Henry let the phone clatter to the floor before the message was complete. It was an old-fashioned landline, so it swung just above the kitchen tiles, knocking against the plaster wall. This, along with the distant drone of a lawn mower, were the only sounds to permeate the open, empty house. But even the lawnmower couldn’t drown out the haunting message that still lingered in his ears.

This message is for the family of Abigail Jane Peterman. This subject has been charged and tried with petty larceny at the 20^th hour on the 24^th of April 2055. In accordance with the Zero Tolerance Act, the subject, Abigail Jane Peterman, was terminated on site. Her ashes can be picked up at the 39^th Precinct after processing. You will be notified about this within the next 24 hours.

The message had continued, but Henry couldn’t stomach it. He’d dropped the antique phone and proceeded to retch his tomato soup lunch into the sink.

Abigail. How could she have been so reckless?

His daughter. His only daughter.

Gone.

Only three years ago, Henry had gone through the same protocol—the same grisly, inescapable nightmare. The message had come through on the phone that his wife, Diane, had bought for the family. She’d always loved period pieces, so when she’d stumbled upon an old, rotary phone, she had to have it. Abigail had hated it, insisting they be a “regular family that at least tried to act normal”. Even she had come around to it though. Henry knew she loved being able to explain to her friends what it was and how it worked. He’d even caught her explaining it to a dumbfounded Liam, her oft-dumbfounded boyfriend.

Just like with Abigail, the robotic voice had informed him of the death of his wife, the only personal touch being that of the inserted name and crime patched in.

Diane had been charged with insider trading, something that had seemed very unlike her. Henry had always wished he could’ve asked her what had happened.  She’d been killed there at work, never to return, and her ashes never responded to his questions.

Henry was walking to the basement as if in a daze. By the time he even registered it, he had already descended the wooden stairs whose green paint flecked off with each step of his boot. He went straight for his liquor cabinet, one which he hadn’t opened in nearly a year. He opened it now though, pulling a handle of bourbon out. His hands were shaking as he pulled a glass from another shelf, and he poured himself a drink. When it was close to the top, he threw it back, fought back a grimace, and began to pour himself another.

This wasn’t why he’d come down here though. He felt as if he were not in control of his body, but he was still privy to its yearnings. And it yearned for retribution now, the only way it knew how.

He took a large sip of his second pour, worked the wooden cork back into the vial, and closed the glass doors. Henry then stood and began to push the liquor cabinet to the side. It resisted at first, used to this stagnant position amidst the dust and the sticky floor, but eventually it relented. It slide along a familiar line, revealing a small hatch in the wall hidden behind it.

Henry grabbed the handle and pulled the plaster door, which came right out.

Inside was a dark, unlit concrete hole. There was nothing but cobwebs, plaster, remnants of old insulation—–and a shotgun.

It sat, unassuming in the middle of the hidden crevice, unseen and unused for how long, Henry could only guess. A small box of ammunition was next to it, open slightly to reveal the glint of metallic bullets within.

Henry pulled the shotgun out, and hastily began to feed bullets into its open mouth.

He knew that owning a gun without being a part of the police, like breaking all laws, carried with it a heavy price. You were shot on sight, no questions asked. Tried and convicted in a matter of seconds. The Zero Tolerance Act had brought crime down to a near memory, the harsh retaliation scaring the general populace into model citizens.

Henry was going to get his daughters ashes from the 39^th Precinct, whether her ashes had been processed or not. He would be taking his shotgun with him to collect. He knew this would mean triggering a kill-on-sight order.

He was okay with that. He had orders of his own.

Reese felt a pull at his navel.

His heart leapt. He even let out an exhilarated hoot.

Finally, some progress. And just in time too, as they were nearing the end of their supply.

“C’mon Miles, it’s working! We need to hurry!”

His brother, partner in crime, and only person he trusted to run such experiments with, leapt into action.

“I’m hurrying alright! I think we should run through the safety plan one more time though.”

He said all this through gritted teeth, trying his best to keep two balloons from escaping to the sky. He held 4 more balloons in each hand, making him look like an overworked circus performer. Miles was too young to really sell the image as he was in the third grade just like Reese, but perhaps he could’ve been a circus run away. This made Reese chuckle to himself, as the furthest Miles would’ve ever thought to run away was the end of the driveway—if that.

“We talked about this! I start floating away, you start shooting me down with the air soft gun, one balloon at a time,” said Reese, tugging at the many strings around his waist to make sure they were all secure.

“Yeah, what if I hit you in the eye?” said Miles, continuing to hastily tie more balloons around his brother.

“I’ll have my eyes closed.”

“Still could shoot your eye out,” said Miles, now unencumbered by holding any balloon strings in his mouth, “plus I’m such a lousy shot.”

“You’re not going to shoot my eye out,” said Reese, grabbing Miles wrist for a moment, “Besides, ill bring the scissors for an emergency eject if that will make you feel better.”

Miles finished tying the balloon and then stopped to look at his brother.

“That’s 880,” he said with a smile, “you feel anything?”

“Yeah, I can feel us making history,” said Reese.

“I’ll get the last ten,” said Miles, and he hustled into the garage, leaving Reese alone in the middle of the backyard, the only thing anchoring 880 balloons to earth.

Miles came sprinting out of the garage, five balloons in each hand.

“It really does look like your getting pulled up a little,” Miles said with a laugh.

He tied one balloon after another, seemingly holding his breath with each knot.

And then, with balloon 887, Reese felt it. Without any effort, both feet were slowly lifting from the grass until they weren’t touching it at all.

Reese was hovering.

“Get the last two on!” he shouted at Miles. Miles did what he was ordered, murmuring “oh god” the whole while.

“Done,” Miles yelled as he knotted the last balloon, and stepped back to admire his handiwork.

Reese began to swing his legs as if he were walking, but his feet merely grazed the grass. The effort shifted him a few feet to the left. He let out a holler and continued to walk in the air, unimpeded.

“One small step for Reese, one giant leap for Orchard Street!” he screamed, as free as he’d ever felt.

Miles was now holding the airsoft gun, aimed shakily up at his brother.

Reese continued to float upwards, exhilarated by the flight.

Dr. Forsteader analyzed each person that entered the room as if they were characters. And they were in a way. He’d made a life out of telling stories, but in reality, he considered himself a master of deception. He had never created a character a day in his life, simply observed a person long enough to boil down their DNA. From there, he just transposed them into words and let them wear a costume in his work; sometimes of an artist, or a knight, and sometimes a hero.

This new crop of creative writers that wandered, wide eyed, into his room seemed wholly uninteresting. Too many scarves, and leather bags, not to mention the barrage of wire rim glasses. He wasn’t mad at the look. In fact, it was a look he himself employed to distinguish himself as this semi-elusive breed—writer.

But he’d learned long ago that writers made for poor characters. They, at their core, were heroes all too aware that they were heroes. Narratives were quite plain to them, sprawled like a road map. A character conscious of the puppet strings governing their actions was no puppet at all. And a puppet without stings was just a person—and people were the worst characters of all.

And yet here he was, surrounded by his own kind.

No wonder he was such a terrible writer.

Herman poured a bit more vinegar into the crudely constructed, paiper-mache cavern, and held his breath.

He waited a few seconds, questioning himself with each tick. Had he put enough in? Was the consistency of the dish soap right? How could he levy it all for maximum eruption?

He was being ridiculous. He’d measured and remeasured many times over. It would go off without a hitch, he just needed to have a little faith.

And patience. Lots of patience.

There was a gurgle, and another pop, and the lava began spilling out.

Only it was yellowish.

All his measuring and he’d forgotten the god damn food coloring.

Herman dropped his head into his hands, exhaustion and embarrassment hitting him in equal measure.

A light flicked on in the adjacent hallway, followed by the shuffle of slippers on carpet. It was a subtle sound, only heard when listened for.

“Are you still going at it, Captain Ahab? The rest of the crew has deserted you for hours.”

His wife, Charlotte, was not upset, but Herman could tell she had woken from sleep. It was softer than her already soft voice—dreamy and kind as they come.

“Yes, it’s just I can’t quite get the eruption right. And the consistency of it. And the last one-, “he laughed, hearing the crazed, tired crack in his voice, “the last one I forgot the food coloring. Yellow lava dear, can you imagine?”

“Oh, I can,” said his wife, not nearly as disturbed as he was, “now come to bed, babe. It’s a 4^th grade science project, and our little scientist has been in bed for hours.”

“But I am a scientist. A real one,” Herman said, exasperated, “I should be able to figure this damn thing out. I mean, what will it look like if the son of a scientist gets a B on his project.”

“It’ll look the same as when he hit a home run. You’ve never hit a home run in your life as far as I’m aware.”

“That was uncalled for,” Herman said in exaggerated anguish, not even taking his face out of his palms, “kicking a man while he’s down.”

Charlotte was upon him with the swiftness of a leopard to a cub, rubbing his shoulders.

“All I’m saying is just like his accomplishments aren’t all yours, neither are his failures.”

“Besides,” she added, “failure is a teaching tool. Isn’t that what they kept saying at parent-teacher night?”

“I don’t know,” he said, a little more upbeat, “I was too busy listening to the science project requirements.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she said with a grin and a playful slap.

“I know,” he said, returning the smile, “just give me one more test run.”

She sighed and began to retreat to their bedroom.

“Fine,” she said, “please don’t be too long.”

He was already remeasuring vinegar for another go at it.

“Don’t forget that lava is red—not yellow!” she yelled from the bedroom.

“What about a commercial universe where all the cereal characters interact with each other? I am talking a WHOLE story line! Running narrative and everything!”

Evan didn’t stop stocking shelves, just let out a sigh. He was too hungover for this, and honestly, the fact that Dallas had been out drinking too made him all the madder.

But there was such genuine fascination in Dallas’ voice that he could not help but engage.

“Who is asking for this?” said Evan, putting the last Capn’ Crunch on the shelf.

“Who was asking for Pirates of the Caribbean?” responded Dallas.

“Or Transformers?” he added with more gusto, looking at his friend from up on the red Hannaford ladder.

Evan shrugged. He had a point about Transformers.

“Alright, but these are commercials, not movie franchises,” said Evan, angry that he could feel his skepticism evaporating with every word.

“Think of the Marvel end credit scenes,” said Dallas, sensing his opening, “right? Those were never anything before Marvel, but eventually they became almost a bigger pull than some of the movies. Why? Because it linked everything. Everyone wants to be in the know!”

“The know about cereal brands though?” Evan said, a last-ditch effort to stop his friend’s unbreakable positivity.

“I mean, we all have to watch commercials, right? Why not pitch your brand and tell a story? It’s the final frontier–the last unconquered avenue of storytelling.”

Dallas was descending the ladder now, ready to stock the next shelf with Honey Bunches of Oats.

“Bro, I didn’t get you this job so you could talk my ear off while I’m hungover,” said Evan.

Then, feeling he may have sounded a bit too annoyed for his oversensitive friend, he put on his most motherly voice, adding, “I brought you into this store and, god damn it, I can take you out!”

“Whatever,” said Dallas, hurt in his voice, “let’s just get this done then.”

They were quiet for a moment, long enough for Evan to realize that quiet was not what he needed to get through this head-pulsing day.

“Hey, Hey, Dal look,” said Evan, working to get his best friend’s attention.

Dallas waited, then turned to Evan, trying his best to give a stern look.

“I bet Count Chocula would be the villain of the CBU. You know, Cereal Brand Universe. He’d probably be trying to keep all the chocolatey goodness for his cereal and not share with Snap, Crackle, and Pop or something like that.”

Evan tried to make the same toothy grin as Count Chocula while holding the box next to his face.

Dallas sighed, his stern look dissolving to a smile.

“That’s fine, but Lucky the Leprechaun would be the main hero of the story,” he said with a laugh, “That is nonnegotiable.”

Oliver refused to break eye contact with the mangled cookie in the middle of the table. He was furious to the point of tears, but he also did not cry, and he refused to let that change now.

“Can I get you anything else, sir?” said the waitress with a purple streak in her hair. There was a hint of nervousness in her voice. How long had she been there? How long had he been silent, staring?

I told you I didn’t want a cookie!

It echoed loud within him like the toll of a church bell in a grand cathedral.

“No, thank you,” is what he eventually went with, not bothering to look up or even attempt a smile.

The waitress was silent for long enough that Oliver thought she might have left, although he didn’t dare check.

“I’ll be right back with your check,” disproved his theory.

The waitress must’ve watched him a moment longer before actually retreating from his table. Oliver hoped she was concerned he might get violent. She didn’t know what she’d done. How could she?  But she’d done it all the same. Momentary discomfort seemed an appropriate punishment.

Oliver took a deep breath.

It was his fault really, for even risking coming to a Chinese restaurant. For over a decade he’d been able to avoid their allure. Now he regretted it—hating it all for what it was.  He hated the vibrant neon sign, the delicious garlic smell, he even hated the quaint oriental water-color paintings that hung everywhere. He hated the one depicting an elegant swan emerging from the brush the most.

Oliver reached for the bagged cookie, weighing it in his hands.

For most it was an amusing trinket, yet for him it contained an unspeakable truth. A universal, inescapable essence that would follow him until its purpose was fulfilled.

Oliver had suffered through twelve fortune cookies in his life. Twelve accurate predictions. Twelve fates that found him whether he wanted them to or not. He’d survived though, and he had no reason to believe this would be any different.

Before his courage betrayed him, he ripped open the plastic, exposing the cookie with trembling fingers.

With a perfect break, he snapped into the cookie and snatched out the paper within.

Nervous, he read.

Happiness or sadness-it is entirely your choice.

He read it again to be sure.

And then again.

“Your check sir. You can just—are you alright?” said the waitress, having returned to Oliver’s table.

Oliver didn’t know how to explain his happiness. He didn’t know how to describe coherently that he’d gotten his life back, so he just nodded, shaking a few tears free.

The sun lit the world like a memory, as if Jackson were momentarily living life in reverse. The present was already immortalized, or at least that’s how it felt. Today was destined for greatness. The sun knew it, so did the flowers, and the birds even sang of it.

Jackson had conspired to skip school and the world now conspired to reward his recklessness. It had looked beautiful from the window in the classroom, but he couldn’t have possibly known it was this beautiful. The glimpse of sun and breeze had been so juxtaposed against the florescent tubes of light and the stuffy air within. He’d thought to ask Mr. Martino to open a window, but, as he already knew the answer, he’d chosen not to. Instead he’d asked to use the bathroom and found himself here, fleeing to the woods behind the school.

He was nearly to the forest by the time he heard the metal door click from across the grass field that would host Field Day in a few short weeks.

Jackson liked 6^th grade, he had friends, and despite his current predicament, he almost never got in trouble. It would be hard to explain what had happened today to his parents. His mother would cry, and his father would be stern. Normally, this would be the only thing preoccupying his mind, but today, the beauty of spring overwhelmed him.

He sprinted alongside buzzing bumblebees and low-flying robins, through the gravel track, and into the thin woodland path.

The sun was dulled here, poking in through the trees to check on Jackson’s journey in intervals. But Jackson traversed with ease, the comfort of iteration pushing him along.

His easy jog steadied to a brisk walk, pushed along by the electric excitement.

And he was rewarded by the sight of the stream before him. It was his spot. A favorite of his since he was a kid. It had been a kingdom in his imagination once but had become a nostalgic refuge from the grown world now. In fact, it always had been, the grown fears being a notorious shape-shifter. Just when you’d identified its shadowy face, it changed ever so slightly–familiar enough to gain entrance but abnormal enough to be a monstrous aberration.

But such aberrations weren’t welcome here.

The light of the sun shone along the water and Jackson grabbed a stone. It was the first one he saw—not perfect but circular enough for a throw.

He snapped his wrist and sent it skipping along the water.

One, two, it bounced along its surface before plunking into the water only to disappear.

He grabbed another, this one muddier but rounder than the first, snapped his wrist and set it free. It made three jumps, its final a shudder for life before giving in to the death rattle of the stream.

He was prepared to throw a third when a note grabbed his wrist.

It was a whistle, like a bird, but distinctly human, overlapping only in their beauty.

“Fancy meeting you here,” said a girl’s voice.

“I’m nervous,” said Jackson, proceeding with throwing this stone.

It skipped once, high and arcing before diving with a splash. Not dissimilar from the state of his heart now.

“Always honest,” said the girl, “Why so nervous?”

“I’m sure you could guess,” said Jackson, spinning around, his mouth suddenly dry.

He turned to look at Olivia now. He was disappointed to see she was gorgeous as ever, even in her outdoor attire. She had freckles that blanketed her cheeks, but, to Jackson, it did nothing but draw attention to her face and that’s where her smile stayed. Her smile glimmered always, and Jackson found himself craving its light. But now it made him nervous, as if he were under the spotlight.

“Is it because I like you?” asked Olivia.

Normally, Jackson would’ve tried to banter with her, but he was now at a frenzied level of emotion.

“I’ve never kissed anyone before,” he said, fully aware how lame it probably sounded, especially in his Kingdom.

“And you won’t for a little bit, Jackson,” said Olivia, “these things take time.”

“You’re the one who scheduled our kiss for today,” said Jackson, confused.

“Yeah, only to put your mind at ease, I know how you get,” said Olivia with a laugh, “but it needs to be somewhat romantic. I mean, it’s my first kiss too!”

“So just tell me when,” said Jackson.

“Well, that’s definitely not romantic,” replied Olivia, “I can’t tell you when.”

“So then, how will I know?”

“That’s half the fun,” said Olivia, her smile bigger than ever in her field of freckles, “now, c’mon, let’s go for a quick swim!”

“What’s the other half?” yelled Jackson after her, but she was already diving into the stream.

Jamaad threw his duffle over his shoulder and slipped his oversized headphones over his average-sized ears.

He was to be last on the bus, and that’s how he liked it. He loved being part of a team, but not for the same reason as most of his friends. Charles liked the parties it gave him access to, for Vince, the girls, and Tommy just loved to joke with the guys. They all wanted to win, sure, but for Jamaad it was a need. When you grew up like he had, it was the only way. When winning was a family affair and losing meant going to bed on an empty stomach, you lived differently. You had to.

And tonight was an empty stomach kind of night.

Jamaad was about to step onto the bus, prepared only to stew with his music in the back, when a hand landed on his shoulder.

It was Coach. He was a skinny man with a beard and large, wiry glasses. He was younger than Jamaad’s parents, but he’d coached at the middle school long enough that tradition demanded respect. Jamaad wondered if he had kids. He’d never asked.

It was clear Coach wanted a word, so Jamaad slid one side of the headphone off his ear, leaving Lupe Fiasco playing in the other.

“Yes, Coach?” he said politely.

“I would say forget it, but we both know that won’t be the case,” said Coach with a solemn nod.

“How can I, Coach? I let the whole team down.”

Coach was quiet a moment.

“You’ll get many more shots at winning the game before your basketball career is through, Maad” he said finally.

“But I turned it over, Coach. I didn’t even get a shot off,” said Jamaad, feeling the raw emotions creep up on the back of his throat.

“Well, then I guess getting a shot off next time will be progress enough,” said Coach with a smile.

He squeezed Jamaad’s shoulder and headed onto the warm bus.

Darin was both predator and prey on this warm August evening.

He skirted around the muddy rim of the stream, eyes scanning for frogs while his ears strained to hear even a note of his mother’s yell. With the purple haze of dusk already descended, Darin knew it was only a matter of time before her call wafted down to him along the breeze. He was on edge, not because he didn’t love his mothers voice, which sounded like baked goods taste, but he knew he was up against a clock.

Hunting frogs was not dissimilar from fishing. It required patience and stealth, both of which did not thrive under pressure. Darin’s sandal squelched deep into the mud, sending a few small frogs leaping for the safety of the water. He could’ve pounced, but for a master frog-catcher like himself, these weren’t worth his time. They were hardly frogs, let alone trophies.

Then he saw a prize frog. Green, brown, and bulbous, it sat calm on the upcoming bank. This frog exuded a power over the zone, like a camouflaged blimp. He seemed beyond confident in his safety.

Darin slowed his gait and lowered his body, steadying his net. It was his favorite weapon, and he saw it as that–a weapon. Thus, he called it Excalibur.  It fit him well and it was the only net he trusted to get the job done. It was sturdy and swift, and for those reasons it had cost him all his Christmas money. It cut through the air with wise precision and it was covered in mud–a reminder of past battles. Yet somehow, it remained as regal as ever.

Darin’s breathing slowed, inching ever closer to his prey. The last couple steps were made in near slow motion. Darin prayed that the heart that hammered around in his chest was only loud in his ears.

The frog king continued to sit, unsuspecting on his grassy throne. Within reach, Darin struck, bringing the net down with the boldness of experience. His prey tried to escape to the water, but was too late, finding his way blocked. It squirmed in its cage and Darin leapt forward to secure the catch.

He walked back along the edge of the stream; the former cautiousness gone. Replacing this was a giddiness. The raucous buzz of success.

And just in time too, as he heard his mother’s call asking him to return home.

Darin didn’t like third grade all that much. He wasn’t good at sports. He was no Picasso, and he’d come in last at the poorly named Fall Fun Run three years in a row. His parents had just finalized a divorce, and his younger sister was already better at multiplication than him.

It had been a rough couple years for Darin, and an even tougher spring.

But he’d caught the largest frog in the stream and, for today, that was good enough.