“Look how far we’ve come.”

The cliche words are said, whilst I wildly waving and pointing with my free hand at the curved, smooth walls of the tunnel. In the other hand, I swing back and forth the child in between us, the voice of laughter following from the both of them breaking the silence. The metallic walls are untainted, clean and tidy and an intense contrast against the garish sights we had to witness back in our homeworld, the one we’re leaving now. That thought passes and dredges up more, which lulls me to look over my shoulder, past my partner to behind us; the glimpse I got of his face told of joy unburdened. When I peer down, farther down the illuminated hall, I can’t help but continue to recall things, not in reverence but instead sorrow; the memories were mine alone and mine to keep, the idea of owning something seemed beyond me, so I clung on despite the thorns. I look forward again and in passing, see my partner’s face, a warm stare confirming that he had done, and was the opposite.

Before my mind continues to wander and my eyes go to a glaze, he lulls me back to the present moment with a brush of a hand. I immediately try to mimic the same expression he has, the hopeful one, and as he watches me do, so he smiles in return. That smile he has, wide, grinning, a tad naive, it makes the expression I’m mimicking genuine.

“We sure have.”

In this giant room, encased behind the back-lit memorials of the walls, are the minds of the greatest people to walk this planet.

When people visit this “museum” of sorts, they can, for a nominal price, select any of the minds to tap into and watch the memories of that person play out, like a live-action movie.

They get a front-row view of it all: What these people saw, how they experienced it, their thoughts as they went through these memories, how they reasoned through these events and used them to create or accomplish whatever great feat they are known for.

The price to enter the museum and simply be in the presence of these memories is steep; to access just one memory collection is an additional fee, and the fee increases depending on which person’s memory the visitor wants to access.

The further back into the museum the visitor travels, the more expensive the memories.

Two struggling parents decide, from the moment they find out they are expecting, to save as much money as they can so they can take their child to this museum.

The dad decides to place their savings in the market, and when the stock booms, he pulls out and they have just enough to access the museum and one of the elite memories of their choosing.

They decide to do this for their child so that their child may internalize the mindset, the thoughts, the experiences of the great person, so that child may in turn be great themselves.

This will allow the child to break generations of poverty and bad luck.

But, the mind they access has some shocking surprises.

And the family finds out, that not every great person is innocent.

And that the world is much, much smaller than it appears.

Do they end up inadvertently causing more harm than good to their child, and to themselves, by living these “memories”?

as i take my last breath in the hospital bed where i’ve grown weaker and weaker. i succumb to the light.

white light surrounds me leaving me peaceful, painless and full of love.

i feel the presence of both my mother and father who have both passed. feeling like the most pure childlike version of myself, i grasp their hands.

they feel so real. tears form in my eyes. i’ve missed them so much.

“welcome home son” my mother whispers before kissing me on the forehead ever so softly.

A mother and loving wife passes away and wakes up in a tunnel. Many people quickly run into the tunnel and eventually she is there alone. She knows what’s beyond it, but doesn’t go in. Not yet. After 7 years, a man appears. They take a moment of silence before sharing a warm embrace. Afterwards, they glance at the light, and then at each other, before sitting down on the ground. The man knows what’s beyond it, but doesn’t go in. Not yet. It only took a month before a young child appeared before the couple. They look at the child and hold them in their arms. Once they all felt ready, the mother, the father, and the child all walk to the light, to the afterlife.

My mother and father are leading me I don’t know where I keep following, wanting to be a good son I shouldn’t have As we walk fast, almost as if we have to I see my mother crying I ask her what’s wrong, I want to be kind She tells me not to worry As we get to a train track, when a train is about to come by My father says, “for the cult!” He grabs our hand, and makes us all jump in front of the train. I survived.

Her hand, small and bloody, clings to mine like I’m the last solid thing in this universe.

“Papa?” She asks as we near the end of the tunnel.

I look down at her, the mess of a child in all its horrific glory.

Her mouth opens, the heavy lines of a frown etched on her skin. “Are we still…the good guys?”

I halt, tightening my grip on her hand. She winces.

“Yes” I whisper, not knowing if anything else could be true. “It will always be us.”

They stumbled through the dark, blinded by their tears. A small woman with a tall man linked together by a child. A child in which they could not take care of anymore. A small child who based on appearances one would think he was three maybe four years of age. But in the truth of life, he had been on earth for seven years. The boy was born with a growth disability, which the doctor had said it would stunt his mental and physical development. And the night before his eighth birthday he tried to grab a cup off the counter and fell, busting his head open. His parents love him dearly and had to make a decision no parent should have to make, the decision over his life. The mother cried and cried as they decided the world was not safe for him. So that is why they are in the damp subway tunnel on this hollow night. To bury their treasure, their love, their life. The blood covered boy was barely conscious enough to know they were walking, but when they stopped the boy could see a tear on his mothers cheek. His father dug a hole while he sat in his mothers arms still unaware of his fate. “It’s time my love.” His father spoke, helping his wife up off the ground. She stood up taking her son’s hands in hers. She closed her eyes and squeezed his hands as her husband struck their son from behind, knocking him over and killing him. The wife covered her mouth in an attempt not to scream, an ocean of tears flood her face. The boy’s father carefully picked him up and laid him in the whole. He wrapped the boy up safe and sound, then started to lay down a heavy blanket of dirt. Once the hole was no longer noticeable the man and woman left considering themselves no longer parents.

“See that?” The shadow man pointed out the light at the end of the tunnel.

“It’s beautiful!” Breathed the little shadow girl.

“Beautiful things are deadly, little shadow girl. The light kills all darkness.”

The little shadow girl whimpered, inching away from the light.

“Never go to the light.” “Never go to the light.” “Never go to the light.”

One day, when the little shadow girl was no longer little, she saw a little shadow boy! In the light!

Fearful for his life, the little shadow girl yelled, “Little shadow boy! Don’t go to the light!”

With genuine inquiry he asked, “Why not? I could not exist without light. Look at you, you are going to die soon!”

Sure enough, when the little shadow girl look at herself, she was fading. “What do I do?”

“Step into the light!” the little shadow boy looked amused. “Do it for me.”

So she stepped into the light.

An awkward figure floats kind of in a carmine roughed rectangle, titanium white and cerulean baseball game inexplicably interrupted by a misshaped faun, each canvas was more fascinating the next. Dan took in each twist limb, every garish color. The bright minimalist hallway of the Museum of Unfortunate Art had lulled his mind left Dan open to the assault of colors. Dan felt lightheaded. Hazel tugged at his hand. “Hurry Daddy!” Dazed, Dan let himself be pulled through the sports related art to a gallery of plump nudes, angular nudes, sinewy mounds of painted flesh. Blushing Dan hurried behind a determined Hazel. Her Mary Jane steps were fast and determined. “Grannie’s up ahead,” Hazel squealed. In her favorite dress Susan waited by the velvet rope. The older woman’s eyes danced. On the walls a sign read: Daniel Kavan, Sr. A Retrospective in Horror. Inside the gallery Dan saw the hours and hours his dad had spent in his studio painting hideous happy children. Hours Dan remembered and hours Dan remembered and resented. The big black eyed children smiled. “Daddy, they’re horrible,” Hazel said laughing and clapping. A prim docent unlocked the ropes and gestured invitingly. Dan, his daughter, and his mother linked hands and walked into the gallery.

“Your new father awaits you, my dear child.”

“But I like you a lot more.” The child cried. The man looked at the young one that both he and a fellow woman the child only knew as ‘mommy’ were holding by their side

“Mom and Dad will miss you, but you will be much better off without us mortals caring for you.”

The child was sent to his new Father, but both ‘parents’ knew they would never see their ‘son’ again.