Why, hello there. It's been a minute or two.

We are making this announcement via Prose, versus the newsletter, due to a pending change in software. Hang tight for now. In the interim, and cutting to the chase, you may recall that last month's premium challenge prompted you to write an alliteration. The longest alliteration's author wins $50. Drumroll. Here are the editor's picks:

a day in the life, by CatLady1:

https://theprose.com/post/427767/a-day-in-the-life

(MAG)PIE, by Mnezz:

https://theprose.com/post/424476/mag-pie

An Acrostically Alliterative Abomination., by EstherFlowers1:

https://theprose.com/post/426293/an-acrostically-alliterative-abomination

swan songs, by WhiteWolfe32:

https://theprose.com/post/424050/swan-songs

and

Samson, by rlove327:

https://theprose.com/post/424020/samson

And the winner is...

...wait for it...

The Thalassic Thaumaturge: The Task To Trap Them., by CompassCreates:

https://theprose.com/post/427877/the-thalassic-thaumaturge-the-task-to-trap-them

We are about to message you requesting PayPal info to send your earnings.

In the meantime, this month, enjoy a $500 prize times existentialism:

https://theprose.com/challenge/12275

Let's keep it a glorious week, everyone. Until next time,

Prose.

My name is Harper and in six months I am going to die.

I know this because I paid for the privilege. You can do testing for anything nowadays, and apparently your expiration date is one of them.

I had money to spare, I was bored, and yes, I foolishly thought the test would tell me some distant faraway age like eighty-two or maybe even one hundred and two. When I found out my expiry date was in six months, I began to have a really, really bad case of buyer’s remorse.

I went through quite a lengthy denial period, where I thought I could go through the rest of my life pretending that if I just do things exactly the same way and not change anything I would conveniently forget and everything would be fine and dandy. (This was by far my favorite coping mechanism. But it didn’t last. Eventually my anxiety bubbled up and exploded like a shaken champagne bottle.)

Next came an obsessive, defiant, planning phase. Everyday I would think of elaborate plans to avoid death like I could somehow scheme my way out of it. I mean, theoretically, it seems doable. Plane crash? Don’t go on a plane. Car accident? Just stay home all week. Heck, heart attack? Pop three baby aspirins and hang out in the hospital lobby, right next to the crash cart ready to wave a big sign that says “I’m having a heart attack.” Unfortunately the test didn’t provide the cause of death, just the exact time, so I couldn’t really plan in specifics.

Eventually all the planning became incredibly exhausting and I settled into a kind of defeated acceptance. My plan was still not to actively put myself in a situation where I could die, I was not quite ready to submit to my annihilation, but if I somehow still find myself in that situation anyway, I figured I should really work on trying to be okay with that.

So then I commenced on a hedonistic three months where I blew half of my life savings and did literally anything I could think of. I ziplined through the forests of Peru, skydived over the French countryside, drank the best wines and indulged in rich Italian food, snorkeled off the shores of Bali, shopped with abandon while perusing the streets of Tokyo, London, Dubai…

You get the idea.

The most pathetic part of this whole thing was that I didn’t have a family to spend my last few days with. Or close friends, really. My impending death would not be filled with earnest mourning and last minute tearful proclamations of love and reminiscing. Oh sure, my funeral would be packed, but nobody would miss me, not really. As an orphaned twenty-two year old who inherited too much money at an early age, not only was I kind of an entitled asshole, I also haven’t really lived yet. I haven’t fallen in love or had kids, wrote that great American novel, won a Pulitzer, or experienced any of that syrupy sweet stuff life is supposedly made of.

Anyway, that’s why I’m hanging out in the hospice ward.

My friend here is Lucas. He is twenty-nine and has end stage heart failure from hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. He described it as his heart being too big - literally but I suspect it's also an accurate description of him figuratively. I befriended him five months ago when I found out I was going to die. And no, surprisingly, he does not have any wisdom to impart about acceptance and healing and the meaning of life. He is very not okay with his young, awesome life being cut short, thank you very much.

He did have some useful information for me though.

“It’s quite experimental.” Lucas warned in an ominous tone.

“Obviously.”

“They usually only accept terminal patients… you know, because of the ethical issues.” He eyed me warily. “But in your case, they made an exception.”

He was adorable. He said that last line like a late night infomercial. Or maybe a used car salesman.

“This is not some elaborate black market scam to harvest my organs, is it?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “I mean, no offense, but you look like you could use a new heart.”

Lucas had to grab his oxygen mask after laughing so hard at that one. The nurse at the station gave me a dirty look.

After Lucas recovered he looked me in the eye. “How much do you have left?”

“Time? Or money?” I joked. The look on his face was not amused. I cleared my throat. “One month. And as you know, money is not an object.”

“Well, one month can give you… at least eighty years in virtual time. So pretty much a whole lifetime, if you decide on it.” Lucas shrugged. “Once you jack in though, there’s no going back. Your clock will end as scheduled and that’s the only way out. Also, it’s totally immersive, so you won’t even know you’re in virtual. It will be like… you’re in a dream but you don’t know you’re in a dream.”

“So I would really believe everything was real? Like I would grow up to be ninety years old and I would actually think I lived all those years even though really it will only be one month?”

“Mostly, yes.”

“How many of the other people will be real?”

“Most will be computer generated. You might meet some real ones, if they are in the same time dilation settings as you. There are very few people with the resources for a whole month, you know. Most people can only afford one day.”

“So there’s a chance that I will marry a program?” I furrowed my brows. “And then if we have kids, they will also be programs?”

Lucas cocked an eyebrow. “There’s a high chance, statistically. Like I said, there’s only a few real participants at any given time. Not that it would matter to you, you won’t know the difference.”

I thought about this. Would it really bother me if I didn’t know? I bet my computer generated kids would be adorable.

His expression suddenly turned serious. “There’s something else. It’s rare, but there are a few cases of people noticing little things not quite right and they become increasingly convinced they’re in a simulation. Which of course is true, but when you’re jacked in and you’re not completely sure if you’re crazy or just being paranoid, it can be terrifying. They call it Simulation Induced Paranoia, or SIP.” He paused. “Participants become really…. distressed.”

I chewed on this for a second. “I still want to do it.”

He looked surprised. “Really?”

“I really don’t have anything to lose.” I replied nonchalantly, like I just decided on a dinner entree. I should probably be alarmed that I was acting so cavalier. Lucas wasn’t exactly giving a stellar sales pitch. Then again, it was true, I really had nothing left to lose. I’ve done what I could with my twenty-two years. Might as well have another lifetime to try again.

Lucas stared at me for a moment then sighed. “That’s the thing. The longer you’re in virtual, the higher the chance you might experience SIP. Remember, Harper, a month is a lifetime. The chances are very low of course - less than 1%, the virtual worlds are very meticulously programmed after all. But if you experience SIP, there’s no cure, no safe word, you’re stuck until your clock runs out.”

“I already decided.” I said resolutely. Once I’ve made up my mind on something I was usually unshakable. It was one of my many flaws. “In fact, let’s do it tonight. I want to get my whole lifetime, not a year less.”

—

Everything was too bright, the sounds too loud. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t. Jacking in was a very jarring process, it felt as if all my neurons were firing up all at once. Somehow I felt tremendous pain and the heights of delirious ecstasy simultaneously. Like I was feeling every possible thing all at the same time. There was a terrifying moment when everything went black, and for what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few seconds, I truly wholeheartedly believed I was actively dying.

Maybe I was supposed to die on the table during the procedure. Or maybe I really did unwittingly offer to have my organs harvested for the black market. Damn it, I probably caused my own death in my extreme efforts to avoid it...

I blinked twice. The room slowly came into focus.

“Hey, sleeping beauty.” A familiar voice.

It was Lucas. But also, it was not Lucas. He did not have his portable oxygen tank close by. His lips did not have their usual bluish tint. He looked… healthy.

Everything came back to me at once.

“Oh shit, Lucas. That was nuts.” I shook my head, clearing the cobwebs. “That felt too real. I really felt like I was in there for twenty-two years.” I checked my watch. I’ve only been in Virtual for twenty-two minutes.

He chuckled, swiveling back and forth on the expensive office chair I bought him for Christmas last year. My boyfriend never could sit still. “You’re a champ, Harper, you were the one who wanted to push the time dilation to a year per minute. I was worried pushing it that far would compromise the world building, but your mind was amazing at meeting the program halfway to fill in the gaps. You made yourself a rich orphan, really? Money is no object? Hah!”

I disconnected my neurojack from the surgically implanted access port behind my right ear. That rich orphan stuff was my subconscious free at the wheel. I didn’t intentionally decide on it. I turned back to Lucas. “Why did you add all that stuff about Virtual in there, and SIP? Don’t you think that was a little too… meta?”

Lucas suddenly broke into that grin that melted my heart so many years ago when we met during undergrad at MIT. “Well, since you wanted to put the expiry dates into the program so people would know how much time they had left, I thought, what the heck, why not make it interesting? Why not make a virtual game in Virtual?”

I was not amused. Lucas had a penchant for bloated code and unnecessary side doors. Also, for not telling me about an adjustment until after he has done it. “That’s messed up. You should have run that by me. The expiry date was a suggestion from the beta testers and we all agreed on it. We didn’t agree on putting the game into the Virtual Universe as a side door..” I paused. “Also, what if I didn’t jack in? I would have died in a car accident or something?”

Lucas turned back to his computer and typed a few lines of code. “I had carbon monoxide poisoning ready to go, but I was prepared to improvise. And anyway, I didn’t actually think you would gravitate towards the game during the beta test, I just put it in there as an Easter egg of sorts. I figured most clients would only think about jacking in when they were close to their expiry dates, if they do at all. But on second thought, maybe I should take it out of the programming, it’s too much work to keep up.”

I jumped off the table and stretched my legs. My entire body felt stiff like I haven’t used it for months. “Yea, take it out. You’ll have enough work as it is when we start accepting our first commercial clients next week. We have four people scheduled on our first day which I already think is too much.”

“We’ll be fine.” Lucas was now typing more purposefully. “That reminds me, I need to finish debugging this before Monday. Do you mind picking up dinner?”

“Sure.. from that new Thai place again?”

“Sounds good.”

I smiled as I gave Lucas a quick peck on the cheek before I grabbed my purse to pick up the take out. Everything was going well for our start up. It was hard to believe that only two years ago Lucas and I were broke PhD dropouts who took a leap of faith building Virtual from our one bedroom Boston apartment. And now… well, let’s just say our first official month in business is projected to generate six figures in profits even after subtracting overhead. Mid six figures. And as soon as we open up our second and third facilities the growth would be exponential.

To top it all off, I was pretty sure Lucas was planning on proposing to me next week on my birthday. I saw a charge from some jewelry company on his credit card statement while I was doing some filing last month. Judging from the amount, it could only be an engagement ring. Lucas never would have spent that much on a piece of jewelry otherwise.

I sauntered out of the elevator from our high rise office with a pep in my step. The weather outside was just the right amount of sunny. Even the Boston air didn’t feel as suffocatingly polluted. Yes, everything was going well. Perfect, even. I eyed a meticulously trimmed bush suspiciously as I walked by. Maybe too perfect.

I felt a sudden stab of panic. The smile dissipated from my face.

Oh no.

The trawler — The Tern — tacks, trying to turn through the tempest. Toward the Togiakan taiga the transport trails, tossing, turning too. Tall, thick tides thump the torso, the taupe timber tended to tolerate this torture — though the tough, thoughtless tundra temperature threatens to tear the tub til the Tern topples, til the tensed, trimmed topsail turns to tatters.

“Time?” thunders Third Technician Thomas Tennyson.

“Three,” tuts Timekeeper Terrence T. Taylor: typically timid, today thrilled. Taylor twirls the tin, Turkish timepiece towards the taffrail. “Timetable tallies Togiaka to two. Technician, the Tern’s tyned.”

Terror takes Tennyson. “Tomfoolery! The — the tachometer!”

“The tether tore, taking the tachometer to Triton’s temple. The thrust twin to the tide that took Tilly.” Tactless Taylor turns. “Turner, Townsend too. The team’s there, the thalassic trenches. This talk’s tête-à-tête, thee to Taylor. Tender truces to the traitors, the traducers—type thorny, terse telegrams, tracing the titles, translating the theistic texts. Trust that they tarry — the Tern’s time’s temporary, transient. Thine’s too. Tick tock.”

Tears trickle. They think of their territory, turned taking through their toil, thieved today through this tsunami. “Though the Tern’s torpid, the turbine’s throttled tall, the topsail tilted towards Togiaka. The trouble, then?” they taunt, tumultuous, terrified, their tirade towards the typhoon. “The titanium technology’s tarnished? The textile threads tangled?”

“Tholes torn too,” testifies the timekeeper. “Time to tope?”

“Teetotaler.”

“That’s true. Tragic that there’s tentacles, though.”

“Tentacles?”

“Titanic things, too.”

They twitch, tensing. “Then…the tide’s trivial! The thaumaturge’s the true trouble! Towards the transom, timeously!”

The Tern’s tonnage turned, tumultuous: televisions, telephones, tablets, trophies, tubas, trombones, trumpets, tuxedoes, turtlenecks, tweed, toques, tables, towels, teaspoons, toothpicks, trout, tuna, topaz, tires. The two tiptoe through the trunk, traversing the trashed, torn, tunnel-type tanks. “The thaumaturge’s…tricky. Tied to transport, though. The Togiakan technical/thaumaturgical team’s thirsty to tabulate their traits, their techniques. The Tern took their treasure to take them to Togiaka, though…they thought to tarry telling thee til then,” Tennyson tergiversates, “til the thaumaturge transferred to the Togiakan team’s turf.”

“The tactics transparently thin, true?”

“They tried-”

“Too tardily. The thaumaturge’s terminating the Tern—their thaumaturgic tentacles trashing the tail, their teal thunderbolts terrible. They took Tilly, Turner, Townsend. The Tern trusted those tactics-” Taylor’s tongue turns trenchant- “that teended them today.”

Tennyson, the turnkey, teeters, toeing the threshold. “The thaumaturge’s trammeled to transport. Tricky to talk to. Take the threaded ties, the twined trusses — tolerate them to travel topside, they’ll turn the turbulent tide tranquil. Trust that, Taylor.”

The tumblers twirl, ticking through two turns. Taylor traverses the threshold, trepidatious, the torch they take trembling. “Talk!” they thunder. “Talk, treacherous thaumaturge! Terminate the tyrannical tentacles that trap the Tern!” Troublesome tranquility. “Tongue-tied? Taciturn? Thy time’s transient—thy tentacles’ll throttle thee too.”

“Thy threnody’s trying,” taunts Tobias Tsardi, thaumaturge. “Take the ties, then talk.”

Taylor tsks. “Thou’re tied, trussed—thou tries temptations? Tommyrot. Tell thy tentacles, thy thaumaturgy to turn tail. Then the ties.”

Thick threads tie Tsardi’s torso, though they’re temperate. “Thou transgressed,” they tell Taylor. “Thou troubled the transcendent Tobias Tsardi: the Tremendous, the Terrible, the Triumphant, the Tenacious, the titled, Tsar-treasured thaumaturge. Thou tries threats?” they travesty. “Thou tries to take thaumaturgy to thine tenancy?” The ties trammeling Tsardi twinkle, then the thaumaturgy triturates them. “Today, the tides turned.”

“…t-thaumaturge?” titubates Taylor, timorous. “Those threads…they’re thick, tough. To tear them..."

“Trifling.” Taylor trembles. Tsardi’s teal thaumaturgy tessellates through the trunk: terrifying, timeworn though timeless, tainted through turpitude. “Thou transgressed,” they tell them, twice this time. “Thou tempted Tobias Tsardi to tempestuous turmoil. Thus, the Tern’s torn, trampled to trailings. Together, thou’re thoroughly terminated.”

“Thou too!”

“True. The three: Taylor, Tennyson, Tsardi, trapped. The Tern, tearing, travailing thy tombstone.”

The terrible, titanic tides thunder. The Tern trembles, then topples, the timber torn to tatters. The tide takes the trawler, the tormented thaumaturge tardily, though truly, triumphant.

Terminus.

The Tern: Topic Two

The Tern toppled, though the Togiakan technical team took time to track the trawler, to think the task too troubling to task to three trawlers’ teams. Three? True. The Tern toppled, the Trident tarried, traveling temperately to Togiaka; the Talon tore through the tide, the Togiakan team transiting too, to the thought tract the Tern’d traveled through.

Twilight tarnishes, the tenebrous tide turning turquoise. “Ten-thirty,” ticks the technical, tarnished, tin timepiece, the Talon terminating the trip. Timber trailings thump the Talon, teal, tessellating thaumaturgy transfused through the tailings. Thermic tracking tells the team thaumaturgic tentacles tarry, thinking, threatening the Talon’s tutelage through the Tern’s trailings, taking tranquilly the threat the terrene, thrice-topsailed transport, thorny, the Togiakan team toting tumultuous tempers, tenders towards the thaumaturge’s tides.

The truce ’tween the technological, the thaumaturgical thin today.

The Togiakan team: ten technicians, theologians, theoreticians, testers. Tiffany Thorkel-Tiptree, top-ten toxicologist; Tamar Trenton Thrombley, theanthropic theologian; Tabitha Torres, theoretical topologist; Theodore T.T. Trask, thermochemist; Thalia Testarossa, trade/tariff transaction tester; Tina Torbjörn Thorsdöttir, technician; Talfryn Titus the Third, technician; Tien Trevestas, trustee; Timothy Trofimenko, theistic theologian; Tochiro Tomaki, top-tier typist. “To terminals,” Tina tells their team. “Talk to Talfryn to tally the Tern’s team, to trap that troublesome thaumaturge.”

“Tsardi tied to the Tern’s trunk though, true?” tries Tamar. “Thus trapped there, the Tern’s tombstone, the thalassic trenches. The Tern trapped the thaumaturge.”

“True. Then?”

“Then…the Tern toppled. Tsardi too, though?”

“Theoretically.” Tina tuts, troubled. “Thou’re the theologian. Timothy, too — they try thy tolerance, though. Theoretically, the theory’s tenable that Tsardi’s thaumaturgy tempts them to transhuman tenacity, true?

Tamar thinks through the topic. “The (taboo) thaumaturges’ tome thinks true. The trusty, traditional, though truly Triassic, theology textbook takes trouble to the total tetralemma: the tome, the thaumaturges, the topic, the — that transhuman tenacity. Typical tiff ’twixt the two.”

“Thee? The tome’s true?” The timepiece ticks twice. “The textbook’s true?”

Tamar ticks their tongue, thinking. “Trust the tome.”

“Terrific.” Tina turns to Talfryn, toting the tallies. They’re tall, tan, trendy, trained to take tallies through Tokyo. “Togiaka’s transmitted telegrams, Talfryn? Thought the tycoons trusted the Talon.”

“They’re trustees,” The teased Tien talks timorously treble. “Tycoons, tacit trusts — they’re terrible. Trustees transcend treasure’s turpitude, take the Togiakan team’s technical, thaumaturgical tabs. Thy taunting’s trying—try thanking them.”

“Telling that thee’d talk that, true?” taunts Talfryn. “That’s trivial, though. The technical team there’s tallied the Tern’s trailings, their tragically taken team: Tilly Twinn, twice-tributed titleholder, Ted Turner, Thompson Townsend, technician Thomas Tennyson, timekeeper Terrence Taylor. They’re trying to track Tsardi, though...their tactics — they’re thorough, true, though too thin.” Tina tuts. “The Tern’s tonnage too,” Talfryn tags to the testimony, turning tack. “There’s transistors, Tiger-type teleprinters, trackballs, thermal templates: telecommunication things, that’s the tank there. There, there’s the tuneful things: trumpets, tenor trombones, tubas, tritone-”

“Thanks, that’s tolerably thorough.” Tina’s transpicuously troubled, turns to the taffrail. “Thy toppled thyself, thaumaturge,” Tina tells the tide through Texan twang. “Thy turned the Tern to thy tombstone to terminate thy transgressions triumphantly. Thus, therefore…thou temporize, true, though thou’re trapped. Trammeled through the Talon, though thee took the Tern.”

Though the tide’s tranquil, Tina thinks that tranquility taunts them, tantamount to threats. “Thaumaturge!” they thunder, tense, tumultuous. The Togiakan team turns, taut, troubled through Tina’s tantrum. “Talk, thy tricky, treacherous, thunderstorm-throwing thaumaturge! Testify, trot through thy tentacle-transfused tide — the Talon’s the target, thus thrust, take trompement, threatened through the tierce. Take the trustworthy tussle, thou turncoat thaumaturge.”

“Technician…”

“That transitory, tricky thaumaturge’s tiring,” Tina tells Tamar. “They took the Tern — today they’re tucked to the tide, turning taciturn tail to the threats the Talon thunders to the tides. They’ll take their time. The thought to trustworthy, tethered tussle, tête-à-tête ’tween them-”

“To thee. Thou thinks that’ll terminate to the Talon’s trade — trammeling the thaumaturge, taking them to Togiaka to truly, technically tally, true? Thou’re trained to take that thaumaturge through this terminal…tiff? Tussle?” they try. “The true ’t’ term’s tricky. Thus thou trusts that?”

“True. The thing’s-” Thick tentacles tear towards the Talon, tethering the transport tightly to the trenches. Tsardi, teal thaumaturgy twirling through the tides, transfusing the Talon’s timber, treads to the Talon’s top tier. “Tsardi.”

“Technician. Thou traded this thaumaturge to this tussle, true?”

Tina takes the trident, thorny-tined, titanium-tooled though tungsten-tipped. “True. The Talon’s task’s to take thee to Togiaka. Thou tore the Tern to tatters, though the Talon’s tougher. Thus, this theater: Try thy tenacity. Terminate thy trying to turn tail. Therefore-”

“Take thy toxin,” twitters Tiffany (the typically thoughtless toxicologist).

“Tiffany,” threatens Tina. “Tsardi?”

Their teeth twinkle. “The tussle. The Tern’s team thought they’d tolerable tactics to take Tsardi, then…” They thrive through their triumph. “That trident’s threatening, though the top thou’ll take’s tac-au-tac-“

Tobias talks, thinking they’re transparently, troublelessly triumphant. Then Tina’s trident takes their throat. “The Togiakan tasks’s to take thee, trammeled. This, though…” Tina tightens the trident, throttling the trapped thaumaturge. “The tractable thunderstorms, tides thou took the Tern through? They take thee today.”

The (true) terminus.

Writing is a private affair. One mind, one hand holding a pen, or two hands hovering over a keyboard. It’s almost always carried out alone. And when the pages are written, then what? This is a key question because it defines a crucial divide between writers who write for publication and writers who write just for themselves.

Writing for yourself is fine. We all write for ourselves first, really. If we don’t love our words, no one else will, either. There’s nothing wrong with being your own unique audience. Maybe you’re not ready to share. Maybe you want to keep what you’re writing all to yourself because it’s more comfortable—and more freeing—like keeping a diary where you can say whatever you want without fear of rebuke.

But if you want to write better, you’ve got to let someone else read you.

The question is, who?

There’s Aunt Marge, who loved your earliest attempts. But please, if you share with her, don’t rely too much on her opinion. The woman might make the best pineapple upside-down cake in the Tri-State area, but as a literary critic, she probably leaves something to be desired. She’ll tell you you’re brilliant because she adores you, and while that might leave you feeling all warm and fuzzy, it’s not what you need.

There’s your writing group if you’re in one. These are probably your peers, assuming you’re all at more or less the same level of experience. They’ve been trying to wrestle their own words around, so have some idea of what’s what. But they may not. They may respond viscerally and say something like “I don’t like your character, she’s too mean.” That may be true—your character could be a witch among witches, but it’s not a useful remark. If you hear that your pacing is too slow, or things wrap up a little too neatly, that’s helpful. If each person in your group has a different issue with your story, it’s nearly impossible to focus on a way to improve it. However, if they home in on the same problem—a place where each lost the narrative thread, for instance—that’s worth listening to.

When is it time to put yourself in the hands of a stranger? When you’re serious about getting published. It’s a big hurdle, and a lot of writers get stuck on it. You can’t believe the excuses I’ve heard from people who don’t want to send their work out. “The system is rigged.” “With thousands of submissions, mine will never make it.” “Editors don’t really read everything that comes their way.” What these statements all boil down to is a fear of being rejected. Writers hear “No” more than most people in most other professions. And yes, you should think of writing as a profession because that’s exactly what it is. It’s not easy to screw up your courage and launch your file into the ether, but there’s no other way to get your story in front of a reader you’ve never met. Editors will often give you valuable feedback about why your story didn’t make the cut, and if that happens, take their words to heart. Remember that they read a lot of work, and can tell good from bad. Look at your pages through their lens. This is how you learn.

Now, what about sending to a contest? A unique hurdle there is the entry fee. A lot of writers resent being asked to pay it, but consider this: most publications operate on a shoe-string, and every dollar helps. If you don’t feel charitable, you need to think about a press’s bottom line, how they make ends meet, and so on. Many of them are run by volunteers with day jobs. Are a few dollars really so much to ask? Some contests require as much as twenty-five dollars or even more, and I agree, that’s steep. If you can’t swing it, then don’t. But if you can, you’re contributing to a good cause. And what’s in it for you? Well, obviously you could win, and that’s always lovely. But if you don’t win first place, you might be included on a list of Honorable Mentions or Finalists and you can feel you’ve achieved something important. Kudos count in writing, just as in anything, and so do bragging rights. It’s nice to remember these favorable results when that inevitable sense of discouragement sets in.

What this all comes down to is that I hope you’ll think of your writing as something to share, especially now when we’re all isolating and staying home as much as possible. Art connects us and brings us together. Do your best work, be brave, and hit “Send.”

1. There are seven days left. If there are not, then you were never meant to find this. Treat the words that follow as mere fiction, and hope that you never have to use them.

2. Tell nobody of what you know. Do not speak the words aloud, even if you think you’re alone. You’re not.

3. Before going into work, you must first visit the radio towers. Make sure your phone is fully charged, and bring a paper map with you. Take anything that is of particular value to you—you will need it for bargaining, later.

4. To get there, drive. If you do not have a car, borrow somebody’s, and do not take ‘no’ for an answer. Public transportation is too dangerous, especially at this stage. The Others have already taken their control.

5. As you drive, you will hear a piano through the radio. Nobody is playing it.

6. When you enter the mountains, follow your map to the meter. If it changes, and it will, continue to follow it exactly. Even if you have taken this trip a hundred times before, you are entering territory you know nothing about. Be careful.

7. There will be a man waiting for you next to the towers. He will be dressed as a mechanic, except for the patch on his shoulder.

8. A black patch means that you have already failed. I am sorry. Return home, if you can, with the days you have.

9. If there is a red patch, approach him and offer to shake his hand. You must be the one to make this offer. He is susceptible to formality, and by doing so, you have gained the right to ask him one question.

10. Ask him what is wrong with the towers. He will tell you.

11. When you look away, he will be gone, but his toolbox will remain. Use it to fix the towers. Don’t fall.

12. Once you have fixed the towers, return to your studio. Do not go home. You will not be able to go home again.

13. Enter through a side door. The Others will be watching the front and the back. Lock the door behind you, especially if it does not have a lock.

14. Do not speak to your co-workers. Not yet. If they try to ask you a question, avoid any and all eye contact. They may be Other.

15. At your console, turn the frequency of the radio down, until it reaches 9 Hz. When you reach 1 kHz, the dial will begin to fight you. Fight back.

16. Once you have reached 9 Hz, turn the radio on and speak into your microphone for five minutes. At no point should you stop speaking for more than a second, nor should you turn around. There is nothing to see.

17. After five minutes, any Others in the building will have left. They do not like low frequencies. Return to your co-workers, and only then may you tell them what you know. Each of them will have a guide, too.

18. For the next 156 hours, keep your radio show going:

a. You will not need food or water. Fixing the towers has seen to that.

b. Be sincere, and speak of more good than bad. Your audience will be composed of more than you can fathom.

c. At 7 AM each day, change your frequency to 1500 kHz, and at 7 PM, return it to 9 Hz. This will ensure your words reach everybody they are meant to.

d. Music (preferably Beethoven) should be playing in the background. If transmission ever ceases, you will not survive the next minute.

e. When you accept calls, and you must, do not answer immediately. Instead, hold the phone at arms-length, and ask them—clearly and without stuttering—if they know what time it is. If they answer, they are human.

f. On the third day, there will be a knock at the door. It will be the man from the mountains. He will tell you that the towers are broken again, and that you need to come and fix them.

g. Do not listen. One of your coworkers will volunteer to go with him, for their guide tells them to. Say goodbye, and do not feel guilty. The mechanic deals only in trades, and what is one life measured against many?

h. On the fourth day, the lights will go off. On the fifth day, they will turn back on. When they do, one of the Other will have entered the building. They will wear the face of another of your companions.

i. They will seek you out. If you have followed the instructions up to this point, you should have brought possessions that are worth much to you. Leave your station and bring one to the fuse box.

j. There will be a loose wire, throwing sparks onto the ground. Press your object against the wire and close your eyes. You will feel a fuzziness in your head—do not worry.

k. When the world returns, the object will be scorched and unrecognizable. You have successfully extended your life to the end of the world.

l. Make sure your listeners enjoy the show. You are, after all, their host.

19. At 9 PM on the final day, bid farewell. Tell those who are still listening to sleep well, and to dream of a better tomorrow. They deserve it.

20. Open the door. There will be an Other waiting for you there. There is no reason to fear them, not anymore.

21. You must thank them for allowing you to continue the show. They will compliment you for your commitment, but you will decline it. Accepting anything, even words of praise, will put you in their debt.

22. There will be no sun in the sky, nor will there be stars. Do not look for them.

23. Everything has been set in motion. Climb to the roof of your studio, where your dish resides. That will be where you wait out the final hours.

24. If you wish, write your name on the metal. A fountain pen and inkwell will already be waiting for you, but do not take them. They are not yours, and their owner will be displeased if she finds them missing.

25. At midnight, the Others will decide. You have given them your words, transmitted through the bones of your planet. All you can do now is hope they are enough.

At Earth's decrepitude,

c l o u d s

spill

t

e

a

r

s

.

.

.

In a world where all authors write about themselves, all singers sing about themselves, all artists only depict themselves, and all people are limited to themselves;

Selfishness.

Boredom.

Monotony.

We shall not write about our everyday lives unless we live all to ourselves in a glass box.

But from inside the glass box, we can see the world, so it should instead be a metal box.

That way, we will only see our own reflections.

Selfishness.

Boredom.

Monotony.

How did ancient writers of old express themselves, visit faraway lands, and teleport us to fantasy worlds? None of us are unicorns, aliens, animals, or inanimate objects, so why do we write about them?

Selfishness.

Boredom.

Monotony.

How can we write of social interactions, unless we imagine a sci-fi world where everyone is a clone of ourselves? How can children write about adults and adults about children? How can males write about females and females about males?

Selfishness.

Boredom.

Monotony.

Should artists paint the sky? Should singers tell of birds? Should writers write at all?