The Chief of the village told the people stories every night while gathered around the fire. A mysterious illness had broken out among the villagers and many friends were passing away in the night. Without a cure the Chief hoped to ease the villager’s minds with hope from cheerful stories. This night he shared the story of a mysterious island continuously wreathed in clouds.
     “When I was young, just a boy like many of you, my father’s father, who was chief at that time, told our village the story of a mysterious island to the west. He called the island Skýeyjan, which means Cloud Island in our tongue. It is said this island is a large mountain and is always encircled in clouds so no one sees the top. This in itself is a miracle, and it is said, if one climbed to the top of the mountain they could touch the moon.” The Chief continued the story of how his grandfather had first found the island and brought back the mystery to share with his village.
     There was silence as the story ended. All on this island believe the moon is a man named Máni, and his brother, the sun, is called Sól. Andsvarr, a young man, whose mother and father had recently died approached the Chief and shyly asked, “Is the story true?”
     The Chief had a kind heart and cared for his people. He knew this child hurt. He said, “Many would believe it’s just a story. Certainly my father considered it a myth, or the crazy ramblings of his father. I however think anything is possible. Isn’t it better to be happy believing anything is possible, than bitter thinking nothing is?”
     The boy smiled. It was nice to have someone share the same sentiment he carried in his heart. He asked, “Do you believe Máni lives at the top?”
     “We have many beliefs on this island, and I believe they are all true. Máni lives, and it’s just as likely he lives at the top of that mountain as anywhere else,” the Chief said. The boy thanked the Chief and left for his family home, now empty.
     Andsvarr’s father had fished each day providing for his family, and he often joined his father, learning the ways of fishing and the sea. For a boy of only 13, many of the villagers considered him more adept on the sea than his father had been. As Andsvarr approached his house he saw the large fishing boat moored behind it and a plan began to form. Perhaps he could sail to the island in the story and ask Máni for help. Since the villagers died at night, surely Máni must know why.
     Andsvarr decided he would leave the island tomorrow, find the fabled island, and ask Máni for help. He packed food, clothes, and maps, everything he would need to sail across the sea. At dawn’s first light he climbed into the boat and slipped out to sea. The water stayed calm for the first day, but late in the night the waves grew and crashed over the small fishing vessel. Andsvarr held on to his bunk as the boat swayed back and forth at the mercy of the sea. He closed his eyes and prayed through the night.
     He must have fallen asleep at some point because he awoke the next morning to the sound of his boat scraping against rock. He rose above deck and saw a short, rocky beach that rose steeply into a mountain. As his head continued to rise he saw clouds encircling the mountain in an otherwise clear sky. His heart beat faster and a smile stole across his face. He had found Skýeyjan.
     Andsvarr tied off his boat and started to climb the cliffs. Finally he would find the truth. In the foothills the climbing was easy. He kept his pack securely on his back as he walked, slowly rising higher. Doubt clouded his mind as he travelled. Perhaps he had been foolish to come on this journey. Certainly he had been foolish to not tell anyone he was leaving. What if he fell while climbing the mountain? Would anyone find him, or would his body turn to carrion or be carried off into the ocean? He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts. It certainly did no good wondering such things now.
     His ascent gradually grew more difficult. What had started as a brisk walk on the beach had turned into scrabbling over boulders. As Andsvarr looked ahead he saw the true challenge. About 300 feet ahead the earth rose sharply creating a sheer rock face that disappeared into the clouds. The clouds had once held such promise and optimism for Andsvarr, now they only represented danger and fear.
     Andsvarr made camp at the base of the steep ascent. The sun had passed overhead a few hours ago and now set on the far side of the mountain. “If Máni lived atop this mountain he would be arriving home soon,” Andsvarr thought. Stars slowly appeared and Andsvarr occupied his mind identifying constellations. He quickly fell asleep hopeful and anxious for the next day.
That night Andsvarr dreamed. He dreamt of the moon and his village. When he awoke the next morning he remembered nothing of the dream except the renewed sense of purpose and optimism he felt.
     Andsvarr pulled the rope from his pack and began the slow climb up the last of the mountain. Within a few minutes he had entered the clouds surrounding the peak. Inside the clouds the air grew heavy and thick, and Andsvarr felt he might faint. He climbed slower and slower, hands and feet growing unbearably heavy. The last dozen feet took him several hours to traverse. The moon had just risen when Andsvarr’s hand found grass instead of rock. With the last of his energy he lifted himself onto a plateau; Andsvarr had reached the peak.
     He collapsed on the ground exhausted from the climb. He slept for a short time but this high up the air was too cold to sleep comfortably. Andsvarr woke later in the night and slowly rose to his feet, surveying his surroundings. It was perfectly clear on top of Skýeyjan, though he could not see through the clouds to the horizon.
     Andsvarr walked the perimeter of the peak growing less hopeful with each step. At the beginning of the journey he had hoped to find a temple or home atop the mountain. Now he just hoped to find an easier way down. When he arrived back at his starting place Andsvarr sat on the edge of the landing letting his feet dangle off. He didn’t hear the man approaching behind him.
     “Hello Andsvarr, welcome to my home. It has been so long since I had visitors, at least two generations. I am delighted to meet you.”
     Andsvarr turned to see a young man, just a few years older than himself, and stared. “Could this be Máni?” Andsvarr wondered.
     The man reached out his hand and asked, “Would you come with me? I still have much sky to cover this night, and I would love your company. This job gets so lonely. We could talk on the way.”
     Andsvarr reached out taking the man’s hand, and they instantly flew into the night sky.

​     The flashing green alert woke me from my sleep just after 4:00 A.M.. I rolled over to see my wife’s status flashing green with a smiling face, representing happiness; she must be having a good dream I thought. I still couldn’t get used to these StatusBubble(TM) displays.
     In the mid-21st century the largest social media companies had merged, forming a mega corporation. A few months later they unveiled the newest technology in social media, real-time status displays.
     No longer did a person have to “tweet” or update their status. Instead a small microchip read brain signals and shared what the person was thinking and feeling through a holographic display just above their heads. It also had the capabilities to upload moments seen through the eyes as pictures and videos, as well as a host of other features. Some people smarter than myself had even figured out how to hack into the devices and make them do just about anything.
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     As the 21st century continued, more and more people shared every facet of their lives online. These websites had started as a means for communicating with friends and had slowly evolved into something sinister. It wasn’t uncommon for people in 2015 to sit in groups of 10 or more not speaking to one another, but texting, tweeting, Instagramming, and Snapchatting. Some psychologists, and most parents, feared the generation brought up with these tools would lose the ability to communicate face-to-face.
     And so it was 15 years later. There were no secrets anymore. A person could look at anyone’s status around them and know exactly what they were thinking and feeling. One of the unforeseen consequences was the elimination of crime. Everyone knew what you were planning all the time, making it difficult to kill or rob. These status bubbles also eliminated the need or ability to lie. It has always been known 90% of communication is non-verbal; but now that the non-verbal was projected wherever we went, everyone was forced to tell the truth.
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     I was one of the few who opted out of the installation when it was offered free in the late 2030s. I had never been one to voluntarily broadcast my every thought and action to the world, and certainly didn’t want a machine doing it for me now. People like me were called Harkbackers, because we yearned for a time before this constant broadcasting of thoughts and emotions.
     I enjoyed being out of the mainstream. I didn’t want to be defiant, but had never been one to follow trends. Because of this, the news that evening sent a chill down my spine. The President announced he had signed into law a rule stipulating all American citizens were required to have a StatusBubble(TM) device installed. He believed it would be the death knell for all crimes and he looked forward to a country where everyone could live without fear. Just as I rolled over to go back to sleep I heard a banging on the door. I knew what this was and I slowly rose and dressed, resigning myself to my fate.
     By this time tomorrow I would be one of the masses. 

     The young girl cried over a coffin as it slowly lowered into the ground. Her siblings spread out around her, three boys and two girls. After a short illness their mother had expired at the age of 34. Now they were officially orphans destined for the poor house, indentured servitude, or living on the street; none were sure which the ideal outcome was.
     The Vicar finished his homily, sprinkling dirt on top of the grave. The grave diggers would finish filling the hole later. With tears streaming down her face, the youngest daughter, Elizabeth, ran from the spectacle. In just 8 years of living she had lost her father, two siblings, and her mother. The rain soaked her wool dress as she continued running. She knew what was coming. A girl her age would be sold to a family as a maid, and she would stay there until she died.
     As she ran, the rain lifted and her surroundings became unfamiliar. She had spent too much time in the graveyard beyond the city, meant for those not wealthy enough to be interred inside London’s walls. As her journey continued, fiddling reached her ears. It was a lively tune, a reel she guessed; meant for dancing and celebrating. The joyful music met her aching heart with resentment. She fell to her knees and wept.  
     Through eyes blurry with tears she watched a stranger approach. He held a fiddle, though it no longer sang.
     “I’m sorry to interrupt your misery, but why are you crying?” the man asked. His eyes were kind, and his bushy eyebrows made Elizabeth smile for a moment.
     “My mother just died. And my father is dead. And my brother and sister are dead. Without parents I’ll be sold to a family as their servant.” The words poured out of the young girl. She hadn’t realized she needed another person to share her sadness, but now she felt lighter. Perhaps it was good to share bad things with others, as well as good things. “Would you play me a song? I heard you play a reel earlier. It was nice.”
     “It was nice, wasn’t it,” he mused to himself. He now spoke directly to Elizabeth, “Would you believe it wasn’t a reel, but a lament? My family believes everything should be a celebration, even death.”
     “That seems funny,” Elizabeth said, “How can death be a good thing?”
     The man brought the fiddle into position and began to play another song. “Those that pass away never leave us forever. They have left a mark on you and your life forever. I’m sure if you look closely you can see your mother everywhere.” The music grew louder, more insistent, like it was urging Elizabeth to act. “Would you like to come with me? I could bring you and your family together again.”
     Elizabeth felt herself rising from her knees. She stepped toward the man and reached out her hand. The song stopped abruptly as he reached for her. Their hands met and Elizabeth instantly felt safe.
     “What is your name?” Elizabeth asked.
     “My name,” the man said, “is Patrick Sullivan.”
      Elizabeth’s eyes widened, “that’s my Uncle’s name. Are you Rose Sullivan’s brother?”
     “Of course I am!” the man nearly shouted, excited at her realization. “I recognized you instantly, though I’m sure you don’t recognize me. It’s been many years since we saw each other, you were still a baby.”
     Squeezing Patrick’s hand and smiling, Elizabeth said, “I’d be delighted to come with you.”
                

     “Looks like rain,” James Ronson IV said, “you better take this umbrella just in case. Ronson’s Umbrella Stand had stood on Basendorf Beach since the early 1920’s when James Ronson I, an expatriate from Cardiff, moved to California. He had hopes of becoming an actor, but didn’t have “what it takes” according to the directors of the time. He opened an umbrella shop as a way to survive.
     “How do you know it will rain?” asked the customer.
     “I’ve spent every day in this shop since I was 5, learning how to run this business. Staring at the horizon every day, one starts to learn the ways of the weather,” James responded, mysteriously. James IV was not like his father or grandfathers. Where they considered the bottom line and keeping the business afloat, he used it as a means of meeting new people and contemplating the world.
     Each generation had added to the original business. James Ronson II started selling kites alongside the umbrellas. James Ronson III added swimwear, surfboards, and snacks. James Ronson IV, much to his family’s disappointment, had added nothing. This didn’t matter to James though. He sold enough merchandise to keep the business running, and didn’t have the stress of worrying every minute of every day like this father.
     He did have one worry though, he was getting older. James IV was approaching 30 quickly and still didn’t have a family of his own. He often wondered if he was meant to have a wife and children. Certainly his job wasn’t glamorous, and his tendency to stare off into the distance for hours wasn’t appealing to everyone, but mustn’t there be someone out there for him?
     The customer left the shop with his free umbrella, and a few minutes later light rain began to fall. James smiled to himself, happy to have helped a wayward traveler, imagining the man opening it just in time to protect his wife from the rain. He had just stepped into the back room to grab money to pay for the umbrella when the bell over the door rang. James popped his head out from the curtain blocking the back room from the store and was greeted by the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. James had always believed in love at first sight, unlike the rest of his family, and he knew at once he was in love.
     “Hello, welcome to Ronson’s Umbrella Stand. My name is James Ronson, is there anything I can help you with?” James asked, smiling.
     “Hello Mr. Ronson, my name is Amelia. There is something you can help me with actually. I hope this doesn’t sound strange, but I saw you through the window earlier and you haven’t left my mind since. I hope I’m not being too forward, but would you be interested in getting lunch next door?” Amelia asked quickly, almost all in one breath.
     James smiled, picking up his wallet and keys. He walked toward Amelia extending his arm. “I would be absolutely delighted Amelia,” he said as they walked out of the shop together.

     ​The battle had been raging for months. Each side’s forces were exhausted. Early during the war there was ground to be won. Each side moving closer to their goal. Now it was a fight of inches, not feet. What began as a free-for-all had been reduced to sitting and waiting, hoping the politics and gossip would lead each side to victory.  
     The king of gossip was Jensen. He was in the boss’ office now spreading lies about Jared’s sales performance. Jensen and Jared had been vying for the corner office for months now. Both believed they should be offered the office, and the position it came with. In typical office fashion however, they had been pitted against one another for the betterment of the company, and the detriment of themselves.
     Jared and Jensen were friends once, before the war tore them apart. Jared had been the one to get Jensen the job in sales three years ago. They had helped each other along the way, sharing leads to ensure each other’s numbers stayed exemplary. When their boss retired though, and it was announced one of the sales team would take his job, the friendship ended. Now each spent their time sabotaging the other’s sales calls, sharing false leads, Jensen even siphoned the gas out of Jared’s car one night so he’d be late for work the next day.
     The fighting had grown so disruptive that the temporary boss called both into his office and said the shenanigans had to stop. So now the fight was about subterfuge, undermining each other’s credibility in the hopes one would finally be given the promotion. It appeared that day may have finally come.
An email came through from the boss addressed to Jared and Jensen asking Jensen to meet at 8:00 the next morning, and Jared at 8:30. Each side was exhausted and secretly hoped someone would get the promotion so the fighting could stop.
     The next morning Jensen arrived to the office early so he could pick up the boss’ usual breakfast as a bribe. Jensen walked into the office right at 8:00, bagel and coffee in hand, and sat down across the desk from the man who held the future in his hands. “Jensen, I’m not one for small talk, so let me just say, I have impressed by you the past few months. It takes a real talent to be so destructive of one’s co-workers without raising any suspicion. That’s what it takes to make it in this business.”
     “Thank you sir,” Jensen said, “does that mean what I think it means?”
     “I believe it does. I’d like to offer you the position of Vice President of Regional Sales. As I’m sure you know, that position comes with the corner office,” the boss said with a grin.
     “Thank you sir,” Jensen said, keeping his excitement in check, “I’ll begin moving my things in immediately.” Jensen left the office and headed back to begin packing his desk. He looked at the peace lily Jared had given him on his first day of work, and saw Jared sitting down at his desk. Without a word, Jensen lifted the peace lily and, walking right by Jared’s desk, he went straight to his new corner office. Locking eyes with Jared, he dropped the plant in the nearest trash can then slowly closed the door. 

     “I’m sorry sir, but you can’t check out any more books until you’ve paid the damaged book charge. I understand you say you didn’t damage it, but you were the last one to check the book out, and it came back without a cover.”
     The man in front of me looked disheveled and flustered. His fraying coat hung loose across his shoulders, and he was stuttering out a reply.
     “I-I-I can’t a-a-ford th-thirty dollars to r-r-replace the b-book. I swear I d-d-didn’t hurt th-the book.” His shame of being accused of hurting something as precious as a book was obvious.
     Everyone in the library knew this man. His name was Wendell Hanks and he lived down the street from the library in a tent on the grounds of an old elementary school. He had been fired from his job in telemarketing when he developed a stutter as a result of a car accident. The doctors told him they didn’t discover the brain lesion until too late and he would have a stutter for the rest of his life.
     His wife left him a few months later saying she couldn’t be married to someone unemployed and with so many disabilities. At the time it was harsh, but Wendell knew she was right. She got the house in the divorce, and with no means of support he ended up living on the street. The library was his last bastion against the world. He used books as an escape from his life.
     “For the last time Mr. Hanks, unless you pay the fee I can’t let you check these books out. There are patrons waiting behind you, so can you please step aside and let me help them?” The librarian said. She was new here, and didn’t know Wendell. Her dismissal hurt him deeply. A tear begin to build in the corner of his eye, and with a long breath and head hanging, he left the books and began to walk outside.
     “Wendell wait,” I called, “what’s the problem?”
     “They s-s-say I destroyed a-a-a book. I would n-n-never do th-that,” Wendell replied.
     I stared at the librarian as I said, “I know you wouldn’t. I don’t think anyone here likes books more than you, not even the librarians.” Wendell’s face lit up with relief that someone believed him. I pulled out my wallet and slid the librarian my credit card. “Please put whatever charges you say Wendell accrued on that. No one should be denied the joy of a library, especially someone who needs it as badly as Wendell.”
     The librarian ran the credit card, and after a couple minutes typing on the keyboard Wendell’s account had been cleared and he was on his way with his books. He turned to me and said with a genuine smile, “Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means to me.”