Microstory 2006: Idaho

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All of us go to a middle school that starts at 6th grade, and ends in 8th grade. Before that, we were in elementary school, and after this, we’ll go to high school. That’s not how it is everywhere, though. When my papa was thirteen, his mother got a call from a school district in Idaho Falls, which is in Idaho, of course. When he was three, she started working as a teacher at a junior high, which is only 7th and 8th grades. She went to college to learn how to be a teacher, but after she had kids, she decided to stay home with them, and never actually got to be a teacher yet. In 1986, she had been doing it for ten years when they were in the middle of building a brand new school in Idaho. They asked her to be the principal of it, but it was not like the one where she was already. This school had all the grades in the same place. Kindergartners and 12th graders all went to the same really, really big building. I’m sure they had special reasons for doing it like that, but I don’t know what they are. I think the school is still there. As I was saying, papa’s mother moved the whole family there so she could be principal. She was making a lot of money from doing that. My dad says that 40,000 would be more than 100,000 in today’s dollars. I don’t understand why it’s different, but it sounds like a lot. Papa’s father had to quit his really good paying job when they moved to Idaho, but since he was the boss in Wyoming, he was able to get a really good new job in Idaho doing pretty much the same thing. This is where they lived for many years.

Microstory 2005: South Dakota

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When I was 8 years old, my papa and dad took me to South Dakota to see Mount Rushmore, but this wasn’t the first time that papa went there. He went when he was 11 with his whole sixth grade class. Lots of people who live in that area like to do that. It’s this big mountain with four presidents’ faces carved into it. You’ve probably seen pictures. It was really cool at first for me, but then I was a little bored. You would probably have just as much fun with a really good picture. I was just with my dads, but my papa went with his class, even though the school he went to didn’t have very much money. His family was probably the richest in the town, but that is not something they bragged about. They used their money to help people. And one of the things that they did was pay for the whole trip for all of the kids! The teachers wanted the kids to go, and the kids wanted to go, but a lot of the parents couldn’t afford it. So my grandpa donated 3,000 dollars! They only needed $2,500, but he added a little more so they could get a little bit better motel to sleep in for one night, and a little bit better food to eat. All of the families were really happy that the kids were able to go on the trip. The class made this big thank you card for my papa, and gave it to him, even though it wasn’t really his money. Anyway, my papa liked the trip, and he learned a lot about mountains and the presidents there. I don’t think I learned as much as he did, but I’m still glad that I got to go too.

Microstory 2004: Colorado

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For most of their lives, my grandparents weren’t able to go on vacations. My grandpa was so poor, if he ever had a day when he wasn’t working, he was trying to do other things for work. He would paint a neighbor’s fence, or help out at the local gas station. Anything he could find to save money, he was doing it. This continued for many years, even after grandpa got a better job in Wyoming. They occasionally went to places nearby, but nothing that anyone would call a family vacation. In 1981, which was five years after the new job, grandpa was experiencing something that my dad calls burnout. That means his job was really hard, and he wasn’t taking care of his mental health. He had recently gotten an even better promotion, and he was working all the time. His wife made him take some time off so they could go on a real vacation. They chose Denver, Colorado. They chose it because it was in a different state, but also not too far away, so they were able to drive to it in a day. My papa was about to become an eight-year-old, and it was the summertime. He had a lot of memories of this period in his life, but he couldn’t remember much about this trip. He knew that he was at some kind of sports game, and also that they went hiking. He thinks they probably spent one of the days shopping too. What my grandma said is that my papa’s father loved this trip, and it changed how he saw the world. They would start going on more trips from now on, which is what helped my papa to end up going to all fifty states in the United States.

Microstory 2003: Wyoming

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In the year 1976, my papa’s father went out looking for better work, and he finally found it, but it was in a different state. In fact, he had to drive over 160 miles to the interview. But he got the job! But of course, he couldn’t do that every single day, since it would take him almost three hours each time! So he moved the whole family to a city called Buffalo, Wyoming. You may have heard of the Buffalo in New York, but you can actually have two different cities with the same name. It happens all the time. Anyway, the house they moved into was a lot bigger, because grandpa’s job was a lot better, so he was making a lot more money. My papa and his sister now had their own separate rooms, but the dog still always slept in my aunt’s room. I don’t know why. Before he died, papa told me that his first memory was of this new house in Wyoming, which he thought of as his first house, even though he lived in another one before, when he was a baby. Have you ever thought about your first memory? I do all the time. You probably don’t remember being a really little baby. What papa said is that he remembered playing in the leaves with his sister and a neighbor while their parents watched from the porch. He says that it was a lot of fun, but it had just rained, so the leaves were still a little bit wet and slimy. My first memory was when I was about the same age too, but it’s not a happy one, so my dad told me that I shouldn’t put it on the slide. I’m glad that my papa had a good memory for his first one.

Microstory 2002: Montana

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When my papa was younger than me, he lived in a city called Billings, Montana, but like Alabama, he doesn’t remember it. Also like Alabama, he went back a few times when he was older to visit friends of the family. He only lived there for real for three years before my grandpa found a better job in Wyoming. For three years, he worked at things that my dad calls odd jobs, which means that they didn’t last very long. He was always very stressed and angry because he lost his factory job, but he was still a very nice man. He always gave my cousins a lot of great presents before he died. Grandpa died eight years ago, so I never knew him. He was born in Montana, and lived there for many years before he had his own kids. He retired in Florida, but that’s a story for another slide. I’m telling you about Montana now, which is where my papa lived until he was three. The house that they lived in was very small, because his family didn’t have very much money. He and his sister had to share a room with the dog. When my grandma was talking about this, she said that my papa was the best baby she had ever met in her life. Her daughter was a very fussy baby, but not my papa. Papa’s sister, who is my aunt, was only two years older than him, so she was born in 1971. Her name is Aunt Cooper. My grandma said that papa was a very happy baby, who was happy where they were living. Luckily, he didn’t have to be like that for very long when his father got a great opportunity to run a new plant in Wyoming. You can go to the next slide to hear about that.

Microstory 2001: Alabama

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My papa, Aubrey was born in Tuscaloosa, Alabama on July 26, 1973 to father Burchard Jardine, and mother Daphne Smolak. Smolak was her maiden name, which means that that’s what her name was before she was married. She was a schoolteacher, and he worked in a factory. They were on their way back from a trip to Alabama when his mom gave birth at a hospital. It was about a month before papa was supposed to be born, so he was very small, and a little sick. He had to stay in the hospital for 11 days before the doctors said that he was healthy enough to leave and go home. He wasn’t able to breathe on his own, so they put him in a plastic box, and hooked him up to all these machines. They were also worried that he would get really sick, so they had to watch him all the time. My grandparents were sad and scared, but they prayed, and knew that he would get better, and he did. While they were there, papa’s dad lost his job at the factory, because he was supposed to be back at work on Monday, and his boss wasn’t very nice about it. It was the summertime, so my grandma didn’t lose her job. It was fine. Since he was just a baby, papa doesn’t even remember being in Alabama, but he went back when he was older to meet the doctor who delivered him. The doctor was very old by then, but he was still alive! He is not anymore, or he would be over 100 years old! My papa was 50 when he died, which is very young to die. Anyway, when papa was better, his parents left Alabama, and drove back to where they lived, which was Montana. It’s really far away, so it took them three days of driving. I bet they were pretty tired.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: July 22, 2398

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No waiting, no getting sidetracked. They decide to get to Utah quickly, and start formulating a plan to get Alt!Mateo out of prison. Does he deserve to get out, or will he turn out to be a psychopathic killer? Hard to say, none of them knows him all that well, but they can’t just leave him there either. Most of the team has stayed in Kansas City. Leona and Ramses have a lab to finish, and Angela has her own thing going down on the first floor. Heath managed to convince Marie to stay out of it, for the sake of their marriage, so it’s just Mateo, Kivi, Alt!Leona, and Andile. They don’t know what they’re going to do, but they don’t want to waste time. It’s a two day trip from Kansas City to Provo, Utah, with a stop in the middle in Aurora, Colorado. They can’t take The Olimpia, because it’s still in need of some repair, which Ramses is doing during his free time. He never takes any actual free time. The workload will catch up with him later. It’s mid-afternoon now, and they have made it to their resting place, the McIver house. It looks a lot like their farmhouse in Kansas. Family aesthetics.

“Welcome, welcome,” Alyssa says sincerely, ushering them in.

The eldest boy, Moray begins to help them with their bags, deaf to the protests.

“Thank you for letting us stay with you again,” Mateo says graciously.

“Do you really have business out here,” Alyssa asks, “or are you just making sure we haven’t told anyone about all that stuff in Lebanon.”

“We really do have business. We just needed a place to stay for the night,” Alt!Leona explains. We’ll be out of your hair in the morning.”

“You can stay as long as you need, there’s plenty of room,” Alyssa promises.

“Where are you aunt and uncle?”

“Strawberry Cemetery,” Alyssa answers.

“Oh my God,” Mateo gasps, “what happened?”

“They died,” Alyssa says with a shrug. “It was about sixteen years ago.”

“That timeline doesn’t make much sense,” Kivi argues. “We gave you some money to help you make your way here to live with them much less than sixteen years ago.”

Alyssa shrugs again. “We lied. We were worried that you would try to take us in, or call social services.”

“So whose house is this?”

“It was theirs,” Alyssa claims. “I don’t know how they handle things in the future, where you’re from—”

“Not the future,” Mateo interrupts.

Alyssa just keeps going, “but for us, when the owner of property dies, it passes on to their next of kin, and they’re free to do whatever it is they want with it. We chose to ignore it until a couple of months ago. We have a secret mountain cabin down near Bryce that our grandparents left us too.”

Alt!Leona perks up when she hears that. “How much?”

“How much what?” Alyssa asks.

“How much for the secret cabin?”

“If you wanna use that too,” Alyssa begins, “you can do so for free. We’re not allowed to sell it. I signed a secret will when I was a child.”

“Who asked you to sign this will? Your grandparents?” Alt!Leona asks.

“Yeah,” Alyssa replies.

“Did your parents sign one too?”

“No, they didn’t even know about the cabin.”

“Someone knew a long time ago that we would be coming.” Alt!Leona realizes.

“What makes you say that?” Mateo asks. “Did a seer tell you to look for a mountain cabin, or something?”

“No, it’s not the cabin itself, but where it’s located,” Alt!Leona explains. “Bryce Canyon is where Maqsud Al-amin created the cosmic sextant.”

“How would you know that if you pretty much came straight here after the surgery?” Kivi asks.

“It wasn’t immediately after. I spent a year trying to gather every bit of evidence I could find, in case there was a way to bring him back,” Alt!Leona says, referring to a different Alt!Mateo. “What I found was a book called Hotspots.”

“A Look into Places of Great Power on Earth, and Beyond?” Alyssa asks.

“Where did you hear that title,” Alt!Leona asks her.

Alyssa goes to an old-timey cabinet thing that’s not built into the wall. She unlocks a drawer, and pulls out the book that they’re talking about.

“Where did you find that?” Mateo asks.

“Carlin found it in the cabin,” Alyssa responds. “It...literally doesn’t open.”

Alt!Leona reaches over, and opens it anyway. There must be a special lock on it that only allows time travelers to access it. “This can help us.”

“That’s not all we found,” little Trina exclaims. She takes a rock out of her pocket, and smiles as she shows it to them. It’s a homestone.

Microstory 1866: Garden Path

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My family had more than enough money to afford college, but I refused to go, because I already knew what I wanted to do with my life, and four years of studying math and history weren’t going to do me any good. My parents were disappointed, but they understood. They worked long hours to earn that money, so my father’s parents chose to move closer to us so I could go over there after school every day. My grandmother would read me classic books while I was curled up in a plastic storage bin, and my grandfather would teach me things he thought every growing child should know, like how to hold a baseball like a pitcher. But we all three worked in that garden together. It was so beautiful that neighbors would ask them to landscape their yards for them. They were both retired, and appreciated the opportunities to do something productive with their lives. They didn’t start a real business, but I knew that it could become that one day, and that I would be responsible for it. By the time I graduated from high school, they were too old to be on their hands and knees all the time, so I took on the clients alone, and started charging money for my services. I kept getting more and more requests, and before I knew it, I had to hire some help to get everything done. In only a few years, I had an office clerk, an accountant, and two separate crews so we could serve two homes at the same time. I was making a real name for myself in the industry; so big, in fact, that I risked not being able to do what I loved, because I ended up with so many administrative duties. That was when a new opportunity knocked in my door.

A wealthy man who had already founded and sold off two companies had decided to break ground on the headquarters for a new organization right here in my community. Back then, before the internet, it was hard to determine who was a good guy, and who was bad, but I couldn’t find any skeletons in his closet. He asked me to design the landscaping for the building. He didn’t like the idea of anyone working in an office setting without windows, so there would be no cubicles, and no interior rooms, except for bathrooms, and storage closets. If it had a desk in it, it also had a view. To maximize the space, it was built with four separate courtyards that weren’t even all at the same height. So I guess some people would be working without windows, but for good reason. It was a company that shot commercials for other companies, so the soundstage had to be big, and soundproof. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. The point is the courtyards. The landscaping had to be gorgeous and extravagant, because hundreds of people were going to be looking at it, and living in it, every day. It was a huge project. I wasn’t sure I could handle it. I certainly wouldn’t have any time to plant any trees myself, which is what I always loved. Still, it was good money, so I had to take it. Once it was complete, the founder was so impressed that he essentially donated his nephew to me. The nephew wanted to be a businessman, but he didn’t want to work directly for a family member. He seemed perfect. He could handle all the boring stuff, and I could return to what I did best. It went well for the next few years until he pushed me out using some legal maneuvering that I still don’t understand. His uncle was horrified, but he said there was nothing that either of us could do. Except that wasn’t true. I started a new company from the ground up, using my good name to accumulate clients, and before I knew it, I was bigger than the nephew ever hoped to achieve.

Microstory 1845: Home

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When I was a young lady, a group of mostly white people came to my village to tell us about their religion. We did not understand why they felt the need to do this, and we did not understand their words, but we listened to them patiently, and then went back to our business. A boy around my age caught my eye, and seemingly I his. He was quiet, and did not speak, and he was not white, but he was from the West. It appeared that he did not want to be there, doing this. Now, I’m not saying that these missionaries were bad, but they were not wanted, and we were happy when they moved on to the next village. The following night, the boy snuck out, and crossed the bridge to see me again. It was hard for us to communicate, but we figured it out. I was able to piece together that he was from Africa. I could not tell back then which country, but I know now that it was Gambia. The missionaries had once come to his home too, speaking their words. While they were there, a warlord came through, and tried to recruit all of the young boys to fight in a war that they did not believe in. His parents did not want him to fight, so they asked the missionaries to take him away. That sacrifice possibly saved his life, but he never found out what happened to his family. Back then, you could not simply look someone up on the internet. He always assumed the fighters found out what they did, and killed them for it. Two of the white missionaries raised them from then on, and he had felt indebted to them ever since. But he did not believe in their religion, and he did want to try to convince others to either. He could see that there was a difference between his group and the warlord, but he could not help but also see the parallels. They weren’t being violent, but they were being intrusive, and he did not want to do it anymore.

He was about to turn eighteen years of age, and in their culture, that meant he was a man. Together, we came up with a plan. It was clear that my village and our neighbors were not going to have anything to do with the white man’s God. The missionaries were respectful of this, but they did not like to give up if they did not have to. They had intentions to travel on, and continue spreading their words, but the boy told them that he wanted to stay. He thought my people only needed more time to learn the language, and see the light. This was his special way of getting out of his responsibilities without letting the group know the truth. It took him some time to persuade them, but they eventually saw it as a sort of rite of passage. He was ready to go off on his own, and this was the perfect opportunity for him. When they left, the boy was glad for a moment, but then he realized he had nowhere to go. He was in the middle of a strange country, and he did not know anyone but me. He wanted to go back to Usonia, to start his new life, free from the burden of proselytization, but he had no means of accomplishing this. He had no money, and no connections. I was able to explain to him that it was perfectly fine if he stayed with us. He could work in the fields, and build his own dwelling. One day, he might be able to return to North America, or anywhere else he wanted to go. He never did end up doing that, but not because he was unable to. We eventually fell in love, and after he finished constructing that dwelling, we lived in it together. We had three beautiful children, and seven grandchildren so far. He died a few years ago, and I have missed him dearly. I do not know what happens after death, if anything. Were his adoptive parents right, or are we? I do not care, as long as he is there waiting for me.

Microstory 1797: Dying Alone

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I had a pretty rough life, full of death and despair. My father died in the war before I was born. My mother never said much about him. I couldn’t get the sense of whether he was a hero, or a jerk. I think the problem was that she didn’t really love him anyway. She died of cancer when I was eight, leaving me to be raised by my grandparents, who were both so old that they died within a year of each other by the time I turned sixteen. The state awarded me emancipation, so I just took care of myself from then on. I met a great girl at her college. I wasn’t in college, I just worked maintenance there, but she didn’t make me feel bad about myself. We were in love, but she died trying to give birth to our third child, who also died. I had to raise our boy and girl on my own, and we managed to get through it, even with all this heartache; that is, until my son got himself killed in a car accident when he was 28. My one remaining child actually managed to make it to her forties before she succumbed to lung cancer, just like the grandmother she never knew. In the latter’s case, it was surely the cigarettes. In my daughter’s case, it was just because life is unfair, and there is no good left in the world. So there I was, a sixtysomething guy with no family left, and no more drive to do anything with myself. Everything around me reminded me of someone I cared about—who God took from me too soon. I had to get away from it. I had to get away from everything. There weren’t a whole lot of places left to hide away in modern times. Used to be, people we called mountain men owned whatever territory they claimed, and no one gave them any trouble. Now the government has all these rules,  and even publicly available pieces of land are heavily regulated. To live a new remote life, I was going to need some help.

I didn’t have any money, so I couldn’t buy up a bit of land myself. I may have been able to afford a single acre if I had stayed in the workforce for a few more years, but no one wants to sell that little unless maybe it’s on the edge of their property. The edge of any property is usually too close to another property to satisfy my needs. I remember knocking on the door, and I remember talking to the farmer and his daughter, but I don’t recall how I convinced them to let me live on their back forty. I’m sure I told them the God’s honest truth about why I wanted to live in the wilderness, and that I didn’t want to cause any trouble. I don’t remember if he hesitated either, but it obviously ended up working out, because he showed me a patch of land that he didn’t need for other purposes, and it was great. I was planning to live with the bare essentials, but he gave me more than I needed. He chose a spot right next to a creek of clean water. He let me have some pots and other tools that were just taking up space in his attic after he upgraded. I had my own tent, but it wasn’t rated for winter. He donated a brand new one that his daughter asked to buy for me instead of her Christmas gifts. I later carved her a nice birdhouse as a thank-you. She invited me over for family get-togethers a few times, but she grew up to understand that the point of this was to live alone, and not get attached to people, since I felt cursed, and didn’t want to go through that again. She ended up taking over the farm, and continued to fight off the authorities when they came to complain about me living there every few years. I never got over my depression, but I figured out how to live fairly comfortably for the rest of my life until I died, hoping to finally see my loved ones again.

Microstory 1104: Hall Voss

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Lots of people with special temporal powers or patterns are given nicknames, based either on what they could do, or what they did with what they could do. Hall Voss possessed two nicknames, however. He was both The Navigator, and The Collector, but there was a good reason for that. There were actually two of him. He was just a regular ol’ time traveler, who generally operated across a single timeline, but he also had a penchant for history, and decided to do something about all those artifacts that were lost to history, for one reason or another. He would jump up and down the timestream, rescuing objects with important historical value—from fires, and looting, and other disasters—and donate them to a time museum, which was run by The Historian. Something he learned along the way was that one of his grandsons, and one of his granddaughters, were destined to become notable temporal manipulators as well. Camden was The Centurion, who lived around the turn of the 22nd century, but worked for an intelligence cooperative at the turn of the 21st century. His sister, Xearea was one of the last Saviors of Earth, which was a special class of teleporter, who zipped all over the globe, saving lives. Unfortunately, simply having discovered this truth about his family’s future was enough to prevent it from coming to pass. Xearea was erased from the future, and Camden from both the future, and the past. Such is oft the price of time travel. He had to fix this. So he went back in time, and met up with his younger self. He sought the aid of a choosing one with the power to manipulate people’s memories, who used this gift to place a permanent block on the younger Hall’s mind. He would not be able to learn anything about the future or past that could, in knowing, prevent it from actually happening. This set the timeline right once more, and restored the lives of his grandchildren, but it came at its own price. This older version of Hall was stuck in a separate reality, and could never return, even if he wanted to. So now there are two. The ignorant version—the one that will one day have children—is so ignorant, that he does not even recognize his alternate self. As The Collector, he works with The Navigator all the time, but interprets his face as someone entirely different. If someone were to try and convince him that he has a double, he will never be able to see it, since his mind has been permanently blind to it. But this is all okay, because together, they save history on a regular basis.

Microstory 1078: Elmer

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I don’t know much about my father. Way she tells it, my mother didn’t know him very well either. It wasn’t a one-night stand, but they didn’t have much time together. It was evidently love at first sight that resulted in an unplanned pregnancy, but they were fully intending to stay together. After he died suddenly, she moved back home to Blast City, so my grandparents could help raise me. One thing I do know about my dad is how much he loved cars. He was apparently working on restoring some kind of classic model before he left us, but his brother inherited it, so I’ve never seen it. It’s not that we don’t get along with my uncle, but he and the rest of that side of the family live halfway across the country, so it’s always been awkward. Several years ago, I was sneaking around the attic when I found a box that once belonged to my father, which mom forgot was even up there. We actually had a few of his possessions that she tucked away, since they were too painful to look at. I discovered detailed plans in the box for the design of a new car. There wasn’t anything unique, or special, about the designs. He theoretically drew them up, because he wanted to build one with his own two hands from scratch, but it was never meant to revolutionize the industry. I decided I wanted to pick up where he left off, and build it myself in my neighbor’s workshop, but I did not know what I was in for. I personally have no strong feelings about cars, but I figured I could do it if I saved up, and took my time. I wasn’t entirely right about that. The fact is I didn't know what I was doing when I started all this. I kept working at it, and working at it, hoping things would eventually come together. But they never did, and I found myself more lost than I ever had been before. Then Viola came along. She spent time with me every day after school in our sophomore year, teaching me what parts I would need, and how to fit them together. We used heavy machinery to manufacture individual parts that didn’t exist, because my dad had come up with them. We contacted regulation authorities, to make sure what we came up with would be street legal. She even helped me tweak the original design, because it otherwise would not have been legal. One day before my sixteenth birthday, everything was finished. It was all put together, tested by engineers, and given full approval to drive. I waited to get in the driver’s seat myself until the next day, just to observe the symbolism of it. I’m so proud of what we accomplished, and so grateful for the opportunity. I almost never had any passengers in it, because I’ve always pretended my dad was with me instead. There was only one time when someone very important asked me for a ride, and I gladly made an exception for her. I’m the one who drove Viola Woods to Masters Creek, and ultimately, her death. I did that. I haven’t driven an inch since.

Microstory 869: Lemon-Drizzled Bananas

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“When I was a child, my father died of some rare disease that I can’t remember anymore. Social services couldn’t find my mom, who ran out on us before I was old enough to know her, so I was placed with my grandmother. Her husband, my grandfather, had died not one week prior, so we were both in mourning. She was so good to me, though. She always prioritized my needs, and my emotional issues, over her own. And it wasn’t until I was an adult that I recognized her sacrifices. Anyway, she was a little weird, which you may recall; you met her a couple times. She was always coming up with new ways to eat very simple foods, hoping to find some miracle concoction that would allow her to eat the same thing every day and not get tired of it. She came up with this recipe—if you can call it that—that she called Yellow Wedding. I know what you’re thinking, it sounds racist, but I assure you she came up with the term out of complete innocence. All it is is lemon-drizzled bananas. That’s it. All you do is peel a banana, put it on a plate, and drizzle lemon juice over it. You’d think it would taste horrible, and—well, why don’t you give it a shot? Bad, right? But somehow it makes you feel better. No? Okay, it might take some time for it to kick in, but they can work miracles. Whenever I’m feeling bad, just buy a bunch of bananas, and a bag of lemons. Works every time.”

I politely eat the bananas, assuring my friend that I’m open to finding something to like about them, even though that is a total lie. He’s trying so hard to help how he can, and I appreciate the effort so much. We haven’t seen each other in years, but I guess he heard about what happened on social media. Despite many friends I’m in better contact with living closer, he was the first one to show up and offer his support. Last week, I was involved in one of those mass murders you’ve been hearing about on the news. I was walking on the sidewalk with my husband and daughter when we heard screams behind us. A truck had come up on the curb, and was on its way to us. It didn’t look like it was going to stop, but there also didn’t seem to be any way of escaping it. My husband thought quicker than me. He kicked me right in the stomach, knocking me out of the path of the vehicle. He then picked up our daughter, and threw her onto this raised terrace garden against the building, just before the truck struck him dead. I scrambled back to my feet, and tried to get back to my child, but the truck was still there, in my way. The psychotic driver backed up, making me think I had an opportunity to get to her, but he was just trying to gather some momentum. He slammed on the accelerator so hard that he was going fast enough to make it up onto the terrace. My daughter was the only person there, so he actually made a point of going after her. The more I think about her, the more I wonder what she would think of these things; these sour sweet confections that no one but this guy’s grandmother would think to make. And the more I eat them out of politeness, the more I want to eat, and the better I feel. I’m still not sure I like them, but I actually think that it’s working. I feel better than I have since the attack. I’m not cured, of course, but it’s the first time that I think that I might actually get through it.

Microstory 467: Floor 19 (Part 2)

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Senior Buyer: Hey, Procurement Specialist. How are we doing? Are we feeling okay? Is the lockdown getting us down? You know you can talk to me about anything.

Procurement Specialist’s Mind: This is my boss. He’s not a bad guy, but he’s very...affectionate. I wouldn’t call what he does sexual harassment, but he’s certainly not aware of the concept of a personal bubble. He’s also not smart enough for a job in management.

Specialist: I’m doin’ all right, actually.

Senior Buyer: Ya know, death is a natural part of life. There is one inevitable truth, and that is that everybody dies. This is how it’s been since the beginning of time, and so shall it always be.

Specialist’s Mind: Actually the transhumanist movement’s goals of virtual immortality are closer to reality than most people know.

Specialist: Yeah, I know. I’ve seen death before. All my grandparents are gone.

Specialist’s Mind: None of them is dead.

Senior Buyer: Oh, I’m so sorry about that. Were you close with them?

Specialist: I was.

Specialist’s Mind: I’m not at all.

Senior Buyer: I’m so very sorry about that. You shouldn’t be working. Why don’t you go ahead and go head home?

Specialist: We’re on lockdown. No one can leave...

Specialist’s Mind: ...dumbass. And I didn’t say they all died today.

Specialist: And I’ve not been able to work anyway because we’re also locked out of the system...

Specialist’s Mind: ...and it’s not like I spend a lot of my daily time working anyway. I’m mostly squeezing sweets and pig-revenging and raising virtual animals on a farm.

Senior Buyer: Oh, that’s right. Well, have you seen Purchasing Intern 2?

Specialist’s Mind: He’s in the closet...with the other intern.

Specialist: I think both interns got caught on another floor.

Specialist’s Mind: Honestly, I didn’t lie to him about where the interns are because I care about their privacy. I lied to him because I would be worried he’d invite himself into the closet with them, and then things would get real weird.

Senior Buyer: Well, if you see him, would you let him know that we’re letting him go?

Specialist’s Mind: Really? He wants me to do it? I’ve always wanted to fire somebody.

Specialist: Really? You think I’m ready for that?

Specialist’s Mind: Can I fire them both? Can I make ‘em duke it out for the one remaining position? What is our policy on making people cry?

Senior Buyer: You’ve proven yourself invaluable. Somebody messed up an order, and I’ve traced the problem back to Purchasing Intern 2.

Specialist’s Mind: Yikes, that was actually my fault.

Specialist: Oh no, that’s terrible.

Senior Buyer: I don’t like having to lose people.

Specialist’s Mind: Lemme guess, cuz it harshes your mellow.

Senior Buyer: It’s the worst part of my job.

Specialist: I think that the worst part of your job is you.

Senior Buyer: What did you say?

Specialist’s Mind: Shit.