I gazed up to the bright blue, evening sky and the alluring orange streaks of light that seemed to have been intricately painted, on this canvas. The sky was peppered with small, white bolls of cotton, slowly floating along the blue expanse. The sound of the faint clicking of my heels against the stone ground, was overpowered by the lively music that flooded through my ears, entranced me and spread warmth through my body.

Crowds of people flooded the expanse, walking towards the sea, the shopping centers to the left and the food street. There was the sparkling, crystal blue, shimmering sea ahead, narrowly separated from the crowd through a brown mahogany fence. Occasionally, the water would creep forward, sweeping the feet of its admirers in gratitude, resulting in shrieks of laughter and excitement from the children. Raising my wrist towards me, I read the dreaded time on the watch; 5:30 PM. Hurriedly, I continued to walk parallel to the sea, towards the food street. My stomach churned at the mouthwatering smell of salads, popcorn, juices, potatoes. In addition to the calming sound of water gently rubbing against the fence, the delightful warm music, I heard the sizzling of vegetables as the chefs tossed their pans in quick, impressive movements.

I joined the crowd gathered in front of the chef, intently watching the quick dicing and cutting of vegetables. Delighted at the prospect of a warm snack, before I embarked for the library to study, I grabbed a dollar bill from my pocket and passed it to the chef, who handed me a plate of warm fries in return. Feeling the weight of books on my back, I walked hurriedly towards from where I had entered. With a backward glance, I bid my adieus, leaving the music and merriment behind me.

The port library was a few minutes walking distance away. I paced forward, hurrying on the stone steps leading towards the library. The library soon emerged, sheltered by the trees and with an air of tranquility around it. Within seconds, I had reached the cold, glass door of the library and swung it open.

Instantaneously, the world seemed quiet and still. I glanced at the dozens of bookshelves ahead of me, to my left and to my right. I noticed students were browsing the shelves, just as I was to do. I noticed people on their laptops, furiously typing away, their faces tense. I felt my feet sink in the soft brown fur of the carpet as I unloaded my bag and walked towards the bookshelves. I felt their cool, hard touch and the smooth, crisp paper of the books. My eyes scoured the bookshelves, from science to history, and at last I found the book I desired. I pulled it out, hearing the crackling of paper. As I walked back to the soft, inviting sofas, I realized how I had visited two places today, each as different as black is to white. ​

I held the paint brush, gingerly, between my fingers. My eyes traced the motion of my hands as I brought the brush upwards, towards the canvas, and with a slow dabbing, painted the last strokes of dull color. I searched for hints of color, hope in the painting, but found none. I had used all the possible colors to create it, yet it was pallid, too similar to the day of the event.
All had been still on that dreadful day in 1863. Not a single leaf fluttered, not a single bird chirped, and the chatter that once engulfed Georgia was silenced. Hushed, grim and expectant, the crowds flooded the streets. The malicious expectancy seemed to cover the bright gaze of the sun, until people looked up into the sky, incredulous that it was clear instead of covered with dark clouds. No one dared to speak, unless to support and comfort the other or to remind that those dead would be martyrs for The Cause.
“Casualty lists, casualty lists, casualty lists” a loud voice repeated. The crowd turned its heads to a young man who hurriedly threw newspapers, freshly smeared with ink, to those nearest in the crowd. There was a scuffling, as people craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the list, in the hope that their loved one had not been enlisted. The silence was broken with loud wails, cries and soft, relieved laughter, as each person became aware of the fate of their beloved. I waited for my mother to bring the list, fright and curiosity gnawing at my stomach. I felt my body go cold, iron fingers strangle my neck as I stared, stunned with shock, at the sight of my mother crying. Something was wrong. I ran, shrugging past people, not caring who I pushed. I had to check the list.
“Mama!” I cried out. She thrust the list into my hand, tears streaming down her helpless face. Hurriedly, with quivering hands, I scanned the list. The name stood out, as white does on black, ‘Joseph Gartner – Killed in action’. It was father. ‘But no… he’d written to us last week…he’d said he’d be home soon…surely nothing could have happened to him…it had to be a misprint…’ My mind flooded with the memories I had of my father. I clung on to them desperately, as though, grabbing fleeting birds, afraid to lose what was left of him. Beads of emotion slipped rapidly from my eyes, staining my face, each tear, an ode to the love that I possessed for him.
As I heard the shrill chirping of a bird, my thoughts were brought back to the present. Feeling aware of the hot Georgia sun underneath which I was basking, I wiped my tears with my paint-stained hands. Even after thirty years, the grief of loss had not left me. It would never leave. The memory would always be accompanied by the sinister color of death; white.

​

“Ready or not, here I come,” it said. The game my daughter and I had played on many occasions, only now the sweet girl I had once known was dead, and this thing, this replicant had been transformed into a homicidal killing machine.

It had joined our household back in 2042, when our daughter had died. The death had been sudden, a quick encounter with a fast moving hover car had split her 6 year old body in half, splattering her intestines and organs over the road. Sarah had seen it happen.

She had never been the same after that. Every time she close her eyes she saw it happen. She woke up each night screaming, she tried to end her own life in the bathtub. There was little I could do to help, other than hold her, reassure her that things would be okay. But now, she is dead. The replicant we were given to help both of us cope with losing our daughter killed her, crushing her in an embrace that broke bones. Sarah died in my arms. The machine told me that it cared about its mother and only wanted to see her at peace, so it gave her a hug. Then it asked me to play hide and seek. I refused. I tried to call the police, but I couldn't. I was trapped in the house with this thing that wore my daughter's face.

Standing there, still covered in Sarah's blood it sat in my daughter's pyramas on my daughter's bed counting. I wanted to break it, to disable it, but I couldn't. The baseball bat was still in the kitchen.

It opened its eyes and looked at me. “That’s not how the game is played — Daddy.” It glared at me with its dead eyes. “You go hide and when I find you, I hug you.”

It all sounded so innocent. But I knew what that meant.

“Do you need a hug right now?” It asked.

“No,” I replied.

It returned to its countdown. I had no choice. I was locked in the house with it with no way to call for help. I hid, knowing that it would find me.

It did. Even though I went to my office and hid in one of the cupboards, it didn't take long for it to figure out where I was.
Now, the replicant lays broken. The ugly resin ornament my wife and daughter bought me when we went on holiday is rammed into its face. The ornament they had insisted I keep on my desk. The ornament they had carved a single word into -- love.
​

The usual passengers are riding on the bus. There’s the man who cycles in and out of prison. There are a couple of drug addicts. There’s the woman who constantly argues with an imaginary companion.

Bill, the bus driver, thinks about the passengers he once had on this route. College students. Retirees. Commuters. They were easier to deal with than today’s passengers. He seldom needed to deny service. He never needed the police. He never needed a paramedic to revive someone who’d OD’ed.

What the hell happened to the good passengers? he wonders.

Well, he knows what happened. Public transportation has never been strong in his state. This transit agency has been going down hill for years, and service is getting so bad no one wants to ride the bus if they can help it. Then, the city itself is rapidly deteriorating.

He stops to pick up Ellen. She’s an older woman, who is one of the last good passengers he sees most days. As she pays, she says: “This may be my last day riding! I didn’t think I’d ever be able to have a car again—but a neighbor is giving me a great deal on her old Toyota!

“Congratulations! But I’ll miss you!”

She sits down. A moment later, she calls out. “There’s a problem in back!”

Bill glances back and sees a man standing in the aisle, urinating into an orange juice bottle. Bill pulls over and yells to the man to leave the bus. As Bill waits for the man to comply, he thinks back to just ten years before, when the worst thing he had to deal with on this route was an obnoxious teenager.
​

Jack Douglas waited impatiently at his computer. It was the day when the Online Short Story Competition short list would be announced, and those six shortlisted stories would be published – his own, and five others. A large group of readers – Jack himself was one of them – would then be voting for the winning entry. Jack didn't intend to read any of them; he'd only be voting for his own. But he was curious to discover which five other shortlisted authors would eventually lose out to his own triumphant submission.
 
Jack knew he'd win the Online Short Story Competition for two reasons. First, his was a brilliant submission. Second, having won the immediately previous contest, he was acknowledged as the website's most accomplished wordsmith.
 
Logging on a minute early, Jack refreshed the web page repeatedly until – finally – the short list appeared at exactly noon.
 
Jack stared at the screen, nonplussed. There was no sign of his story. He counted the stories – twice – to see if they'd simply missed his out by mistake, but no, the full six were there, but not his. Jack Douglas hadn't made the short list.
 
It took him less than three minutes to grasp the obvious. The judges were incompetent idiots. In a flash, he'd found the competition's 'Contact Us' details, and fired off an email to the competition editor:
​

​​Louise, the editor in question, had never seen anything quite like it previously, far less from a past winner. At first she reacted with shock, but in no time found herself giggling uncontrollably at Douglas's display of arrogance.
 
Then an idea popped into her head. Louise's day job was as an English teacher, so the next day she took the email, name redacted, into her 3rd year class and invited them to compose a polite reply. That kept the class busy for a little while.
 
But then an extraordinary thing happened. One of her class, a boy called Callum, put his hand up and asked a question.
 
"Miss, by any chance is this from someone called Jack Douglas?" When he saw Louise hesitating, he went on, "Because if it is, don't worry. That's my Grandpa. He's like that all the time, a complete pain. I'm really sorry. He thinks he's some sort of comedian but he's really just an annoying, sad old man."
 
Louise explained that Callum wasn't to say sorry. She explained that she'd blocked Callum's grandpa's emails and future entries. Turning to the rest of the class, she advised them all to treat internet pests the same way.
 
"Good call, Miss," Callum said. "My family all wish we could just 'block' Grandpa. Even my mother thinks that, and Grandpa's her own father. That's the good thing about the internet, though, isn't it – you can just switch people off. Not like real life."