You know what I hate about the bus? It's not the uncomfortable seats, the smell, nor the uncleanliness. What bugs me is the silence. I mean, apart from the loud drone of the engine and the traffic noise, it's the people that are all silent. It makes me unspeakably sad, I can't ride the bus without thinking about it. There are office workers, laborers, beggars, mothers, students, people from every walk of life, all sharing this commute.

But instead of bringing people together, the bus promotes the differences which keep us apart. We all spread out as far as possible, keep our heads down, and ignore everybody around us. Instead of identifying with them, we resent the mother and her crying child, avoid the beggars who are just doing what they can with what life dealt them. And when you do talk, you get branded as crazy. I've tried, it just makes people work harder to ignore you. After a few attempts, I gave up.

Then, occasionally, there are those rare times when you wish there were silence. One day, a mother and her son sat down a few seats ahead of me, right in my view. The boy had obviously been crying; his eyes were still red and tear lines ran down his face. In hushed tones low enough to not hear the words clearly, but loud enough to clearly hear the hiss of anger and reprimand, she continually scolded the child. He broke out into loud sobs, so she slapped him. Not a swat, not a spanking, a backhanded, full-force slap. I saw it, everybody on the bus must have, and not a one of us lifted a finger. The pair got off at the next stop. The slouch in that boy's step as he departed burned itself into my memory. Maybe that's why I acted the next time.

A couple got on the bus and sat in two of the front seats, the kind that lines up against the wall so you are looking at the people across the aisle from you. I was on the opposite wall, not directly across from them, but only a few seats down. The man was dressed in faded blue jeans and a long sleeve, button up, white shirt with some company logo on the breast pocket. The top two buttons were undone, revealing just a few chest hairs. He was relatively tall and well built, but certainly no athlete, just a guy born with a full frame.

The woman was thin, nearly gaunt in the face. She had short, curly black hair, the kind that's so black it seems like it has a blueish tint. She wore a wrinkled, pink blouse and knee-length skirt.

What stood out was the way they held hands. The man held on firmly rather than fondly, the muscles in his arm were tensed and his knuckles a little white. The girl's arm was limp, resigned. You can tell that two people are in love by the way they hold hands, and this was possession, not love.

He got up to leave a few stops later, but the girl didn't follow. He yanked a few times telling her this was their stop. She resisted, and in a weak but audible voice told him, "I want to go home."

"You are going home baby, now get up," he replied, his voice getting louder with each successive word.

The bus driver yelled, "Hey, you two," and for a second I thought he would intervene, but instead he continued, "You getting off or what, I've got a schedule to keep here!"

"Yes we are," the guy yelled back, and in a low growl told the girl, "Now get up and get off this bus." She sat still.

Malice flashed in his eyes. With a good, hard tug, he brought her out of her seat. She yelped and fell to the floor.

"You leave her alone." I was probably more surprised than he was to hear those words leave my mouth. They weren't particularly loud or authoritative, but they were there.

He glared at me, then quickly surveyed the rest of the bus. Nobody else seemed to react, though heads were certainly raised. "This is none of your business," he hissed, and started to drag the girl towards the exit.

I jumped up and made a move to block his path, but with a forceful shove he threw me to the ground. He got off the bus with his girl in tow, and we drove away.

But there, on the floor with her, I saw her eyes as she was being dragged away. The distant look she wore previously was fading and there was hope there. It was nothing you could ever capture in a picture, just an instant where two people connected and understood each other. And an instant later she was gone.

I like to think that she found the courage to get away from him, or that he was identified on the bus's camera and picked up by the police. I can afford a car nowadays, but I still ride that bus route every day, hoping that I'll see her again. And in my thoughts, when we meet again, she wouldn't even say a thing, just smile and pass out of my life once more.

Streetlights glow, orange and brilliant across the dark city streets. The sky is calm and clear. What a beautiful night! I'm driving home from a friend's house in a beat-up station wagon that my mother lent me.

"It's for class." I had said with my best puppy dog expression.

She took a moment to think, then relented and extended the keys to me with a jingle. "Brian, if you put so much as a scratch on that car. . ."

"Cross my heart!" I interrupted with a dramatic flourish, before snatching the keys and dashing out the door.

I roll down the windows and delight in wind against my face as I cruise through the city streets. The trip may only be a short one, but it's a very rare occasion that my mom lends me her car. When the opportunity comes I like to enjoy it. Ahead, a traffic light flips to an authoritative red and I brake reluctantly to a stop.

Sleeping on the sidewalk beside me is a homeless man. He is coddled in dirty blankets and newspapers, filthy hair covers his scalp and face like a sickly lion's mane. Laying at his feet is a bent cardboard sign with 'Anything Helps' written in black marker. There is a brief flash of gold at his neck, but I pass it off as a trick of the light. His eyes open, gray and piercing, and raise to meet mine. Before they have the chance I cut off our connection, staring through him, past his silent pleas. I turn my eyes back to the stoplight, willing the light to change. After a guilty eternity it flips from red to green and I put my foot to the gas, chancing one last glance at the downtrodden man. His eyes are wide, frightened, and looking directly at me.

From somewhere in the hazes of my mind I hear the chilling squeal of skidding tires. An instant of dread overwhelms me, then everything is forgotten as a bus plows into my rear bumper. Glass shatters and broken bits fill the air like a crystalline mist. Fiberglass and metal crumple and break. The frame warps and bends. The collision sends the car spinning and everything outside the car becomes a foggy blur, a poorly detailed parentheses in my memories. A breath wrenching shock rocks through me as the car smashes into some immovable object. Darkness envelops me.

My eyes flutter open and I feel thick and heavy like I'm in a dream. Broken glass amidst torn upholstery, uncomfortably warm flickering light, blood; this landscape is alien to me. What . . . what's happening? I hear something faintly in the distance, shouting, effort, metal being wrenched and pried. My door flies open with a loud cry of exertion and strong hands free me from the vehicle. There is movement now, a bustling, frenetic pace as my rescuer half carries half drags me away from the vehicle and lays me down on the sidewalk. From the corner of my eye I watch as my car erupts like a funeral pyre, drowning out the night.

There is a tightness in my chest now, like a great weight is being pressed down upon me and I struggle to breathe. My rescuer's suddenly face pops into my vision, panicked gray eyes framed in brown matted hair. It's the homeless man. He's kneeling beside me shouting something at the top of his lungs. Around his neck dangles a small gold locket, shaped like a heart. What an odd thing for a man to be wearing. It reminds me of my mother's necklace. Man, how am I going to tell her about the car? The weight on my chest is unbearable now. A few stunted gasps and I stop breathing altogether. The world goes black as my rescuer shouts to me frantically.

My eyes creak open again, almost involuntarily and barely a sliver. The homeless man's lips are pressed tight to mine, his unwashed beard rubs against my skin. He exhales a deep breath: one, two, three, and with each count my chest slowly rises. He places his hands on my chest, one on top of the other, then compresses: one, two, three. With each count blood sludges through my veins. Sobs wrack his body as he struggles desperately to work my useless heart. He is weeping, weeping and screaming, purple-faced. Locked within my unresponsive body I marvel at the sight. Then my tenuous grip on the conscious world fades.

Pain. Dull and masked, but definitely pain. My eyes open hesitantly to the blinding red/blue strobes of emergency vehicles. I am strapped down tightly to a gurney in the back of an ambulance. Various tubes and wires protrude from me, some taking measurements while others pump fluids. A paramedic sits beside me, monitoring various instruments while another speaks to a gravel-voiced man outside the vehicle. A slight movement and I think I see the faintest flash of gold. "He'll be fine." I hear the paramedic say reassuringly before pulling the doors closed.

"Thank you." I whisper to my savior as we drive off. Tears are welling in my eyes.

"Thank you."

I am a reaver of souls.

You are amused? Let me tell you - in my experience, derisive snickering is often a precursor to abject terror.

I roam the earth, seeking those whom I might devour. It is my appointed role. I serve Death. I am a harbinger of mortality.

You laugh.... It is becoming harder to instill fear; my heart is no longer in it. Yet I suggest you take me seriously. I can have you. Just one kiss, and you'll be dead where you stand. You won't laugh then. No, you'll fall to the hospital floor, maybe twitch briefly. I know you've seen life end. As have I, countless times.

Sigh.

I suppose you think it's easy, this traversing the mortal plane, connecting only for an instant with those whose life's end is imminent? I do it well, and I make it personal. The kiss makes the difference - suckingthe life from those appointed for my attentions. Others employ a perfunctory tap on the shoulder or some artistic violent gesture, but I prefer it to be, how should I say...? Intimate.

Perks of the job? Hah! It's a thankless task. Do you imagine I receive gratitude from Death when I return with another bounty of souls? He's a cold, unfeeling master, and we are slaves to the schedule both. No, there is no companionship to be had from Death.

Today, though... of aeons, it was the loveliest moment. We're not supposed to get involved; that's our solemn oath. Don't cross the line into mortal affairs until the conclusion of a lifetime. But I admit it: I was lonely. As was she - that beautiful girl on a balcony of the Savoy Hotel, fourteenth floor. She wasn't even on my schedule. I was serving an aneurysm to an old woman on the 10:48 Eastbound City bus. Standing at the bus stop, minding my own business, I saw the girl jump.

Janet is her name. I watched her fall, and I looked into her soul and saw reflected my own pain. That despair, that singular lack of meaning which drives a mortal to seek my services - I knew it as my own. Hope and desolation rolled into one. It wasn't my place to do so, but I stepped in. This has been a long time coming.

She was meant for Garret, not I. He's riven souls for a mere two millennia and does well, but I despise his flippancy. I could not permit him to merely flick over her with his bored arrogance. He did not question my seniority as I took charge, and shuffled on to his next appointment.

I mishandled the job in every sense. It's scandal enough that Mrs Allen remains alive and well, her aneurysm delayed for months, or years, even. But Janet is where I failed in my duty.
I know not what came over me, really. You must understand, it is out of order. I shouldn't even speak to you like this. Protocol dictates "Behold, mortal, and quake in dread!" but there is no saving me now. I am at peace with my choice.

I performed my job. She lay there on the pavement in a growing pool of her beautiful crimson blood. It never fails to impress - the essence of life melting away from an empty body. I knelt and heard her heartbeat falter. Countless times I've done it, but today the weariness of millennia bore heavier on me. For the first time, I yearned to touch someone and not have them die.

I kissed her, savouring the delicate wounded beauty of her soul as I breathed it from her.

And then I choked. It caught in my throat as my gorge rose. I saw the illusion of peace on a face swindled of life before its time. I wanted no further part in Death's foul conspiracy. I touched my mouth to hers and returned life to her body.

She blinked. Her pulse strengthened as her soul flooded home. Then you arrived in your ambulance, adrenalin syringe in hand and a prayer on your lips, and you know the rest: standing in the ER, marvelling at her survival of a fourteen storey fall. Major blood loss with no apparent lasting effects. Her miraculous recovery before your eyes.

I admit - I did it. You may scoff, but I am given that authority. Until I say so, the soul remains and, with it, the life. Look at her, breathing and living. I felt her pain, and it is now my pain. Here in the hospital, I bent to her ear and whispered "I know your story. You do not walk alone." And I lifted the burden from her.

She didn't hear me, of course; they never do. They never hear or see me until it's their time. Look - she smiles. With time she will see that the grey pall hiding her future is but a passing illusion, whereas a lifetime stretches before her. And I? I pay a fair price for that one moment of... yes, of intimacy.

It's an inexcusable transgression of which I know the consequences. I'd gladly do it again. My final task, before I cease to exist, is to appoint a successor. What's that? Your chest suddenly feels tight? I am truly sorry. I know you'll do well.

There remains just the small matter of a kiss....

There is an unnatural silence in almost every room. It sits, in the corners and the cracks and the nooks and the crannies of every little place, waiting for the moment to seep out and engulf those within in a cloud of absence. It is strange, in a kind of way; our society is one of constant sound and noise, and to be struck by a shear lack of such things is simply wrong. It is as though the world feels us, knows that something is amiss, and grinds to a halt around us, watching, waiting.

Such a silence follows young Katie Salto into the small sunlit room at the end of the hall. It is the one that reads "Recovery" on the door. The curtains are drawn back, allowing the sunlight to bathe over the floor, climbing to the top of the now vacant second bed in the room, which had been scheduled to hold a man from early morning physical therapy but had been freed up in light of present circumstances. The light falls over the other side, skittering across the floor towards her. She is sickened for a second, the soft bed replaced momentarily by the Saut apartment complex. Her legs weaken; she begins to perspire. The light crashed into the tiles with a sickeningly wet slap again, and again, and again.
She jumps slightly. There is a hand on her shoulder now. It is the man again, from before. He's changed slightly, his tired, elderly face and forearms are covered in small nicks and cuts, and his right arm hanging limply across his broad chest in a sling, but he is no less her savior. He's caught her once again. She looks up to him, her bloodshot eyes shaking with tears, and moves to speak, but no words rise from her. She is dumbstruck with seemingly every emotion, yet no emotion she's ever felt before. "What," she asks herself, "do you tell the man who saved your life."

But the man is gone now, as is the room around her. The wind whips up against her face, carrying with it a smell of industry and soot. Her bare soles sit painfully over the hard concrete. The ledge cuts deeply into the balls of her feet. She is awash in a sea of despair, of fear, of anger, and of regret. The bottle of vodka slides easily from her moist hand. Rain is beginning to fall. It drips gently against her face, mixing with her own sobs, calming her, soothing her. "What a beautiful time to die." she thinks, slipping over the side. The crowds of dots below let out a shriek and jump back from her approach. The wind is stronger now, rushing about her in a hectic dance of demise. She calms. She is at peace. Just as the ground rushes up towards her, she feels the light of epiphany rush over her. She does not want to die.

Katie Shuts her eyes and screams as she strikes the pavement at full velocity. The force of her body carries through her, crushing her face into a width no larger than that of a penny. Her neck snaps sharply, forcing her head back at an unnatural angle and cutting her cry short. The skin in her throat bursts, allowing her life to spill out from her and onto the sidewalk. The crowd stands silently before her, watching"

But Katie never hits the ground. She opens her eyes to see one of the dots rushing out to catch her. His graying hair flies back as he leaps through the air. His arms are outstretched like some crazed superhero; his checkered shirt swings wide, as a cape, or a pair of wings. Katie feels herself strike him. His arms fall with her, cushioning her, catching her. She hears an elderly bone snap sickeningly, sees him strike the ground in her stead, and feels his wrists grate across the sidewalk. It is his blood on the ground now. Someone in the crowd screams for an ambulance. He looks up, smiling through his winces and pain. "Are you all right?" he asks.

Katie bursts into tears.

"Why?" she asks, returning once more to within the burning white walls of the hospital room. It was all she could ask. She traces his form, his broken arm, his shattered ribs, the countless bruises and bandages. "Indeed, why?" she ponders. He had suffered for her; he had risked even death for her. "Why had this man reached out? Why had he taken action? Why was he there for me in her darkest hour?" There is some great, cosmic reason, she is sure. Some will or force that propelled him to act.

"Perhaps he is some guardian angel," she thought "though I've never known an angel of five foot two." But the man just smiles his crazy little smile and loosens his grip.
"My dear," he said at long last, in a tired, happy voice, "You were standing on the edge of a rooftop in tears." He pats her softly. "I didn't want your day to get any worse." That was his great reason, and with it said, he turned to leave.

Sitting on a tattered bar stool, shoulders slumped in defeat, I ask the bartender for another glass. He slides a glass full of cold amber liquid my way.

Behind me, a young lady squeals with laughter as I hear the thunk of a billiard ball drop into a pocket. Her companion admits defeat in a playful tone. I hear them racking up again.

I think back to those days when coming to the local bar meant more than drinking your misery away. I remember going to the hip, new bars with bright lights and dark music. I remember the breezy conversations and stiff drinks enjoyed by a warm fireplace. I remember the raucous uproars when the home team scored the winning field goal.

It all seems so long ago. Where did I go wrong?

I hear the sharp clack of the cue ball scattering the clean formation of billiard balls. The young lady and her companion tease each other. With every remark exchanged, the young lady bit back with wit and spunk.

That used to be me. That used to be me with the laughter tinged voice and the gusto attitude. Sometimes I wish for a chance to do everything over, choose different paths, make different decisions, make a difference.

The double doors burst wide open next to me. A waitress bolts out of the kitchen carrying a large tray of piping hot food. She carries it over to the young couple playing pool. Setting each plate down, the couple settle in their bar stools.

They eat - he a hamburger, she a salad. They talk and laugh among the quiet clatter of silverware. I drink my beer. Everything is the same - the beer burns down my throat, cars drive past, people laugh, the news drones on, the bartender wipes the counter.

The girl screams.

I turn to look and see her companion the same shade of blue as her sweater. His hands wrapped around his throat, his eyes dart around the room. The other patrons stand in shock.

All of a sudden I feel the rush of blood in my veins, the pounding in my heart, the flex of my muscles, the breath in my lungs. The breath in his lungs.

He crumples over my arms like a marionette with cut strings, a piece of chewed meat by his shoe. She kneels beside him, grasping and kissing his face, tears shimmering on her cheeks.

She bounces straight up and looks me in the eyes. For the first time in years, I feel alive.

Three years after the recession had deepened through depression to the Great Collapse, the woodland refugees who had heeded Walker's warning (threat?) were beginning to thrive and the ad-hoc collection of yurts and recreational vehicles were already being replaced by log cabins and hobbit-holes. The groups had started out with different priorities regarding the balance of agricultural equipment, farm stock and technology but a lively trade and mutual defense had forged a strong community. Except, of course, the McGinties in their house beyond the tree line, next to the highway. Their preparations had taken the more traditional survivalist approach of fortifying their home and hoarding dried food and ammunition. Such future plans that they had revolved around using their wealth to establish a feudal serfdom and their efforts to tax their neighbors had resulted in several tense standoffs but no actual bloodshed. It was, therefore, with some surprise that John received a wi-fi message from them demanding aid in repulsing a marauder attack.

"Leave them," suggested Mark. "They were happy enough to let the marauders pass when they collected a toll so why should we care?"

"For all their faults, the McGinties stop short of open aggression," John pointed out. "What would happen if that stockpile of theirs fell into the hands of marauders and they decided to use their house as a base?"

The group exchanged glances. "Change of plan. Let's go."

Locally manufactured weapons were distributed, dual clip models with projectiles of lathed scrap and hydrogen propellant. They were no match for, say, a military sniper's rifle but effective over the medium range and infinitely renewable. They loaded up the vehicles to capacity, the air becoming acrid with the smoke from their homegrown butanol. An excited figure climbed next to John, mashed blackberries had worked his hair into a purple Mohawk and the wings of a dead crow were tied to each shoulder.

"Max," said John. "That's just tasteless."

The vehicles rolled down the old logging track. The lead went on ahead to extend the bridges over the winding stream. By the time they reached the last one, picking up reinforcements from the other groups they passed, they had an impressive convoy of twenty. It would be less impressive when half of them had to be pushed back up the hill but the entrance was the important thing. The Campbell group was arrayed along their side of the creek. Their retracted bridge running between the demolished ends of the original concrete one would hold back vehicles but without firepower to stop them, the attackers could have simply waded and scrambled across the shallow water course. As it was, the marauders were reduced to attacking the front of the McGinty's house allowing the occupants to concentrate their fire.

The shooting died away as one of the Campbells extended the bridge and allowed the vehicles to line up on the far side. The marauders suddenly found themselves outnumbered by at least four to one. That they did not retreat right away was a sign of how desperate things were outside.

"Don't let us stop you!" shouted John.

There was an uncomfortable silence. "You're not going to fight with them?" asked the leader.

"Why should we? They've made it quite clear they don't want to join us so I figure we'll take on the survivors when you're both done. More sensible, yes?"

The attackers realized the futility of their position and slowly began to withdraw. "We'll be back!" yelled the leader.

"We'll be ready!" retorted John.

"It won't be so easy next time," protested Mark. "They'll come in greater numbers."

Will shook his head. "Smell that?" he asked. "They're still running on hoarded gasoline, breaking down fast after all this time. The way I see it, that was the largest force they could muster and attacking a fortress like that was an all-or-nothing gamble. I don't think we'll be seeing them again."

He turned his attention to the house. It was too vulnerable to attack to allow any kind of smallholding but might make a useful early warning outpost and between them he was sure the groups could help the McGinties set up higher on the hillside. Thus far, communication had always been via wi-fi but, taking a chance, John strolled boldly to the back door and knocked loudly. A hatch slid open and the barrel of an assault rifle pressed into his stomach.

"What do you want?" growled a voice.

Ignoring the threat (and the fact that their presence had been requested), John asked "In the light of recent events, I was wondering if you'd reconsidered our offer to join us?"

"I'll take the payment for services off the tolls you all owe me," snapped the voice. "Now get off my land!"

"Some gratitude!" complained Mark.

"He's still shaken," said John. "Another attack or two and he'd come around to our way of thinking."

"But you said yourself, the marauders don't have the strength to try again!" protested Mark but John did not hear him, Max's outlandish garb had caught his eye.

"Max," he said, putting his arm around the youth's shoulder. "When we get back, I want you to gather up some of your movie-buff friends. I have a little acting job for you."

I woke up to the ringing phone; my elderly neighbors needed help. I rushed over, groggy in my jeans and pajama top, just as they were moving a large trunk away from the garage wall. There, between the framing, we were stunned to see a single, squirming mass of newborn kittens, squealing for a meal.

I fostered cats before, and share my home with four cats and three dogs. Everyone knows I would never turn my back on an animal in need. So, I wasn't surprised that they had called me.

I scooped up the kittens and rushed back to my place. Where on earth was their mamma? I had some powdered formula for older kittens. But not knowing how long these babies were without nourishment, I decided it was better than nothing. While hurriedly mixing the powder I made some phone calls. My neighbor and good friend, JoAnn, was rushing over to help. Even at 84 she managed to take care of me through two surgeries, and could always be counted on in an emergency. And through some quick investigative work, I learned that the mamma cat had been taken to the Animal Shelter the previous day.

We jumped in my car and I plopped a cozy tub full of noisy kittens on JoAnn's lap. She was intimidated and had no idea how to feed such tiny creatures. But with no time for pleasantries, my instructions were abrupt; squirt the formula into their mouths, don't worry about the mess, and most importantly don't shove the eye dropper down their throats.

Then, off we raced!

Within minutes we turned onto a busy, four lane road- and I just couldn't believe what I saw then. A little brown Shih Tzu was darting in and out of the traffic! Horns blared but most drivers simply looked stupefied. Were they sitting there maybe expecting the puppy to start directing traffic, or what? Although still half asleep, with my brain overloaded, I could still count on my quick instincts to steer me in the right direction. I would not allow this little dog to get injured or, worse yet, killed.

I pulled over and followed the dog into traffic, hoping that at least no one would deliberately hit a human being! The puppy was growling and snapping. I had little success trying to coax him back onto the sidewalk. Thank goodness, two young women in separate cars finally pulled over. One was already calling for Animal Control while the other tried to help me corral the dog. Just as I was rushing back to my car to grab a towel, the little bugger made another dash into traffic. With adrenalin pumping through her veins, the obviously athletic woman just dove for the dog, not once thinking of her own safety. Although she did get a few surface bites, I got there in time to throw the towel over his head to prevent any further injuries. The other woman asked how else she could help, even offering to drive to the shelter if need be.

Luckily, I had my own Shih Tzu's carrier case in the car, and between the three of us we managed to shove him in. As I shut the hatchback, all I could see in the carrier was one large yellow towel dancing around wildly!

By then, JoAnn, who had missed all the action in the street, was relaxed and had gotten the knack of feeding the kittens. With their bellies filling up, they were quiet and some were even falling asleep. As I started the car I just hoped there wasn't another obstacle waiting up ahead to further delay our mission. Thankfully, we encountered no bears, flying saucers, or other deterrents and arrived at the shelter within 15 minutes.

Mamma cat was surrendered to me, and the shelter agreed to take the little family in after I fostered them for the next seven weeks. It was a wondrous experience watching the kittens grow, and I found the time passing much too quickly. I brought them to the shelter where they were altered and quickly adopted.

But I worried about that mamma cat. She was only a kitten when she found herself pregnant, homeless and hunting for small rodents just to survive. I watched her nurture her offspring, and saw how over time she let my other animals get nearer to them. She was an amazing little mamma!

She had been moved so many times in her short life, and was just beginning to get comfortable enough to venture into the rest of the house. I hated the thought of her being abandoned and moved yet again, just when she was getting used to my furry family.

Against my better judgement, or maybe because of it, Isis now has a forever home ... right here with us.

Eric sighed while nodding to the store clerk, ducking his head as he made his way back out into the damp street. The rain started to pick up again, and he cursed himself inwardly that he had decided against bringing his umbrella out. "The last time I listen to the weather report again." He muttered, gripping the plastic bag in hand.

Eric followed the crowd of people in front of him, stepping in tune along the damp cement. A light bump against his right leg caused him to turn, looking down into the bright blue eyes of a small child with her tiny arm lifted to grasp her mothers hand, her light blonde hair curly. He kept his pace, his gaze remaining on the child, watching her watch him. He knew, by instinct that he should find this little girl to be "cute" or "adorable", but no matter how hard he tried to form such thoughts in his mind, they never came.

Shaking his head, he grimaced. The familar downward curve of his lips coming naturally to him, he realized. Just a few more blocks, Eric. A few more minutes and you'll be home, getting drunk. How does that sound? He thought to himself. Getting drunk was getting old, and fast. He was going to have to find something else to do soon.

An odd feeling was brought to his attention at his kneecap. He looked down to see the little girl playing with the hemming of his pants, pulling at a small string that had frayed. As soon as Eric had realized what she was doing, the little girl's mother yanked her back away from him. "No, Hailey!" She scolded inbetween the conversation on her cell phone. Hailey looked back up to him, not speaking a word. Eric looked up to her mother. The woman never saved him a glance, but continued to talk into the black device at her ear.

Gripping the plastic bag closer to him, her wrapped a hand around the neck of the bottle within. The rain started to beat down heavily now. He shifted in his coat, pulling the collar up as far as it would go, scrunching back into the wet fabric. Thankfully, the crosswalk had been green, allowing the crowd to move freely across the street and onto the next block.

Eric turned after hearing a shrill of laughter, catching a glimpse of blonde curly hair. He turned back to the woman next to him, her once occupied hand swinging freely at her side. Hailey was gone, and she hadn't even realized it yet, he realized. Coming to the next crosswalk, he looked around behind him, finding her a few paces back, playing with a toy that had obviously been in her pocket before.

Eric felt his heart skip a beat as he watched her drop the small green bouncy ball. It bounced easily a second time off the edge of the sidewalk and into the road. "Oops." He heard her say. No one had to tell him what was going to happen next, he knew from first hand experience. When you're two, and you drop your bouncy ball, it's the most logical explanation to follow it; no matter where you are.

He dropped his bag, the bottle of vodka shattering. The alcohol splattered along the mother's feet without Eric noticing. He was already making his way toward Hailey as she was walking past a car, too fast for a two year old it seemed. "Hailey?!" He could hear the woman screaming for her daughter, and he forced himself to not think of the bus coming too close to the child's destination for comfort.

Eric could picture the front paper now 'Little girl hit by bus, bystanders shocked: How could this happen?' "If people started to pay attention around here..." He thought grimly. He leaped off of the sidewalk, landing just behind Hailey while she was bent forward, picking her ball up off the ground. He gave her the slither of a second she had left before grabbing her, stepping back in time to have the bus pass.

Hailey sputtered as the small wave of water splashed up on the both of them and he nearly fell over from the wind of the bus passing. "HAILEY?!" Eric turned to see the frantic woman behind him, her phone no where to be found. "Hi, Mommy!" She held up her bouncy ball to her, smiling brightly. "Look at what I found!" The woman nearly chocked as she laughed, a sound of relief as Eric let her down.

Bringing the girl into her arms, Hailey's mother looked up to him. "You dropped your bottle back there. Let me buy you another, it's the least I can do." She said, her hands moving over the child, keeping her close. Hailey lifted the ball up above her head, shutting one eye and peering through it, completely absorbed in the new trinket.

Eric shook his head, taking a step past them, wiping his face clean of the water before he spoke. "Don't worry about it. I've been waiting for a reason to not bring home a drink for awhile." He said, turning back into the crowd. Before he was able to completely disappear in the mass of people, he heard the same shrill of laughter behind him, and he smiled for the first time in a very long time.

2179: David Fachillo, (that's fa-SHIL-lo) PhD in Quantum Mechanics. That's me. My entire life I've been studying in a nuclear fusion laboratory.

Walking into the brick-walled store, I looked around at the underwhelming utilities supplied by the appliance store. Everything good was hidden in the backroom, only accessible by the employees and the black people hired to haul out loads. I had always longed for equality, but that's what my experiment was for.

"Listen, I need another Power Cell,"

"What for?"

"Uh... My TV,"

"Okay. Uh, sure," The shopkeeper was displaying visible unease, however he was too stupid to question my intentions for the power cell or ask why I needed the cell.

I hauled the elephant cell into the trunk of my car. That run-down piece of junk isn't worth the tires it's sitting on, but at least it can carry a fifty pound power cell up the hill to my apartment complex. Pulling up the hill to the parking lot was a nightmare, but I made it.

I hooked the cell up to my Chronotelec Phone, a phone invented by a crackpot colleague of mine that can make calls to any phone in the history of telecommunication. I pulled the phone and cell combo into my bedroom for a very important call. If this went well, I could stop World Wars III, IV and V from devastating the European Alliance of Earth.

2019: Samuel Ceer casually slipped off his slippers next to the simmering bath. The steam gently caressed his face, providing a warm, homely feeling for the old. His wife, stepped in.

"Margaret, it isn't right,"

"Oh, honey," she replied with compassionate eyes and cherry lips that could stick to the back of a speeding bus.

"I'm fifty seven and I'm already losing the battle against mortality,"

"Oh, the lord works in mysterious ways,"

"He may be all-powerful, but sometimes I just don't think he has the ability to love everyone at the same time," The phone rang.

"Oh, I'll get that, you stay here and iron out that stress,"
Sam lay back and closed his eyes.

"Sammy!" Came a call from a 60-year-old running up the stairs. "It's for you!

"Hello?"

"Hello, Samuel?"

"Who is this?"

"My name is David, we haven't met before, but I certainly know you,"

"Know me for what?"

"Ah, now this is the interesting part. Now, I'm calling you from the future,"

"Look! I don't have time for jokes you dumb hood!"

"Wait! Wait! I'm, serious. My number if 555-7643. If you call that, you'll notice it doesn't exist. It will in the 2170s,"

"Hey, punk, everybody knows that 555 numbers are used by he media. THEY DON'T EXIST,"

"Fine, then just hear me out. In the year 2024, you're going to freeze your brain in an icebox. You've begun considering it?"

"I have. How do you...?"

"Because I'm from the future! Now, listen to me carefully. You cannot go through with it,"

"Why not?"

"Today I bought a Power Cell to save three lives. These lives are a very special set of people. If these people live, it will affect the future in a positive way,"

"Okay, so what do you..."

2179: My name is David Fachillo. I've spent my entire life trying to change the future through my work as a Quantum Physicist.

I was taking a cruise back home to my country estate in my car: Roof down, auto drive and a Power Cell weighing down the back. On my porch, I hooked up the cell to my phone to make a very important call. I needed to call two people.

Which people? Imagine if Ceer had killed himself before writing the Declaration of United Earth. That would be the type of person I'm calling.

2086: Guerra Juarez hopped into bed with his fiance Angeline. The two had waited for the kids to go to school all weekend so they could watch their movies alone without interruption. Then the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hi, listen you don't know me, but my name is David. I'm working with Devastaterwerx on their new weapons and I must say it's not going well. The machine soldiers are definitely going to become self-aware and turn on humanity. You need to do something,"

"Hey, hey, hey, hold it up there, pal. So you're sayin' that Devastaterwerx's machines are ready to go? I read in the newspaper that they won't be ready for another 5 years! Look, your whole story is sketchy, are you sure this is for real?"

"Would you ignore me if I said that I'm from the future?"

I explained my mission.

"Okay, well why do I need to go do this? Why can't anyone else?"

"Because you're the saver. You're the one who ended World War IV,"

"World War...?"

2179: "Men, not since Guerra's halting of the machine production at Devastaterwerx has a scientist made such a stride in humanity. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a round of applause to mister David Fachillo!"

"Thank you, but I don't speak alone when I say ‘Let it rip!'. I looked into the Future Scope and a future of equality is much better for mankind then a future where people overthrow the government in lure of power. So what do you guys say to equality! Victor, let it rip!" Victor pulled the switch.

1959: "Hello?"

"This is Martin King Junior. Who are you?"