Ellie Maloney. 2016-2017 Newsletter by Jalapeño Publishing

NEWSLETTER

ELLIE MALONEY

2017

329 YEARS AW AKE - SCI- FI TSUNAMI - SCI- FI THEDAYI DIED - SCI- FI SUBURBANEVIL - DRAMA

Make-up, assistance: Anyuta Sidyuk

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Photography, digital design: Nicholay Kovalchinskiy

All characters, places, and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication can be reproduced, adapted, copied, reprinted, or sold without expressed written permission of the author.

For business inquiries such as representation, publishing, brand ambassadorship, etc., contact elliemaloneyfiction@gmail.com

Cover photo credit: Photography, digital design: Nicholay Kovalchinskiy Make-up, assistance: Anyuta Sidyuk Models: Ellie Maloney, Boone the Big Black Dog

W el cometoMy Newsl etter! In this newsletter, you will find samples of my writing, learn about what I am currently working on, and discover a few random facts about me.

TABLEOF

CONTENTS ABOUT "329 YEARS AW AKE" M y fir st to-be pu bl ish ed sci-fi n ovel

"TSUNAMI" PAGE4

UPCOMING PROJECTS: "THEDAYI DIED" Abou t th e dystopian sci-fi n ovel

Sci-fi sh or t stor y

PAGE5

"THEDAYI DIED" PAGE20

PAGE21

Ch apter 1

UPCOMING PROJECTS: "SUBURBAN EVIL" Vigil an te dr am a. Ch apter s 1 an d 2

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"329 Years Awake" Sci- Fi Epic

YEAR 2585. THE EARTH NATIONS ARE ON THE BRINKOF W ARWITH THEUNKARI, ANALIEN RACE FROM SAGITTARIUS DW ARF GALAXY. CAPTURED DURING A FAILED RECONNAISSANCE MISSION, LT. MAZULAANDEN. RIVERARE INTHE THICK OF THE CONSPIRACY. WILL THEY BE ABLE TO ESCAPE AND W ARN THE EARTH NATIONS ABOUT THE ANNIHILATIONTHREAT?

rolled out of the stream of consciousness: two characters - Mazula and River - on an alien planet, hunted by the enemy aliens. Then I added a few more lines explaining why they were on Erinozhan: their vessel was attacked, and those two were the only ones to survive. I was inspired by the lines that rolled on the page by the power of subconscious idea generation, and wrote the whole chapter. And then more...

"329 Years Awake" is not the first novel I've attempted to writte, but it is the first one that I published, and it is the kind of story that I never planned on writing in the first place. In January 2016, I moved with my husband to Liberia for work purposes. Living in Liberia is definitely an adjustment. It suffices to say that the entire suitcase of fancy shoes I brought with me was never opened. Living in Liberia leaves you with a lot of time on your hands. It is out of a sense of isolation I decided to write full time. It was really a means to survive. There I was, in Monrovia, on the Atlantic coast. Everything around me broke my heart: poverty, lack of education - especially for girls mounds of litter, no regard for human rights, spooks of malaria and recent Ebola outbreaks ... I was staring blankly at my brand new blog: www.EllieMaloney.com. 4

I started a new post and wrote a few lines that

By mid-March the entire 12 chapters were published on my blog, right in time for my vacation to the New York City. I printed the manuscript and packed it with me, secretly hoping that I would stumble on Spielberg or Wachovskis on the subway and could pitch my case. The Spielberg pitch naturally fell through, and I decided to give the draft a good comb-over. It was rough, and at times silly, but by that time the idea in my head was crystal clear. I was writing a story about a cold war between humans and an alien race - Unkari, who were prepared to annihilate humanity. Three hundred years prior to the events of the story, the Unkari made the First Contact, but it did not go well. The reasons were buried in the classified archives of both races, and by the time Lt. Mazula and En. River were sent on a top-secret reconnaissance mission to the Unkari space, things were rotten beyond repair. *** Read the short story "Tsunami "that takes place 300 years prior to the events of this novel, right before the Unkari contacted humans.

approaching tsunami. Am I scared? Fear is not the right word. While I feel tremendous urgency, it?s rather like I am solving a puzzle. Remember your middle-school exams? The white analogue clock above the green chalkboard with the thinnest arrow nervously running circles? Remember blood pounding in your head and your heightened awareness to any shuffling or whispering in the room?

Tsu n a m i year 2275. Monrovia,Liberia Have you ever had a recurring dream? Mine is always about a tsunami. In my dream, everything feels real: I taste the iodine-soaked salty spray, I smell the seaweed-reeking air, I hear the thundering wall of death, and feel earthquake tremors gyrate the ground. Many people cannot run in their dream, as if weighed down by gravity, but I can, and as best I can explain, I reset reality. Viscerally, my life hangs on a thin thread, a thread stretching through my consciousness? ? and I need to pull that thread to reboot the dream once death washes over me, as my consciousness begins to fade. FADE IN Sometimes, I stand on a cliff looking down at the washed-out beach. The wind whips my face, soaking me with the ocean mist as the clouds turn ominously black. Behind, for as long as I can see, lies a solid bush? twigs and branches so thick, I cannot escape. Ahead is the cliff and the

Add to that, it is math class and you suck at math, but you have that lingering sense that the lazy son of a bitch you are, you need to work harder, apply 110 percent of your brainpower, and you may just figure out how to solve this seemingly impossible math problem. Feverishly you scribble long lines of basic math equations trying to derive new mathematical solutions, bypassing those pesky fractals that you never grasped. Your brain racing like a feral animal in a maze. Your instincts are sharpened by evolution: live, breed, die, repeat. In these dreams, I am this desperate student inventing a new theorem to compensate for the lack of knowledge; or that feral animal digging it?s way out through the maze wall and beating the system ? whichever analogy works best for you. This is how I feel about beating the Tsunami. Every time the wave approaches, I strategize how to escape: can?t run through the bush and can?t jump off the cliff either; the only remaining solution is to hold on to something and let the wave wash over me. First attempt: The wave comes and I hold my breath. It?s not bad at first, deceptively calming, the way I probably felt in my mother?s womb. But oxygen quickly depletes and I suffocate, because the water does not subside soon enough. Second attempt: I try the same scenario again. I grab the thorny hickory twigs struggling to disassociate from the pain in my palms. I teach my brain to disregard the thorns pricking the skin and drawing blood. I hear the wave behind me, so close that at any second I will be submerged. I

strive to calm my breathing and ration the oxygen in my lungs. This time the wave was not weakened by the impact from the hill, and I receive the full-force blow of water - as hard as a concrete wall - flying at me at the speed of a race car. I black out. Suddenly something changes: I realize that I am dreaming. Instead of waking myself, a strange sense of calm washes over me, and I continue running different tsunami sequences with full awareness and a lot more efficiency. Third attempt: This time, tsunami catches me at a beach-side restaurant. It?s a one-story building with its foundation slightly above the sea level. I try running out of the restaurant, but barely make it to the exit when the wave smashes through the panoramic glass windows throwing shards of glass, furniture, and metal railing. The restaurant fills with water immediately, and I am caught in a whirlpool of people, furniture and debris, until my head is smashed against the wall. Fourth attempt: The same restaurant overlooking the ocean. The monstrosity of a wall emerges from the horizon. I run through the screaming sticky mess of bodies trampling each other like a herd of gazelles escaping a predator. Running towards the exit, I am knocked off my feet by a sharp metal rod that pierces my body like a hot knife through a stick of butter. The restaurant around me fades out. FADE OUT Come to think of it, the restaurant in my dreams looks a lot like this one.

to challenge the owner to a game of billiards. The Lebanese owner did not know that Abu spent five years in Germany working in a famous bar that held billiards tournaments. He made friends with some of the most famous European players, who gave him free? and often unsolicited? lessons. During the afterhours, Abu practiced his game and became quite good at it. In fact, he was so good, that in his last year he even qualified to enter the championship. Of course, he didn?t win it; that would be unrealistic given the amount of talent that flocked there every year from around the world. But Abu?s skill was good enough to win him Anglers.

?These days, people rarely bother thinking how things were before the Big Ice?, Otis Solarin mumbled apologetically, pulling the chair for his lovely date as they entered Anglers restaurant, ?but chronology is hard-wired into my brain. After all, I am a historian; it?s like an occupational hazard to me. Whenever I am attempting to understand something, I go back in history looking for the linchpin moment, like in case of finding the reason for these damn tsunami dreams.? Over the last 300 years or so, Anglers went from a marginally profitable fish-and-chips joint in one of the poorest countries in the world to a five-star restaurant, located in the hotbed of human civilization. At least the planet-side part of it.

Anglers was owned by the same Liberian family for over 300 years. Back in the 21st century, Liberia was a poverty-ridden country, with a handful of rich people who either came from Lebanon and ran all the prospering businesses in the country, or locals who made their riches on corrupt government schemes, often related to blood diamonds.

In the 2190s, the effects of global warming were so drastic that the politicians implemented a daring, but half-baked project? chemical cooling of the planet, which resulted in a DIY Ice Age. The ice descended from the poles and stretched toward the equator, easing between the zones of Tropical Cancer and Tropical Capricorn? the only stretch of Earth where the ground was not covered with meters of ice.

Anglers was acquired by a young Liberian, who returned home after earning his business degree in Europe, and who saved enough cash

By 2275, humanity became a broad generalization. Most humans inhabit six orbital stations and a few austere colonies in space. By

the roll of the dice, Liberia, and West Africa in general, became prime real estate as a source of romantic attachment of the humans to the cradle of their civilization. The world order was flipped like an hourglass. Thus began the era of the Big Ice.

Otis was watching the waves with an extra edge, searching the horizon for the signs of an approaching tsunami. He knew that when the tsunami is far enough, you cannot distinguish it from the horizon. And when you actually notice it, it?s entirely too late.

The natives of the surviving climate zone were the the lucky ones, as they were presented with a choice: to stay on Earth or to move to crammed quarters on one of the orbital stations. Space-side living was not for the meek, and no amount of flashy advertisement could convince Africaners otherwise. In a sense, the planet-side folks were blessed to have nightmares about tsunamis. The spacers? nightmares always associated with boiling in the vacuum.

Otis knew that his tsunami phobia was irrational. The entire Liberian coast was equipped with tsunami sensors. The ocean floor was equipped with the wave breakers, which would greatly diminish its impact. And yet, to him these recurring dreams were as visceral as a paper cut.

Yenplu (pronounced Nyene-Plu) dug the fork in her vegan fattoush salad, watching the waves through the panoramic windows of the Anglers restaurant. Ny, as her friends called her, was from the native-to-Liberia Bassa people, but the name was not traditional to Bassa. The name meant a ?white woman,? and back in the day it was supposed to imply ?a very beautiful woman?. Nobody is immune from parents? ignorance. When Ny?s parents picked this name, they implied it more or less literally, because the mix of her ancestry resulted in her light complexion. Ny wrestled with accepting her name all her life, feeling mixed up about the original connotation. She couldn?t resign to the echo of archaic? and oppressive? beauty standards implied in her name. Finally, she insisted to be called Ny, secretly implying it as the short form of ?deny?. Otis and Ny took the table next to the window with the ocean waves splashing against black smooth rocks just a few meters away. A trip to Anglers was a rare treat, as they had to book it a month in advance. That day they felt even luckier because the ocean was stormy, and they both loved to watch the waves roll in. The magic of the force of nature was calming and completely surreal.

The rain grew stronger. It was the rainy season, and the name was everything it promised to be. Neither of the old friends were bothered by the rain. It was merely a force of nature, and a very romantic one at that. Ny pulled the blanket from the back of the chair over her shoulders and reluctantly peeled her gaze from the waves. ?...But we don?t have tsunamis here, in West Africa,? she said. ?Not recently. Since these dreams kept coming back, I looked it up. Apparently, there was one 73,000 years ago. The scientists say, that tsunami made any tsunami in human history pale in comparison. It was caused by a sudden eruption of a volcano in the ocean, obliterating the Cape Verde Island? ? ?Is that so? Maybe you have genetic memory about it. You know, the collective unconscious that Jung loved to talk about.? ?Jung had brilliant intuition, and he cared a great deal about dreams. I?d like to get his take on mine.? Otis smiled. The wind sharply changed its direction and threw fine rain mist through the open window. The waiter hurried to close it, to the regret of the budding lovebirds who found it bonding to be present in the face of nature. Although there was zero danger associated with this rain, their genetic memory stirred the survival instinct. Adrenaline coursed their bloodstream, drawing

blush to their cheeks and warmth to cold fingers. Together with a glass of Merlot, it created a cozy magic around the two. Ny and Otis were in their forties, with university tenures, paid-off mortgages, no children, and each with a sizable retirement account. By 2275, life was theirs for the taking and they were soaking up every drop. Meanwhile the waiter delivered Otis?s order. They placed their orders a month ago, together with the table reservation, so Ny had no idea what her partner was getting. It was a cod fillet with a side of cassava fries, sautĂŠed chard and garlic, with bright lemon wedges on the rim. ?Is that a real fish? Are you insane?? Ny whispered as if being pulled into one of Agatha Christie?s murder mysteries. ?Oh come on, it?s not like it is a beef steak!? Said Otis with a layer of exaggerated confidence. He himself felt as if committing a small murder, if there was such a thing as a small murder, but the temptation was too great. ?Oh Otis, do you have to be so gross? When was the last time you saw anyone eating a steak?? Otis frowned his forehead, faking intense thinking, and laughed. ?Come on, dear. We are in Anglers, a 300-year-old seafood restaurant! And it?s not like eating animal food is illegal? ? ?It?s not illegal, but you know how I feel about it. Not to mention, it's so expensive.?

It was expensive alright. Otis could order five vegan fish fillets for the same amount of money. It was easy for Ny to judge him. A third-generation vegan, she had no idea what a real fish tastes like. He, on the other hand, remembered fishing with his dad on the boat off the coast of Sierra Leone as a boy. Back then, he was a fisherman?s son, not a professor of space history in the liberal university, where eating animal products was socially frowned upon.

?Maybe it?s my carnivorous genetic memory percolating today!? Otis tried to make light of it. ?Nice try.? ?Speaking of genetic memories, back to what you said earlier, that I was accessing my collective unconscious memory about this tsunami. Let?s say I take it seriously for a moment. Homo Sapiens species first appeared in Africa about 200,000 years ago. So you may be onto something, Ny. I may be accessing the collective unconscious memory of the tsunami survivors from 73,000 years ago.? ?Maybe, maybe ? We just scratched the surface of quantum consciousness theories. The results of the latest experiments are mind-blowing.? ?On the other hand, maybe I am simply training my brain for something in my sleep... For example, I am trying to deal with middle-life crisis or mortality? ? ?I don?t think you can apply ?middle-life crisis? to yourself just yet, my dear, not after what we did this morning! Yeah...but the rest of it makes sense,? pondered Ny. ?When you are asleep, your brain is free from running your body and can reroute its efforts to something else. Whether your brain is trying to process your genetic memories or to deal with mortality, it would make perfect sense to do it in your sleep? ? Otis considered for a second how esoteric their lunchtime conversation had turned and smiled. Professors of all generations are a bit prone to philosophic banter, he thought. He also thought that tonight it was time to make his next move. With those thoughts, Otis lightly brushed his hand against an item in his pocket? a black velvet box with exactly one carat of Ny's happiness.

Con t . on page 12

Make-up, assistance: Anyuta Sidyuk

Photography, digital design: Nicholay Kovalchinskiy

RANDOMFACT #1 I CANBEEXTREMELY CONFIDENT AND JUST AS SHY.

73,000yearsago. LENAUTI,Theunkarihomeplanet intergalacticlaunchFacility Ennuturat and Hundigar were ready to skip. They took their seats at the two-person transporter, bringing the systems online and plotting the course to their destination? the research facility just several hundreds of light-years away from home. The Unkari originated from an ancient galaxy in the process of being cannibalized by a larger, younger one. Living in such a volatile world, they were running out of time. Within several generations, their galaxy would be entirely swallowed by this gigantic monstrosity with a raging black hole in the middle. Their home world, Lenauri planet, would likely not survive. Although the disaster was several generations away, the sense of urgency was pressing over every Unkari, and each one of them did their share to find a solution. Numerous Unkari teams were scouting the universe in search of a new habitat.

It is because of this lingering disaster, Ennuturat's research team stumbled on new species that made many Unkari religiously scared. Those creatures could form mental networks and reset reality to the moment of their choosing. They did not manipulate time, as it would appear at first. It was the basic fabric of space-time, down to the sub-atomic level, where everything percolates in a primordial ocean of possibilities? quantum superposition? that they somehow altered. These creatures could lock onto any possibility of their choosing, their consciousness serving as the ultimate observer. The creatures called this mysterious ability to anchor the universe to a four-dimensional

reality an oscillation. Ennuturat was summoned to testify before the Unkari Council: ?We used to think that the universe branches out into the multiverse foam, with every possibility derived from quantum superposition becoming a reality in some universe. These creatures made us rethink all we know about the universe,? reported Ennuturat before the Council. ?Apparently, they lock-in this part of the universe into a four-dimensional cage. How they do it? We don?t know. Is it a local phenomenon to this region of space? We also have no idea. But we observed them resetting the reality numerous times, choosing different actions if they didn?t like the consequences. They also do not die of accidents? if anything happens they reset the reality to avoid troubles.? The head of the Joint Unkari Council sprayed several clouds of orange and blue powder in the air from the orifices on the side of his limbs, indicating both fear and confusion. ?Ennuturat, with all due respect, this is hard to fathom. Are you saying that they are immortal?? The grand hall of the Unkari highest collegiate governing body erupted in nervous commotion and various shades of colored powder. Soon enough they could hardly see each other literally drowning in their emotions. ?Order! Order, colleagues!? yelled the head of the Council, restraining himself from spraying

any more emotions in the air. ?Ennuturat, proceed.? ?They are not immortal, master Counselor. They die of old age, and I must add, their life span is as short as an elder ?s breath. We believe that since they die of old age, they do not manipulate time. The only possible conclusion is that they switch quantum superposition like a light switch and anchor an alternative outcome from the ocean of possibilities to this four-dimensional reality?. The five hundred Unkari elders present in the room erupted in so much nervous energy that the meeting was recessed. When the emotional air cleared up and the honorable elders returned to the room, Ennuturat concluded his report suggesting to destroy the entire race arguing that this race is too dangerous to be left alive. The matter would have been settled unanimously if not for one descending voice. Immirtau, nearly the oldest living Unkari, was fragile, barely standing upright while addressing the honorable gathering. It took him tremendous effort to speak loudly enough so that everyone could hear. He persevered knowing that the message was so important, that even if he died right after the speech, it was worth the effort. ?How quickly you, my colleagues, forgot the principles of decision-making! How quickly you abandoned your logic in the face of fear! Don?t you realize that if the collective consciousness of these creatures locks the universe itself into a four-dimensional reality, where, and I hate to state the obvious, colleagues, where all of us exist, this may mean that without them the universe as we know it may revert to the primordial ocean of particles. Do you want to risk sliding into non-dimensional existence? Who among you can guarantee that the universe itself will not vanish?? For the first time during this treacherous meeting silence penetrated the grand hall. Immirtau?s argument was just crazy enough to

at least grab everyone's attention. Upon several long recesses, the decision was to decisively attack and destroy the entire planet, but preserve some DNA for research. A few galactic rotations later, the Council received a report from the task force assigned to study the genetic samples. The results were not promising. It was clear that working with a small research sample in a lab was not enough to create genetic diversity and isolate the gene that was responsible for oscillation. The report concluded that they need to move to the second phase of the research, using a planet-size research sample and allowing it to naturally go though evolution. It was clear that there would be no shortcuts in this project. The Council identified a planet capable of supporting carbon-oxygen life forms in the neighboring galaxy, the very galaxy that was ripping their home apart. The planet was seeded with the genetic material from the oscillating species. And so the tedious research began: live, breed, die, repeat.

The transporter was positioned at the edge of a deep crater. The perimeter of the crater was equipped with the state-of-the-art wormhole technology. Their destination was the observation post on the planet that served as a lab for growing the oscillating species. In order to keep their presence secret, Unkari established the outpost on the ocean floor. ?What are the odds that the current sample will be successful?? Hundigar asked, going over the specifications of the route. Although Hundigar seemed ignorant, he was not new to the project. In fact, Hundigar used to be just a name attached to the faceless bureaucrat across the galaxy, who received routine reports from Ennuturat about the progress of the project. And now this faceless bureaucrat decided to get his tentacles dirty. Ennuturat could not imagine what compelled young Hundigar to trade his secure office job on

Lenauri for work on the site, which was considered a hardship post in the Unkari scientific circles. Except, perhaps, the fact that, for the first time in millennia, the project was showing success, and someone will be getting credit for it. ?All the data checks out. They are still underdeveloped compared to their ancestors, but we reached acceptable similarity. The few previous iterations developed too many dead-end gene sequences. They were not viable for further research, so they were successfully eliminated from the breeding pool.? ?What was the elimination process?? ?Didn?t you read my reports?? sighed Ennuturat, considering to perhaps apply for a separate transporter. ?Uh, I definitely have read them,? lied Hundigar as convincingly as he could. ?But it is always better to learn from someone who was there.? ?It was the usual combination of protocol-approved measures. Genetic viruses, natural disasters? You know, the planetary scale action for the most part. We are short-handed here for individual interventions.? ?How exciting, Ennuturat. Are you excited? We may achieve success in our lifetime!? We. Indeed. ?Let?s focus on the coordinates, colleague, shall we??, snapped Enuturat.

'Ouch', thought Hundigar. Ennuturat never missed the opportunity to jab Hundigar ?s youth and ascribe various foolish traits to him, traits that, in his opinion, were not there. Ennuturat was simply jealous, thought Hundigar while finishing updating the coordinates. Ennuturat used to report to him, while Hundigar supervised his project on the Committee, and the two developed an ego riff the size of the Itarian nebula! Hundigar was shaking his head, thinking about all the times Ennuturat had treated him unfairly, patronizing him like a small

offspring, while they carried the same rank. Why wouldn?t he acknowledge it? Lost in his thoughts, Hundigar did not notice that his limb hit one key erroneously. Not that it would dramatically change the destination point, but it was bad enough that they might miss the landing platform at the destination point. And so it happened.

?Where are we?? Yelled Ennuturat as the transporter exited the vortex and crash-landed in, obviously, the wrong place. Hundigar did not answer. The transporter crashed into the foot of the ocean volcano. The impact made the ocean floor ripple. The impact also caused Hundigar to hit his head on the console so hard that the life force left his body. ?Poor bastard? ? Mumbled Ennuturat. ?At least he will not have to go through the embarrassment of disqualification.? With those words, the senior Unkari scientist shoved the lifeless body to the floor, manually started the transporter again and drove it away from the impact scene as fast as he could. The scanners demonstrated a horrific development: because of the impact, the ocean volcano became active. Eruption was imminent. Ennuturat was not worried for his own safety, as he was entering a fortified lab dock. But the most promising research sample would be destroyed when the tsunami hit the land. Galactic rotations of selective breeding to obtain a strong genetic sequence would be lost. Ennuturat was nearing retirement, and with that his hope of witnessing the initial results of his entire life?s work was dwindling away.

Con t . on page 15

Year 2275. TheunkariResearchLab, AtlanticO cean ?Master Ennuturat! You need to see this! I have identified a research subject that is going through the final stage! Look at his brainwaves during the sleep cycle!? Old Ennuturat slowly got off his reclined chair and proceeded to the monitor, where his young assistant was pulling up various databases on someone named Otis Solarin. ?Hmm ? The coefficient of the thalamus activity correlated with the oscillation ability is extremely high. Are you sure he has the gene?? ?Positive! I am so excited! This is the first time we received this good of a result since the subject named Carl Jung, although the gene was not passed onto either of his five offspring. Otis Solarin, on the other hand... The gene runs in his family.? All that excitement and exuberant youth of Ennuturat's new assistant reminded him late Hundigar? not a compliment in Ennuturat?s vocabulary. Ennuturat gazed outside the large transparent force field of the research lab that separated them from the ocean. A large school of fluorescent fish hurried by, casting shadows on the rippled sandy ocean floor, lit up with the green lights surrounding the lab building. He would never admit it to anyone, but he had grown to love this view and the serenity of the ocean floor. Sometimes he would open the sound channel and flood his personal quarters with the sounds of the ocean. The songs of the aquatic species worked miracles for his old

body. ?Presuming it is so, and all checks out, do you think he can oscillate when awake?? ?Hmm ? I don?t know, master. We haven?t found anyone who could yet. But I know someone on Erinozhan who is creating an artificial field that would amplify the brain waves and simulate the collective network effect of their ancestors. Perhaps he could oscillate in the field. But in any event, his descendants, a generation or two away, will be able to. The projections are unanimous.? ?We need him then. As soon as possible.? ?Master? ? ?Is this going to be an ethics lecture?? ?Master ? You know as well as I do ? Abductions are ruled illegal by the Council.? ?Black hole on their heads! When we are so close, they decide to fall for this ?human rights? nonsense.? ?I know, master, it is extremely frustrating, but we have to follow the protocol.? ?So what do we do?? ?Well, we discussed the First Contact for some time now. Maybe this Solarin presents a good reason to officially introduce ourselves. He may willingly agree to join our research project. With a little white lie of course, but willingly nonetheless.? "What if he doesn't go with us? Our

presence will be revealed". "Master, it is only a matter of time before they discover us anyway. We could move operations to the Moon, but you know how much this would complicate our work. We need to be proactive. I think at this point, the best course of action is to reveal ourselves and make a good story to go with it. Say, we are looking for partnership. Let them think they actually decide something." "There might be hope for you after all!" Smiled Ennuturat. Ennuturat was old school. Negotiating with the lab animals was beyond his comprehension, but he knew one thing for sure: this universe belonged to the new guard, for better or worse. And the new Unkari, with their evolved vision of these humans, would have to deal with their dangerous ability. Looking towards eternity, Ennuturat had resigned to this new vision, despite what he personally thought of it. ?Hmm ? First Contact you say. That should be fun? I?d like to see their reaction when we come out of the ocean,? said the old Unkari with a mischievous smile. ?Alright, send a memo to the Council. If they approve, we?ll have some fun before I drift to eternity.? ?Don?t say that, Master. You have many galactic rotations ahead of you,? coaxed the young Unkari scientist, fully aware that he was lying. But what?s a little white lie, when someone?s peace of mind is at stake?

Back at Anglers, Ny's eyes sparkled like twin supernovae in the night sky. The reality of the ring on her finger refused to sink in. The sides of the diamond were catching fire, juxtaposed with the background scenery of the angry Atlantic and reflecting high luminescence of the restaurant's ambiance. However the storm was getting stronger, and Ny focused on the horizon. 16

Otis was waiting for the bill to pop up on the

small table screen, as Ny was scrutinizing the waves. When the number pinged, Otis leaned forward allowing the system to read his retina and authorize the payment, when Ny yelped and gripped his hand, driving her short-cut nails in his skin. ?What is it, dear?? ?Otis, look, I think it?s a tsunami!?

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T h e p oem s col l ect ed h er e ar e d r aw n f r om a d ecad e of w or k i n g in p ost- con f l i ct cou n tr i es su ch as A f gh an i st an , Kosovo, an d L i ber i a an d t h e sen se of d i sp l acem en t th at accom p an i es th e ex p at l i f e. T h e T h r ee H ar es w as i n sp i r ed by th e gr eat U k r ai n i an p oet s, p ast an d p r esen t, w h o p r ot est agai n st cor r u p t i on , op p r essi on , an d i n ju st i ce.

Aside from "329 Years Awake," I have at least two different novels in various stages of completion. "The Day I Died" is close to completion, and it will be ready for publishing sometime in 2017.

UPCOMING PROJECTS

"THEDAYI DIED"

Photography, digital design: Viktor Bondar @Bondart Make-up: Karina Marchenko Assistance: Helen Zarichna

Psychotropics, Genetics, andLove

In the 1930s, American psychologist Harry Harlow decided to get to the bottom of what is love. Whether he was driven by pure scientific interest or by a selfish desire to find out what caused him to be devoid of attachment, it is a question for the historians. I was outraged by the content of his experiments. They involved the cruel treatment of monkeys and bonding the rhesus infants with inanimate surrogate mothers from wire and wood and depriving them of their mother figures. I was thinking about all the ways humans are bombarded with the surrogates for love, affection, beauty, friendship - through advertisement, social media, objectification, and sex slavery. It seems like we live in a giant social experiment of our

own design, but we cannot quite grasp its scope because we don't see the big picture. "The Day I Died" is about the big picture. It's a futuristic dystopian story about our own social experiment taken to the extreme. Although it is built on the themes of animal rights, human rights are at the core of the story, the kind of rights that we don't think about too often - the right to remain human. It is a backlash against the whole field of Synthetic Biology, AI research, human-machine singularity, over-medication of mental illness, and so many other things that cause us to feel alone while standing in the crowd. Read excerpts from the novel "The Day I Died."

?THEDAYI DIED?IS ADARKFUTURISTIC TALEMIXEDWITHPSYCHOANALYSIS, OUT- OF- WHACKGENETICEXPERIMENTS, ANTI- DEPRESSANTS, COGNITIVE ENHANCERS, ANDLOVE.

CH A PT ER 1 Nothing upsets a crew of city rangers more than a hanging corpse at the end of their shift. ?Joe, look up. There he is, see the feet swinging behind the sign??

Joe looked up, squinting from the bright neon lights flickering on the giant restaurant sign spelling ?HABANERO.? The corpse lightly swayed, hanging on the sturdy iron scaffolding mounted to support giant neon letters. ?Yeah, that?s what I thought, it?s Arnold again.? Joe shielded his eyes. The idea of having to postpone dinner was slowly sinking in. ?They always drop dead, Haruto. Sooner or later, but it always happens. I?m used to that. I only wish they weren?t doing it at the end of our shift,? Haruto registered genuine frustration in Joe?s voice. Haruto, who was in charge of the shift, poked the body with a long stick he picked up next to the trash disposal bin. The corpse was hanging on the rope behind several dumpsters in the back

yard of a Mexican restaurant that went out of business earlier that month. The body swayed lightly back and forth. Joe followed Haruto behind the dumpsters. ?Jesus Christ. The smell.? Joe uttered. ?So thick it hurts my eyes.? ?It?s not coming from him though,? said Haruto studying the body a bit closer. ?There must be a dead dog in the dumpster or something. This one is still warm. If you didn?t have to stop at the gas station we probably could?ve saved him.? "And what then? He would do it again, guaranteed,? said Joe. ?And for the record, I told you I?m lactose intolerant!? ?That was a vegan yogurt, idiot. And so what if he tried this again? At least it wouldn?t be our shift. Because no offense, between the two of us, I know who is going to write the report.? ?You got that right,? said Joe and crushed a big spider with his shoe that was making its way to the safety of the trash bins. ?I thought so. Anyway, let?s get to business. Cut the rope and get the body bag. Start packing him. And don?t forget to turn on refrigeration. Not like the last month, when we were stuck in a traffic jam and the corpse started rotting before we got to the lab.? ?I cannot believe you are back to that incident, Haruto. I told you million times, I though it was on!? Joe said while climbing on the big smelly trash bin to cut the rope.

?Let me refresh your memory, Joe. Let?s see. I lost my bonus check that month. Since I didn?t have that extra cash I could not take Linda shopping as I promised her. Linda was very, very, very angry. You don?t

know what it?s like when Linda is angry. So yeah, I will remember the whole thing for a long time.? After letting the steam out, Haruto felt a bit better, and proceeded with the job punching something on his tablet. ?And be careful over there. Don?t let him hit the head or something. This complicates brain scanning.? ?I hate when you are talking like that." "Like what?" "As if you know something.? Joe was reasonably skeptical that his fellow crewman knew anything about conscience transplantation, but Haruto was not a usual city ranger. He took his job seriously. Maybe it was due to his natural curiosity. Maybe because he was mortified to upset Linda, and the way to upset Linda was to loose a bonus, or to loose a job for that matter. And since Haruto knew for a fact that he was stuck with Joe as his team member (damn corporate HR policies with an emphasis on team conflict resolution), he had to pull for both of them. After all, Joe was not married and had nobody to put holy terror in him besides Haruto. One way or another, Haruto knew that Arnolds were the experimental batch of assorted manual labor workers. They were cloned to be versatile, to work both with objects and with humans. Arnolds were often utilized in nursing homes and hospitals for changing diapers, washing vomit of the patients, and such. The folks in the Bureau of Mainstream Genetics (BMG) thought that to accomplish these tasks, Arnolds would need some measure of empathy. What they did not realize was that the side effect to empathetic clones was their predisposition to depression and suicide. They called it the Clone Syndrome.

Haruto often thought that the shrinks who came up with all of these Clone Syndrome theories had no idea what they were talking about. To them everything was a Clone Syndrome, from sociopathic crimes to depression and suicide, like in the case of this particular Arnold that Joe was wrapping in a special tissue-preserving body bag. A stable consciousness was hard to come by. Growing a body in a lab was the easy part. Creating a sentient being with a measure of intelligence on the other hand was a whole new level of difficult. No matter how hard the Bureau tried, only one out of a hundred cloned brains would sustain reliable neuro-pathways. Nobody knew why. This was substantially pissing off the CEOs of the business because 1% success rate could hardly lead to serious profits. That is why an alternative mechanism was developed: a recycled consciousness. Whenever a stable consciousness was created, it was transplanted from body to body after the initial owner died. The Bureau kept thorough track of all the clones, and as soon as one of them stopped transmitting life signs, the nearest ranger crew immediately received a signal to collect the body and to deliver it to the lab. This very thing was happening to the body of Arnold that Haruto and Joe were about to deliver to the creo-chamber. ***** ?Lavin, honey, it?s your turn,? said Buster, the show manager in a rather prestigious Go-Go dancing establishment. Lavin stepped on the stage, blinded by stage lights. She preferred it that way. Without seeing the audience below her, she allowed herself to be a star, a master of her

perfect body that drove everybody mad. Up there on the stage, the only thing she could see was a screen at the edge of the stage with a rapidly growing number on it. Tips! Hard cash in a form of tips kept rolling into her account from the aroused audience. A two-minute dance made her more money than most clones could ever make in a month. Lavin never had to take her clothes off, although she had no issues with that kind of stuff. Go-Go Flamingo was a family friendly place of sorts. She was thrilled to have been made for the pleasure industry. She could not imagine having to clean houses for some rich real-born snobs, or what?s even worse, to do some kind of physical labor. The dance reached its peak. The crowd went manic whistling and clapping like crazy. ?Honey, you were fabulous, as always!? exclaimed Buster when Lavin returned to her dressing room. ?Thank you, darling. Any private requests for tonight?? asked Lavin, lightly touching up her makeup and sponging pearls of sweat off her forehead. ?Two. Booth #11 for the first one. But take your time, you have about 20 minutes.? Buster moved a lock of fiery red curls off Lavin?s eyes. She was a hell of an investment; and as a good manager, he knew how to take care of his investments. ***** Arnold repeatedly knocked at the church door, but nobody answered. He began to think that coming here was a stupid idea in the first place. It was illegal for clones to join religious organizations, and the risk of being recycled was too great.

"Fuck it," he said to himself. "Fine. They recycle me. Fine. At least I won?t have to be stoned all the time." Like every Arnold he had ever met, Prozac was a daily reality for him. Being on Prozac meant that all the sounds were coming through like if his head was stuck in a glass jar wrapped with a wool scarf. You just are. No emotions, no desires, but also no paranoia and anxiety as well. That was the good part of living on Prozac. Sometimes Arnold wanted to drive his fist into the wall just to make sure he could feel something, but he never did. Although he thought about it. A lot. Dazed, Arnold wasn?t sure how much time had passed since he knocked on the door the last time. He tried again, louder this time. Finally someone opened the door. ?Alright already, I am coming! Why such impatience?? said an old man behind the door. ?I stood here for god knows how long.? ?You were slamming the door over and over again. I was upstairs, and I am not young any more, so it took me a while to get down. But it?s nothing. What brought you here? Something tells me your soul must be in trouble, am I right?? Arnold hesitated for a moment and then removed the hood from his head revealing a locator on his forehead, the signature biometric device that, among other things, allowed the naturally born humans to quickly identify a clone, because god knows, you don?t want them to be confused.

?You nailed it, father. This is exactly the kind of an answer I need from you. Tell me, father. Do you think I have a soul??

***** Langdon Falls Jr. was new to the Bureau of Mainstream Genetics. He graduated from med school a few months ago with a B-average absolutely convinced he was a genius. Unlike his "average" classmates in the top 10% of the class, he was not invited to the Bureau of Aeronautic Genetics or even to the Bureau of Experimental Genetics. He went to the Mainstream. And so what! He would prove himself in no time. There was plenty to improve and streamline here, at the Mainstream. Take his own Recycling Department (RD), for example. So much inefficiency in recycling the clone tissue and consciousness, he could not believe it. In his spare time, Landon sweated on a new program for DNA resequencing and consciousness reading, and finally the program was ready. There was a small problem, however. His boss would never allow Langdon to use it without approval at the top level. It was obvious that Ishiro Smith was afraid to be removed from the office before he earned his retirement and could afford his oyster farm on the Puget Sound. That morning, Langdon walked to the lab to start his Friday shift, and to his great surprise, boss Ishiro was not in the lab yet. ?That?s unusual,? thought Langdon, stripping his clothes and stepping into the sterile chamber. By 9:45, Langdon drank two cups of coffee and advanced to the 7th level in the Interstellar Combat, the accomplishment that made him quite proud. Still, no news on the boss?s whereabouts. The day dragged slowly to lunchtime. Oddly Langdon had no incoming material for recycling. Evidently everyone in the

quadrant took a break from killing themselves or dying in freakish accidents, and Langdon was getting increasingly bored. Right when he was ready to go out for lunch, he received an incoming call. ?Hi Langdon. How are you doing? Any progress on the Interstellar Combat?? Sure enough it was his boss Ishiro. ?Hi boss. I don?t know what are you talking about. I was working all morning,? said Langdon counting his blessings that he did not leave the lab earlier. ?Oh, leave it. I know you had no clients all morning. I transferred all the scheduled recycling jobs for Monday. There is something I have to do with my mother today, so I took a day off.? "Awesome!" thought Langdon, but the protocol called for faking disappointment. ?You shouldn?t have to, boss, I could?ve handled the job. After all, the world needs new bio-material every minute!? ?Yeah, listen, Langdon. I know that you are about the laziest son of a bitch I ever had in my department. But I beg you, don?t drop the ball. Just sit tight for the rest of the day, play your computer games, and have a nice evening in the bar with whoever you are into. Consider it my present to you. Just do not, I repeat, do not screw up. I have only 6 months left until retirement.? ?No worries, boss. I will hardly be noticed!? hurried Langdon to reassure his boss. ?That?s my boy. I will be out of reach for the rest of the day. See you on Monday. Have a good weekend.? And he cut off. Langdon stared at the screen of his tablet for a second, then pushed the screensaver button and headed out for

lunch. By 4:45, Langdon was ready to change into his casual clothes and head out, when Haruto and Joe of the 17th quadrant barged in. ?Hey, fellas, what you got for me?? greeted Langdon through the glass wall from inside the recycling sterile environment. ?Howdy, Langdon. How is it going? Where is Ishiro?? asked Joe. ?He took a day off. And it?s the end of the day for me, so please, whatever scrambled goodies you've got in that bag, leave it in the creo-chamber. It will have to wait till Monday.? lied Langdon trying to hide the fact that his boss ordered him not to take any jobs. ?We have a problem, Langdon,? said Haruto. For some reason, the creo department told me that they have no space in the chamber left. They said no recycling jobs were done today. ?Idiots.? Langdon pretended irritated. ?They always mess up.?

?You tell me!? said Joe. ?Look, Langdon,? pleaded Haruto. ?It?s the end of my shift. You still have 15 minutes, that?s plenty of time for one job. I have an undamaged and freshly self-immolated Arnold in the bag. It would be a shame to loose such a good sample. And not to mention, it would definitely reflect on my paycheck. So please, be a trooper, process just this one. Think of my alternatives: I?ll have to drive 3 hours to Wilmington, sign out-of-quadrant waivers to deposit this fellow in a creo-chamber ? Nobody wants that on a Friday night,? said Haruto.

Make-up, assistance: Anyuta Sidyuk

Photography, digital design: Nicholay Kovalchinskiy

RANDOMFACT #2 IT TAKES ONLYFOURTYPOS TO TURNLOVE INTORAGE.

?Pleeeeeaaasseeeee? ? whined Joe and gave Langdon puppy eyes. ?Pleeeeaaaseeee? ? Haruto attempted at the same puppy eyes only to look like a goldfish sucked into an open space vacuum. Langdon took a few seconds to pretend that he was contemplating their plea, although he agreed to it a long time ago. He only needed these two to present a solid case that would cover his ass in case boss Ishiro will not be happy about Langdon?s zeal to work. ?Alright, guys! You owe me one,? agreed Langdon and pressed the button on the console. The deposit chamber retracted. Joe dumped the body bag into it and slightly pushed the front panel to send it into the sterile lab area where Langdon was already spraying sanitizer on his palms. ***** Booth #11 was draped in purple velvet with pink bead strands lightly covering the entrance. Lavin thought that if that velvet could write books, it would come up with a bestseller and likely would be assassinated afterwards. She stepped in and saw an attractive young guy who looked like he could be of Italian or maybe Greek origin. The guy was sipping a Long Island Ice Tea and watching the fashion channel. ?Hello, stranger,? said the guy. ?I?m a big fan of your talent. I gotta tell you, I saved my entire bonus check to see you, so if I get too excited, please forgive me,? said the guy eyeing Lavin like a slice of a chocolate cake.

?Oh we don?t want that to happen, do we? How should I call you tonight?? asked Lavin consciously posing before her client so he could get a good close-up look of her

perfect body. ?Joe,? said Joe. ?Alright,? smiled Lavin. ?Joe it is.? ?No, really, my name is Joe. I have no reason to hide my identity. I am single. Plus, my job does not have any morality clauses attached to my contract.? ?What do you do, Joe?? asked Lavin approaching him close enough he could smell her perfume. ?I ? I ? ? Joe?s heart beat faster. ?I collect human material,? said Joe. ?Ah, the city ranger, I see.? Lavin touched Joe?s beautiful black hair. ?But enough about me. Let?s talk about you. Or rather what are we going to do,? said Joe full of anticipation. ?Would you like a menu?? asked Lavin continuing to caress Joe?s hair. ?I would, indeed ? ? whispered Joe and blinked rapidly. ***** Langdon looked attentively at the memory stick sitting on the desk in front of him. ?To be or not to be? ? He uttered in a dramatic voice. The memory stick contained his new creation ? The Program. ?Boss will hang me by the dorsal fins if he finds out.? ?On the other hand, he may not find out.? ?But if recycling goes well, he may even be happy. Heck, he may even get a promotion! And if he gets a promotion, he will get a bigger retirement! And if he gets a bigger retirement, he will write me a glorious reference letter. Who knows, I may even take his place? ?

?But what if it doesn?t go well? ? Among other things, Langdon was a convinced optimist. This particular trait put an end to his deliberations. He extracted the original memory stick from the reader and inserted his own. As the program initialized, Langdon imagined the lightning striking outside his window, threw his hands in the air and proclaimed: ?Buhaha! I created a followed by a nefarious laugh.

monster!!!?

***** Every weekend Ratville became a zoo. Crowds of clones and real-born social outcasts returned to their hometown located in the quadrant 97 of the 1st Council. Here on the streets you could see various low-tech (and low-cost!) sports and entertainment of which basketball and poker battles were by far the most popular. After his soul-searching meeting with the priest respectfully failed, Arnold headed home. He boarded a hoverrail train that took him in the South-Eastern direction towards Ratville. Sitting in an empty train car, Arnold was contemplating the utter misery of his existence. ?Ratville,? he thought, ?What is that? They couldn?t give the city a decent name?? He mused while studying the fake marble pattern on the floor. ?Then again, it only makes sense. They don?t think of us as humans. Why would they give our city a decent name?? The floor pattern was getting on his nerves, it irritated the eye, and he felt like he could not avoid the busy pattern no matter where he looked. It made his head spin and he tried to suppress nauseating sensation that seemingly originated from his memory of strong vanilla-flavored medication he was taking

daily. ?Rat fucking ville ? That?s all I deserve. That?s all I?ll ever get ? I sure wish the floor would stop spinning ? hurts my eyes ? god it hurts? ? thought Arnold trying to shake off the memory of annoying vanilla smell. Or was it flavor? He could not decide which. ?Damn vanilla pills? ? Vanilla pills! Finally it occurred to Arnold that he forgot to take his daily medical cocktail this morning. This was bad news. He would be out of it for the whole day, and he may not get home in time. He wasn?t sure what exactly would happen to him, but he already felt something like a stroke gripping his entire body. ?Today I am going to die. Or worse. I won?t die and I will live as a vegetable. No, probably they would recycle me in that case ? Damn it, Arnold! Focus!? His chest was growing tight and he couldn?t breathe. He expanded his lungs, but something like a plastic bag was seemingly covering his mouth and cut off the access to airflow. In a desperate attempt to get a gulp of air, Arnold slammed the window of the monorail car trying to break the glass. But if he had any ability to think straight he would realize that the glass was built to withstand a significant explosion, not only fist slamming. In that case perhaps he could press the medical emergency button on his armrest. But the time was irrevocably gone. Time was the only thing between life and death. And his time had run out. ***** ?What is your name, son?? asked an old gentleman in the corner of a dim room filled with shelves of antique paper books in old dusty covers.

?Arnold, sir.? Arnold was sitting in a leather chair across from the old man. ?No, this won?t do. You are the third Arnold I?m seeing today. I need a way to identify you, a way to make you special.? ?I am not special,? responded Arnold. ?Of course you are,? said the old man. Arnold?s look was completely blank. ?Alright, I?ll give you an example. I am a psychiatrist. A man. A rather old man I should say. There are thousands of men like me around the world. In this respect, I am not special. Now, my name is Dr. Leipshits. This sets me apart from many other old male psychiatrists. However, Leipshits is a common name. There are hundreds of people with that name in Toronto. Just log into the contact book on the Net, and you will see.? Dr. Leipshits paused, trying to figure out if Arnold was following his thoughts. The blank look on Arnold?s face did not change. ?Ok, what makes me different from everybody else is my first name. Do you know my first name, Arnold?? ?No.? ?It?s Amos. I am Amos Leipshits. Now, there is only one Amos Leipshits, the psychiatrist of genetically engineered subjects. We need to find you a distinct name like that. Do you have any idea?? ?Amos.? ?No, no. Amos won?t do. You need something uniquely yours,? insisted Dr. Leipshits.

Arnold was confused. His eyes wandered across the room, over the bookshelves and paintings on the walls. Finally his gaze stopped at the desk in front

of the window. There, on the corner of the desk, was sitting a thick paper volume. Arnold read: HARRY THE NATURE OF LOVE:

HARLOW?S

LESSONS FOR ARTIFICIAL, BIOLOGICAL, LIFEFORMS

AND

MECHANICAL

By Prof. Lesley Stevens

The cover of the book had a bizarre picture: a baby monkey hugging a robot doll dressed in a fuzzy sweater. Arnold?s eyes got bigger as he tried to grasp the meaning of the book cover. ?Take your time,? said Dr. Leipshits. Arnold finally looked at him and spoke: ?Lesley. My name is Lesley Arnold.? ***** Lavin finished her shift around midnight. She meticulously removed her theatrical makeup and red wig, placed her scant working wardrobe in the closet and walked two blocks from the ?Go-Go Flamingo? to the 24/7 fitness club. There she used her key card to let herself in, went to the empty locker room and used the key card one more time to access her locker where she stored ten changes of clean workout clothes, each neatly packed in vacuum plastic zip-lock bags. She grabbed the top bag from the shelf, opened it with a phizz-sound and put on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top. After stretching and 15-minute run on a treadmill, Lavin returned to the locker room, took off the running outfit, put on a one-piece swimsuit, tied her long black hair

in a knot on top of her head, clipped a waterproof player to the swimsuit, and put on a silicone swim cap with installed wireless headphones. She walked down the hallway to the swimming pool barefoot with her eyes closed listening to Tchaikovsky. She knew exactly how many steps it takes to the edge of the pool. When she counted 57 steps, she came to a full stop, turned to the right, made six additional steps, turned 90 degrees to the left, and without opening her eyes she walked 5 more steps to the edge of the board. Tchaikovsky?s Queen of Spades reached an overture. Lavin paused for a moment until the orchestra reached a forte sequence, and on a cue from violins she performed a flawless classic forward with her head and outstretched arms pointing down. Crush. Stretched arms met heavy resistance and broke like an ice-cream waffle cone. Shattered scull bones pierced her brain in multiple places. Flashes of color bombarded the inner eyelids like the independence day firework show. Breed for the show lights, the last thing her mind registered was the light show. ***** Exactly three minutes later, Haruto and Joe used their universal access key card and entered the fitness facility where they received an emergency message. About 30 seconds later they looked down the empty swimming pool with a giant sign plastered on the wall across from the swimming pool:

DUE TO A SANITARY EMERGENCY THE POOL IS OUT OF SERVICE. OUR APOLOGIES ?Damn, what a beginning of the shift. And just two hours ago I was eyeing the queen of the 17th quadrant, the magnificent redhead Lavin,? nostalgically remarked Joe. ?Queen of what?? Haruto spaced out trying to deal with the bloody mess at the bottom of the swimming pool. ?Lavin from Go-Go Flamingo, just two blocks away from here. Haruto, I think I am in love.? ?Is it the first time this week?? brushed off Haruto. ?Oh come on, don?t be such a cynic. Can?t I fall in love with a Go-Go dancer? Remember that old song: I?m a private dancer, I work for money, but I want to have a home ? Something like that.? Joe hummed while putting down his pack and preparing to bag the unfortunate client at the bottom of the pool. ?I am a realist, Joe, and you are an idiot. Nobody falls in love with strippers,? flatly lied Haruto while registering the job in the database. ?Hey, watch your language! She is no stripper. She is a goddess!? ?Yeah, and when the clock strikes midnight she turns into a pumpkin.? Haruto was clearly not in the mood. Earlier that evening Linda said that she was seeing someone else. And to make matters worse, that someone was Haruto?s own sister Katsumi. ?Anyway, Joe, let?s get on with this, shall we? Get down over there and see what we

can do about it. I?ll go over her stuff in the locker room. Maybe she has an ID.?

surgery while receiving real-time video feed to his goggles.

Joe kept whistling ?Private Dancer? as he stepped on the ladder and made his way to the bottom of the pool. When he reached the bottom, he stood there for a second assessing the scope of work. Something just occurred to him. He pressed a walkie-talkie button and heard Haruto?s voice.

First of, he scanned the body to assess the state of the tissue damage. The report was very promising. 92% of the tissue was intact. The brain sustained minimal damage, which was the most important part.

?Hey, Haruto, you are the smart one. Tell me what kind of a suicide is this? This is something new. Because there is no way she could not see that the pool was empty, and there was that huge sign as well. Can you imagine the nerve she must have had to go through with this?? Haruto was quiet at the other end. ?Hello! Anybody there?? insisted Joe. Haruto looked at Lavin's ID from the Go-Go Flamingo, cleared his throat, and in a shaky voice said: ?Hey, buddy, there is something you should see here? ? *****

The first step in recycling a dead clone is assessing the damage to the brain. Langdon knew he needed to deposit the body into the sealed-off surgery environment, put on sensor gloves and electronic imaging goggles. With these tools, Langdon remotely conducted an autopsy and separated tissues for the recycling procedure. It required extreme skill and precision, and Langdon was convinced he could do it with flying colors. Making moves in the air with his fingers equipped with the gloves, Langdon transmitted signals to the sealed-off area of the lab and performed a remote laser

Second, Langdon separated the head from the body and removed the body to the creo-chamber to work with later. With the corner of his eyes, Langdon kept track of a clock counting down the time he had left to successfully complete the task. Moving swiftly with his fingers, Langdon directed the lasers to separate the brain from the skull, simultaneously reconnecting the brain stem to the machine that had oxygen-nutrient rich compounds saturated with nano-particles. The nano-particles carried the oxygen-nutrients into the brain tissue working through hemorrhages and blood clots that rapidly emerged in a dying brain. The main goal of this stage was not to revive the brain in any way, but to preserve the synoptic pattern for the next step. Third, Langdon performed a 3-D imaging scan of the brain, down to the sub-cellular structures. Each structure was always unique and contained all the behavior and personality protocols of the deceased. Further, Langdon had to use his new program to translate the 3-D brain scan into numerous groups of computer code ? sub-programs for planning (this information was carried by the anterior cingulate and frontal lobe of the brain), movement (parietal lobe), vision (occipital lobe), language (temporal lobe), social and emotional

responses (lateral orbitofrontal), and so on and on. There was the reason why Langdon, being a truly bright medical student, did not graduate top of his class. He often spaced out. For example, while listening to the lecture or studying for a test, his brain would wander off to some unimaginable heights of medical perfection. He was imagining receiving a Nobel prize for some life-changing invention, other times in his daydreams he improved the efficiency of medical equipment or rewrote boring professor ?s lectures adding jokes and interactive activities. All this daydreaming reflected in partial knowledge retention, which still allowed Langdon to pass from class to class because whatever he retained was actually quite good. Old habits die hard. Langdon carried his habit of spacing out to the new job. That was why, when he analyzed the standard resequencing program, he noticed that the output data was lacking some components. Eureka! Inefficiency that needed improvement! Langdon thought he was a step away from the Nobel prize. Langdon dug deeper. To his astonishment, the output program lacked subprograms scanned from hippocampus and entorhinal cortex. Inspired by this discovery, Langdon dug into the databases for the brain scan dictionaries, the sequences of synoptic paths that translated to a computer code for these parts of the brain. Some time later, Langdon was quite happy with the result and augmented his new program with these sub-routines. It was unclear at what point Langdon spaced out on the fact that this subroutine was deliberately removed from the standard program used in the Bureau of

Mainstream Genetics. If he would have not missed this crucial bit of information, he would remember that several years ago the Bureau of Experimental Genetics issued a memo urging to strip recycled consciousness from memories of previous hosts because it caused significant inefficiency and confusion when the new hosts awoke to the memories of someone else?s life, who they later found out were dead. Not coincidentally, hippocampus and entorhinal cortex were responsible for storing the memories, and for that very reason, these subprograms were excluded from the consciousness transplants. Extremely happy to complete the scan and resequencing of the brain in time, Langdon downloaded Arnold?s consciousness to the data carrier, made all appropriate inscriptions and markings, and added to the outgoing container headed to another department in the BMG, the Department of the Prototype Enrichment. Finishing with the brain, Langdon completed taking biomass samples from the rest of the decapitated body, packaged all salvageable tissue in vials and deposited to the appropriate DNA bank compartments. Finally, he removed all the waste materials and sanitized the room. Lights off. Stellar performance. Langdon felt like rewarding himself with a round of drinks. ***** The next Monday, the Department of the Prototype Enrichment (or the DPE), received a fresh batch of digital consciousness from the Resequencing Department (the RD) and loaded them into the enrichment matrix. A week ago, however, the DPE received

a memo from the BEG urging them to abort the Arnold project. This meant that no new Arnold bodies were to be grown in the lab, and no grown Arnold bodies were to become conscious. During the staff meeting at the DPE, the team came to the decision that the remainder of Arnold consciousness should not go to waste. From now on it would be enriched to the new line of commercially successful and rather stable clones (as far as clones go) Lavin. At the enrichment facility, female bodies were attached to the system that translated digital consciousness of the deceased into the biological brain pattern. The newly created brains were surgically transplanted to the bodies of each Lavin in the facility. One of them, however, received a bonus feature of all the memories that belonged to Arnold, who opted to end his life through hanging in the back yard of the Mexican restaurant in the 17th Quadrant.

THE END OF CHAPTER 1

Make-up, assistance: Anyuta Sidyuk

Photography, digital design: Nicholay Kovalchinskiy

RANDOMFACT #3 ALL THE OUTFITS FOR THIS SHOOT WERE PURCHASED INATHRIFT STORE, MINUS THEBOOTS. THEBOOTS AREFROMAN ITALIAN BRANDMAXA

RANDOMFACT #4 THIS PUPIS NOT A PROP. HEIS MY VERYOWN NEWFOUNDLAND NAMEDBOONE. HEIS MYFIRST AND, SO FAR, ONLYCHILD, ANDMOMMA COULDN'T BEMORE PROUD. BOONE GENEROUSLY AGREEDTOSHOOT INTHEDEADHEAT OF MID- SUMMER ANDAPOLOGIZED FORDROOLING.

Make-up, assistance: Anyuta Sidyuk

Photography, digital design: Nicholay Kovalchinskiy

RANDOM FACT # 5 I AMINFP. ANDYOU?

RANDOMFACT #6 I COLLECT VINTAGE TYPEWRITERS. NOWI OWNTW O: A1930S ROYAL ANDA1940S OLYMPIA PROGRESS.

SuburbanEvil "Suburban Evil" is another project that I started. It is not science fiction. It is different. It is a drama that plays on the ugly nature of domestic violence. If this project generates interest, I will finish it sooner. I'd like to hear some feedback about the idea.

?SUBURBANEVIL IS AVIGILANTESTORY SET SOMEWHEREINNORTHCAROLINA. THEMAINCHARACTERIS NOT YOUR TYPICAL W OMEN'S RIGHTS ACTIVIST. AFTERHIS MOTHER'S HOMICIDEAT THE HANDS OF HIS DRUNKENFATHER, ARTHUR COPPOLADECIDES TOTAKEJUSTICEIN HIS OWNHANDS ANDPUT HIS LAWDEGREE TOPRACTICAL USE, BYAVENGINGTHE VICTIMS OF DOMESTICVIOLENCE.

palms. I took my first sip of coffee and rested my palms on the glass surface leaving sweaty handprints.

CHAPTER 1 I

will never forget the day I

stepped into her back yard. Tall, red haired, in her mid 30s, Nicole was destined to become my first "case." Her handshake was soft. Her slender hands and long fingers were rather elegant. Ah, yes, she offered me coffee. I remember settling into the woven lawn chair and placing the voice recorder on the table, the glass surface of which was pleasantly cold under my

I was hot, terribly hot. My only decent suit jacket was one of thick pleated wool. You know the kind, with patches on the elbows. And it was August in North Carolina; but I was under self-imposed pressure to look professional, so I put it on anyway. To make matters worse, I was a nervous wreck. Although, if you think about it, why wouldn?t I be nervous? I was about to talk to a woman who was kept in a basement for five years and fed dog kibble. ?I still have dreams about it,? she whispered. As she spoke, an image of wilted leaves lightly shuffling in the forest treetops crept in my imagination. Or maybe I thought of it because her yard was surrounded by the forest, and I could hear wind going though the branches. One way or

another, in my mind Nicole?s speech and shallow wind became one. ?Tell me more about those dreams.? ?Not sure I want to? ? ?Alright, where would you like to start?? ?From my wedding day. I was the happiest bride in the world. I was in love, and he was a perfect gentleman.?

XXX

efore I go on with the Nicole?s

story, let me introduce myself. My name is Arthur Coppola. I am a ? Well, who am I anyway? I think of myself as a guy who occasionally does bad things in the name of the greater good. I bring vengeance to the domestic violence victims. I almost hear the reader pause at my last sentence, frown her eyebrows, and say, ?What in the world?? To those of you who just said that, here?s my retort: the world is a cruel place. All brides fantasize about their happy lives ahead, no matter what combination of elements makes up their version of happiness. For some of them, things go terribly wrong. Say, before the marriage, he would bring her flowers after each fight, but after the wedding he would bring only jealousy, complaints, and accusations. That would change too. Soon, coming home from work, he would greet her with an intimidating silence; the special kind

that is like a room full of gas, and all it takes is to strike a match. As a man, I wouldn?t fall for the shit these women fall for: that he only wants us to be a good family or he is underappreciated at work, that?s why he drinks; or ? and here comes my favorite. He loves me and he can?t live without me. And he surely will kill himself if I leave. But the women believe these and countless other lies delivered by their husbands, or boyfriends, or fathers. After a thousand second chances, things eventually go beyond repair. I am sure you are desperate to know what my angle is in all of this. Fair enough. It?s quite simple. My mother was killed when I was 13. My father was a classic case of an abusive husband, violent, and regularly drunk. One day, he came home, naturally drunk, and sat at the dining table. Mom hustled a meal. She was in a middle of ironing a pile of sheets, and a hot old-fashioned heavy iron was within his hand?s reach. I am not sure what exactly was wrong this time, but shortly I heard his ?You did it again, bitch!? and her scream. Then ? pans and dishes crashed on the floor, together with a heavy thump that turned out to be my mom falling to the ground. Evidently he grabbed the iron and smashed her head. I ran in from my bedroom, and instantly felt sick to my stomach from the sight of mom?s blood oozing from her head and spreading on the floor. I ran out of the kitchen to call 911, and by the time I was back, my

Make-up, assistance: Anyuta Sidyuk

Photography, digital design: Nicholay Kovalchinskiy

RANDOMFACT #7 I'DGOINTOA CRYO- CHAMBER JUST TOW AKEUPA FEWHUNDRED YEARS LATERAND SEEWHAT THE FUTUREIS LIKE. THAT'S PROBABLY WHYI ENJOY CREATING FUTURISTIC W ORLDS.

WHAT AMI MOST ENVIOUS ABOUT THE FUTURE? PERHAPS SPACETRAVEL. THINKINGABOUT MARS COLONIES ANDBEYONDSLAPS A SILLYGRINONMYFACE. EVERYTIME. ALSOI W ANT TOKNOWTHETHEORYOF EVERYTHING.

mother was dead, and my father was gone from the house. I think that was the day when I became a lawyer. The following investigation and trial made me eerily familiar with the American justice system in action. Father ?s lawyer was a sleazeball. These two fabricated a case of self-defense. According to them, it was my mother who attacked my father. Also, she allegedly had a history of being a neurotic, unbalanced, prone to jealousy and exaggeration; a woman who was never satisfied with the income my father provided. Without a shred of evidence, they alleged that mother had affairs. They even molded her depression to their advantage. Imagine my astonishment when I learned what probation was. I could not believe that the courts could come up with such a naive thing. In my brain, it was total nonsense that a person could kill another person and end up walking free; and on top of that, the state would pay his rehab expenses. My witness testimony did not help the case much because as a teenager I had a little bit of a history myself. I wasn?t exactly the top of the class, and I was at that age when being against the system was as natural as a glass of milk. Plus I did not see how exactly the events unfolded the night my mom was killed. Because my father had a child to raise, he got to walk away. 42

By the time the trial was over, I was 15. I lived for a year with my father, or I

should say, in the same house. To his credit, the rehab helped his drinking problem, and child protective services could not be more pleased. As soon as I got my driver ?s license, I took my father ?s old Chevy and drove off. After driving through two or three states, I gave him a call from the gas station. I wished him a good life and strictly advised against looking for either me or the car, otherwise, with the help of my friends, police would find him with drugs, and that would be to hell with his probation. I only heard him breathing heavily, he did not say a word, so I hung up. That was the last time I had anything to do with the person called my father. My new life began when I forged a number of signatures and transferred myself to a Nebraska high school. I also found a bunch of jobs to get me through. I walked dogs, I washed cars, I bought groceries for old ladies, and all that while trying to make my grades to get into law school. I found a homeless guy, Sam, great old fella, who would impersonate my father whenever it was necessary for school meetings. I have to tell you, he did a far better job then my real father ever did. Strangely enough, I made it through high school. Strangely enough, I made it to a law school as well. Although it was a law school none of you probably even heard about, but I got in, and graduated. And even more surprising is that I passed the bar. Although it was

the Wisconsin bar with the passage rate over 90 percent (nothing to brag about at the high school reunion), but I did it. There I was, a young law school graduate, with my license, thinking what to do. I have to admit, I was such an unimpressive student that all my job applications were nearly doomed to fail. During the school years, my energy mostly went on getting by and making ends meet, so when it was time to write my resume, a law school graduate with my combination of work experiences would not get me too far. My preppy peers might be well off and born with a golden spoon in their mouths, but there was something in me that made up for that disadvantage. I was tenacious and obsessed with domestic violence cases. That was all I cared about. One morning, I was reading the newspaper and stumbled across the headline: ?MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF NICOLE HUNTINGTON IS RESOLVED ? VICTIM OF HER HUSBAND, NICOLE WAS KEPT IN A BASEMENT FOR FIVE YEARS.? I remembered the story from five years ago. It made the headlines, because Nicole belonged to a rather well-standing family. The rumor was that she escaped with her lover leaving her husband behind. The police were presented with a note written with Nicole?s hand. They also found receipts from purchased bus tickets, her clothes were evidently gone and such. Although

the family was heartbroken and could not believe Nicole would ever do such a thing, her trace was lost in the police bureaucracy. Nicole was saved by pure chance. An old man at the counter noticed Nicole?s husband purchasing female hygiene items. Usually he shopped outside the town, but as years passed, he lost caution thinking that everyone probably forgot all about it. In a month or two, the cashier noticed the well-known man making the same purchases, and he found it highly suspicious for a small conservative North Carolina city (God bless old farts who live for fresh gossip!). The official story was that the heartbroken husband lived alone, did not date, and stewed in his sorrow over a runaway wife. The old cashier guy thought that these facts did not add up. He literally lost his sleep over the suspicions and began spying on the house. One day he noticed on the dusty basement window with barely visible letters: ?HELP.? The concerned citizen took a photo of the window and ran to the police. When the police opened the basement, it smelled foul. Nicole was chained to the metal pipe with a chain around her neck so that she could only sit or stand along the vertical pipe and could not make even one step away from it. Five years in the basement made her face look ashen. How could the police overlook it? How could they not find her right under

their noses? How could this husband fool everyone for so long? I asked myself these questions over and over again, but the answers escaped my imagination. I wondered the most what Nicole was feeling all this time. And what was worse, for my mother to die in one moment from a drunken rage at the hand of her husband, or for Nicole to endure such treatment for years.

CHAPTER 2 I

arrived in DC late at night and

stopped long before Capitol Hill where I was eventually headed, picking the first Motel 6 I came across. I was exhausted and afraid of getting into an accident, so I just exited the freeway as soon as I had a chance. Not to mention that I absolutely could not afford staying in the Capitol Hill district, or any place reputable for that matter.

I entered the tiny hotel room and crashed on the bed without taking my clothes or shoes off. The lighting in the room was dim, with no overhead lighting, and one of the two nightstand lamps was not working. To my surprise, I found myself unable to fall asleep. I was exhausted, my eyes burned, and I couldn?t keep them open, but I was not out.

Begrudgingly, I picked myself up and made an effort to remove my clothes. Shoes had to go first. There is no pain quite like wearing cheap vegan leather shoes with the rubber soles for over 12 hours. When I dragged my socks off, I realized that I had liquid-filled blisters and imprints of stitches and patterns from both my shoes and socks, sketched on my feet with the transferred black paint that came off the cheap shoe material, mixed with a day?s worth of sweat. My feet didn?t really smell. They were just swollen and in pain. No way I could possibly wear these ridiculous shoes tomorrow, as I had to spend a whole day walking miles and miles of DC pavement and hallways. Somehow the miles in DC feel longer. I thought about it when filling the tub and soaking my exhausted body in nearly boiling water. At least one blessing for the day ? DC does not run out of hot water. I was also thinking about why I decided to drive 11 hours straight from Nicole?s house in the Appalachian Mountains all the way to the capital city. I guess subconsciously I knew the answer, but articulating it to myself made it seem like a frivolous whim, an emotional throw, rather than a practical step. The tile in the bathroom was covered in rich steam, so was the small mirror above the sink. It was a good thing that I couldn?t see my own face.

Standing there, naked and exposed, in every sense of these words, I couldn?t face what I was about to do. ?I want him to pay for this,? quietly whispered Nicole after a long awkward pause. ?I want justice, but not the kind of justice that the court can provide. I want real retribution.? I knew exactly what she meant. I always thought that the word "justice" was tainted by the ignorance and narrow-sighted formal justice system, with all its prosecutors, judges, courthouses and taxpayer-funded meals for the bastards who eventually end up in prison. I knew based on my own experience that in the court of law, justice is not equal retribution. Nicole wanted retribution. She wanted to balance the accounts with the person who once spoke wedding vows, promising to cherish and protect her. To Nicole, those vows were more sacred than any state or federal law that prohibited a man from abusing his wife. The vows are sacred because they are built on trust, and Gabriel Sorvino broke that trust. Gabriel Sorvino was an ivy league graduate, holder of a prestigious MBA, a refined specimen of the upper middle class society. He did not drink and did not smoke. He had no drug or porn addictions. He probably did not even cheat on Nicole. He swam every day in their estate pool for thirty minutes after a round of exercises on a treadmill and lifting weights. He was handsome as the

devil himself. ?Handsome devil, I gave him this nickname,? reminisced Nicole with her eyes looking down at nothing in particular. ?He was the heartthrob in college. We met when I was in my second year. My field was in public relations.? At that she paused as if something just occurred to her. Then she lifted her eyes and looked straight at me, probably for the first time. ?Ironic, isn?t it? I studied public relations, when I should have studied something about the private ones? ? Finally I managed to get a few hours of sleep. I checked out early, being the first person to grab some toast and a banana in the small kitchen area; I pocketed a few small cartons of peanut butter and jelly, meeting with a disapproving eye of the help who served in the breakfast area, and hit the road. No need to pass on free food, I thought. After all, bananas and bread are all the same, whether they are served in the Five Star Hilton, or in this run down Motel 6. I drove the same Chevy that years ago I appropriated from my dad on my way out of his life. Sometimes driving this piece of junk bothered me, mostly because it reminded me of him, but most of the time I did not give it a second thought. It was just a car, a necessity for someone who is marginally employed and needs to get around. Beggars can?t be choosy. I parked my car several blocks from Capitol Hill, because finding a free

RANDOMFACT #8 BOONEANDI TOOK SEVERAL TRIPS BY MULTIPLETRAINS AND BUSES. EACHLASTED FOURTOFIVE DAYS AND INVOLVEDCROSSING MULTIPLEBORDERS. WE BOTHCARRIED BACKPACKS.

parking spot in DC is no easier than ordering a can of cold coke in hell. Wearing the same damned shoes and twisting my toes to avoid contact with the shoe surface that rubbed on the raw blisters, which already burst and spliced with my socks, I walked into the Library of Congress.

Congress to take them on. I was thinking of their strange obsessions with the loopholes and man-made doctrines, which so often colored white into black.

The registrar asked for an ID, and together with the driver ?s license, I passed her my public defender ?s license, which allowed me to wave the fee, and headed to the floor designated for the law section.

? while "justice delayed is justice denied" was only good for plastering across the government websites ?

The floor was empty of visitors. Normally lawyers don?t visit the Library of Congress to brief for their cases. They use Lexis Nexus and eBooks, because, first of all, it?s the 21st century, and second of all, they have caseloads that would make such a day trip a frivolous waste of time. I, on the other hand, had no caseload. I only had one single case, and my first case at that. Cutting corners on my education, something told me that I had to get this one right. I had to feel the spirit of the law hovering in the dusty volumes of the Supreme Court almanacs and various law journals. I had to feel the justice system in my veins for this one.

? while the victims of domestic violence proudly carried blue-black flags of injustice on their faces and bodies ?

? while my feet hurt and my heart hurt even more, for Nicole and for my murdered mother ? ? while the victims were put under scrutiny of a trial, taking upon themselves the heat of the judicial zeal instead of their abusers, like human shields for our societal shame ? ? while I was crying in the dark corner, between the two rows of bookshelves, on the faded, carpeted floor that absorbed the sound of the footsteps just as well as it absorbed the common sense, portraying it irrelevant ? I took the damn shoes off, extracted a legal pad with lined yellow pages, and a ball pen, and armed myself to defend Gabriel Sorvino against the grip of the North Carolina death penalty.

Because how else could I defeat it?

I thought of the strange menagerie of the current U.S. Supreme Court justices, who were setting in stone landmark decisions that very moment while I was perusing the Library of

THE END OF CHAPTER 2

w w w.Jalapen oPu blish in g.com

Make-up, assistance: Anyuta Sidyuk

Photography, digital design: Nicholay Kovalchinskiy

RANDOM FACT # 9 I AMGOOD AT CRAFTS, BUT I GET BORED FAST. THAT'S WHYI TRIED LOTS OF THEM.

RANDOMFACT # 10 I AMAFRAIDOF HEIGHTS. THIS SESSION W AS SHOT ON THEPREMISES OF AN ABANDONED CHEMICAL FACTORYTHAT STRETCHED FORSEVERAL CITYBLOCKS.

INTHIS PICTUREWE WERESHOOTING ONTHEEDGEOF A FALLEN- THROUGH FLOORWITH SEVERAL STORIES BELOW ANDSHARP CONSTRUCTION GARBAGEAT THEBOTTOM.I STILL SHIVER THINKING ABOUT IT.

RANDOMFACT #11 I DON'T DEAL WELL WITHDEATH. INFACT, I PROBABLYDON'T EVENBELIEVEINIT. RECENTLYIT OCCURREDTOME THAT EVERYTHINGI WRITE HAS TODOWITH HUMANMORTALITY.

RANDOMFACT #12 I AMASUPPORTER OF HUMANRIGHTS ANDANADVOCATE OF EQUALITY.

Make-up, assistance: Anyuta Sidyuk

Photography, digital design: Nicholay Kovalchinskiy

RANDOMFACT #13 ONAFEW OCCASIONS, AFTER ONETOOMANY DRINKS, I CHALLENGEGUYS TO PUSH- UPS. WHAT'S THAT ABOUT?

About theAuthor

Ellie is a lawyer specializing in gender equality and human rights. Aside from her somewhat gainful career, Ellie writes fiction, paints and illustrates, plays with yarn and clay, and keeps her guns in order. Glue guns, of course. She lived, worked, and studied in such countries as Kosovo, Ukraine, Liberia, and the United States. You can reach Ellie on major social media platforms. Follow, subscribe, and review her novel on Amazon and Goodreads.

Blog www.EllieMaloney.WordPress.Com Facebook @EllieMaloneyFiction Twitter @EllieMaloneyFic Instagram @EllieMaloneyFiction Youtube Ellie Maloney - subscribe for free professionally narrated and illustrated stories from me!

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www.JalapenoPublishing.com Editor@JalapenoPublishing.com @JalapenoPublish @JalapenoPublishing