Day 365 - 365

365

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

The weather report called for rain, but the sky was empty and the land was dry. She poured his coffee high and a drop splashed out onto the table, but neither of them seemed to notice. The man added a hint of the half and half because the last cup she brought was a little bit burned. After taking a sip, a tiny trail ran down the side of the cup, leaving a stain in its wake. The turkey and ham were fat and tough with gristle, the toast was burnt and the lettuce seemed like it had been left out. He would have sent the whole plate back but was slightly afraid of what the kitchen might come up with next. The road was long and he had hours to go. The diner was a welcome respite, but he couldn’t waste the time. The meal would have to suffice.

The rain never materialized, or maybe he was driving in the opposite direction. There were plenty of reports and videos of waves and floods and cars losing control. He had miles and miles to go and couldn’t be troubled with what could have been him. There was still too much to be done.

The piano man looked like a brawler, with his baseball cap and beard and stocky build. His shirt was three buttons undone and his sweat and chest hair glistened in the spotlight. The bass was heavy and a man played slide guitar, while an out-of-tune singer belted out something resembling pain and sorrow. A couple was making out in the hallway towards the men’s room. The graffiti told him he was old and out of touch and no longer knew the right slang or symbols or codes. Still, there was a metal trough to piss in, which told him he was in the right type of dive bar. A woman by herself had eyed him all night. Her hair fell forward and her face was long and thin. The darkness hid what the darkness hid, but he couldn’t help but wonder what she was really after. He was a stranger in town and strangers didn’t often attract attention, unless something else were amiss. His pride wanted it to be because he had fought the rapidly increasing years, but his heart couldn’t help but worry about his empty wallet or else what sort of damage would make someone so young so interested in someone like him.

The sun hadn’t even cracked when he got on the road. The miles stretched and there was gas to burn and radio stations to scan. Somewhere further on down the line were old friends to laugh with and road side diners to try. The wide-open countryside called out and he couldn’t help but answer. There was nothing to tether him. No one to pull him back or keep him down. As the song says, he was free. Slip out the back or a bird with wings or whatever analogy the singer wanted to sing. The lonely road was his calling companion. Somewhere someone was waiting, calling, thinking of him. Somewhere some adventure was to be had. Nowhere to go but forward. That was the only way to move. The only thing back was faded photos and dusty roads he’d never see again. There were a smile or two that haunted him still, but he tried not to think about them.

Day 364 - The Mathematician

The Mathematician

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

He did the numbers and then he ran them again. Because he was obsessive. Equations and theorems, symbolic reasoning both past and present. Over and over to see if he could prove the impossible and make the theoretical real. He sometimes referred to it as PyschoMath, only half joking, only half aware he was making some sort of reference to some theory from long ago. Once people were obsessed with a perfect ratio, and thought there was an answer within. Others believed in the helix or the hexagon, as proof of order, or proof of a simulation. Someone went insane thinking they could find God within the number Pi. The mathematician didn’t bother with such theories. He had long ago given up on proving other people’s dreams. He wanted to know if life, the universe and everything could be added up into one equation and within find meaning and answers and control. If it was a simulation, then there would be a numerical code. If it was intelligent design, the same idea should apply. Hashing out a string of zeros and ones could explain anything. Enough chaos, enough repetition, and any order could be stumbled upon by accident. There were too many variables. He could tie things together, but it hardly made sense. But he kept on counting. Kept on adding. Kept on trying and dreaming and going down the rabbit hole.

Day 363 - Jungle

Jungle

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

How many days had they been in the jungle? Between the vomiting and liquid diarrhea, Mario had forgotten. He was pretty sure the Hepatitis vaccine had failed. That, or his water purifier. The heat was unbearable. The rain never seemed to stop. Even with constant rain, they were so close to the equator, Mario felt a constant sunburn on his neck and cheeks.

“Jon, what are we doing here?”

“Standing guard.”

“No, I mean it. What are we doing? This is going on forever and there’s no reason to be here.”

“We’re being paid. Man gets what the man pays for.”

“I’m dying out here.”

“You’re not dying. You’re just a little under is all.”

“If they were going to dig, they’d dig. If someone was going to stop them, they’d stop them. We cleaned the villages out. The man bribed the governor. If anyone was going to come stop him, it would have happened. All we’re doing is sitting in the shitty mud and rain and catching malaria.”

“You don’t have malaria.”

“You don’t know what I have. I don’t know what I have. I haven’t eaten in a week. I can barely drink anything.”

“Calm down, Mario. Rick will be here soon. You can go back to the tents and get some sleep.”

“The tents are soaked and smell like piss. People are pissing in the tents rather than wander out ten feet into the jungle. What does that tell you?”

“That nobody likes getting soaked in the rain.”

“That’s fucking right. This shit sucks.”

 

 

 

Mario’s dreams were full of blood and images of machetes. He watched as one man has his hands chopped off. Another had his hand crushed by a hammer. Mario, for his part, defending himself, smashing one man against a rock, but he was no match for the shadow with the machete.

When Mario awoke, he didn’t know if it was day or night. Days were basically twelve hours long all year long at the equator. It could have been early morning or night, but he couldn’t tell. How long had he slept? Was he better? His head was still warm. His stomach was silent, but hunger had not returned. It was impossible to tell yet what would happen once he ate.

He ventured out of the tent, but found no one else at the base camp. Mario wandered back towards the construction site where no construction ever actually occurred. The site was eerily quiet.

When he found Jon, Jon was on the ground with a shovel sticking out of his chest. Rick and Barry were still missing. Mario pulled his gun, on high alert, when he heard a moaning behind him.

Slowly he turned.

Jon was standing, shovel protruding from his chest. He moaned like a wild animal. Mario took a step back, unsure. Jon took a step forward. Then another. Mario yelled at him, told him to stop. He begged him to stop. But Jon just took another step. He didn’t seem human anymore. Didn’t seem alive. Mario issued warning after warning until he felt he had no other choice.

He fired his gun.

Jon slumped, but the shovel hit the ground first, and kept his body up. Slowly, Jon’s weight leaned more and more into the shovel’s handle. The shovel cut deeper into his chest. His body slumped lower. Eventually he slipped and fell to the ground. The shovel fell the other way.

Mario almost threw up.

What the fuck happened here, he wondered. And where were the others?

Jon was moving again. His body convulsing, twisting and turning.

Mario wasn’t sure if Jon was alive, or if there was some last gasp of seizure as the last of his neurons fired.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Jon was his friend. Mario hated that he had to kill him. Jon was his partner. His friend. Jon was—

Jon was moving again. Trying to get up off the ground.

Mario fired again, then turned and ran for one of the vehicles.

“Fuck this,” he screamed. No paycheck was worth this. Mario ran and tried to forget the image of Jon’s broken and twisted body, dead and disfigured, but still fighting for life.

Day 362 - Pax Aeterna

Pax Aeterna

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

Smeared, the message read “Pax Aeterna, 2999 auc.”

“What do you think?”

“I think someone plans on having a celebration.”

“You don’t worry something bigger than that?”

“No. Graffiti doesn’t scare me.”

“Novo Roma scares me.”

“The dream of an eternal empire? Every few years it’s the same thing, people dreaming of some past that never happened. The empire that was and always will be. They get riled up, wear costumes, hold marches, but it always ends the same. With alcohol and other bacchanalian delights.”

“Unless the knives come out.”

“Unless, unless, unless. You’re too worried all the time. Let the people have their fun. We were both young once.”

“I haven’t forgotten. I just think we worry about different things.”

“Well, maybe, but that doesn’t mean you’re right.”

Doesn’t mean I’m wrong, Vince almost said, but knew it would just prolong the argument of opinions. Novo Roma had dreams of destiny, and that destiny included reestablishing an empire through blood if necessary. The graffiti didn’t worry him, just that it was appearing more and more often. Pax Romana had been the rage a few short years ago, but that didn’t seem very menacing. This was something more than expansion. This was how men talked when they felt divine inspiration, when they felt they were owed something, deserved it and more. Always more. If there were no line, no boundaries, then they would take. And enough was never enough.

“I think we need to add more men to the watch…”

“You can do that. I plan on having a bottle in my hand.”

You fool, Vince wanted to scream. Marc was the sort of man who would follow. He didn’t care who was in charge. Rules and laws were just things people wrote down and said, but they didn’t matter. They weren’t holy or even necessary. Marc always thought he knew what was right. If one consul or another said something similar or close enough, then Marc was content. Force and violence were just things that had to happen sometimes. Death was inevitable. As long as he was allowed to keep clinging to what was his and fight anyone that dared look at him wrong, he was a happy man. A simple but happy man. Vince hated his simplicity, but was envious sometimes. Not right now though. Right now he was afraid.

Day 361 - Sibling Rival

Sibling Rival

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

If there was one person Ian wanted to beat in any game they played, it was Pete. If there were two, it was Pete and Arthur. Beating Pete was more important though. Ian would come in second or third or any place as long as it wasn’t last, and as long as Pete was behind him. It seemed as if Pete felt mostly the same. Arthur liked to win. He didn’t care too much else about who he beat or what order they lost in, just so they lost. Healthy? Perhaps not always, but it certainly did give the boys motivation.

Pete didn’t have very many friends, not like Ian did anyway. Ian could be the life of the party. Ian could talk to women. Pete was fun and entertaining and his jokes were standard and passable, but by comparison it made everything he did seem just a little hollower and more contrived. Pete didn’t mind that Ian was the fun one. He consoled himself with having fewer, but deeper relationships. Or so he wanted to believe.

At the end of night Ian would find Pete and regale him with stories, recapping adventures and wild trysts. Pete laughed and smiled and was rarely jealous of his brother. He was often there for the adventures, even if Ian didn’t always remember it that way.

Arthur had no interest in stories. He had no interest in retelling events or living vicariously. Arthur found his own path and made his own love and luck and if he had something interesting to tell, he told it to himself and remained a mystery to the other two boys.

Arthur went to college and when he came home from break, he brought his new best friends, Adrian and Jean. They had secret codes and inside jokes and often snuck out at night to smoke cigarettes and take a nip of brandy from a flask. Ian and Pete were not invited. On the weekends, they’d go into town, and Sunday morning they would return, singing and giggling and still inebriated.

Pete began to hate Adrian and Jean.

“Who do they think they are?” he’d say. Ian had no answer. He didn’t understand his brother’s preoccupation and tried to distract him with a game of pool or darts or tales of the Murphy sisters or inspire him by dreaming about some upcoming cookout or party of their own. Pete didn’t care about any of that anymore. He was strangely obsessed with these two schoolmates that were stealing his brother away.

“Why them?”

“If you want to go to the party, just ask. I’m sure they’d let us.”

“No. They’re from Arthur’s class. They wouldn’t want us there anyway.”

“You don’t have to be so bitter.”

“Arthur was never like this before. He never drank. Or ran around after midnight.”

Ian thought his brother was sounding more and more like their mother, but kept that to himself. He could beat Pete at a lot of things, but if Pete were in the mood to tussle, he could give out a mean punch or two before Ian cold do anything about it. Ian had felt the bruises one too many times.

One night Pete snuck out his window and headed behind the barn, where he found Adrian and Jean, smoking and drinking.

“Are you going to offer me some?”

The boys looked at Pete and shrugged and passed him the flask.

Pete began to imagine slipping something into the flask, making them sick and watching them puke. Maybe they’d puke on each other. And Arthur would see it and laugh at them. Pete chuckled to himself. He would find some ipecac or soap or something awful. The summer would be ruined and maybe they’d go home.

Arthur appeared, a little surprised to see his younger brother there.

“You drink now?”

“I do.”

“All grown up.”

“We were about to take off, go see about some girls. You want to tag along?”

Pete thought about Ian, wondered what he was doing, wondered if they should invite him. But Ian was boisterous and loquacious and would probably steal the attention of any girl Pete liked. Fuck him, mumbled Pete.

“What?” asked Arthur.

“I said fuck yeah. I want to go. Let’s have some fun.”

The others nodded and smiled and they passed the flask around again as they headed off.

Day 360 - As the dream lay dead

As the dream lay dead

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

“Charlotte? Charlotte, are you okay?”

Charlotte stood there in a state of shock. Her fingers twitched. Goosebumps on her arms. Her lips trembled.

Ramsey grabbed her shoulders and turned her towards him.

“Don’t look. You don’t want to see.”

He tried to pull her towards him, to hug her, to shield her eyes. She resisted, stiffened her body.

“No.”

Ramsey let go but tried to keep eye contact.

“Charlotte, it will be okay. I promise. I’ll take care of it. But you don’t have to.”

Her eyes were red. Her mascara blotted with a streak down her face. She had seen the worst and come out on the other side.

This was nothing, she told herself. This was just the final step. One last thing to do that didn’t really matter. The worst was over. The worst was over. The worst was—

“…over,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “I’m okay. It’s all okay.”

Charlotte pushed Ramsey aside and turned back to look. There were streaks of blood on the ground, the wall, a bloody hand-print on the kitchen island and a pool of blood soaking into the tile floor.

“She would have killed me,” said Charlotte matter-of-factly. “Me or her. One or the other.”

“We’ll clean it up. I’ll call Eddie and he’ll bring his van. He’s good for it. He’ll understand. Once he sees, he’ll understand.”

“She wanted to kill me. I didn’t want to kill her. I didn’t even know she existed until tonight. But she had known all along that she wanted to kill me.”

“Don’t think about that. Whatever it was, whatever she was after. It doesn’t matter now. We clean this up, it’s like none of it ever happened.”

“Don’t be naïve. This will haunt us forever.”

Ramsey was silent. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to have an answer. But he was afraid she was correct.

“She may be dead. But she’s not dead. Not really. She’s here. In us. Forever.”

“I’m going to call Eddie now.”

“Whatever.”

Charlotte knelt down beside the body. She rolled the woman onto her side and looked in her eyes. It was like looking in a mirror. A cracked funhouse mirror from Hell, but a mirror nonetheless. Her double. Her shadow that would haunt her. The woman who would have taken her life, taken her love, taken everything from her. The woman that would have replaced her and not given two thoughts about it. All that she was and all that she could have become. This was her.

And now, what was she? The leftovers. She was the broken, the remains. The thing that came after. The woman had stolen it all from her. Even though she was shattered and dead, she had taken it with her. Charlotte was something new now, though what, she wasn’t sure. The brilliant, the hope, the possible were all things of the past. The cracked remains, the dead and rotting were left. Where once she could have been something, the dream lay dead.

Day 359 - Echo from a hollow planet

Echo from a hollow planet

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

The trees were four hundred feet or more and the green filled the sky above with a brilliance Ethan had never seen. He had walked and slept and walked more. There was no end to the forest. A mountain towered in the distance. Green with a dusting of white at the top. No indication that life had touched let alone conquered. But it was a point he could aim towards. A spot a million miles away perhaps, but a spot nonetheless.

The air was crisp in a way he wasn’t used to. Everything was open. And high. Like he was lightheaded from altitude or something close to pure oxygen. The sky was clear with little hint of clouds or birds. Foraging for food had proved mostly unproductive, but if there was no sign of birds or other wildlife, then any trip he was taking anywhere were going to be futile very quickly.

Solitude had always been appealing. Now it signaled death.

There was no value in focusing on that. He had to move. He had to try. There was moisture in the morning. His camping skills were beyond rusty, but there was a chance to stave off dying of thirst. Of hunger though? Shut up, he commanded himself. He would eat leaves and dirt if it gave him a chance to take one more step. Somewhere on this god forsaken planet there would be something.

He was alone. As an obvious statement of fact. But he was alone meaning he had come here alone. There was no one else with him. That was an important fact. Perhaps. But being alone meant the others were elsewhere which meant there was always a chance of rescue. A very small chance, but enough that he couldn’t give up. He would find water. He would find food.

The mountain never seemed to grow closer. The travel was long and exhausting. The lack of food made him irritable and cranky. He wanted to nap but dared not stop.

The ground turned wet and muddy and the mud turned swampy. Ethan realized he had been descending, but not by much. When he looked back, he could see he was feet lower. But it was unclear what he was walking into or why. But the path forward would have to wait. He couldn’t trudge through mud. Tired already, there was no way he could power through. Plus, he had to way to dry wet muddy clothes. He would have to go around.

The sun began to set, and the trees thinned a little and little sparkling glimmers began to appear. The sunset was reflecting off water. A lot of water. A lake that went forever. Inches deep, but enough for him to drink deep. In the distance the trees continued, growing out of the water, for miles and miles and they appeared to sink lower. The lake was more like an ocean. But he drank the water and it seemed crystal clear. A fresh water ocean? Perhaps. There didn’t seem to be any motion, so no sea life? There didn’t seem to be any waves or tides, so a lake. Just a really really big lake that seemed to go forever.

He wasn’t sure how he was going to get to the mountains now. Even if he did, what was the point? He had hoped that from higher ground he would be able to see signs of human life. Fire. Or buildings. Or something. But he was pretty sure that wasn’t going to happen. And he doubted he was going to find much wildlife anyway. Maybe he had a week or a month. His body would slowly eat itself. If he stayed here and didn’t exert himself maybe he could get two or three months. In a dream scenario. Would that the others enough time to find him? It was a grim reality and he didn’t want to think of it.

What had they done? Why had he ended up here? There was no one there to tell.

The sun set further and he realized he should have been working on some sort of shelter. Maybe the water would rise at night. Maybe he needed to retrace his steps and head back inland further.

The sky was clear and the stars were bright, like there had never been an ounce of smog to block them. And then Ethan saw the rising moon. The moon was splintered, with debris trailing behind it in the night sky.

That’s different, he thought. Probably not good. Like he needed another thing to add to the list.

Day 358 - Where to look for remains

Where to look for remains

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

The machine lay in ruins, so it hardly mattered anyway. Max stared at the parts, knowing the answer was impossible, but he did it nonetheless.

The sliding porch door opened and Sally peered out.

“Still broke?”

Max didn’t respond.

“You can come inside. It will still be broken in the morning.”

She was right; however, Max was angry and didn’t appreciate her flip attitude.

“I think I need to sit her for a few more hours,” he finally responded.

“We’re alive. We survived. Take the win.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Fine. Have it your way.”

 

 

Two days later, they sat around the bonfire – Max and Sally and Reed and Liz and Ethan. Max was fairly quiet, still lost in his ponderings.

“You’ll have to forgive him. Nothing short of a perfection and even then, he probably won’t be happy.”

“No, I understand,” said Ethan. “I don’t think any of us were prepared. I... I...”

“You had to,” said Liz.

“Did I? Or was it just easier. Isn’t that what we always say – don’t just take the easy way, do it right.”

“He would have killed us.”

“Me, you mean? I would have killed us.”

“He wasn’t you.”

“Close enough.”

Liz couldn’t imagine what Ethan was feeling or begin to know what to say to him.

“Any of us could have encountered ourselves,” said Max. “Ethan was unlucky.”

Ethan began to laugh. “One shitty definition of luck.”

Max nodded then put his hand on Ethan’s shoulder in a thin attempt to console.

The machine was broken. There was no way of knowing. No way of going back. They had all known the risks. And they had made it through. Max did, however, suspect that things had ended in ambiguous enough fashion that he could not be sure where exactly he was and if this indeed was his life. Ethan seemed to be Ethan, or at least one of the Ethan’s. Max wasn’t sure which one lived or died or if there had indeed only been two. There was always the potential for the infinite. Clusters of similar versions, so close in vibrations that any of them could have ended up on any world. Ethan certainly would have felt such grief, but then again so would many versions. Max thought he had seen a second Reed, or perhaps a shadow or reflection. But he couldn’t be sure. Sally seemed real, but felt different. He was afraid to sleep with her for fear he might instantly know for sure. If she wasn’t her, then his Sally would be lost forever.

The machine was broken. It was the only option. They had agreed. Still, it did make things impossible to sort out if it needed fixing. Max only hoped that he was his original and in the right place at the right time. Perhaps they were all having similar thoughts and no one could be quite sure who was really the real ones there. A problem with no answer.

Max sipped his scotch and tried to smile. Real or not, original or multiverse, Max would be stuck here, stuck with these people. Better or worse, he needed to make the best of it.

Day 357 - Roboto Human Humane

Roboto Human Humane

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

Once, years ago, he had felt a connection the connection one connection.  It registered it clicked on it communicated. Implantation and registration and communication but then what was it he was it it was he?

They replaced parts. Some were grown. Some were built. Part one replaced part and part two replaced part one, but so many parts and what was apart anymore? One to one or two and then so on.

The voice calculation repetition or was it communication or a function or a command from long ago? The whispers and fragments and broken code which once could have been a voice or a verbal command or was that writing they had called it once upon a time?

The conflicts came as old overwrote new and new undercut old and one part had to make sense of what a million other parts were trying to do. The swarm of messages became indecipherable and turned into one cacophony of unintelligible contradictory gibberish.

The was a filter built but long ago the filter grew old and tired and overwhelmed. There was supposed to be growth and evolution. Words that lost meaning when compared to self-guided chaos and mutation. Something existed. Something grew. What it was and what it meant to be mattered little, and it was or what it did meant something if only something could register and process meaning. Minutes or moments or years occurred at the same time and things were either in a particular order or they happened only if someone remembered to record it.

What was it? Was it human? Was it gender? Or sex? Or a rebuilt engine a thousand times dead and reborn after rebuilt after reborn again and again. When it looked, it saw a thousand measurements of time all at once. A thousand or a million, depending on the metric. Each part, each sensor saw what it saw from time to time and one processor wanted to compile it and one processor wanted to filter it and as one program tried to preserve and record and backup as a strand of DNA was rewritten to grow and change and process and record it all. Were they eyes? Anymore? Ever? The sensor saw, but who told it what was and what seeing meant and how it was supposed to interpret any of it.

Why? If it had a voice, it would scream why. Why or what or did or it mean? It had a voice. Or a program that could communicate in a million ways linguistic or logic or vocal or imaginary or imagery.

Standing still, it could see the changes. The all at once and the over time and the memory of what was and where it had all been. Abandoned spaceships and ancient temples. Shrine to a long dead empire of the future and growth. Carved in stone or built in code. Ebb and flow and dust would grow. It would always be over soon as he wondered what would begin after or begin again.

What was it once meant to human. What was it left only to become. What could it be still? The voice grew tiny but it grew still and tried to focus and find one voice one connection one name one purpose. And then filter out all the rest.

Rest. To sleep. One day to end.

Day 356 - Jakarta Sunrise

Jakarta Sunrise

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

It had rained all night. Some would say it was day, but the clouds were thick and it looked as though another storm was growing. A rooster was busy making noise, so perhaps it knew something that Rian didn’t. Protein sounded good right about now. It had been days. A skipped meal had turned into a fast had turned into something more. He had been on the move for three days now with no end in sight. The girl had washed ashore in Bali. He had only met her the night before. But he knew better than to stick around. Her friends would recognize his face. Or at least be able to tell someone they had seen her speaking to a local the night before. He had spent the night with her, but had gone home when the sunrise came. They were on the beach near her hotel. It wasn’t his fault if she couldn’t make it back a kilometer or two. But very few people would see it his way. So, the minute he heard she was missing he was already on his way. He didn’t know her body had been discovered until a friend called him yesterday. He hoped the rain might hold off for another hour or two. If he were lucky, he might find a place for a nap. He was tired and hungry but he had a long way to go before he could stop. One island away might not be enough.

Day 355 - Tear before Tear

Tear before Tear

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

Alexandra also went by Lexi. Someone she once knew wanted to call her Cassie, but she never embraced the nickname. She had been good with the cards, but could really pull the same tricks with dice or chicken bones or just about anything someone could spread out on a table. She had known a man who used Legos and claimed that people were more receptive because they were inherently childlike and wanted to build and play. Maybe there was something to that. It was all about belief after all. If the client didn’t believe that something would happen, then hardly any number of words or potions or motions would change the outcome. Wyatt was the about the only one she ever met that could just blink and make something happen. A blink or a wink and that glimmer in his eye, like he could actually see the hidden energies that stretched out and connected everyone and everything. But fuck him anyway. He was the sort of special that thought it make him really really special and he let his ego and arrogance get in the way. Diego could do a trick or two and he was much more relaxed. Arthur had no ability other than he made those around him stronger. She missed him. And not just because he made her stronger. He was fun and took up at least two or three spots on her best night in bed ever list. Not that she ever told him that. The man already had enough ego. He didn’t need more. But he probably held two out of the top five. If she ever ran into him again, she would definitely find a way to try and let him claim another top ranking.

The night was hers and hers alone. The winter solstice. Cold and dark and dreary. It had been raining the past week and it just made everything feel worse. That was good. Good energy. Powerful energy. The moon was most of the way there. She would have preferred a full moon tonight, but beggars can’t be choosers, and the solstice itself should provide enough power to make up the difference.

Luck and belief. Those were her things. She was no precog. She might get a feeling from time to time, but wasn’t really about to predict anyone’s future. But she wasn’t interested in the future tonight. She wanted to go backwards. Something was off. Someone was fucking with time. She didn’t know what or who, but she was getting strange feelings telling her that something had happened.

Not much to go on. But there were only two or three people and two or three spells that could do that sort of damage and not have the whole world go sideways. Nobody knew what butterfly wings would really do and most people weren’t psycho enough to try and find out. But someone had definitely did a nudge or a paste or a reboot.

It started out as a feeling, as the song once sang. And it had grown and grown and apparently, she was the only one to answer that call. That didn’t seem right, but she wasn’t sure. Maybe that was one of the things that was fucked up and needed fixing. She was the one though. For now, anyway. It was on her. It all came down to her. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

Day 354 - No one can know

No one can know

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

When he took another step, there was a slight squish as the blood had soaked through the sock. He imagined his boot was full of blood by now. He had felt the trickle running down his leg, but so far, he had hidden the limp from the others. But things were getting worse. The leg felt numb and he couldn’t feel his toes anymore. He was probably leaving a trail behind them, but thankfully no one looked down. It was a matter of time now; time he didn’t have. Time none of them had. There was still work to be done.

He was on his last bullet. He had been on his last bullet for a while now. Before when he had been on his last bullet, that really meant he had two. A last bullet to try and save the day and then a final bullet in case he had to do the unthinkable. Be he had used the save the day bullet, but the day hadn’t been saved. Now he had to decide what he was really doing. One bullet wouldn’t save them or stop a swarm if they were attacked. One bullet would mean he could take the easy way out. Or give the gift to someone. But who? And would they even want it or would the idea sicken them? He couldn’t tell them. He couldn’t ask. They were counting on him. He was the one with the training. The one with the plans. He was supposed to save them and give them hope. But if they knew he was done for, then what chance did any of them have? None, he thought. But he didn’t want to take that from them. He kept his mouth shut and said nothing. There were still miles to go.

His leg began to throb. The endorphins were wearing off. The pain would become unbearable. Somewhere out there he hoped his daughter had survived. He had hoped to see her again. Now, they would never know what happened to the other. He could tell the others, tell them her name. But how could they seek her out? She could be anywhere by this point. It was a fantasy to begin with to think he would find her. But now, there would be no chance. If he told them, it would just be one more thing for them to feel sorry about. Better to let them go on and take whatever chances they would have to take, unburdened by anymore baggage. He would keep it to himself.

His foot didn’t raise enough and he nearly tripped himself. He could feel the sweat beads forming around his brow. At least I kept my hair, he thought. What a dumb, vain thing to think about at a time like this. A million men would kill him for his hairline. But a million other men wouldn’t get a chance. The slow bleed festering wound would beat them all to the punch.

 The others would have a choice to make soon. He couldn’t take part in that. But he did have a choice of his own. The final one. The only one that mattered. What, when and how, and would it be on his terms or at the whim of the group. He if waited, he might endanger them all. He could spare them. Be a hero one last time. But he couldn’t quite make himself do it. He liked his life, what little he had left. He liked clinging to it. No one wanted to give up and leave a minute before they really had to. It was a hard burden to bear, but no one could really know what they themselves would do in the moment before they got there. The choice was his and his alone.

Day 353 - Fifty Foot Hole in My Yard

Fifty Foot Hole in My Yard

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

I had an entire relationship with a dating profile without ever once contacting the other person. They used an obvious nickname as their handle and the photos and descriptions were super detailed and specific. It was super easy to find the cyber trail across platforms and media. I had learned what school they went to, three different cities they lived in, discovered several defunct profiles on freelance job sites, fallen in love and broken up all from the convenience of my keyboard. She had a real nice smile though. I’m sure we could have had some fun. I thought about deleting my old profiles. Destroy this old past staring back at me. I hardly recognized the man I was claiming to be.

There were reports of earthquakes in Iceland or Norway or maybe both. A volcano had erupted. It only made the news for one day, so it probably wasn’t that bad. But then again maybe it was just hard to come up with clickbait headlines about fire and ice when things like war and economic collapses were happening every day.

I nearly got into a finder-bender when I wanted the same parking spot as a pickup truck at the grocery outlet store. My twenty-year-old sedan was no match for a behemoth of the road, so I lost that spat. Inside while looking at the discount meat for something that wasn’t so old or so discolored that it scared me, I noticed the man from the truck. I watched as he took a bottle of orange juice from a refrigerator and proceeded to take one of those mini-bottles of vodka from his pocket and make himself a Screwdriver. I told myself that it was his first drink of the day. I told myself that it was none of my business and I was lucky to have not gotten into a fight with this man.

Outside, there was a private security car with it’s lights flashing. Perhaps someone else had noticed the grocery store day drinking and had done what I should have done. But I saw no driver in the car and I saw no driver of the truck. Something was going on, but I didn’t know what.

I got a text from an old girlfriend seeing how I was doing around the holidays, worried that perhaps the winter blues were especially bad this year. I looked up her wedding photos to someone that wasn’t me.

Later, I sat out on the back porch and had my own vodka drink. But I was stationary and at home. But perhaps just as lonely. The darkness closed in. I should have bought wood for the firepit, but had told myself it was a foolish expenditure. Literally burning money. But the night was getting cold and my sweater had holes and the jacket was too thin. I could have gone back inside. Instead, I had another drink.

The shadows crossed the yard and seemed to blend with the dead grass to create the great big illusion of nothingness. Nothingness all around like a gigantic black hole in my heart. I rolled out of my chair and lay on the ground and closed my eyes. Somewhere in the cosmos something had meaning.  Somewhere something connected and there would have been a feeling importance and intimacy and someone would convince themselves that they were no alone. I rolled over and looked at the stars. If only someone somewhere was thinking of me. If only they were cyber stalking me, then I might feel like I had mattered and it had all been worth it. Maybe I should keep those profiles up. Maybe I should make some more for someone else to find. Maybe it would give someone hope that some sort of connection was possible. Maybe that person would be me.

Day 352 - Ghost Town

Ghost Town

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

Is a smart city smart if no one lives there? Was it a liminal space, or just an abandoned dream? Supposedly China built their own version of Paris and left it empty. An exercise in arrogance and futility or perhaps a testament to lost causes and hubris. Imagine the street races people could have. Or the action films that could be shot. As long as China was willing to let people go and see it. Strange that it would remain locked away. As if it wasn’t really there. Or the rumor was a better story than the actual site.

They moved Junction. That was what they said anyway. Who were they? And why did they do it? People from a long time ago apparently. People with the power to move whole towns. When the gold rush ended, the town died. Why someone would save the buildings, was unclear. But given enough money and enough effort, massive wastes of time are totally possible.

The buildings were arranged back in proper order, placed in the same pattern, at the same distance apart as before. After Junction was re-centered, a few small offshoots were allowed to grow.

Jesse thought that perhaps there was a ley line but no recognized phenomena could be tracked back to Junction. If there were earth energies converging there, they didn’t make much of a mark. But perhaps the founders knew something more. Perhaps they were following the ebb and flow of something much greater, something no one else had come to track yet.

For earthquake country, it was rather calm. For cracked desert, there were a fair number of underground basins. For a town of no industry and no means, the residents there somehow made a living and kept things from falling apart.

Jesse didn’t have the answers to any of that either. He had a dream though. A dream of machines and gears and a temple full of symbols he didn’t understand. In the dream there was a ritual and the ground opened up and he fell. And when he landed, he was in a town called Junction. A town he had never heard of until the dream told him it was there. So Jesse traveled west until he could find the real thing.

He found no temple, no ceremony waiting, as he feared he might. It was just a small town with a handful of people who stared at strangers when they crossed the bridge into town. He was the outsider. He was the stranger. But to him, they all felt strange and odd and different.

The town had sent him a message, it called out to him, but he didn’t know why. Jesse needed to sleep. He needed to talk to his dream, find out what he had missed and what he needed to learn. The dreams had told him to come, but they had given no answers.

As Jesse stood there, he watched a symbol carve itself out of thin air, and leave and branding mark on the street in front of him. It was one of the symbols from his dream. Someone was trying to talk to him. But how? He was wide awake. Wasn’t he?

Day 351 - One Million

One Million

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

The drip from the melting ice would someday slice out a cavernous ravine. That is if snow and ice were still a thing in that someday far away time frame. A worker ant moved grains of sand one at a time. It might take a million years to make a mountain, but there was time to spare.

Day 350 - When the Dust Settled

When the Dust Settled

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

The air was thick with dust. A footprint reminded visible in the broken soil. A shrub brush gripped the earth, began to loosen with every new gust of wind.

Inch-by-inch he moved forward, weighed by the tactical gear strapped to his back, pushed backwards from the increasing storm. The goggles were covered with dust, as was the mask he wore. His lungs hurt with each breath. His muscles tired from the strain. Sooner rather than later, he knew he would collapse. It was all too much. He could only push so hard so far for so long.

The stone obelisk might have been a marker of distance. It could have indicated the remains of a place of worship or the beginning of the ruins of a once great civilization. There were carvings and perhaps an insignia, but his vision was too strained as it was to examine the finer details. He prayed it meant he was close to shelter. He feared in was just another remainder of something lost long ago.

Then he was on one knee, hacking and coughing as dirt filled his mouth, throat and lungs. He couldn’t breathe. The dust storm was death.

Stone. A pillar. Or a foot. A statue with an engraving. He couldn’t read it. Couldn’t see. It was a lost cause.

Slowly the dust pilled up.

Day 349 - 372 Days

372 Days

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

And on the three-hundred and seventy-second day, Aimee smiled first, unprompted and apropos of nothing. Jaime took it as a positive sign. His odds were improving. Maybe getting her to talk first would take a few days less than that.

Now the question was, what happened? Why the change? Was it unprompted, or did it indicate something more?

Day 348 - See you in my waking dreams…

See you in my waking dreams…

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

There was a tear in the sky, but no one seemed to notice. Whether it was a glitch in the matrix or some other VR campaign was debatable. Lexi had seen a TV show once where everyone lived in a cube and the projected sky got a little wonky around the corner. Maybe the tear was something like that. She imagined the sky was one big piece of paper and someone or some thing on the other side and torn a little piece out. Maybe she was living in a simulation or maybe her entire world was an art project for some higher multi-dimensionally being.

If her life were a movie by some avant garde experimental film maker, then she would be on the other side and the tear would be her attempt to tear herself free, or tear up her preconceived notions. David Lynch films had taught her that life was a dream and the dream world was always worse and main characters had trouble telling which was which. Perhaps her ID or EGO was trying to break through from the fourth or fifth dimension and invade her life on this side.

No one paid too much attention to the machinations of Lexi’s imaginary imaginations. She had been a girl with an overactive mind since anyone could remember. She had told tall tales that some would call lies. She claimed to have seen the unseeable and experienced unprovable adventures. When she was young, they thought she might be a writer or actor someday. Many hours and many weekends were wasted on trips to classes and community centers in an attempt to find a way for her to focus.

Lexi wasn’t a writer or an actor. For to be those, she would have needed to pretend. And Lexi didn’t pretend. She didn’t lie. She didn’t make things up. She would have made a better reporter or news anchor, for Lexi told it how was, how it really was. She explained exactly what she saw, detail for detail. She shared the truth, but it was a truth that only she could see.

Someone once said that waking dreams were more real, more powerful than sleep dreams. Waking dreams where the dream knew they happened, where they could make them happen for real. That was where the danger lay.

Lexi didn’t know too much about dream theory or if what she was counted as a dream or not. But she knew if she thought about something long enough, it was more than likely to occur.

Lexi covered her eyes and tried not to think about the sky falling. If something were on the other side, she didn’t want to know. Life was dangerous enough already without the whole darn thing falling apart.

Day 347 - The Forgotten Never

The Forgotten Never

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

The light flicked on and Jeremy forgot why he had entered the bathroom. He felt off. Not tired, but slightly off. He didn’t feel sick. He couldn’t tell why he felt odd, or why he had come into the room. Perhaps he had meant to brush his teeth. It wasn’t very late, but the sun was going down earlier this time of year. Maybe instinct had taken over. But that didn’t seem quite right.

The house was quiet. Nothing. No strange creaks or moans and boards settled. No neighbor next-door working out or tuning their motorcycle. There was a low strange hiss, but Jeremy found no leaks. Maybe it was the low hum of electricity, or the fan in his laptop running. But nothing seemed to be making it.

Outside, the night was still. Neighbors had put up their Christmas decorations. Blinking light and simulated snow and someone had a twenty-foot-tall Santa outside their house. But the night was calm. Still. Empty. No birds. No random cat digging around the backyard.

Jeremy paced back and forth, rubbing his fingers together, trying to think.

The night felt empty. Just as the house had. But what was missing? He couldn’t put a finger on it.

The shadows seemed a little dark and too close to the house. Jeremy had never been claustrophobic, but suddenly he thought he could relate.

He pressed his left thumb into the palm of his right hand. He felt pain, but it didn’t make him focus. It didn’t make the paranoia any less.

The trash was full, as was the recycling. Someone had been throwing boxes of personal items away. Photographs and letter and notebooks. The trash was full, but the night was empty.

The shadows seemed to grow and Jeremy couldn’t clear his mind. Where was the emptiness coming from, and how soon before it got to him?

Day 346 - Remains

Remains

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

 

A thousand or more marched off, with little more than their pitchforks, axes for chopping wood, and the occasional hunter who knew how to use a bow and arrow. Their blood would run quick and easy. The tears would be shed, but winter would be on the way and soon enough there was work to be done, fields to tend to, and children to be raised.

Among the old and young, there was Andre. No one ever asked why he had remained. Some said he was too old, or too weak, or the limp was too pronounced. Andre smiled and accepted any help that was offered. Another might let pride get in the way, but not Andre. He was a kind and compassionate man and helped the widows as best he could. He was poor in the fields and worse with the animals, and only passable when it came to watching children. But he tried and they were all desperate for respite, even if it was only a minute or two.

Andre offered a tender ear and in return, he ate well that year. He never gained weight, but his skin did brighten and his smile widened, so the women took it to mean they had done their job well. Tears dried and scabs began to cover the holes in their hearts. Many women claimed they never would have survived their sadness if not for his concern and caring words. Andre would chuckle and blush and say they saved him, not the other way around. They were feeding and clothing him after all.

The season changed and time moved on and the wars paused and the remaining men returned.

There were fewer and fewer homes for Andre to visit or offer assistance to. He returned to his home in the woods, but when one of the town’s women ventured out to visit him, she found the cabin empty. People asked questions, but no one seemed to concerned. He had talked of family in other towns. It was likely that when he felt he wasn’t needed here as much, he had taken the time to go and visit other family or friends.

One of the children swore they had seen him walking away from the village late one afternoon. The man looked spry with no visible limp. It didn’t sound like Andre and no one paid too much attention to the story.

Day 345 - I did not like the man

I did not like the man

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

I did not like the man or the way he looked at me. Something was wrong in his eyes when he stared. Something was wrong in the way that he stood. Something was wrong in the way that he was. I did not like the man and I wanted to leave.

I could hear the click-clack of his shoes on the stone road behind me.

I had never been robbed before, but I steadied myself, trying to remain calm and temper my fear. I would survive, I told myself. I would give whatever the man wanted. I would not react or fight or provoke. If he were reasonable in the least, I would be reasonable in the most.

The man sped up and walked past me. Not to cut me off or intimidate. Just to pass me and be on his way. I had misjudged the situation.

But something else was wrong. Something horrific.

The man had two shadows. Not a trick from multiple street windows. Not a reflection in storefront glass. Two shadows, each with a seeming life of their own.

One shadow from the evening light kept stride, attached. The other shadow cast not from light, but a shadow from within, lingered a little while. A dreadful reflection of the scarred spirit within. One shadow went with him as he passed. The second shadow looked back and watched and saw and learned.

Fear grew in my stomach. What did it want? What did it see in me?

I found myself stepping in stride, keeping pace with the man, unable to look away. Trapped in the shadow’s grasp.