cal was slowly falling asleep and he blurrily started to dream one of the two dreams he always dreamt. The first one ended with his death, the second with him losing his mind. “There is no escape,” Cal murmured dropping the bourbon bottle out of his hand and finally falling asleep.

August 29, 5924, apparently

I don’t really remember going to sleep last night after drinking more than usual, and so I wasn’t overly troubled when I came to in a strange bed in an oppressively green-grey room I didn’t recognize. I wasn’t yet quite awake enough to notice all the details that might have tipped me off to something being really wrong that I definitely notice now. Like how there doesn’t seem to be any noise except for birdsong, like how the air is unnaturally fresh for a room with no windows, like how there seemed to be a hologram next to my bed with what I assume was my medical chart if the body scans were any indication. No, way too far from sober, it took me until the vaguely disfigured satyr-like statue I had assumed to be someone’s nephew’s attempt at art started talking to me to realize I might be out of my depth. No amount of pinching and slapping myself woke me from the terrifying reality of a half-man half-goat garbling away at me in what I thought might sound like Portuguese. He caught on to the fact that I don’t understand him at all swiftly enough and had me fitted with a processor that WENT INTO MY BRAIN and which now translates any and all languages instantaneously. Having a satyr sort of yell at me wasn’t any less terrifying now I finally understood him, even if he was sympathetic to my hangover and made me take a pill which apparently “cured me of blood poisoning and liver degeneration” – standard fare for anyone overindulging in alcohol, as he tells me, which happens less frequently now that humanity *(humanimality? – ask for politically correct terms)* has better drugs. The gist of our conversation was that I had been “saved”. Taken, in what he assures me was a totally non-invasive time-travel process which was for my own good, from my unremarkable early 21st century life where I was apparently doomed to be unimportant and taken to the present (5924!!!!!!) where I am destined to make a difference. Finding out when I am made me slightly hysterical, but the where really did me in. Earth Beta – a new, terraformed planet Earthlings fled to after draining their OUR own world.

This diary was imposed on me because everyone is very into mental health now, and apparently everyone needs some sort of outlet. As to who is regulating this and why, my “immersion seminar” starts tomorrow, and I’ll learn about this new world in order to adapt and fit in. I’ll try to write more if I don’t just snap and vent my emotions by screaming. They’d probably say that it’s no problem and give me some medicine for my raw throat.

September 5, 5924

I knew I would suck at keeping a diary, I knew I would snap and scream and I knew no one would be bothered. I was helped and comforted and reassured when it happened. The level of understanding and compassion here is unnatural. Speaking of unnatural. This hyper-democracy thing they have going on can’t be normal. No formal government, no formal anything except what everyone votes on and what the people choose to do. Want a hospital, university, daycare center, anything? Find people who also want to do it and start your own. You need some qualifications, as voted on by the society, and that’s that. If no one wanted to create and run a hospital, these people would die whenever something happened. And all of this across the whole planet – no governments, no nations, countries, borders, anything – just one enormous society all living together in peace where and how they want. There is no crime here – people just don’t want to commit it. All of their resources come from these machines that can alter the molecular structure of anything you put into it, and so everyone has enough of whatever they need or want. It just doesn’t make sense. How is no one taking advantage of all this? Can it be that everyone has enough freedom that they don’t even want anything anymore? There must be some sort of catch.

October 19, 5924

There is a term my instructor has deliberately been avoiding and has only today mentioned, very carefully at that. Utopia. This is what this world is. This is how everyone is so compassionate and understanding – they are happy, they are content and they are fools. If there’s one thing I learned in my philosophy and literature classes, it’s that utopias do not and cannot exist. Even if it seems like one on the surface, if you dig deep enough you will find corruption and problems. Like this for example: the ore used as fuel in the “(re)production machines” comes from mines on the planet. But who are the miners? How can it be that no one has realized they can’t be there of their own free will, slaving away every day in the cold, dark underground. It’s starting to look like I have work to do here, as soon as they let me out to assimilate.

January 24, 5925

I’ve found out the original Earth is being remodelled and will be inhabitable again in 3-5 years. The (re)production and terraforming machines *(look up - is it irony to use terraforming machines on Terra?)* are hard at work and using up enormous amounts of fuel. I’m desperately trying to find a way to release the slaves.

June 21, 5926

As it turns out, the people in the mines were there of their own free will. They were not slaves. My therapist thinks acknowledging this in writing will make me realize that there is nothing wrong in this society. Well, aside from the shortage of fuel used for making almost everything, but that’s expected to clear up as soon as they open up some new mines in the next few months. I’ve started to wonder about the central computer system and who maintains it and why everyone trusts the voting results. The mines were a bust, I admit, but this has to be the real deal.

March 19ish, 5928

It’s proven difficult to access the computer mainframe with my tech knowledge which is almost 4000 years behind and was lacking even then. I’ve made friends with some people who listened to my theories and didn’t seem to think I was nuts. I don’t think they feel as strongly about all this as I do, but they are an agreeable lot and have decided to help me with my plan. The mines are not open yet, but I’m sure someone will get to it soon.

October 12, 5928

As it turns out, the computer was not rigged or fiddled with. No one was influencing the results. Incapacitating it was not the best choice, as the people seem to be lost and struggling now. Maybe they are getting jumpy about how they’ll possibly run out of fuel in the next few years. Nobody seems to appreciate the added freedom they have. It’s probably due to the lack of leadership – they are all running around like headless chicken. It looks like they need help and guidance. I’ll have to think carefully about how to stop them panicking. Perhaps I should give them back their computers, after they have been... enhanced to suit my needs.

January, 5930

Earth is ready for us right on schedule. It has been restored to its former glory before humanity (and later humanimality) laid waste to it in the ways we did. Of course, I’ve had to remind everyone Earth wouldn’t fit everyone living on Earth Beta, so only a part of society is going. Here’s the rub: the mines on Earth Beta never reopened – the planet is slowly running out of fuel. The people finally woke up and decided there are things they want, mainly getting off that planet. Deciding who I would let come to Earth was an arduous process, and having to stop and reintroduce notions such as murder, crime and court has slowed us down. Still, we leave in a month. Hopefully our knowledge of how Earth was ruined once will help keep us from doing it again. Without fuel for our machines we’ll have to do everything the old-fashioned way. Still, it seems vastly preferable to the state of things on EB right now. Crime is high, people are getting desperate, and there is fear in the air.

I’m amazed every day how lucky it was that I arrived when I did – talk about making a difference. Who knows if they’d have even remembered not to overwhelm Earth just because they ruined another planet? Still, once we get to Earth, we can focus on making it a paradise. No rules or regulations except respecting nature. A perfect, utopian society has been a long time coming and maybe here I’ll finally be able to make it happen. Good luck to me.

A few years back, while virtually unconsciously scrolling through endless posts on Instagram, as one does, a photo captured my attention; it was posted by one of the profiles I follow purely due to their vintage aesthetics. It was a still of two young people, apparently from a film, exchanging heartfelt thoughts. At the time I'd already seen a couple of stills or short clips of these two characters, always sharing their views on love, life and happiness. This time, the lady remarked:''Isn't everything we do in life a way to be loved a little more?'' I was immediately drawn in, though I still don't know why. The caption said 'Before Sunrise', so I googled it. What? Ethan Hawke? I'd only ever seen him play a negligent father in 'Boyhood', where he was so incredibly sleazy. In my ignorant mind he was a C-list celebrity; today, many films with him later, he's one of my favourite actors. I also read the short synopsis of the film; two strangers strolling through Vienna. Alright... Julie Delpy, the lady in the film, never heard of her. Written and directed by Richard Linklater. Who? Admittedly, at the time, I'd seen a couple of Scorsese and Kubrick films and thought I was such a cinephile! Nowadays, hundreds of films later, I'm completely aware I don't know shit about them. At any rate, not a single thing about the film intrigued apart from all the lovely quotes I'd been coming across; I do admit, I'm such a sucker for gorgeous quotes. Still, why not give it a chance?

Boy oh boy! Was I in for a treat! The 1995 film 'Before Sunrise', the first part of 'The Before Trilogy', was different from all the films I've ever seen up until that point. Essentially, we follow two perfect strangers wandering around the streets of Vienna; and that's pretty much it. On paper, this idea doesn't seem all that exciting. In all fairness, it's a quite simple plot for which we may even desire to be more thrilling by having some sort of a twist. Luckily, there is none. At the very start, we are introduced to Jesse, an American adventurist, and Celine, a French student, both equally careless, hopeless romantics. They get off the train together and decide to spend the entire day and night going around Vienna. At sunrise, they'll both board their trains and go their separate ways, hence the name. They instantly hit it off and we are now lured into their story. Following them around the gorgeous historical city, we get to enjoy their, sometimes trivial, but always gripping and captivating conversation. I loved it; the simple beauty of getting to know someone. Celine said that ''if there's any kind of magic in this world it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something. I know, it's almost impossible to succeed but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt.'' This was the first time I'd seen the dialogue being the protagonist, rather than just a necessity to explain the plot. Instead of the dialogue adjusting to the plot concept, the director Linklater and the screenwriter Krizan, with the help of his protagonists Hawke and Delpy, developed a film in which the plot yielded to the dialogue. After reading more on Linklater, I came to realize that he employed this specific way of storytelling in many of his films, perhaps the most famous ones being 'Dazed and Confused' and 'Boyhood', both of which I love. The opportunity to see 'Dazed and Confused' on the big screen was genuinely such an experience. I found myself listening to its soundtrack months after I'd seen it. How can someone not appreciate McConaughey's brilliant delivery of these fabulous lines :''Alright, alright alright.'' and ''It'd be a lot cooler if you did.'' The film is still very dear to my heart; you feel like you're right in the middle of the 70s. 'Boyhood', on the other hand, is an innovative idea on its own mainly due to the duration of filming. It's an outstanding, critically acclaimed masterpiece. And yet, I've still heard many people describe both 'Boyhood' and 'Dazed and Confused' as boring. Now would be a good time to mention I thoroughly enjoy longer, slow-paced dramas without plot twists, extremely exciting developments or action; though they are still absolutely brutal. Think 'The Age of Innocence' or 'Manchester by the Sea'. Indeed, if your favourite cinematic piece is 'The Fast and the Furious 6', I cannot guarantee you'll enjoy watching any of Linklater's films. Without sounding like a know-it-all, I truly do believe that such films take some getting used to; I probably wouldn't have been able to sit through 'The Age of Innocence' five years ago. Essentially, what I'm trying to say is that, if you pay absolute attention to 'Before Sunrise' without your phone distracting you, the very complex simplicity of it will blow you away. It may even depress you after you hear Celine say:''I guess when you’re young, you just believe there’ll be many people with whom you’ll connect with. Later in life, you realize it only happens a few times.'' The screenwriting is the film's greatest forte. On the other hand, the soundtrack isn't all that memorable, but the music booth scene, featuring Kath Bloom's 'Come Here', will leave you cheering for the couple, wanting them to stay together forever. It's certainly one of the best scenes in the film. That minute and fifteen seconds left me smiling like an idiot; there was no talking, barely any eye contact, and still, it was incredibly touching. Delpy and Hawke do such an amazing job that you forget they're acting. To me it seemed that Jesse and Celine are talking about whatever crossed their minds, since at times it seems completely unscripted. However, both the director and the protagonists emphasise how practically every second of the film is meticulously planned. It makes you appreciate Linklater's craft and Delpy's and Hawke's acting even more.

There are two more sequels, 'Before Sunset and 'Before Midnight'. All three films focus on the couple's genuine connection. I read somewhere that :''The first film is about what could be, the second one is what should have been. The last one is about what it is.'' What a phenomenal description. I found all three films equally intriguing and beautiful, each in their own way. Without spoiling much, do notice Linklater's infatuation with time. In 'Dazed and Confused' we're following teenagers on their last day of school. In 'Boyhood' we're getting gradual ageing, twelve years of the same characters growing older. In 'The Before Trilogy' the transition between films and different stages in life is very apparent and obvious; we see Celine and Jesse in their twenties, thirties and forties, with each film being nine years apart. Perhaps that is what made me fall in love with these films, seeing a couple's relationship develop over time, and seeing everything; the good, the bad and the ugly.

The sky seemed more and more blue each day. Flowers bloomed in their beds uninterrupted. It was the last spring our hometown would have for years, and the birds sang as if they knew it.

Rain would fall warm that summer. There is not much anyone can do to keep the birds quiet, we would have gotten sick of them, I know; at some point, the flowers would have had to bloom, too. But that was the year we lost Sebastian, so while I don't remember much of that warm rain and the summer was wasted on me, I do remember the spring. He is framed in my mind by the days we had last to remember him by, that he probably hated. We've all forgiven him for disliking spring by now, I'm sure, so he will have to forgive me as well for that image. I hope it wasn't as bad as all that. It had made him miserable many times, obviously, any child would hate being forced to stay inside instead of being in the sun with their friends, but I'd love to think he wasn't just pretending for our sake, the way he made up for it all that last year.

The general agreement is that no matter how many times you count your blessings, the sum will still add up all wrong. After the first time (that was the one with the horse), it felt like we had come out on top: he got up and kept going just fine as if nothing had happened, no matter how many times we asked. See, we remember the spring, but we had forgotten why we remember it so well. We lost him, but we had that one last little miracle, those few weeks in between that we didn't imagine would ever run out, we had the pride and awe we felt for our little brave leader. It's unfair that I had to write this down to remind us all it happened, but now that I said it you must all be able to remember how often we heard adults say that he got careless or greedy just because he walked it off. Hearing it made me so angry, even before his death, but we were the careless ones, almost learning the lesson about taking nothing for granted only to learn nothing at all.

Well, I, for one, must have thought he was invincible. It seemed very simple: we had no time for any of that, not to deal with what had almost happened nor any kind of a recovery process, and in my mind back then he avoided it for those same reasons, like it was a conscious choice. Spring was in full bloom, the last one we would notice or care about for years, and we filled our lungs with it as if we could somehow tell.

It's important that you don't start crying just yet. Look here, see how long this speech is? If I start crying too, we'll keep at it for a while, and I promise you our schedule’s all filled up as is. ...Now, where was I?

It's a strange thing, the way memory messes with us no matter how hard we try to sort it all out. Surely it's just the way we look at our last months with him that set them apart from all the years before, right? But I don't remember ever seeing him that determined to be outside with us. I don't think we had ever run as much, any of us, as we did under that sky. Try to remember. Doesn't it feel like we were... see, I was going to say unstoppable, even though I already crossed it out. It didn't last us very long, did it? He didn't walk it off the second time.

You'll understand. I still owe you an explanation, too.

One of the great injustices in life isn't loss alone, but the way we are made to coexist with it, the way we are forced to heal. People couldn't live without the mind's ability to adapt, but neither do we get to choose what we must forget on our own terms. I say I remember our Seb surrounded by branches in full bloom, but it's just the branches I remember, not his face. I asked his parents, back when they were alive, whether they had any of his photos in colour. They did, one that they paid to have colourised a few years later, when they could stand to look at it again, but it didn't show the colour of his eyes as well as I'd hoped.

So I asked them. It turned out they didn't remember either.

I'm sure you remember, Margot. But reminiscing is not why I invited all of you to gather here. In all our years since, I'm sure we've all had many other people taken away from us. Look around you: not everyone from that time is here tonight. The difference is we've seen each other at their funerals. The difference is, once losing our dear ones became the norm, we made sure to remember them. But we’ve never done this for Sebastian before, we haven’t met at his grave like this since his funeral, and I hadn't thought about him in a long time, even though it was his death that made us grow up so suddenly. I wonder if anyone in the world still has the luxury of thinking the loss of a childhood comes gradually, because I can’t imagine that’s how it ever works out. It happens in an afternoon: your mother polishes your best shoes and you leave your house mindful of where you step, giggling with your friends about jokes that would have made him laugh until the ceremony begins, and by the time you're home again, you will never again be able to stop thinking about who is next.

We didn't forget any of that, we couldn’t if we tried, but because of what it's done to us, we've forgotten about him. All these years I haven't stopped thinking about him, as the friend I once knew, the child that died too soon for us to have our fill of the sound of his laughter, but it was always myself that I was focusing on. How the course of my life changed, rather than how his ended. I haven't been a very good friend, none of us have. It's the fiftieth anniversary of his death and knowing that is the only reason most of us can remember the date he died at all.

All the other graves in my life were dug later. Everyone else we can deal with later, but for most of my life I haven't truly thought about him, and that is why I decided to start with this. See, it’s not exactly a traditional memorial gathering that I had planned for tonight. I don’t care who among you can tell me what tearful details they think they remember-- he can tell you himself. Give him a moment and you’ll be able to see the colour of his eyes just right. What’s that look for? I’m sure his recollection is much more recent than ours. …Oh, look at him, he’s tiny. Can you believe we used to be this small?

Good evening, Sebastian.