90/365 -- Playlist Story -- inspired by "Beautiful Girl" by William Fitzsimmons

The walls of the room was covered by drawings of horses. Horses in pastures mainly. All riderless, some in colors of pink and purple and pale blue. They all had big eyes and black lashes. They stared out at the man in the white coat. He clicked a retractable pen again and again and again.

He turned to the bed and pressed his hand into the sheets dotted with little roses. The bed was still warm. He moved his hand to the chrome railing, and ran it back and forth, feeling the cold smoothness. He remembered that sensation from when he was a child, confined to a similar bed. It was oddly comforting after all these years.

He sat in the vinyl covered chair next to the bed. It too was still warm. Next to him was a table filled with cards. On their covers were more horses, more expertly depicted. There were also a few showing ill looking cartoon cats or dogs, and couple with pictures of flowers. He wanted to read what they said inside, but refrained, afraid to touch them.

Taped above the head of the bed were photos of her family and assorted classmates. She played soccer once upon a time. She ate pizza at birthday parties. She rode a pony with the most joyous expression he had ever seen. She cuddled with her parents, laughing. He put his hand to his mouth, shaking. He put his hand down, and clicked the pen rapidly.

Across the bed, out the window, a spring breeze blew, swaying tree branches with little green buds. They scraped against the outside wall.

He wondered why he had lied. Why he could not do what he said he would. He stood up, and unbuttoned his coat. He folded it and laid it on the bed. He put the pen on top. He looked at it for a full minute, then turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

89/365 -- Playlist Story -- inspired by "Strict Machine" by Goldfrapp

The end of the whip, the thong of braided leather recoiled back, spraying dots of red into the air. The man with the whip in hand grunted, and stepped back. Sweat beaded on his forehead in the noonday sun. He was no longer a young man, but not yet old. His name was Joshua. He lacked a bride and held a black anger in his heart. He reared his arm back and struck out again.

The anger stretched down the length of the leather and into another man's skin, a man named Adam, ripping open new red stripes. This man was just a man, young and impatient. His bare back showed off his muscles hewn from the hard labor of clearing the land, chopping trees, digging out stumps, plowing without a horse, casting seed, and cutting crops. He pulled on the leather bindings that suspended his hands to the sapling oak on the common. Pain radiated across his back and he drank it in with pleasure. He smiled as the whip recoiled again.

"Two," said the Reverend Jones. He stood a few yards away, with his Bible clasped solemnly to his chest. The wide brim of his black hat obscured his eyes in shadow. His face was long and thin and drawn, clean-shaven but for a light halo of white stubble. He stood in front of the rest of the village inhabitants. They were mostly menfolk, dressed in black and drab gray. The womenfolk were few. Of those that came out to the frontier, many died in the childbed. Only the truly hardy or truly lucky were left, along with their girls of fifteen or younger who were not yet married off. The girls looked towards Adam's body with sadness, admiration, and some degree of fanciful longing.

Joshua reared back again and let the whip loose. The anger crackled along the dried out leather, pushing and pulling out towards the man tied to the tree. The whip landed, and the man soaked it in. There was no pain, since he did not let it be painful. He grinned more broadly.

"Three," said Reverend Jones.

A young woman cried out in the crowd. She was herself bound at the wrists, and held by two burly men, her brothers. Her name was Temperance.

"Again," said Reverend Jones.

Joshua glanced over at the woman. Her face was wet with tears and contorted in pain.

"Again," said Reverend Jones with impatience.

Joshua reared back and let the whip fly. Temperance screamed out. Adam absorbed the pleasure of the lash, but stopped smiling.

"Four," said Reverend Jones.

Joshua stepped back, and wiped his brow. He looked again at the crowd.

"I can't," he said, in a whisper.

"What?" asked Reverend Jones.

"I can't," said Joshua, in a marginally louder voice.

"You can, and you will," said Reverend Jones. Joshua tried to find the Reverend's eyes, but discovered only black. He turned and flung the whip around. It leapt out and only grazed Adam's back.

"That does not count," said the Reverend. "Do it again."

Joshua, let his arm fall limp to his side, the whip de-animated. He turned his head down and started at his muddy buckle shoes. The Reverend Jones took off his black jacket, and unbuttoned his black vest. He rolled up his sleeves, and marched up to Joshua. He grabbed the whip from his hand, and glaring from beneath the veil of shadow cast by the brim of his hat, he pushed Joshua aside. He swung back and curled the whip out with a well-practiced snap.

It wasn't anger that traveled down the length of the whip but a hot desire for order and obedience.  It felt different to Adam. No pain exactly, nothing that could be converted to pleasure so easily. The whip burned with a white heat; it was like a shove, not a punch. He did not smile.

As soon as the whip was back the Reverend lashed out again.

"Five." Snap. "Six." Snap. "Seven..."

The Reverend rapidly counted to twenty. Temperance slipped to the ground, and muddied the front of her gray woolen dress. Her brothers pulled her up, and she turned and buried her face in her younger brother's shoulder. He shoved her off and held the back of her head, forcing her to watch the whipping. Adam's back was raw and dripping with blood. The marks criss-crossed and were already welting up.

Finally the Reverend stood up straight and coiled up the whip, being careful not to touch the bloody end of it. He threw it to Joshua, who caught it next to his chest. The whip left a wide red circle on his shirt.

"Cut him down," said the Reverend. "Put him in the stocks. And tie her to the tree."

"Please, no," pleaded Temperance.

"Do not cry, girl. You're punishment is mild. You will not be whipped. We are fair-minded here."

Her brothers tied her to the tree as she watched Joshua put Adam in the stocks on the other side of the common. They faced one another.

"Two days ought to do it," said the Reverend. "Now everyone back to the harvest."

The crowd slowly dissipated. Some of the girls walked the long way across the common so they could smile at Adam and silently show there admiration of his fortitude in the face of the law. He smiled back at each one of them.

As the day wore on, he watched Temperance crying, slumped down at the base of the tree. He would not be able to speak to her without increasing the punishment for them both. After an hour she stopped, and just looked at the muddy grass around her. His back stung, and now began to ache as he was hunched over, with neck an wrists in the grip of the stocks.

Joshua stood by the door of the church, watching them both for a time. Finally his walked across the common towards Adam. He bent down, laying a hand broadly and heavily across Adam's back.

"Why did you do it?" he asked with a hiss. "You know she is mine!"

"She is not," said Adam. Joshua squeezed the blood-crusty flesh under his hand. Adam winced, but there was the anger again--a quick fix of pleasure.

"We were to be married, and now you've spoiled all that."

"She does not love you."

"That doesn't matter. I love her," said Joshua, transferring his hand to Adam's neck. He pulled up, jamming Adam into the wood of the stock. "I should kill you."

"She would be the woman making your food. Do you really want her to be unhappy with you? If you killed me, then you have set no example for her. She could just as easily kill you."

Joshua let go of Adam's neck, shoving it down, and pressing in on Adam's windpipe. Adam coughed and spat.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he said when he caught his breath. "You should be loved. You should want to be loved."

"There's not a lot of choice," said Joshua. He walked away, careful not to look at Temperance. He went back to work in the field for the rest of the day.

As evening approached, an old man walked towards Adam. It was his father. Hunched over and limping from a stroke from some years previous, he stood by his son for a moment, then patted his head.

"I'm sorry father," said Adam. His father moaned in reply, unable to form words, but it was enough for Adam to understand what he meant. "I will always take care of you."

His father nodded, tears glazing his eyes. He looked over his son's crimson back and choked back a sob.

"I will be all right," said Adam. His father clasped Adam's hand with his good hand. Then he wandered back to their wattle house.

A light cold rain fell that night. The darkness was thick and black and quiet. Temperance whimpered. They both shivered. There was frost on the ground in the morning. Adam watched his breath form clouds in front of him. Before the village was up and outside, one of the village girls carried out a mug of hot tea. She let Adam drink first. He drank a big gulp of the warming liquid, then pleaded with the girl to give the rest to Temperance. She looked a little put out, but set out across the common and knelt beside Temperance. After a moment she unleashed a piercing scream and ran away.

Adam struggled in his bonds. He screamed out her name. The rest of the village stirred and came out of their houses, many of them still in their nightclothes. They untied her body from the tree, and brought it into the church. Adam struggled to see. Many people went to and from the church, but no one told him of her condition. Finally Joshua loped across the common. Wordlessly he unlatched Adam from the stocks.

His back was stiff, but as soon as he was free he ran towards the church. At the entrance he slowed to a stop. All eyes from within looked towards him unblinkingly. He father hobbled towards the doorway, and held out his hand, beckoning Adam in. He did so, and walked slowly down the aisle between the rough wooden pews.

Temperance was laid out in front of the alter, a shroud of linen covering her face. Adam knelt by her head. The Reverend stood by her feet. His hat was off, and steely eyes peered into Adam.

"I only kissed her hand," said Adam, looking down at the outline of her face.

The Reverend tightened his fingers around the spine of his Bible. The others in the church breathed in shallow breaths. Adam reached under the shroud and found her hand. he brought it out, and brought it to his lips.

88/365 -- Playlist Story -- inspired by "Fighter" by Tin Star Orphans

The boy ran down the cobble path barefoot. Blood streamed from this nose, mouth, and ears. A bruise was welling up over an eye. His bare arms were gashed and his clothes were shredded. He feet slapped the cobbles and the sound reverberated dully against the hillocks that path was cut into.

The group of men shouted and yelled behind him, running, slipping and sliding in their shoes on the cobbles slick with dew. They threw rocks towards him. They would pick them up again moments later, where the landed clattering, rearming. One finally hit the boy in the center of the back. He let out a quiet yelp and fell forward, breaking a wrist as he landed. The men caught up to him.

"Coward!" they yelled. "Coward!"

The boy, turned over, clutching his wrist, and spitting blood from his mouth. He tried to get up, but the men encircled him and held him down. The pulled on his feet, and he tried to kick them off, moaning.

"Speak boy, speak!" yelled an older man, his father. The boy moaned and grunted.

"It is not done yet," said a tall man with a long dark beard. "The demon still inhabits him."

The men bound the boy's wrists with rope, and he screamed when they touched his broken wrist. Another set of footsteps clattered down the path.

"Let him go!" yelled a woman, the boy's mother. She pushed through the crowd, her cheeks ruddy, her forehead lined with anger and fear.

"Get back woman!" said the man with the beard. "This is not your concern!"

"He's my son! He damn well is my concern!"

"He is not! This boy's body is possessed by a demon! You have seen how he cannot speak."

"He cannot speak because he cannot hear!"

"And it's because he's an imperfect vessel that the demon was able to slip in and take hold of him!"

"That's just profoundly silly! Get out of my way," she said, reaching towards her son. He reached back to her. She began to tug on his bindings, but the men ripped her away, flailing and screaming. They tossed her to the ground.

"We must protect the village from evil," said the man with the beard, leaning down towards her head. "You are clouded by a mother's love. This demon is deceptive, and we must root it out."

In the distraction, the boy was able to stand, and started running from the crowd once again. The men shouted after him, and started to chase. The boy descended the rest of the path towards the sea. He sunk into the sand dunes that lined the beach. He reached the crashing waves just when the men caught up with him again. The men surrounded him again, their swirling black robes lifted up in the surges of seawater.

The men submerged the boy in the white foam, which washed away the blood from his face. He re-emerged, gasping and spitting water. He blinked hard to clear the salt from his eyes, and he looked up into the eyes of his father, who stood over him, holding his neck.

"Drown it out!" screamed the bearded man. "Drown it out, and if the boy is worthy, he will live and he will speak!"

The father pushed his son's head back into the water. The boy writhed and kicked furiously.

"It is coming out! The demon is trying to escape it's mortal bondage. Hold it down! Keep it down!" yelled the bearded man triumphantly.

One of the men knelt into the boy's torso, pressing him against the sandy bottom, cracking ribs. Another stood on his legs. The father pressed his hands against the boy's face. After a few minutes, the boy went limp.

The waves crashed and crashed, as dawn slowly broke. Then men continued to hold the body underwater, watching his form distorted by the roiling water.

"Enough," said the father, looking towards the bearded man, who nodded. The men let go of the body. The boy floated up, just under the surface. Blood seeped into the water in ribbons from his nose and mouth.

"We are free of the demon," said the bearded man solemnly.

"What of the boy?" asked the father.

"It is...unfortunate," said the bearded man.

"But you said the boy would be able to speak once the demon left him!" yelled the father. His eyes searched the face of the bearded man, who remained impassive. The father looked to the face of his son. The dead eyes looked back.

"The demon chose to kill its host. I am sorry."

The father stepped back from the group, his mouth dropped agape.

"You're not sorry," whispered the father. He stumbled backward. "What have I done?" he said to himself. He slumped into the cold water, and let the waves carry him up and down, his knees bumping against the sea bottom.

The bearded man turned his back to the sea and waded back to the beach and towards the path. He stood and wrung out his robes, making a note to have his wife launder out the salt, as the sun broke over the horizon, bathing them all in golden light.

87/365 -- Playlist Story -- inspired by "Citizen" by Broken Bells

Aaron swayed towards the railing, dizzy. His legs pricked and felt heavy. His heart struggled in the center of his chest. He pulled the oxygen tank up a step with a wobbly hand. He took another step up. He pulled on the tank. Sweat broke in beads across his forehead. Pain shot through his arms and he cried out, but there was no one left in the house but him.

Through teary eyes he looked up the remainder of the flight of steps from the garage to the living room. There were seven carpeted steps. Seven steps that he would have leapt down in his youth. Seven steps that he took in two when he would run to answer the ringing phone just thirty years ago. Seven steps that he would carefully carry laden bags of shopping up for his wife. But she was dead now, and there was just him. The seven steps stretched themselves upward, pulling on the dimension of space itself, with each step an infinite, insurmountable distance away.

He leaned down, and put his hands on the steps. The oxygen tank fell backwards behind him, pulling the plastic tubing off his face, and marking the loose skin on his neck angry pink. He put his cheek to the carpet, and realized it had long been in need of a vacuuming. He cried.

"Don't cry," said a woman's voice. It came from the top of the stairs. Aaron struggled to lift his head. A translucent woman floated above the top step.

"Wha?"

"Don't cry," she repeated, with great kindness.

"Am I dying?" asked Aaron.

"Yes," she said smiling.

"Are you here to take me to heaven?"

"What? No, of course not," said the woman.

"I'm not? I'm--I'm going to hell?" Aaron felt a surge of panic.

"No, no," said the woman. "You humans sure have some funny ideas about death."

"What?"

"Heaven and hell, reincarnation, ghosts, etcetera. Honestly, I don't know where you've all come up with it." She smiled angelically.

"I don't understand. Who are you? Why are you here?"

"I'm here to harvest you," she said, floating towards Aaron with outstretched arms.

"Harvest me?" Aaron pressed his back towards the wall with the railing. He tried to reach for the railing but could not get a grip.

"You have nothing to fear. It does not hurt in the least," she said, touching his face with warmth, with half-there fingers. A sense of comfort radiated from her touch.

"But, will I be with my wife again?"

"No, but you won't mind that you aren't."

"I won't?"

"No. Now just close your eyes," she said, searching his face with her own eyes.

"I--I--"

"What's wrong?"

"This can't be," said Aaron. "Do I just...fade away? Is that what happens?"

"Is that what you would like to happen?" asked the woman.

"No. I don't know. I did not expect this."

"No one ever seems to. Not humans anyway."

"What happens when you...harvest me? What does that mean?"

"It means I retain your experiences. The experiences of corporeal beings is what sustains me."

"What are you?"

"A different type of being?"

"You mean, like a spirit?" asked Aaron. The woman laughed gently.

"In that I am non-corporeal, then yes. But the common human definition breaks down there. Humans that have passed down that information have seen glimpses of me, out of the corners of their eyes usually. They attribute many things to me, that I have not done."

Aaron thought for a moment, while the woman waited patiently for him.

"Are there others like you?" he finally asked.

"Not yet," said the woman, shimmering.

"Are you--"

"No. I did not create what you call the universe either. We are both merely inhabitants."

"Oh," said Aaron. "I thought maybe..."

"No," said the woman, looking a little sad.

"And when you harvest me, do I still exist consciously?"

"No. Will you close your eyes?"

"What if I refuse? Will that prevent you from harvesting me?"

"No, it's just a more pleasant experience for you if you don't watch," she smiled again, then her mouth opened to reveal a tongue that glowed bright red. It stretched out of her mouth towards Aaron's forehead. He tried to back away, but she grabbed his neck with both hands. Aaron screamed. The tongue split in two as the woman's eye sockets turned deep black. The two edges of her tongue wrapped around his head and he became frozen, unable to move, unable to feel. Her body faded away, except for the two black spots that were her eyes. The stairwell faded, replaced by a field of stars. Ahead was a bright pulsing start. The black spots started to orbit it, as big as stars themselves now. He felt himself pulled towards the star, in a strong wash of vertigo--the only thing he could feel.

He tried to speak but could not. The star pulsed faster and faster. It started to spit out hot white material from its poles. It wobbled, and the black spots fell into the star, absorbed in great arcs of blue plasma.  Then the star exploded, shedding a sheath of diaphanous white glow. He felt himself fading as the glow reached him, impossibly fast. He struggled not to slip from consciousness. He traced out the lines of his wife's face in his mind. He recited boring poetry he had to memorize as a child. He counted by primes. He recalled the each of the items in each of the rooms of his house. He thought of the seven steps he couldn't climb. He forced the steps to the very front of his mind. He saw the railing and the dirty paint of the stairwell, the grit in the carpet and each polyester shaft that held it. He saw the ember white core of the exploded star, floating six inches from the step above him. He felt stronger.

He forced sensation into his hand, and reached towards the ember, now just an inch in diameter. It vibrated before his hand. Somehow he knew it trembled with fear. He surrounded the ember with his hand, and pressed his fingers closed upon it. A flood of images and sounds and sensations invaded his mind. The experiences of trillions of beings, from Earth and otherwise, from bacteria to beings vastly more sentient than humans, were laid out in front of him, like the surface of a roiling sea.

His body prickled. He looked down, and saw his form transparent, floating above the surface. He moved across it. He saw beings on worlds of dust and sand, worlds of ice, worlds of water, worlds of verdant green and shocking pink. He saw stars in their infinite multitude, black holes eating up the centers of galaxies, and great ships traversing the voids between them.

He dove in, and listened. Then he heard it. He heard the voice of his wife. He swam towards her, and her voice grew louder inside his head. He found her experiences, and held them in his hands. He let her voice pull him inside her life as she lived. He experienced everything she ever did. He felt every pain and every joy. He saw the beginning of her contiguous consciousness, when she was just a few months old, all the way to the end of it, when she laid in a hospital bed, enrobed in scratchy cold sheets.

"Don't worry," he said.

"Aaron," she said, smiling weakly.

"Am I going to heaven?"

"No, but we will be together always."

"That's the same thing to me," she said.

"Close your eyes now," said Aaron, and he reached out towards her forehead.

86/365 -- Playlist Story -- inspired by "O" by Fischerspooner

Wicket lay belly up in the fresh cut grass in the back corner of the lawn. She basked in fat morning rays and watched insects float above her. She snapped at them, occasionally and lazily. Her eyelids began to droop when the meter reader came by.

Her lids remained low but her ears fell forward. The gate clicked. The reader walked across the cement path to the house. He hummed and clicked a pen. Plastic was unholstered from a leather belt. Tapping of keys. A digital beep. More shuffling of leather against plastic. Footsteps across cement. The gate opened. The reader left. The gate swung closed, creaking. No click. No click!

Wicket sat up and sneezed. She peered across the lawn at the gate. It was hard to tell. She stood and slunk forward a few steps, then adopted a nonchalant trot. She sidled up to the fence and followed it to the gate. She looked at the back door to the house. Silent within. She looked up at the gate latch--it was not resting in its trough. No click! No click!

She shoved her nose between the gate and the fence and pulled on the gate. It swung open a few inches, reluctantly. Wicket shoved her head through, her wooly white hair catching on the dehydrated wood. She pushed through and broke into an instant run.

Wicket bolted up the driveway, pelting gravel out behind her. Her feet found sidewalk and she turned abruptly, resisting a centripetal urge to topple. She zoomed down the block, racing over slabs of cement and lines of weedy grass. Her back feet stretched up between her front feet, propulsed down and back and out. She leapt from the curb onto asphalt, and crossed in three arches of her back.

More blocks passed beneath Wicket's paws--she accelerated steadily. Houses blurred by. Cars passed within inches of her lithe wooly mass. Air and smells shoved themselves up her nostrils and into her brain--a heady stimulus that made her eyes water.

Wicket passed into the forest. The air was darker, thick, cooler. Pinier. The musks of animals curled up into her nose. Her eyes grew big, engorged with joy. The trees and leaves, and snuffly ground litter fused as her mass grew heavier. Her hair straightened and slicked itself back; she was an aerodynamic bullet. Her feet left the earth as she shot through air, no longer needed to push her forward.

Wicket rose into the sky, effortlessly escaping gravity. She pushed the atmosphere into great circular waves that crashed and boomed on the eardrums of the living things left behind. She aimed for the warmth of the sun.

In a minute she passed by the moon, arcing ever so slightly towards it. She was a ribbon of white light, with two dark brown stripes for eyes; her delicate nose dotted the lead of the ribbon. She breathed in the vacuum silence. The light from the sun became scent--it was every food, every plant, every being, all at once.

As Wicket's mass became infinite, she exploded into weightless particles, and passed through the barrier of time. She was everywhere, everywhen. Utter pleasure. All senses satisfied.

85/365 -- Playlist Story -- inspired by "Solar Sailer" by Daft Punk from the TRON: Legacy soundtrack

"Is it time yet?" asked Daria. She looked at her father and mother, huddled in the crowd of drawn faces, pores filled with dust. The dust was everywhere, even inside the airlocks. There was not enough water to wash it away. Her mother listened carefully to the transmission from the approaching ship.

"It's just landing now," she replied quietly.

"We need to be ready to go as soon as the doors open," said her father. "Don't let go of my hand, okay?"

"I'm scared," said Daria.

"It'll be all right," said her mother. "We just need to keep together."

"What if there isn't space for us?"

"We'll have to push," said her father.

"I know, but it's just not right," said her mother, looking down.

"Why didn't they send enough ships?" asked Daria.

"They could only afford to build so many," said her mother.

"I don't understand," whispered Daria. "They had enough people, and materials, why did money matter? This is Earth."

"Money always matters," said her father. "Money always means more than the lives of people. That's the way it's always been. That's the way it'll always be."

"Don't say that," said her mother.

"It's true. I'm not going to let my daughter grow up with false ideas about the world."

"It's not true in all cases, that's all," said her mother. Suddenly she clutched her husbands shoulder, an put her finger to her ear. "Now," she mouthed.

Slowly, all three got up. Daria adjusted her backpack as nonchalantly as she could. Few of the dusty faces looked towards them. They picked their way through the crowd. They weren't far from the entrance to the tunnel, but they didn't want to chance it. They were about ten feet from the airlock when the official announcement sounded.

Please prepare to board evacuation flight 9604. Please prepare to board evacuation flight 9604...

It continued in a loop, as everyone in the tunnel rose. There was lot of excited talking, then pushing. The crowd condensed towards the airlock.

"Hold on," said Daria's father. Her mother and father held each of her arms as they were compressed against the other people.

The unlock light turned on above the airlock door. Daria wrenched an arm up to adjust her bandana around her mouth and pull down her goggles. She zipped up the collar of her coolvest, and turned it up to the highest setting.

The door hissed, and a cloud of dust surged inward. It was followed with a blast of heat. The door slowly creaked outward into the maelstrom. The crowd pushed on their backs with urgent hands and fingers. They were carried forward. As the opening widened, the hot storm blew inward, carrying dust and thick steaming moisture. The people at the front slipped out, running. Daria and her parents weren't far behind. The heat seared at their faces. They surged through the opening, and into an orange twilight.

The ship loomed like a dark mass, many yards ahead. Those in front of them were sprinting towards it, their clothes flapping in the strong wind. They were consumed by swirls of dust, only to reappear seconds later.

"Run!" screamed her father. They ran. The wind was constantly changing directions. It resisted them from the front, then assisted them from the back. Daria's mother lost her balance, but Daria was able to pull her up. It was enough of a pause that the bulk of the crowd caught up to them. They were buffeted by bodies as well as the wind.

Daria lost her grip on her mother. She pulled out of her father's grip to find her. She looked back into the sea of people, but they all looked the same.

"Mom! Mom! Where are you?" her words were lost on the wind.

"Daria?!" screamed her father from somewhere ahead.

"Dad?!"

"Keep running Daria! Run to the ship! Just run!"

"Dad!" cried Daria.

"RUN!" he screamed. She could not see him, but she ran forward. The dark mass became bigger, then she saw lights. The crowd bunched up--there was a staircase. People where crawling over each other to climb up the few stories to the body of the ship. Daria looked up into the opening as she joined the crowd. A blue light streamed down through the dust. Inside was the promise of life. Water. Food. Cleanness. A future. It encouraged her to push forward, pushing past strangers and old friends alike. She hungered for that future, to be lived up there somewhere. A life lived entirely in a journey she would never complete. A journey where she was a link between the past on the dying Earth, and future for humanity somewhere unknown. She pushed forward and further. Brief bursts of cool air caressed her face. She pushed through to the top of the staircase, just as it was lifting off the surface of the Earth for the last time. She was pulled inward by someone in blue uniform.

Daria looked back and saw people clinging to the staircase. They were falling off, hitting the ground in unmoving broken heaps. She caught the face of her father as he fell backward off the staircase, before she herself was thrown to the floor in a surge of people falling forward as the staircase angled upward.

"Keep moving!" someone in a uniform yelled at her. She stumbled forward. The deck was crowded with panting, sweating people. She saw no one she knew. She was pushed and herded towards a rope line. Someone hung a lanyard around her neck with a pink card and the number 433. She was pushed into another line, where people were being given new clothes. She accepted hers, then was forced to strip in view of everyone. Her old clothes and backpack with all her belongings were shoved down a chute to be incinerated. She rushed to don her new clothes, a flimsy white uniform. She was told where her quarters were, and given a thin piece of digital paper that mapped out how to get their with a blinking trail. She arrived to find a bunk room with twenty cots, in stacks of four. There was a window.

Daria shuffled to the window. They were beginning to ascend. Through the dust she saw the top of the underground housing complex where she had grown up--the solar panels and the water collection unit. She saw the remains of the crowd. Somewhere in there were her parents. Eventually they would find out that she made it on board. Tears streamed down her face in muddy little rivulets, as she touched the window with the tips of her fingers. Then the floor pushed up on her legs. She wobbled and fell, as the last ship sped from the Earth.

84/365 -- Playlist Story -- inspired by "Almost Home" by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross from The Social Network soundtrack

A young girl, about seven, sat down on the curb in front of her house, which looked out across a large verdant park. Her bob of blonde hair was unkempt from a day of outdoor activity. Her freckled face was stained with dried popsicle juice. Dirt lined her fingernails and dusted her knees. She chewed pensively on gum that had long lost it's flavor.

It was evening, in summer, and neighbor kids played in the park, their movements dancing in the golden light. Bugs floated lazily through the air, yellow wisps of fleeting life. She peered across the road, examining every move, every howl of delight. Her chest burned with anger. Their rebuffs and laughter at her still rang in her head. She closed her eyes tightly and smiled.

The girl raised her hands slowly, then clenched her fingers into fists. She shot up standing, straining to punch her hands into the air. With each punch, across the road, grass erupted, soil exploded. The children screamed. Out of the earth crawled creatures of clumped dirt. They clawed forth into the evening, with heavyset shoulders, and sloped heads. They silently opened maws, and ran after children with the gait and pace of professional football players. Their large hands scraped and scooped up the children, and shoved them into their mouths.

When all the children were chewed against teeth of rock, and consumed, and lifeless, the creatures fell still, then toppled over into heaps of dirt and grass and stone. The girl sighed, then smiled. She spat out her gum and went up the walk to her front door. She glanced back one more time before entering. The park was unmolested, the children screamed and played, and the bugs floated. The girl looked down at her hands, disappointed.