This is dedicated to anyone who loves reading.

1. The Musicians

Today, the four musicians were playing in an expensive restaurant. All around them, rich businessmen and businesswomen and actors and actresses all picked at their overpriced meals on tiny plates with tiny forks, taking tiny bites with their dainty and cultured mouths. The restaurant was beautiful; there was a large curved window that looked out upon downtown and the vast ocean beyond, tables with bright white tablecloths with shining silverware and sparkling glasses, chandeliers that sparkled like stars in the night sky, polished marble pillars and lush, red carpet.

They four musicians were very talented and were hired to play for a reception at the restaurant. They were a quartet, with two violins, one viola, and one cello. They had all known each other for a long time, and their melodies and harmonies flowed together so well it sounded like one beautiful instrument creating one beautiful song. They were glad that some people still had an appreciation for classical music, especially in a time of war and greed.

So they played. They played movements and songs, smiling bashfully as the diners clapped enthusiastically. They had never once imagined playing the instruments they loved for the fame or the fortune. Music, like life, was its own reward. It's odd how similar music and a lifetime are. There are fast movements and slow movements, moments of thrilling highs and moments of crushing lows, crescendos and decrescendos, and finally when the time is right, they end not in sadness but in beauty and love, and will live on in the hearts and minds of everyone who remembers.

So what happened next was only fitting.

The four musicians noticed more and more people gathering around the large curved window. It was too early for the sunset yet, so it seemed strange at first. The musicians themselves stopped playing and leaned over their stands, trying to see what had caught the attentions of everyone eating at the restaurant.

Suddenly, the Violist caught a glimpse of metal and a long smoky trail, like that of an airplane or a rocket. Suddenly everyone understood what was happening. The reports in the news about unstable countries and cruel dictators materialized in the shape of a missile streaking toward the city. A woman started screaming.

Soon all of the diners began panicking. Some called loved ones, some stared at the missile in shock, but most ran out of the restaurant, all of their manners and posturing disappearing. The musicians knew that there was nowhere to run now. You can't outrun a missile.

"Well, let's do this right," the first Violinist said, and cued the next song.

The other three musicians joined in as well. They figured that if it was all going to end, they might as well do what they love. Like many pieces in their repertoire, they knew this one by heart.

The violinist started the main theme, quickly followed by harmonies from the second violin and the viola. The cello joined in as well, adding depth to the beautiful song.

The diners who had not fled slowly sat down and watched the four musicians play. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Even the missile seemed to be languidly, taking its time as it streaked toward oblivion.

But it did come closer and closer. The musicians could see that, but the diners simply watched the musicians play, not wanting to accept their fates or perhaps they had accepted their fates so well that they simply wanted to enjoy their last few moments.

Finally, the missile hit earth, and the four musicians closed their eyes, holding the last chord as long as they could. The curved glass window gave them a horrifying view of the explosion. It was large and imposing, knocking over buildings and men and women. There was a twisted beauty in the last few moments before the blast consumed them as well, metal twisted and glowing with an orange haze, buildings crumbling down to the ground.

The diners clapped as the musicians let go of the chord they had been holding. Everyone in the room had tears in their eyes. Finally, the blast took them too, as it had taken men and women on their way home from work, children doing their homework, mothers clutching babies, and lovers embracing each other in these days that are truly the last.

Yes, it was only fitting that the two violins, one viola, and one cello played Nearer My God to Thee as the missile's explosion embraced the city.

2. An Ode to Books

Books are trapped, stuck in rows upon rows in cold, uniform shelves that stretch on forever. They're guarded by librarians or grumpy, underpaid store clerks; held like prisoners wrongly accused. They are trapped, never to feel the warmth of the sun or the

sweet breath of fresh air that you and I get to experience every single day. But you can do something about it. You can free those books.

So grab your wallet and find your library card, credit card, or paper money. Pick those feet up and walk to a library or bookstore. You'll find hundreds, thousands of books, waiting to be freed.

But one you grab those book that you just know you can't live without, don't just read it inside on a chair with a light coming over you shoulder and throw it on yet another shelf so it can collect dust. No, take it with you wherever you go, let it live the same life you do.

And days when it's sunny and the stale air conditioning is driving you crazy, run outside with the book in hand and find a big tree to climb up. Let the dappled sunlight be that light over your shoulder, a hardy branch your chair. And don't be afraid of sap or grime from the tree. That's the badge of honor you'll get for climbing up that tree with your favorite book.

Or when you wake up in the morning and you just know you have to finish one more page, just one more page of that book you love so much but you have to have a drink of coffee for the morning commute and you accidently stain your book. Don't worry about the stain, you'll remember those pages and you'll have a dark brown circle to prove it.

Or when you open a book so many times because you just need to read it again and again don't be afraid of those creases that appear in the spine. You can look at each crease and say that's when I opened the book on the metro just to get through a couple more pages, or that's when I blew through about a hundred pages on that plane ride to Boston, or that's when I should've been paying attention in class but I knew that I only had just one more chapter to finish. Each crease turns into a sign of affection and not a blemish on the book's cover.

So mark up those books, highlight your favorite passages, dog-ear the pages that you adore, let your books run with you through fields and city streets, let them breathe the are you breath, let the characters run free through your imagination. Love your books and don't stifle them with shelves and covers and dust.

3. 20 Minutes

His heart pounded.

He was breathing quickly.

Sweat dripped from his brow.

His brown work shoes made contact with the smooth metal floor. All around him, red lights flashed, bouncing off of the smooth metal that made up the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The long, sterile hallway looked endless, its cold walls stretching into oblivion. I'm not going to make it, he thought, eyes darting around desperately.

"You now have 20 minutes to save the world," a robotic, female voice said over the loudspeaker system. He could feel his pulse race even faster, if that was even possible. Salty sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes. He felt his glasses slipping down his face.

The voice made him think of how this whole catastrophe started. It was stupid, silly even. The scientists and engineers and architects who built the mechanical planet of Monden built a failsafe system. In other words, a world-decimating self-destruct button. The reason had been lost to time, but it was activated now. Whey an entire planet would need a failsafe system, even given what had just happened, was well beyond him. The explosives at the core of Monden took 59 minutes and 59 seconds to arm. And now he only had 20 minutes to disable them.

And the only way to disarm the explosives was to run to a station miles under the mechanical planet's crust and press the big green button that would save everyone. However, access to the station was restricted to the descendents of the scientists who had first thought of the idea of building a massive mechanical planet. He was one of those descendents, a scientist himself. However, he was unfortunately ill prepared to run down to the station. He was scrawny, rarely worked out and spent most of his time in the lab.

He skidded to a stop as he came up to a thick, glass door. The checkpoints were a rare chance for him to catch his breath. A system of red lasers scanned his face and retina, confirming that he was indeed authorized to save the world.

"Welcome to checkpoint 4, Mr. Connor Smith. You now have 13 minutes to save the world," the same robot voice told him.

He panicked again. There was one more checkpoint to reach, and then on to the station itself. However, getting to the station required a long elevator ride. He forced himself to stay calm, wondering how he was able to stay strong when he knew the cost of his failure. At least there wouldn't be any project managers to yell at him if he did.

He began to run down another twisting metal labyrinth. It was beginning to drive him insane, the clang of his shoes against the hard metal, the sterile blue-white lighting, the emotionless metal walls. It was so inhuman for a task as human as self-preservation.

"You now have 10 minutes to save the world," the voice said. He cursed under his breath

He flew down the corridor and the next checkpoint that guarded the elevator came into view. He slammed into the checkpoint's door, too tired to stop himself properly. His breath was ragged now, the sweat falling faster and his heart beating more quickly. He pushed himself up so that the lasers could scan his sweaty face.

"Welcome to checkpoint 5, Mr. Connor Smith. You now have 7 minutes to save the world."

The door slid open, as did the elevator doors. There was a 10-foot space between the checkpoint door and the elevator door, and he practically flew into the elevator.

This was the most horrifying part of the descent to the station. All he could do was wait in the small metal box as it went at its own deliberate pace. There were no buttons on the walls of the elevator. It only went up to checkpoint 5 or down to the station.

He found it hard to sit still, or even stand still. The knot in his stomach grew tighter and tighter. He began cursing the men who had designed the elevator, slamming at the walls and praying that it would go faster. He paced back and forth in the tiny space, running his hands through his hair, cleaning his glasses incessantly and picking nonexistent pieces of lint off of his wrinkled button-down shirt.

Finally, the doors to the elevator opened. He flew down the last corridor to the station. Just one more facial and retinal scan and he would be in. He would save the world.

"You now have 3 minutes to save the world," the voice said. Only 3 minutes, he thought.

His eyes widened. He flew down the corridor.

Bright red lights flashed in his eyes and the color never left.

Something shifted to his left.

A hiss. A sliding noise.

Somehow, he was now inside the station.

A green circle contrasted with gray metal.

Somewhere in the depths of his adrenaline-affected mind he connected the green circle with saving the world.

And his hand touched green plastic.

He saved the world.

"Good job, Mr. Connor Tamura. You have saved the world," the robotic voice said, still cold and emotionless as ever.

4. The Rubble

He was trapped. Crushed under rubble, the weight of concrete and rebar pressing upon his chest. Every breath he tried to take was denied by the weight that upon him, like a sick blanket slowly crushing the life out of him. He tried to move his arms, but was stopped by more concrete and more wood and more weight. He tried to move his legs and he screamed out in pain.

He moved his legs again, slowly and gingerly. Pain like needles coursed through his right leg. He screamed as loud as he could, knowing that nothing could be heard on the other side. He could still feel the needles, pulling out slowly as he tried to keep his leg as still as possible.

He knew that he had to escape. He tried to think. He remembered bits and flashes of how he got caught beneath the skeleton of this building. He remembered fire, flashes of light, the glinting of metal as a horrible bomb screeched through the air. He remembered men, women, and children running around, trying to find safety somehow in the collapsing city. He remembered a child caught out in the open, wailing for her mother. His breath caught in his throat, or maybe the concrete caught it, he couldn't know. He started to cry.

More images flashed in his mind. Burning bodies. More flashes. A loud noise, like a thunderclap, and then nothing, nothing but the inky blackness that only the insides of eyelids could provide. And he was still trapped.

He tried moving again, pressing his arms against the concrete above him. The needles returned to his right leg. Suddenly, he felt the concrete give ever so slightly above his left arm. Thoughts of a blue sky and green grass and a bright sun returned to his head. An animalistic quality soon overcame him, the will to live, no matter what it takes. He strained against the crushing weight with all his might, growling and snarling, cursing the blanket that wouldn't leave his body.

Soon all thoughts left his mind as he heaved one last time. His soft, sweaty palm made contact with gray, rough concrete. He could feel each crease, each finger, each square inch of his hand flatten against the coarse surface. He let out another roar. The needles in his leg turned into fire, heat from hell, but he ignored it.

A crash. A shifting. A rush.

He wasn't trapped. Somehow, he had defied the weight, defied death itself. The left side of his torso was now exposed to the cool air. He turned his head and craned his neck,

seeing the stars twinkling in the sky. It was like being born again. With his left and right hands working together he managed to throw off the oppressive blanket. He was free.

He sat up quickly, too quickly, and the fire in his leg burned more strongly. He lurched forward in pain, clutching at his leg. It was bleeding from a single point. He had gotten shot before the rubble had fallen on him. He grabbed a length of rebar, and using it like a crutch, pulled himself up. He slowly hobbled out under that starry sky, and saw that the world had fallen around him.

5. No Talking in the Library

1.

John Rivers made his way to the Central Library, the massive three-story library that was placed at the very center of the capital city. It was an imposing building, all concrete and glass that surrounded rows upon rows of books of all kinds. He walked quickly to the entrance, wanting to get home to his wife and kids quickly. He just wanted to get a children's story for his young daughter, that's it. His briefcase bounced as he made his way up the stairs that led to the massive double doors at the very front of the library.

Luckily, there was no line at the entrance. Security measures at the Central Library were very strict. Taking a deep breath, he opened the doors and braced himself. Just beyond the doors, two massive guards held onto the leashes of the Sniffers. The Sniffers were horrifying creatures. They were once ordinary dogs, but they were given cybernetic implants to improve their already keen sense of smell and to make them easier to control. They looked like something out of a horror novel, with their glowing robotic eyes, short hair and mechanically enhanced nostrils.

"Sir, let the Sniffers search you," one of the guards commanded, holding up one of his massive hands as if John Rivers was stupid enough to try and escape from the security checkpoint.

"Of course," he said, trying not to cringe as the other guard led the massive Sniffer over to him.

The Sniffer breathed in deeply, taking in every scent that had found itself on John Rivers's person. He was fairly certain that he had no food or drink on him, but he felt nervous all the same. The Sniffers were just that disconcerting. He could feel his heart beat wildly inside his chest.

Suddenly, John Rivers heard the one noise that he never wanted to hear in the library, let alone the Central Library. The Sniffer started barking, a terrifyingly grating and mechanical sounding noise. He had heard the noise once before when he was in the Central Library, but the barking was never directed at him. He fought he urge to scream out in terror.

"Open up that bag!" one of the guards yelled, pointing at his fake-leather briefcase.

"Y…yes…right," he stammered, fumbling with the clasps that kept the briefcase closed. He was trembling all over and he could feel the sweat dripping down his face. He licked his lips nervously and finally got the briefcase open. All of his fears were realized as he found a half-drunk water bottle sitting innocently in his briefcase.

"Please, be easy on me, I have a wife and kids!" John begged, throwing the water bottle out of his briefcase as if it were a deadly snake.

The guards almost looked like they were going to let him off the hook until a Librarian came striding over. The Librarians were the personal guard of the ruler, Charles Hadley. Librarians always wore flowing robes over bulletproof armor wherever they went. They even wore smooth, white masks with slits for their eyes, mouth, and nose to hide their identities. It made them look frighteningly inhuman.

"Don't think you'll get off so easily, John Rivers," the Librarian said almost mockingly, opening his arms wide, as if he wanted to embrace him. "The security has gotten somewhat lax recently. We have to remind the people of the order of things."

The Librarian looked over John Rivers disapprovingly. "Come with me."

The Librarian strode past the guards and the Sniffers, which whimpered and cowered away in his presence. He knew that nothing good would come of this. The Librarian and John walked all the way to the town square, where hundreds of people gathered to hang out with friends or to simply read a good book. Everyone the Librarian walked by averted their eyes or even cowered in fear.

When the odd pair had finally reached the very center of the town square, the Librarian spoke out in a booming voice. "This man, John Rivers, was found trying to smuggle a water bottle into the Central Library. No doubt wanting to ruin the books you love so much! We cannot tolerate such behavior! We have to protect the books! We all have to know who is in charge! John Rivers will be punished!"

The Librarian then lowered his voice, so only John could hear him. "If Supreme Librarian Charles Hadley were here, well, I don't even want to think of what he would do to you. But don't worry. I'm much more benevolent."

The Librarian then withdrew his weapon from his flowing robes. It was similar to a police baton, but was longer and more wicked looking. Glaring at John, he drew his arm back and struck John's face with the baton. John stumbled back, spitting blood and a tooth out of his mouth. The Librarian struck him again, but John managed to block it with his forearm. John tried to punch the Librarian, but the Librarian swatted his punch away with ease and struck him with the baton again. Another blow to the head was too much for John and he crumpled to the ground, coarse concrete meeting skin.

He could feel the Librarian towering over him, no doubt preparing to finish him off. He shut his eyes tightly and thought of his family, of his beautiful wife and his brilliant daughter. I'm sorry, Michelle, that I couldn't make it home for dinner, John thought, and I'm sorry, Cameron, that I couldn't read The Wizard of Oz to you. Tears ran down his bloodstained face.

He felt the baton strike his head again, and everything went black.

2. (14 years later)

Now, John's daughter, Cameron, was 18 years old. Since when she was old enough to understand what had happened to her father, she planned her revenge against Supreme Librarian Charles Hadley. Charles was now an old man, 62 years of age, but he still ruled with an iron fist. But, after years of planning, Cameron now knew how to topple the rule once and for all.

All she needed to do now was to send a message.

Cameron was a very skillful hacker. For years, she had avoided the library and books in memory of her father. During this period she spent all of her time on the computer. The computer that her mother had kept around was very basic. It had only a few "essential" applications such as a word processor, a calculator, a calendar, and a web browser that could only visit "approved" sites. She quickly became bored, so she figured out how all of the applications worked. This quickly led to her breaking the block on the Internet, which opened up a whole new world for her. She was able read news reports from places like America and China. She could talk to people she didn't even now that lived on the other side of the world. With this newfound power, she increased her skill at hacking.

And now, these skills would become more than just a hobby. They would help her avenge her father. She was able to get into the system that controlled the system of billboards that displayed propaganda pictures and videos. Her message was simple, just a few lines of text. But she knew that it would terrify the Supreme Librarian more than anything else.

Her message: "Charles Hadley, relinquish your rule or we will destroy the Central Library. Everything burns."

3.

"Sir, this could just be an empty threat," a robed Librarian said.

"I don't care! Those books are priceless! You will gather up all of the Librarians and you will guard the Central Library!" Charles Hadley yelled. How could a Librarian not know the importance of these books?

"Of course, sir," the Librarian said, bowing as he walked out of Charles's lavish office.

Charles wondered who would be bold enough to threaten something as precious as the Central Library. Charles and the Librarians knew of the Resistance, but they thought of it as a mere nuisance, something that could be crushed at their whims. But he knew one thing for sure. A successful uprising would weaken his rule and might even inspire more people to join the Resistance. Charles Hadley would be very displeased if his Librarians failed.

4.

"So it was you that put that message up?" a Resistance member asked.

"Yes," Cameron replied, addressing the majority of the Resistance on a large wooden crate, "And I plan on keeping my promise."

"How?" another Resistance member asked, "You know that Charles will send all of the Librarians to protect the Central Library."

"Easy," Cameron said, "when I was in high school my friends and I discovered a series of tunnels that run underneath the Central Library and other government buildings."

"You're kidding," another said, "And the Librarians don't know about this?"

"I'm pretty sure they don't," Cameron replied.

"Well, pretty sure isn't good enough!"

"We've been waiting to long!"

"We have to be careful!"

"I say we just attack now! Surprise them!"

"Quiet!" Cameron yelled, silencing the startled crowd, "I think we should start preparing the explosives today. And if you don't want to help, I'll just do it myself."

And with that, Cameron stepped off of the wooden crate and started to leave the warehouse that was serving as the Resistance's headquarters. There was a definite tension in the air.

"Wait!" one of the Resistance members said, "We'll help you."

5.

Hundreds of pounds of explosives were set up in the tunnel directly underneath the Central Library. It reminded Cameron of the infamous gunpowder plot. There was a reason that she had waited until November 5th to pull this off. She knew that the Librarians might connect the date and the threats of destruction to the historical event, but she hoped that they did. It was her way of taunting them. And even if they did figure out that she was carrying out her own gunpowder plot, they would never figure out how to get into the tunnels.

"Hey Cameron, this is the last barrel," Kyle, one of the Resistance fighters, said as he wheeled a barrel of explosives up to her. The tunnel was now filled with barrels and wires. They were set up to be controlled by a remote detonator. Cameron wanted to get back at the government, but she didn't want it to be a suicide mission.

"Thanks, Kyle," Cameron said.

"Oh, and I brought this," Kyle said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small metal box with a single red button on it. The detonator. He walked up to Cameron and placed it in her hands.

"Thank you," Cameron said, "For everything."

"Hey, I want to blow up the damn library as much as you do," Kyle said, "My father was killed by librarians, too."

"I'm sorry," Cameron said sincerely. So many lives have been destroyed by Charles Hadley, she thought.

"Don't be. He'll be avenged tonight," Kyle said.

"Yes," Cameron said, "Yes he will."

6.

"Hey! Librarian!" a short, slightly pudgy man yelled, running up the steps of the Central Library.

"Stop," the Librarian commanded, "Who are you?"

"I'm Arnold. Arnold Philips," he said, still panting.

"What do you want?" the Librarian asked coolly.

"I'm from the Resistance," Arnold said, his eyes wide, "and I know how they're going to destroy the Central Library!"

"Tell me," the Librarian ordered. He was suspicious. Arnold could have come to his senses and truly wanted to betray the disgusting Resistance, or he was leading him into a trap.

"There are tunnels that run underneath the Central Library," Arnold said, "They're filling the tunnels up with explosives as we speak!"

"Can you take me to the entrance of these tunnels?" the Librarian asked, still wary.

"Of course," Arnold said, already taking off down the steps, "Follow me!"

7.

"Cameron! There's a Librarian in the tunnels!" Lena, a Resistance fighter, said, wide-eyed and breathless.

"What?" Cameron asked, surprised, "How the hell did one of those bastards find the tunnels?"

"I don't know," Lena said, "But he was leaving when I saw him."

"Oh God," Cameron said, "Do you think he tampered with the explosives?"

"Probably," Lena said.

"I have to go down there," Cameron said, running to the exit of the Resistance's headquarters. Her plan couldn't fail. Not after all the work and planning that went into it. Not when so much depended on it.

"It could be a trap," Lena warned.

"I don't care," Cameron said, "This has to work."

8.

Cameron ran down to the tunnels. Her heart pounded frantically against her chest and her breath now came in ragged gasps. She ignored the pain in her chest and her lungs and her legs. She needed to make sure the explosives were still usable. She flew down the barely visible path that led to the entrance of the tunnels. Trees become a green-brown blur; rocks were just minor annoyances on her way to the tunnels.

She finally reached the entrance to the tunnels and flung the trapdoor open. She dropped down into the dusty tunnels, barely lit by a series of lights that were strung along the ceiling. Everything was still, except for her quickly beating heart. She

suddenly became fearful. Lena's warning of a trap finally sank in. If she failed now, all of the waiting and planning would be for naught. Taking a deep breath, she started running again.

The small globes of light that hung above her became a blur of light as she ran again. She hadn't heard or seen anything out of the ordinary, but how could she over the pounding of her feet against hard dirt and the barely-lit tunnel?

Finally, Cameron reached the explosives. Her eyes widened in shock. The barrels were still there, but the wires that allowed them to be set of remotely were gone. This wouldn't be safe anymore. This became a suicide mission. Cameron took a deep breath and began searching for her lighter. It had belonged to her father's father, Thomas Rivers.

"It's over, child," a bone-chilling voice said behind her. Cameron spun around quickly. Her heart nearly stopped. Lena was right. A robed Librarian was standing right behind her, brandishing the horrible baton. The Librarian strode towards her, raising the baton menacingly. The Librarian lashed out with the baton. Cameron managed to dodge it. She leapt backwards, getting herself closer to the barrels. She jammed her hand into her jean's pocket. She knew that the lighter should be in there. Meanwhile, the Librarian began walking towards her, slowly and tauntingly. The Librarian raised the baton again.

Finally, Cameron managed to pull the lighter out. It was a small and silver, with an elaborate etching of an eagle clutching an apple on it. It shone brilliantly, even in the low light of the tunnel.

"You wouldn't dare," The Librarian said, his voice betraying his fear, "You won't!"

Before Cameron could ignite a fire with the lighter, the Librarian lunged at her. She fell to the ground, stunned. The lighter fell out of her hands. The Librarian raised the baton once again and brought it down on Cameron. She managed to block the blow with her forearm, and rolled out of the way. She grabbed the lighter and opened it in one graceful move. She held the tiny, flickering flame up to the barrel. For a moment, she thought it would catch, but soon the barrel was a towering inferno. The Librarian, flames reflected in his eyes, roared in rage. Avoiding the flames, he brought his baton down upon Cameron's head. Pain exploded in Cameron's head.

"You will burn," the Librarian said menacingly, before he turned and fled the tunnels.

Cameron didn't care. She had ignited the barrels. She lay on her back, watching the flames dance around her. Soon more barrels were caught in the swirling fire. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth soothe her. She smiled, her only thoughts were of her mother and father. Suddenly, there was a burst of light and a sound like a thunderclap, and all went black.

9.

Charles Hadley watched from his office as the Central Library was consumed by an explosion. He could imagine the books burning, stories and imaginations lost to the fire. All of the time he spent collecting all of those masterpieces. And everything was lost today. He screamed out in pain for the books whose voices would never be heard ever again.

10.

"Cameron sacrificed herself to destroy the Central Library. We will not let her die in vain! She has shown us that it is possible to fight against the Librarians! She has shown us that we can win the war against the Librarians! We are stronger than ever, our numbers larger than ever before! Today we rally around her name! Today we take back our country!" Lena shouted, the new leader of the Resistance. All around her, thousands of Resistance fighters shouted Cameron's name, ready to take back their country.

6. The Seed Packet

I remember the rubble. I'm guessing that it was a couple weeks ago I escaped the belly of that horrible building. But I did come out and I tasted the air like a baby's first breath. It was awful. The buildings were all burned out and crumbling. It was like a fever dream, too strange and twisted to be real. But they're all out there, all sad and hunched out there; I've walked through their insides and touched their rough skin and saw the remains of something beautiful. It was kind of funny. I had read in the paper about how these buildings were so strong and how they could survive earthquakes and everything and how they were a marvel of engineering, but man was able to outdo all natural disasters and topple them anyway.

But the suburbs are much worse than those buildings. I passed by a nice neighborhood a while back. The houses there all used to have those bright, white picket fences, big grassy yards and were painted colors like light blue and beige. Now they were painted with ash and soot, the grass was all burned away, and the picket fences were blown back by the blast of the bomb, like they were trying to get some rest.

Being alive in a world of dead drives you crazy. I've seen no other living soul out here, just some stray dogs and crows and cockroaches. The dogs are the worst. They howl at night and just rend my heart to pieces. Sometimes they howl for hours, like they're looking for a pack that they won't ever find. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to be a dog in this world, without a pack or a master. No hand that feeds. I can always hear them at night, but I can almost never find them at daytime. I did see a dog once, though. That dog I saw during the day tried to rip my throat out. That's the first living thing I had to kill and I hope it's the last.

I came across a convenience store a couple days ago. For all the bombs and guns that went off it's still standing. I needed supplies, so I checked it out. There wasn't much, the

fires must have burned every last thing. I had been to a similar store in my hometown. It was so weird to see one all destroyed. You just get used to everything being right and clean with all of the wars happening overseas. I didn't find much, but there were a couple of cereal boxes off to one side of the store and I could just make out the word "Cheerios". I started crying. My mom used to get me Cheerios all the time. I loved them. I still wonder where my mom was during the blast. I hope she's alright. I wasn't the best son to her as time went on.

I did find something worth keeping, though. Buried under some rubble was one of those packets that seeds come in. It was burned up a little, but it was still good. I'm not sure what made me check under the rubble. I guess I just thought of myself. Anyway, I didn't know what kind of tree it was, the name got scratched off of the packet. I hope it's one of those big, leafy trees, the kind that'll give you shade during a hot summer's day.

I kept that little seed with me. I don't know why, or even what I'm going to do with it. I guess I'll plant it. I don't know what else to do with it. This place could use a little greenery.

7. The Same Place, But a Different Time

We knew it was coming. The war. Tensions were high, the West against the East, brothers against brothers. We could feel it coming, with every breath we took, in every bite of food, in every heartbeat. Most people ignored it. What could we do to stop it? We were just civilians. Just normal people with normal lives.

But we felt it. When it came, we felt it. We felt the bombs dropping around us, the gas sent out to finish us off, every life that was ended. Every soldier that died. Every civilian that died. We could feel the heat of explosions, the fire that burned our cities to the ground and left us with nothing but ashes.

Now, most people don't feel anything anymore. Every park, every back alley, every library, every fast food place is now a graveyard. No more room in the real graveyards. We had to make do. Couldn't leave the dead outside to rot. I couldn't. Because even though most people don't feel anything anymore, I still do.

One day I found a seed. The package was burned up a little, but it was for a tree. And I want to plant that tree. The tree of life. This place needs some greenery anyway. Nothing but burned buildings and shot-out windows and the gray concrete rubble that lines every street and the trash that blows around like tumbleweeds out in the desert. The last spark of color I remember seeing is from the fires that burned it all down. Even the sky has turned grey. Mother Nature is depressed.

I'm living with one other survivor. He says that it's stupid to plant the tree. He says that we need the water for ourselves, that it wouldn't get any sunlight. He says the dirt's no

good around here; it's filled with the poison of the gas and the tears of all the dead. But I don't care what he says. I want the tree that stands in the earth for the first time.

So when he's not looking, I go out into a park. The grass has been burned away and all the trees reduced to blackened stumps. The benches that once held people are now cracked, destroyed. There was a water fountain in the middle of the park, but now it's broken, bent, and water spurts out occasionally from it like it's bleeding. Pennies and quarters and nickels and dimes that children once threw into the fountain to wish for good luck are scattered around the edges of the broken fountain, occasionally catching what little sunlight there is.

I dig up some of the dirt and it crumbles away in my hands. I dig deeper until I find good soil, life-giving soil. I don't know much about gardening, but I do know that plants need good soil and water and sunlight. I can't give it too much sunlight, but I can give it good soil and water. I drop the seed in the hole I dug.

I tell the other survivor what I did, eventually. He's mad. Says that the tree is going to steal all of our water. He wants to dig it up, but I don't let him. Besides, it's already a sapling. It can grow. He says that I'm being stupid and crazy. I don't think I'm stupid and crazy. I just want to re-grow the Earth.

But he was right about the water. A couple weeks have passed and the tree's growing just fine. But it's stealing our water. We don't have as much. We wake up thirsty and go to bed thirsty. I catch the other survivor trying to dig up the tree, but he's too weak. Not enough water.

Now I'm dying and soon I won't be able feel anything, like the people we buried or wrapped up in scraps of clothing wherever we could put them. I don't mind dying. There's not much to do here. Except tend to the tree. It's looking pretty good now. I can hardly believe that it's still growing, with little sunlight and little water and little good soil. It's looking pretty good, and I'm looking pretty bad. I don't want to live much longer anyway. Not much to do here, and I'm stealing the tree's water.

8. For Cutie

1.

"Oh my god Laura, that guy was totally hitting on you," a young, attractive blonde woman said, stumbling out of a nightclub with her friend.

"God, Tina, he was such a douchebag though," Laura replied. Laura was also young and was very attractive, with short, brunette hair and equally dark brown eyes. "I guess he was kind of cute," she added, giggling madly.

"Yeah, I would'a gone home with him," Tina said, steadying herself by grabbing Laura's arm, who was equally tipsy. They both tumbled to the ground, which only made them giggle harder. They eventually got to their feet. Laura stumbled to the edge of the sidewalk and hailed a taxi.

"Yoohoo! Over here," she said, sloppily waving her arm.

Eventually, one taxicab stopped for them. The two young women practically fell into the car. When they managed to get their seatbelts on, the taxicab driver craned his neck to look at the two and smiled.

"Where to, ladies," he asked.

"Um, we want, to go home," Tina said, eyelids drooping.

The taxicab driver fought the urge to roll his eyes. "And where might that be?" he asked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"212 South Ave…venn…nooo," Laura managed to say. She then started giggling again, "You forgot where you lived," she said, laughing at Tina.

"Shuddup," Tina said, slapping Laura softly.

The taxicab driver drove quickly, not wanting to spend too much time with these drunken women. After taking them through winding city streets, fighting aggressive drivers and drunk drivers, waiting for red lights that obviously went on for long, he finally slowed the car down.

"Hey, Teee-na, we're here," Laura said.

"Hmm? Hey, what's going on? Where are we?" Tina said, confused. The taxicab driver had brought them out to a forest in the outskirts of town and not the comfortable apartment building at 212 South Avenue.

"Hey, what's going on?" Laura asked, trying to figure out why the taxicab driver would take them out to this deserted forest and not back home.

"Shh," he said, and reached into his glove compartment. The last thing that Laura and Tina remembered was a glint of metal, a flash and a loud noise, like a thunderclap. Then all went dark.

2.

"This just in. The bodies of two young women were found this morning by a group of hikers. They were apparently shot to death and left out in the forest, just outside of the city. The identities of the two women have not yet been released. We do know that

they were last seen leaving a popular nightclub in a Yellow Jacket Co. taxicab. A police investigation is ongoing. Next up, we interview a man born with three buttocks."

"Man, can you believe that?" Guy asked, gesturing at the TV with his pen. Guy was a police officer in his mid-30s, still in good shape. His face was lined and tired from many late nights either on patrol or in the office. Right now he was at his desk, sipping coffee and watching the news with his partner, Craig.

"Mhmm, I bet you that the taxicab driver did it," Craig said, taking a long sip of his coffee. Craig was slightly chubby with a youthful face that seemed too cheery for a 30-something police officer who had been with the force for nearly a decade.

"Yeah, whatever," Guy said, "You know what? I'll bet you that we're gonna get assigned to this."

"Nah, they're gonna get Paul and Tim to get this one. Ten bucks," Craig said, searching for his wallet.

"Boys! You have a new case to work on!" the chief of police said, walking up to their desks. The chief was a gruff man who seemed like he should be leading Marines rather than police officers. Still, he got the job done and was respected because of it.

"Oh, screw you," Craig said, lazily tossing a two fives in Guy's direction.

"Hah, thanks for the cash," Guy said, smiling cockily. "Well, we should probably get started. A taxicab should be fairly easy to trace."

"Yeah. We should hit up the bar, too," Craig said, suddenly all business.

"Alright. Let's rock and roll," Guy said, standing up dramatically.

"You're not Horatio Caine, Guy," Craig said, slowly getting out of his chair, "You can't say stupid shit like that."

"Shut up," Guy said.

3.

The two cops pulled up to the nightclub where the two women were seen partying. They both got out of the car. Guy slowly pulled his sunglasses off his face and breathed deeply.

"If you quote CSI I'm gonna punch you, Guy," Craig said.

"It looks like…" Guy said, returning the sunglasses to his face, "…drinking and driving really does kill."

Craig didn't say anything. He just punched Guy in the arm.

A bell above the door announced the entrance of the two cops to the bartender. The bartender was slowly polishing the counter with wide strokes. He was slightly overweight and wasn't young anymore, but he had piercing, intense eyes that were reminiscent of those of a bird of prey.

"Hello officers," he said, not stopping polishing the counter, "I'm guessing you're here about the two girls who were here last night?"

"Oh, so they were here?" Guy asked.

"Yeah," the bartender replied, "I remember those two. Nice girls. Smart too, getting a taxicab."

"Hmm, Just unlucky," Craig said, leaning against the counter.

"Hey man, I just washed that," the bartender said, pointing at the counter.

"Oh, sorry," Craig said apologetically, practically leaping away from the counter as if it were burning hot.

"So, did you manage to see the taxi?" Guy asked.

"No, I'm sorry. But I think Harry here did," he said, gesturing toward a young man who was mopping the floors.

"Oh, you did?" Craig said.

"Yeah, I did," Harry said.

"Can you remember anything about it? The company or license plate or anything?" Craig asked.

"Umm, I do remember the company. It was…uh…Yellow Jacket Taxi, or something like that," Harry said.

"Alright, thanks," Guy said.

"Yeah, this'll help our case a lot," Craig said.

"Our pleasure," the bartender said, who had stopped polishing the counter and was now furiously cleaning a glass.

4.

Next, the cops drove to the local headquarters of the Yellow Jacket Taxi Company. The building that contained the headquarters for the company was oddly large and imposing for a taxi company named after a small, flying insect. The headquarters for the company took up the second floor of the office building.

The two cops entered the building and were greeted by a pleasant, if very plain, secretary named Jane. It was a very generic-looking office, with almost-dead indoor plants, cheesy motivational posters, and lots of bored looking workers.

"Hello officers," Jane said, "What can I do for you?"

"Who's in charge of this place?" Guy asked, being way too dramatic.

Craig rolled his eyes. "We're looking for your supervisor."

"Sure thing," Jane said. She gestured to a large office to the back of the room, her bracelets jangling loudly as she did. "He's in there."

"Thank you, Jane," Craig said.

"No problem," Jane said. When the cops left her desk, she reopened her minimized game of Solitaire, ignoring everything around her.

The two cops entered the boss's office. Relatively, it was quite nice, with a view (of the parking lot), a big desk and a slightly less archaic computer. A large name plaque sat on the desk with the name Scott Chow on it in big, bold letters.

"Hello, sir," Guy said, "Could we ask you a few questions?"

"Of course," Scott said, "Is this about the two girls? Because I assure you that this company would never produce a murderer like that. We have very strict policies about…"

"Whoa, calm down," Craig said, raising his arms defensively, "we just need the names of the taxicab drivers that were working last night."

"OK, I can do that," Scott said, "I just want you to know that this is a huge embarrassment to the company and that we would never…"

"Look, nothing bad is going to happen to your company," Guy said, "Everything will be fine."

Scott Chow printed out a list of all the taxicab drivers that were working last night, which included a picture of the employee and some basic information about them, like name, age, and gender. While Scott Chow found the list and printed it out, he talked about the "proud history" of the "popular and very well-loved" Yellow Jacket Taxi Company. Guy and Craig had to use all of their self-restraint to keep themselves from rolling their eyes.

"OK, thank you sir," Guy said, glad that they could leave the office.

"Oh, are you ever going to do anything about the stolen taxicab?" Scott asked, "The loss of that car really set us back and I never heard anything from you the police about it. It was an important asset and without it our productivity really took a hit. The synergy of our office was really affected. We have since utilized…"

"Mr. Chow, we'll look into it," Guy said, wanting to avoid another long talk from Mr. Chow.

"Ok, good, good," he said, sitting back down at his desk.

The two cops finally exited Mr. Chow's office and headed back downstairs.

"That stolen car…" Craig said, scratching the stubble on his chin.

"I think the murderer stole that. So we couldn't trace him so easily," Guy said.

"So you don't think that he works for the company?" Craig asked.

"I don't think so. It would make sense that our killer would use a stolen taxicab. Taxicabs in service would be too easy to trace," Guy replied.

"Hmm, well, I think we have to find that taxicab," Craig said.

"Let's go hail us a taxi," Guy said, putting his sunglasses on with a flourish.

Craig punched him again.

5.

"Well, good news guys, we have a traffic cam photo of the taxicab," Brian said, staring at the computer screen in front of him. Brian Nakamura was the go-to guy for technology at the station. He was a stereotypical nerd, with slightly sloppy clothes, a skinny frame, and thick glasses that dominated his face. He did have an odd kind of charm about him, and his enthusiasm for computers was infectious.

Now, Brian was helping Craig and Guy find the taxicab the murder had used, which Brian had nicknamed "the Death Cab". On Brian's computer screen was a blurry and grainy picture of what was unmistakably a taxicab.

"Can we zoom in on the license plate?" Craig asked, leaning over to get a better view of the computer screen.

"Sure can," Brian said. His fingers flew over his keyboard, quickly blowing up the picture.

"Can we make it clearer?" Guy asked, staring intently at the picture.

"Yup," Brian said, fingers again hitting keys quickly. Like magic, the picture got more and more in focus. Soon, the two policemen were able to see the license plate, clear as day.

"Can we get a look at the driver?" Craig asked, pointing at the screen.

"Uh," Brian said, scrolling around the image, "Sorry. Too many shadows."

"Hmm," Gary said, "Well, we have a license plate number. That'll help a lot."

6.

"This just in, another two bodies have been found in the forest in the outskirts of the city. They were last seen in a taxi on their way to a popular nightclub. Their identities have not yet been released. People can't help but speculate that they were killed by the same mysterious murderer. The police have not yet commented on either of these killings. And next up, find out if twitter discriminates against puppies…"

"Ok, this is getting crazy," Craig exclaimed, throwing his arms up in despair. He ran his hands through his hair, looking slightly crazed.

"I know, I love puppies," Guy said, smirking.

"I'm serious, Guy…"

"Look man, you've got to calm down," Guy said, suddenly grave, "We'll get to the bottom of this. We always do."

"Yeah, you're right, you're right," Craig said, "I think it's time to call it a night. I'll see you tomorrow, Guy."

"Yeah, sleep on it. It'll do you good," Guy said.

"Are you going to leave, too?" Craig asked, standing up.

"Nah, I'll stay a little longer," Guy said, shuffling papers on his desk.

"Alright. Night, Guy," Craig said.

"Night," Guy said, watching Craig walk out of the office. He then grabbed the evidence they had gathered so far and frowned. They had some good info on the murderer, but it wasn't enough. They didn't even have a motive yet.

Guy grabbed the TV remote, wanting to turn off the news report that seemed to be taunting him, laughing at his failure to find out more about the murderer. Suddenly, the news report switched to a commercial that had a frog in it.

Guy sat up in his chair like he was just jolted by electricity. Something about the frog had sparked a revelation. He knew the murderer's motive. It was far-fetched, but it made so much sense. He grabbed a phone book, checking the names of the nightclubs. His eyes widened. The murderer was going to nightclubs in the order they appeared in the phone book.

He practically leapt out of his chair. He fumbled for his phone and called Craig. They could catch this guy tonight.

7.

"This is the stupidest idea you've ever had," Craig said, standing outside of the Transatlantic Bar.

"He's going to come here. I know it," Guy said.

"You better to be right," Craig said, scanning the street again. Still no taxicabs in sight.

8.

"How long have we been here," Craig asked, checking the news on his phone. "Hey Guy, I said…Guy, c'mon."

Guy was flirting with an attractive and very drunk young woman who had just stumbled out of the bar.

"What?" Guy asked, innocent as can be.

"How. Long. Have. We. Been. Here?" Craig asked, punctuating each word as if he were talking to a small child.

"About an hour," Guy said.

"And Guy? She's way out of your league," Craig said, smirking.

9.

"Okay, you're an idiot," Craig said, frustrated that the murderer had not shown up, "I'm going home."

"Wait, no, he's going to come," Guy said, gesturing wildly with his hands.

"Fine. Another half-hour," Craig said.

"But what if…look! A taxicab!" Guy said, pointing excitedly.

"Jesus Christ, you were right. This is our guy, it matches the license plate we got," Craig said, glad that the night wasn't all for naught.

"Alright, I want you to follow the taxicab," Guy said, "And I'm going to test my theory."

Guy grabbed a different drunk woman who was stumbling out of the bar. He guided her to the taxicab and flashed Craig a big, obnoxious smile. Craig rolled his eyes. But he knew that Guy was taking a big risk going off in the taxicab, especially since he was so sure that this was the murderer. Craig ran off to find his own car that he had parked a block away. He checked his gun. It was fully loaded, and he had three full clips for backup. He hoped that he wouldn't have to use it, but it would be too dangerous to go without it.

Craig saw the taxicab begin to pull away from the nightclub, and he slowly started up his own car and trailed after it slowly. Tonight they were going to catch a murderer.

10.

As Guy had suspected, the taxicab driver had taken them to the outskirts of town; to the forest where the other bodies were found. He felt the car slowly slowing down and his heartbeat speeding up. The drunken woman he had pulled along with him was very confused, asking where they where and what was going on.

The taxicab driver put a finger to his lips. "Shh."

The taxicab driver leaned over and opened up the glove compartment. He tried to cover it up, but Guy's years of training and experience made the handgun he pulled out of the glove compartment as clear as day.

Guy knew he had to act quickly. He whipped his own gun out of his waistband and pointed it at the taxicab driver's head before he got the chance to pull out the gun in the glove compartment.

"Don't move," Guy said forcefully, "I'm a cop. And you are under arrest."

11.

There was a blaze of red and blue lights, lighting up the forest and reflecting off of the shiny yellow police tape that surrounded the area. Two cops in uniform handcuffed the Death Cab driver and forced him into the back of a police cruiser. Gloved policemen took the Death Cab driver's handgun and carefully placed it in a plastic evidence bag. Craig and Guy stood surveying the scene, like two lions after a kill. It felt good to bring a criminal to justice.

"So Guy, you never told me how you figured out his motive," Craig said.

"Oh, I was, uh, inspired by this commercial," Guy said, only now realizing how stupid that sounded.

"Really?" Craig asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah. There was this frog in it and it reminded me of Ben Gibbard. 'Cuz, y'know, Ben Gibbard looks like a walking, singing frog. Suddenly everything made sense. This guy wasn't just driving a Death Cab; he was driving a Death Cab for Cutie! That's why he went to nightclubs and only picked up really attractive people. I mean, have you seen the photos of them? And have you seen what this guy looks like? He's not a looker. He was probably teased his whole life. And this was his revenge," Guy explained excitedly.

"That's still the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Craig said, "But that was a good bit of detective work you did."

"Thanks, Craig," Guy said sincerely.

"Well, I think I can call it a night now," Craig said, stretching his arms and yawning.

"Yeah, me too," Guy said.

9. The Different Time

"C'mon! Let's go sit under our tree."

"Wow, it isn't our tree. Don't be so selfish."

"I know that. And you know what I mean."

"Yes, I do know what you mean. I can read your mind."

"And I can read your mind."

"What am I thinking about right now?

"You're thinking about reading my mind."

Two teenagers, one boy and one girl, made their way to a big, leafy, green tree. It was a beautiful summer day, the kind when the trees and the grass are so green and the sky is so blue and the sun is so bright that it seems almost too good to be true, when the colors are so pure and true that even the most steadfast atheist wonders if God himself hand-picked each red flower and each green blade of grass. It was days like these that most people found it easy to ignore the heat and the sweat and just enjoy life.

The boy and the girl sat down under the tree's long branches and rested their backs against its coarse trunk. The shade from the tree's big leaves was a welcome respite from the heat of summer midday. They both sat there silently for a few moments, letting the shadows play across their skin and feeling the heat slowly leaving them. The boy finally moved; opened his bag and withdrew two glass bottles, both filled to the brim.

"Here, one for you and one for me," he said, handing one sweating bottle to the girl.

"Thanks," she said, taking the bottle, "I definitely needed one of these. I love summer but it's just so hot."

"I'm sorry," he said, grinning, "I'll leave if you want."

She laughed and mockingly slapped his arm. "Ass," she said, still chuckling.

"At least we have this tree," he said, "we'd burn up without it."

"Or, y'know, we could always just sit inside with the air conditioner on," she said.

"Yeah, but that's lame," he said, "it's summertime. We have to be outside with our friends, playing sports and forgetting about school."

"You don't play any sports," she said.

"Well, I'm outside. And I'm with a friend. And I'm definitely forgetting about school," he said.

"3 out of 4. That's pretty good," she said.

"That's 75%. That's practically failing if it were a test," he said.

"What happened to forgetting about school?" she asked, grinning.

"Well…I…you…" he said, feeling very charming and smooth.

"I'm just kidding," she said, laughing.

The pair fell into silence again, sipping at their drinks. A breeze had finally started to pick up. It brought with it the sweet smell of freshly cut grass as it rustled the tree's leaves, making the shadows quiver, letting the sunlight dance across the grass and the boy and girl who were sitting under the tree. In the distance a group of young children had started a game of tag. Their voices and laughter carried across the grass.

"What're you thinking about?" the girl asked, taking another sip of her drink.

"It's amazing how fast everything was rebuilt or re-grown," he said, watching the children play tag, "I mean, the war was before our time, but everything feels…normal."

"Yeah," she said, "we humans are a tough bunch."

"Yeah, we are," he said, "Sometimes I feel weird that we survived when so many people didn't, y'know?"

"I guess," she said.

The topic of the war was always a sensitive one for the boy. The boy's brother died from leukemia when he was very young, before the doctors came up with a cure. The boy often thought of why he had lived when his brother had died. He ran a hand through his short hair. He knew that nobody liked a brooder, but sometimes he just couldn't help it. He stared out across the grassy field and watched the children play tag. Sometimes he wished he could return to a simpler time and just run around in the grass and forget about the rest of the world.

The girl knew that the boy was thinking about his brother. She also knew exactly what to do. She tentatively reached out with her hand and slapped his arm.

"Tag. You're it," she said before jumping up to avoid his reach.

He looked up at her, slightly shocked by what she had just done.

"C'mon, Incredible Sulk," she said, hoping he wouldn't be annoyed at her.

Instead, he grinned at her and shot his arm out, barely missing her leg.

"Hah! Too slow!" she taunted, glad that she was able to distract him. She spun on her heel and sprinted off. He got up quickly and chased after her.

The boy and the girl spent the rest of the day playing tag, wars and apocalypses forgotten.