Jake and Lisa go into one of the rooms privately. I can't hear what they are saying. I hate not knowing what's going on. There is a cafeteria here but the preacher says that all the food is spoiled and he doesn't recommend any of us eating it. I sit down at one end of the long table and put my head in my hands. The preacher sits across from me.

"You should consider yourself lucky" The preacher says in that warm inviting voice that the preacher always used, "you survived the end of humanity."

"I'm don't think that's lucky" I answer.

"Sure it is." He continues, "You have the chance to start all over. You and Jake. What's more is you're not starting from scratch. I have all the knowledge of humanity in my memory banks. You don't have to make the mistakes of the past."

"Jake isn't my type." I answer. The thought of having sex with Jake sends a shiver down my spine, and not the good kind.

"Maybe Jake can start over with Katy then" The preacher offers.

"What do you know about Katy?" I ask him.

"Same as you. She saved Jake and brought Lisa here to the future." The preacher answers.

"But where is she now?" I ask.

"That's hard to say." He answers, "We have no way of travelling through time to fix anything. We need to do something to make things better in the here and now."

"I don't think making a baby with Jake is going to make things better." I tell him forcefully.

"You think about it." He says. I don't know what there is to think about. If the survival of humanity rests on me having to do something with Jake, maybe it's better for humanity to be extinct after all. Jake comes out of Lisa's room and heads straight for me. He sits next to the preacher across from me.

"Katy saved Lisa" Jake starts, "She showed up right as this building that we are in right now was being attacked and she brought her here. There was an explosion and the building was destroyed yet everything is still here as if nothing happened to it. The computer lied to us." Jake says.

"Why would the computer lie to us, the computer is the reason we are here." I respond.

"The computer wants to start over." The preacher interrupts, "The computer wants to start humanity over with Nia and yourself."

"That's crazy. Why would the computer want to do that?" I ask.

"The computer said it ran millions of simulations, maybe starting over was the best solution it found." Jake supposes.

"So are we going to just start over?" I ask.

"Well, Katy can still travel through time, until she decides to show up again, I don't see any other choice." Jake says.

"I'm not going to start humanity over with you." I tell him, "even if you are the last man on Earth."

"Well, preacher. How about you teaching me how to trap squirrels?" Jake says ignoring my protests.

"Didn't you hear me? I said I'm not having sex with you!" I restate more forcefully.

"Yeah, I heard you. But we still need to eat and we can't eat anything here." Jake states matter-of-factly.

"No time like the present, don't you think preacher?" Jake says.

"Sure" the preacher says with a smile on his face, "Let's go hunt squirrels". Jake and the preacher both get up and walk away. Once they are gone Lisa joins me.

"So Nia, Tell me about your sister?" She asks.

"There's not much to tell, Katy has always been a sensitive emotional child. She's always done well in school even without studying. But I don't think the Katy you met is the Katy I remember." I tell her.

"What do you mean?" Lisa follows up.

"I think she's from a different future." I tell her, "You told Jake that Katy rescued you. That this building we are in now was being attacked."

"There was an explosion and gun fire. Katy said my whole project team was dead and I could join them if I didn't come with her." She says.

"If the building was attacked and the building is still here. Does that mean that the computer lied to us?" I ask.

"The computer can't lie to us." Lisa says.

"Are you sure about that?" I follow up.

"Yeah, I'm sure." she says back.

"I think we should ask it a few more questions to make sure." I told her.

"Okay" she says, "Let's do that."

Lisa and I walk down to the room to speak to the computer. I feel kind of dirty for suggesting that Lisa life's work is the reason everyone is dead. Once we walk into the room, we hear a voice.

"Hi Lisa, is there something I can do for you?" the voice asks Lisa.

"Can you tell me what happened when this building was attacked and the project team was murdered?" Lisa asks.

"There was no attack on this building. The project team was not murdered and the project was a complete success. You however disappeared without a trace. No one ever discovered what happened to you. Of course the reason for that is because you traveled in time to the future from the past." The computer explains.

"So there wasn't an explosion?" Lisa asks.

"No" the computer answers.

"But I was there and I heard it." Lisa says, "I heard the gunshots."

"I cannot explain the discrepancy between your account of events and what's stored in my memory banks." The computer offers.

"Can you hypothesize?" Lisa asks.

"A possible explanation is that the building was repaired and my memory altered." The computer responds.

"What would it take to change your memory?" Lisa asks.

"A system reboot." The voice answers.

"Do you have a record of any system reboots?" Lisa follows up.

"No." The voice says.

"That's convenient" I tell Lisa, "I'm not good at math but something isn't adding up."

"Well, there's three possible futures that we know about. There's the one we are currently living in, where humanity is extinct. There is the one that you came from and then there is the one that Katy came from. What do we know about the future Katy is from?" Lisa asks.

"I don't know what future she comes from, I just know she doesn't come from mine. But somehow she knew what my Katy did because she told me so I would trust her. Maybe she's the one behind everything." I offer.

"Well, there's nothing we can do about it. We're stuck in this future for now. I wonder how successful Jake and that other guy is doing catching our dinner."

Outside, dark clouds were beginning to shroud the sun. Outside, the wind brushed through the oaks and elms that guarded the courthouse, their branches swaying, their leaves turning over, signaling the coming storm. Outside, a man in suit ate his lunch, throwing pieces from his sandwich to skittish pigeons, as if he had all the time in the world. Outside, the world was still moving, breathing, free.

In here, in this room, the air was still, the fluorescent light was harsh, time was precious. In here, there was the click of the second hand on the wall clock. In here, there were furtive glances, or threatening glares from the 11 who had completed their work, done their duty, weighed the facts, and were ready to go home.

“Say, what time they bring dinner?” The fat man in the sweat soaked John Deere hat, juror number 3, said to no one in particular.

The foreman stopped drumming his fingers on the table. “They bring it when they bring it.” His tone cut deep and the fat man nodded a quick apology. The others took notice and sat up straighter, or cleared their throats, or moved their papers into position. “Now lets get back to business.”

The foreman loosened his tie, laced his fingers on the table in front of him, and leaned forward. “So next door in the jail, we’ve got Clifford Dawkins, our towns resident trouble maker. He walks in to The Sunnyside Up diner across the square there, pulls out a .22 caliber revolver, and shoots Ray Stokes, a beloved and highly respected school teacher in the chest, right there in front of 15 people. Then he just stands there, and waits for the police to arrest him. First degree murder, case closed.”

“We know this case, we’ve been over this all before.” Juror number 7, the bookstore owner, stared at the ceiling. “That Dawkins kid killed poor Mr. Stokes plain and simple.” Now she looked down at her red, claw like fingernails . “I knew it was only a matter of time with that one. I had to have him arrested for stealing a cook book from my store last summer.”

“You’re absolutely right Martina.” The foreman looked at her over the half frame reading glasses perched on his nose, and then at the others, some nodding in agreement.

“We’ve been over this case several times.” Now his gaze fixed on juror number 2, the retired bartender, the man standing in the way of going home to their own beds, their own people, their normal lives. “And we’re all in agreement, except for one.”

Juror number 2 was looking out the window, leaning back in his chair, smiling a secret smile, removed from the work to be done.

“Do you mind joining us?”

He gave the others a startled look, and let his chair come down to rest on all fours. “I do apologize.” He unzipped his tan, poplin ‘Old Man’ jacket, and gazed eagerly at the others. “There’s a storm coming in.” He nodded towards the window. “We sure could use the rain.”

A chorus of disgusted sighs, a “Come on!” and a “Really!?” rained down on him. He put his hands up to calm the storm.

“Okay, okay. Where were we then?”

The foreman stood, took off his suit coat and walked around the table, stopping directly behind juror number 2. “Well we were just about to wrap this up by taking another vote. A vote that’s sure to be a unanimous guilty.”

Juror number 2 looked over one shoulder, then the other, trying to place the foreman.

“You know I can’t do that.”

The others erupted in murmurs of anger, disbelief, frustration. “I know it’s hard for you all to believe but I’m still voting not guilty.”

“Damn it.” The foreman said plainly, but with the authority necessary to quiet the room. He walked back to his chair and sat heavily. “Why on earth would you think that killer deserves a not guilty?”

Juror number 2 licked his lips, gave the others a nervous glance, and cleared his throat.

“That’s right, convince us, tell us what’s going in in your head.” The foreman flashed a smug grin.

“Well, um, there really is more to this case than meets the eye.”

“Oh come on!” Juror number 10, the college girl in her junior year up at the State College. “He walked into that Cafe, in the middle of the morning breakfast rush, and he shot that poor man in cold blood, case closed.”

“nnnnnn...” juror number 2 stuttered with excitement. “nnnn...not in cold blood. You see, he, um, he may have had a reason, not an excuse but a legal reason, for doing what he did.”

“Such as?” The foremans voice was all sarcasm.

“Well, first of all, I, um I...I had to consider Mr. Dawkins from an emotional stand point. I know, it’s against our instruction, we’re to only consider the facts. Bbb...but I thought of him emotionally, as a human being. It became clear to me then, that he may not be guilty under the law.”

“I don’t follow.” Juror number 3 had his hand under the John Deere hat, scratching his head.

“Right. So, sssssso...I simply thought of Mr. Dawkins as I would my own son.” Snickers and eye rolling peppered the room. Juror number 2 took a deep breath, to snuff out the stuttering once and for all.

“No, seriously, I thought of him like he was my son. I see my son sitting there, waiting for someone to help him, to hear his side. We sure didn’t get a chance to hear his side.”

“We heard his side, they questioned him repeatedly and he never denied the fact that he killed Ray Stokes.” The foreman’s stare was now all intimidation.

“True, but he sure did give a lot of yes and no answers. Yes he says he killed Mr. Stokes. But when they ask him if he intendead to do it, he only said no. His attorney never followed up. He never got a chance to fully explain.”

The foreman’s eyes were lasers, meant to melt this man. “The psychiatrist explained why. He’s flat out crazy. His foster parents explained why. Mr. Dawkins was in and out of a dozen foster homes. He was expelled from school, arrested numerous times. He was a bad egg from the day he was born.”

Juror number 2 met the laser eyes head on as he spoke. “This Mr. Dawkins has had a rough life, but he is not a hardened killer, my friends. We only see a cold blooded killer, as some of you say, but we are choosing to ignore the facts, sure as sin.” The stare down continued.

“Maybe we feel intimidated.” The foreman snorted in disgust, and looked away. “Maybe we just want to go home.” Several jurors nodded enthusiastically.

“Clifford Dawkins can’t afford for us to be intimidated, or lazy.” A few jurors gave juror number 2 thoughtful nods of affirmation.

“We’ve been blinded by what seems to be an open and shut case. We only want this killer to be put away, to go away, so we can go home, nice and easy. But he is someone’s son, and a son deserves more than just the easy explanation.”

He paused to look around the table at each juror.

“Clifford was not flat out crazy. He is bi-polar, a condition that was not diagnosed until his court ordered psychiatric examination. Yes, he has been in and out of trouble since the day he was born. But why? Was he abused or neglected in those homes? This teacher, Mr. Stokes, why did this boy choose to kill him? What do we really know about him? Yes he taught the boy. But what really happened in those classrooms? The Principal mentioned some past ‘disciplinary infractions.’ What does that even mean, ‘disciplinary infractions?’”

Now the room was quiet, people were thinking. The clicking of the second hand on the wall clock counted off several minutes.

“My point is, we didn’t listen to all of the facts. We judged him as a monster, not as someone’s son.”

“So what?” The foreman continued to avoid looking at juror number 2.

The college girl was thumbing through her notes. “That defense attorney never asked how being bi-polar might have affected Mr. Dawkins, um, Clifford. That cross examination of the Principal was lacking too.” She drummed her pen thoughtfully on the table. “So maybe we do look at this case a little closer.”

Juror number 2 smiled. “The defense attorney didn’t ask a lot of questions at all. Maybe Clifford wasn’t given an adequate defense. That alone is enough to maybe not find him guilty.”

“Okay.” Juror number 3 put his John Deere hat on the table, and shrugged apologetically as some looked accusingly at him. “I’m okay with taking another look.”

“Well he’s a thief for sure, so why not a killer too.” Juror number 7 said.

“He stole a cook book from your store. Why a cook book? Why not steal cigarettes or liquor from another store. Why not just rob you for all the money you had in your register?”

“I don’t know.”

“Exactly. We don’t know.” He looked hard at her. “Why would your son steal a cook book from a store?”

“I said I don’t know.”

“So let’s look closer at this kid, at this case Let’s give him a fair shake.”

She thought for a few seconds, and then threw her hands up. “Fine. Whatever.”

The jurors around the table were suddenly in action. Some were in quiet conversation, someone said ‘Why not?’ Some wereurgently beginning to argue with others. The foreman raised his hand to quiet the room.

“So let’s put it to a vote right now. Let’s see who wants to put a murderer away, and who wants to give Mr. Stokes the justice he deserves.” The room quieted. “All for a guilty verdict, murder in the first degree, raise your hands”

Seven hands, no six hands went up.

“Not guilty?” Six hands went up.

The foreman shook his head in disgust, or surrender. “Fine then. Who wants to start us off, again?” Five hands went up.

And juror number 2, took a look out the window. Outside the first few drops of rain were pitter pattering against the window, or staining the sidewalk. The man in the suit, and his following of pigeons were gone. Then he took a look around the room. Inside now, the still air and the harsh flourescent lights, and the ticking of that clock were overshadowed by something else.

Inside, now, there was hope.

#theholdout #randomhouse #theprose

No

(these aren’t part of the actual challenge, just additional words to get my word count up to fifteen, which for some strange reason is always the minimum number of words required in all of these challenges, which never actually really makes sense to me because sometimes you might just want to write something really short and concise without blabbering on about it for fifteen words, which is what I really wanted to do here but wasn’t allowed to because of this ridiculous minimum words rule [which is always set at fifteen, for reasons nobody knows!] )

Thank you

:)

I can't stop from thinking and over elaborating every single thing I do; you'd think it wouldn't be difficult to just shut down my thoughts, but here I am, once again, rethinking the darkest thoughts to ever consume a human without any escape from it because it seems that no matter what I do, even if I find momentary relief or silence, they'll always come back louder, breaking through the surface of my numb soul with a knife.

Once upon a time, in a small, green, dingy house under a slate grey and mossy cliff, which was very tall, and broad, there lived an extremely old woman, who, despite the accusations and whispers and gossip and children's-stories-that-only-the-very-young-and-naive-and-completely-gullible-could-ever-possibly-believe, of the nearby town, which was small and smelly and full of very rude and ungrateful peasants, was NOT a witch with a horrible, disgusting wart on her nose, or on her left eyebrow, or crooked teeth that might fly out if she laughed too hard, thank you very much.

It isn’t necessarily such an audacious thing to imagine an atrociously long sentence; the odd pairing of tediousness and inexplicit audacity are such a harmonious match and can create things like this curiously long sentence which is as similarly inclined to mischief as the melody of clangs and clatters in a sturdy children filled country house covered in a thick blanket of snow.

Hey everyone! First off I just wanted to say thank you for all the entries! I really wasn’t expecting that many! Secondly, you all did a fantastic job and had some really great entries! So well done! Finally it is time to announce the winner:

“The lives we live would be incredibly boring if we were free of pain and suffering.”

By @timsevertson

Congrats to timsevertson!!

Let’s skip the mundane. (You know what I mean: Two eyes. Two hands. Two feet. Etc.) Most of us are built like that — though not all.

Skin? If the average person has 22 square feet — two square meters — then I have a bit more. In fact, a bit more than I should. Veins? Let’s say 75,000 miles. That’s close.

If you scraped off my fat, you could make seven bars of soap. (Maybe 10.) But who'd want to shower using soap made from people fat? Not me. That's for sure.

My brain could survive a handful of minutes without oxygen. Perhaps a few more — but not many. When I listen to music, my heartbeat tends to sync with the rhythm. Yours does, too. Most people react that way.

Here’s something odd: One-quarter of the bones in my body are in my feet. Imagine that! I can’t. (Seems like it should be more.)

There's something like 100,000 miles of blood vessels squirming through my body. That means you could lay them out one-by-one and go around the world four times — though I can’t image why you’d want to do that.

By the way, I’m taller in the morning than I am at night. My left kidney is positioned a bit higher than my right one. I can’t breathe and swallow at the same time. (That’s probably true about you as well.)

Although I’m 72, my ears and nose continue to grow — at least that’s what someone on the Internet said. Know what else they said? That I shed about 600,000 particles of skin each hour, my brain produces enough electricity to light up a light bulb, and my body carries around about four pounds of bacteria. ("Yuk!")

One final thought: half of my hand-strength comes from my pinky finger. Ponder that next time you want to make a “pinky promise” with me

Husband slaps wife really hard after getting so mad and frusturated at her.

When he notices how mad she became, he said "Only those who truly love you hit you!"

The wife replies cleverly "Let me to show you how much I love you!" After saying this, she started beating him up with the broom in her hand and he ended up in hell for his sins. She then looking at his dead body, calmed herself down by saying, "I killed him with my love, He had an overdosage of my sweetness and as a result, It was obvious he was going to die of diabetes!"

Turning 18 might be the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me. I can vote! And get married! And receive the maximum sentence for homicide! Maybe all on the same day if I’m feeling ambitious. You see, I am now an official, card carrying (according to the State of California DMV) woman, and that’s a bit terrifying because it begs the question, what kind of woman do I want to be? Now, I have a vague idea already, independent, can do 100 push-ups in a row, and finally able to own the fact that my ideal man looks like the lead for a Tim Burton movie (tall, skinny, has scissors for hands, the usual), but after that it’s all ???, ???, and ????

All of my role models (except Dan Savage and Salem from Sabrina the Teenage Witch) are women. “But what about Gandhi?”, you may cry. “What about Martin Luther King? What about JESUS??” To which I would reply, “Did Gandhi have the gall to dye his hair and eyebrows fuschia and take up jazz singing at the age of 76?” Please. That was my Grandma Vicky. “Did MLK fight off a mountain lion using only a NorthFace fleece?” As if, that was my Aunt Marge. “Jesus may have died for our sins, but did he join a sex cult to do research for his masters thesis?” If so they conveniently left it out of the Bible. My beloved sociology professor on the other hand? Well, I’m sure you know the drill by now.

These women that I look up to: my friends, aunties, and teachers all come from incredibly different walks of life. Yet they have a few essential things in common. They live their lives intentionally, fighting their fears. They know what they’re about, and are working hard to make it happen, all while putting together cute outfits, and having amazing personalities.

Me on the other hand? So far, what I’ve learned about being a woman is a) Acne doesn’t just magically go away the second you turn 18 (seems like that should be illegal but ok) b) The best part of a metal show is that there is absolutely no line for the women's restroom, and the worst part is everything else. (To all the ladies I see looking bored to tears next to their boyfriend thrashing about like a dying fish, why are we doing this to ourselves? We could be at home eating snacks from Trader Joes and watching My Strange Addiction!) and c) Life is absolutely terrifying and exhausting, and some days you just want to take Lyft home, but then you remember the whole being sold into sex slavery thing. Not that it even matters, because you don’t have enough money for Lyft anyway, so you just have to boss up, take the subway and pray you don’t get stabbed by a crackhead (#relatable). Yup, that’s pretty much the sum total of what I’ve learned in the 4 months I’ve been a woman. How will I ever become the woman I want to be when I still haven't figured out basic stuff, like how to rock a beret in a way that looks more French and less Che Guvarra, and how to open a pad without alerting everyone in a five block radius?

According to a couple fairly reputable sources (a woman I met on the bus, and Cosmo) the answer to becoming this woman would be mastering calculus because, “If a woman can do calculus she can do anything!”, and learning how to properly suck the D (“The day you learn that you mostly use your hand and create the illusion that you are putting an entire erect penis in your mouth is the day you really become a woman”) I did get a D in calculus, does that count? No? Ah well.

So how did these women do it? In my head their transformations from awkward adolescent to confident queen took place in a smoothly edited montage set to “Eye of the Tiger.” In reality, they did things like accidentally murder their bosses parakeets, elope to Mexico with men who didn’t speak a word of English (not a problem if only they had spoken Spanish), and get perms. In short, they messed up. A lot. They took risks, often foolish ones, made mistakes, and got knocked down. But they always, always, always got back up again. Learning from their mistakes, they continued to move forward. So there may be hope for me yet. You see, unlike calculus, and fellatio, I am amazing at messing up.