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Allura 9

Difficult to say what anybody in Cobham thought of the man advancing towards the cemetary gates. A slight tremor to his his chest and an almost beaten cadence, a solitary procession where he bared the roles of the mournful. A keen observer, a much more practiced observer, might have recognized those steps, that striking appearance, that leathery coat worn smooth with age. Trodding forward treading his own shadow dreading that feeling of familiarity, nostalgia aged and fermented in oak barrels, no one took him for anything out of the ordinary. He was more or less ignored. The site held some historic value. Until recently it had become somewhat decrepit, a derelict spot where teenagers would sneak off to and tempt the spirits of a bygone time. The village council recognized the importance of keeping up appearances and the head of that council claimed it as their collective heritage. A simple sign ‘here among others lie the founders of Cobham’ propped up with two wooden posts. As the man drew past the gate he eyed a familiar plot belonging to a ‘Catsy Whitehouse, 1920-1947 beloved daughter’. He paused for a moment and sat on the cold grass still damp from the previous mornings rains. In his pocket he clutched a letter, his respects drawn out some sixty years late.

The walls of my den seem closer in tonight. I swirl the amber liquid in my glass. How long have I been in here? All night it seems. I look down at the typewriter; a few sentences written, nothing substantial. The dim light shines off the bottle on the side table. *Wasn’t there was more left?* I think. These long nights really do me in. I hear steps behind me. “Writer’s block, honey?” my wife asks. “How could you tell?” I ask, giving her a slight smile as I turn in my chair. “Well, for one, the whiskey’s almost gone,” she replies, smiling back. “I thought that was fuel for you writers?” she questions. “Maybe for Joyce and them,” I say, holding the bottle in my hand, the glass heavy and cool in my hands. “But for me, apparently whiskey is nothing more than an escape.” “An escape?” she questions, her tone becoming more serious. “What are you escaping from, Walter?” I give a heavy sigh. “Myself mostly; my thoughts, my fears that my writing will never be what it was, that the well I drew from so many times has dried up.” She walks over and puts her arms around me in an attempt to be comforting, but I find it agitating, and I shrug her off. Whiskey is my only comfort tonight, and so I pour another glass. She shakes off my cold demeanor. “You’re a fantastic writer, Walter, ever since I've known you. Remember those nights where we would lie in bed, and you would read to me, read your stories and poems? I know how well you can write.” I lean back in my chair and I remember back to those days she mentioned. Things were different back then. The writing was different, my outlook was different, and our relationship was different. “But what if I can’t get back to that? What if that’s gone forever?” I ask, superficially about my writing, but implying things much deeper. She looks at me for a moment, looking as though she’s trying to read the thoughts behind my eyes. “It’s late; why don’t you come to bed?” “I can’t, I can’t leave without writing something worth keeping on the page.” She seems disheartened by my answer. “Well, write about something you know; you always said that helped you get through writer’s block.” “Yeah, I’ll try that, thanks honey,” I reply, giving her a hollow smile. She walks up to bed, and I position myself in my chair. I finish the remainder of my glass, and I unscrew the bottle. I take sizable swig of the writer’s fuel. Write about something I know, I think. I look at what’s prevalent, pressing in my life, and my fingers move to the typewriter and hammer out a sentence. **He no longer loved her.** I look at my sentence, and I sob. I grab the writer’s fuel, and I escape.

"And I saw he was afraid, but not as much as if I had not been there" ->Harlan Ellison<- The handles on the backs of the seats kind of suck up the comfort. You first see her sitting three rows ahead, in the opposite aisle. Her type is rare here, especially alone. Blonde, slender, frail and quite. You would like very much to speak with her. Nothing creepy, but it's been a while since you've talked with someone who wasn't a crack head or strung out or family. Touching, that's far out of the question. A rest stop comes soon. Very scenic, McDonald's parking lot, highway crossroads. Brown tinted gold in all directions. Drone sounds, and slight hills. Just the kind of nowhere place you've become accustomed to; you and your little red bag, with everything you need, freshly restocked with ketchup and sugar packets, honey and whatnot. Bits of crayon, business cards, scraps of paper, emergency candy bars and a notebook. This notebook, which you have in your hand, and fill with all you can pass through. Maybe somebody shall see, but it's unlikely. You also draw, scratch out scenes, nothing of great importance, except maybe to you. They unlock something that usually lives under heavy key. And that girl is out and about, alone. Conversation is out of the question, but a piece is saved on your tiny page. A simple composition: parking barriers in their concrete dotted-line merge with car hood, boxy and blue, pulled forward to the limit, while a pale green branch twists a lonely way up, as the girl stands underneath, unencumbered, turned slightly away, admiring the wild grass hills with reverence most often reserved for Fuji, or the Louvre. And as like, you see her composition. Seeing surprisingly few cars and hearing even less, though they're there. Just because something is there you don't see or hear it, just ask pedestrian casualties. You find the scene has shifted, with hunching lines wrapped around, keeping warmth close to home. Fellow passengers begin to exit, some with big white bags, leopard print grease spots, many with large plastic cups. Each handful equal to a week of change that you yourself give for food. You find first-world self-imposed hunger to be quite a joy, at times. Henry David said it best you think, not sure what it is. "Some View." You speak in horrid tones. Her words make no impression, but just because there is no record doesn't erase the facts. The beach is a favorite. Her sounds are not made by those on this shore, and she's come a long way by dubious means to be in this concrete stamp. There are past friends in the future. It takes quite a lot of radiation to bring you along. Mass and gravity. Once it's begun; inevitable. You drop your pack in a square room, with table and chair, couch and tv, broken mirror and the beginning of christmas lights, her old classmates and exchange program vets, introduction and pot. And a couch, maybe more. You have no problem taking what's given, and road kill is godsend. Your mind reels. Potent stuff, and a night of bonding complete. No rejection; absorption. Standing on concrete, you watch lights play out over the hills. Squadrons, paramilitary air support looking back through sights; it's possible. This view interests those new friends of yours, wavelengths mesh, and you begin to believe in yourself, how you've found it: belongings. You sit in a room with them all, not all, but many. Remaining in one place, more or less, with powers and responsibilities of a low but noticeable magnitude. Tenuous roots embed, expand. A schedule of sorts, time meaning something besides departure. Love? And you are surrounded, suspended on nothing, no base, no lid, wide open, a part of the scene, and you are engulfed. Flesh-body-soul enter those around you, the choice bits going to the blonde who brought you in, and nothing remains but contentedness.

The clock struck twelve. I awoke. I was alone. I would forever be alone. I got out of bed, my feet tentatively reaching for the floor. One foot, another, toe by toe. One has to be careful getting out of bed. You never know just when the floor will disappear on you. Really. It’s happened to me before. I slipped into my slippers, donned my housecoat. It would be another one of those days, apparently. The days that are filled with despair from the start. At least there would be no false hope this time. It had been too long to start hoping again. Shuffling downstairs, I wondered: Would this be all there ever would be for me? Eternity, stuck in this prison? Had I no chance of escape? No. I did not. But no matter. I was more or less used to it by now. More or less. In the kitchen, I opened the fridge, grabbed the milk and blueberries. I always enjoyed blueberries with my cereal. I snatched a bowl from the shelf behind me, Cheerios from the cupboard beside it. I poured the blueberries and Cheerios into the bowl simultaneously. It was tradition, after all. Then the milk. Always the milk last. Can’t break tradition. If people start breaking tradition, then their floors start falling away. I took a spoon from the cutlery drawer, set it by the bowl, and headed towards the front door to bring in the morning paper. But she was there, visible just on the other side of the peephole. I could see her howling and screaming and crying. In my mind I could hear the words that were being formed a short distance away. A very short distance, and yet infinitely far. I wanted to open the door. I wanted to let her in. I wanted to hold her and caress her and love her more than anything in the world. But I couldn’t open the door now, not even to get the paper. She was lost to me forever. She was my wife. Instead, I stared mournfully through the glass, knowing that this day would not be so simple after all. There would be hope. And it would be crushed. She was not alone. My mother was there, and my father. My sister and brother. My aunts and uncles and cousins and friends. Everyone who still cared for me or loved me was standing just outside, just out of reach. I knew, and I could do nothing. I could not even tell them that I knew. I could not even tell them that I was here. They just had to guess. Guess and hope. Knowing that there would be no paper today, I decided on some television instead. I turned away from the door, towards the living room. It had windows facing the front of my house. I could see the throng of people crowding around, growing ever larger. I shut the curtains. They would do no good now. It was too late. It had always been too late. I switched on the TV, flicked to the news. I flicked to the news every morning. It was tradition. And, as tradition dictated, the same story was playing. Every morning the top news item was the same. In the papers, on the TV, even on the internet, it was the same. There had been a car crash. A man on his daily commute home from work had been blindsided by a drunk driver as he turned off the highway. The man’s car had fishtailed and flipped and struck a pole. The drunk driver’s had run off the road. The drunk driver died. The man did not. He was rushed to the nearest hospital, declared to be in critical condition. The doctors hoped he would wake up and make a full recovery. He hadn’t done either. I turned off the news, switched to sports. It was the same game that had been playing for as long as I could remember. For as long as that man had been comatose the Blue Jays had been playing the Pirates in spring training baseball. It was a tradition, after all. I knew each play before it happened. The game was boring. I turned back to the news, and for the first time in a long time it was different. I was shocked. I remembered the story of the man like it was my own. I could feel my fingers gripping the steering wheel as I was hit, vomit splashing into my face as the car was hurled into the pole, the pain spreading through my nervous system like cracks through marble. I could remember the dread, and then the hopelessness. I could remember the world going black as I gave up. I had relived this story through the news so many times I was convinced it was my own. But it was gone. There was a new story today. They had finally given up on the unconscious man. They were going to let him die peacefully. There was a camera capturing the whole event. After all, this was a man who had captivated the nation, the world, the universe. His wife was clutching his hand, howling and screaming and crying. His mother and father stood next to his bed. So did his sister and brother, his aunts and uncles and cousins and friends. Everyone who still cared for him or loved him. His wife pulled the cord. The screen went black.

“Well.” You know the word hurts her. In your mind’s eye, you see how its barbed indifference breaks through the receiver, pierces her eardrum, and drills its way into her veins. You must have known how she would answer. “That’s good.” There’s a long silence. Perhaps her words had the same effect on you, but she hopes not. She doesn’t want everything to end like this, it’s just... there’s nothing left for her to say. The silence stretches further. You can tell that she’s waiting for you to apologise and make everything right again, but you won’t, and nothing can ever be right again. Everything is ending. The silence is harsh now, stretched so taut that even the smallest murmur could shatter it like frosted glass, breaking it into a thousand polished razors. You therefore pick the lesser of two evils and silence her with your thumb, pressing down on the picture of the red phone with a firm click. That was your last chance to speak together before they shut off all communication and close the doors, but at this moment you don’t want to care. Why couldn’t you have just gone with her, survived with her, loved her? She loved you. You said that you didn’t want to live out your days in a metal house, that you wanted to die someplace where you could still see a new dawn or a new face. She didn’t understand you; if the end is the same, then surely an extended night is better than a brief dawn? She never could understand how you felt, how you nobly embraced your death, content with the life you had led, whilst she hid in the ground like a coward. She still remembers when the two of you first met. It was her first summer in England since she fled from her homeland. She lived for a while as an outsider, a struggling refugee in a strange, alien land, and had just begun to settle in when she spilled a cup of coffee on you at the station. You exchanged bouts of apologies and self-blame until they were gradually replaced with dull platitudes and became conversation, and you asked her to join you for a drink. You took her to what you said was the best coffee shop in all of London; it was a standard coffee chain – Starbucks, if she remembers correctly – but you said that it was in just the right position, that when dawn broke and the sky turned golden, the light would rush and weave its way along the cobbled alley, and its wealds would engulf the shop in warmth and make it shine. She only understood about half of the words you used, but it seemed to make her feel safe for a time. You didn’t seem like most English men, not chasing after the latest car or piece of Apple merchandise, but thoughtful, considerate. You were intelligent, referencing Plutarch, Socrates, and even the Bible – although you held no faith yourself – whenever you saw the slightest opportunity, and devoted to making something of your life, but still unsure of what to make of it. The two of you had discussed the idea of someone pressing that infamous red button back then as a thought exercise, the idea had seemed ridiculous. Even still, your decision was unanimous; neither of you wanted to live in a metal house, you’d both rather die someplace where you could see a new dawn. She was still affected by her experience of war in her homeland, and was determined that nothing would make her flee her new home, that she’d rather die than live in a cage – even one of her own choosing. That was four years ago; you were both young and foolish, filled with noble, quixotic ideas of romance and freedom. “Everything ends eventually,” you said; that was your reasoning. “Best embrace that ending someplace where you can still smell the breeze.” It sounded so sincere, so meaningful that she was completely taken with your sudden existentialism. You quoted Asimov. “Even the stars run out, you know.” It was reassuring for her to know that the world in which she had suffered so much would come to an end someday, but things change over four years. People grow up, don’t they? It was on the day that the war that had engulfed her home finally came to an end – one or two years ago, you couldn’t quite remember which – that things began to change. To her, the world no longer seemed to just bring suffering, for it had brought her a new home, a new chance at life, and you; to you, the world’s progress – being entirely unrelated to your own – was insignificant, and the world’s ignorance of your talent served only to confirm your perception of yourself as a chained and muzzled muse, yearning to break free and soar above the philistine mob. Over time, she became closer to you, her affection increasing along with her skill for English, and you seemed to feel for her, although you weren’t quite sure. Maybe you would have loved her someday, but the current events distracted you; with tensions mounting over Syria and Iran, suddenly the idea of someone pushing the red button didn’t seem quite so ridiculous anymore. It scared you. The government announced the bunker system a month ago, although they’d obviously been working on it for some time; they knew it would be needed eventually. You’d been with her that day, but she had been acting strangely; she was clearly expecting something, and you thought you knew what. She wanted a piece of metal for herself, a band of metal and a rock to wrap around her finger and to chain your inner artist once and for all. How selfish. You didn’t think you were ready for that commitment. It scared you. So you focused yourself upon your art, that was all that was important, or so you told yourself. This was how you were going to endure, how you were going to cheat that familiar stranger, Death. You needed no philosopher’s stone or alchemist’s piss, through your art you would become immortal, infinite. But the nagging feeling at the back of your mind warned that you would fail, that you would die unnoticed and unable to repent. It scared you. There was warning before the missiles were going to hit, about thirty-six hours between when the satellites registered the launch and when they were expected to impact the city. You took her to the coffee shop to discuss what the two of you would do with your last precious hours of life, but she surprised you; she was going underground, to the bunkers, and she needed you to join her. Your throat turned to ice. Hadn’t you already told her that you didn’t want to live your life with her in a metal house? Hadn’t she said that she didn’t want to die in a cage, wasn’t the dawn important to her? She said that it was about immortality, humanity needed to endure. All the beauty that people had wrought needed to survive this ultimate show of humanity’s true nature; why couldn’t you see that? She’d found so much to live for in this new world, and she hadn’t fled her own land just to die in a new one. She loves you, that was the point, but what was the point in love if it isn’t eternal? You wouldn’t listen to her entreaties, for she had betrayed you. The tethers were tightening on the muse inside, the ball and chain restricting its movement. You were losing your chance for immortality, and it must be her fault. You didn’t know, but by this point you had built your own metal prison. You have trapped yourself inside a cocoon of solipsistic iron and you can’t find a way out. You are lost in a maze and the hollow walls are razors that tear and split your skin, and all that lies at the centre is a hangman’s noose. But it’s not your fault is it? It’s hers! You call her witch and a whore, how dare she! In turn, she calls you selfish, but her words have no bite, she thinks she’s lying. So it’s over. You tell her never to call you again, that she should enjoy her thirty pieces of silver while she can. She picks up her coat and gently asks you what you’ll do with your last remaining hours. “Wait,” you say, and then you divert your gaze to the coffee-stained table; you are done. She walks out the door and joins the shuffling crowds moving slowly towards the bunker entrance. She’s gone. So you wait; the shop is deserted now, and eventually dusk falls. The shadows slither and clamber along the cobbled alleyway, their tendrils slowly swallowing the building, sucking all warmth from the shop until it seems entirely forsaken, empty. There’s a small vibration in your pocket; you pull out your phone and answer the call. She asks you how you are. “Well,” you say.

It was a Saturday morning, I slowly felt around my bed, reaching over and down the sides a little bit. I was looking for my pillow that happened to have fallen off during my previous night’s rest. I could hear the gentle pattering of rain behind the house I spent a majority of my childhood in; the simple rain tapping at the tin roofed shed where my dad kept the lawn mower and spent more time in than I would expect, and did not understand why until later in my life. I moved my hand a little around feeling the silk coverings hanging from my bed brush my arm as I walked my fingers across the deserted floor of my childhood bedroom. It was still very early, nobody was awake yet. The only reason I woke was because of an unremembered dream which led me to seek my lost pillow for comfort. The only memory of this foggy dream was the sound of an ocean’s water sucking far away only to return in a crash. I needed something to hold onto but found nothing on my empty bed. Eventually I felt the old pillow I have used for so many years, holding memories of sneaking girls over to share this bed, and tears brought to me by my father’s cancer that taught me life isn’t fair. I pulled the pillow back onto my bed and laid my head on it, pulled up the sleeping bag i used as a blanket and closed my eyes to let my mind take me to a place without reality. I couldn’t fall back asleep. It may have been the rain’s increasing tempo outside or the morning sun peeking into my bedside window. After lying there for about an hour, I decided to get up and find something to eat. the hallway from my bedroom to the kitchen felt much longer than I thought it was, with the shag carpet growing under my feet and grabbing my feet, as if my house knew there was something ahead I should not come to. The carpet was pulling me down now, it wouldn’t allow me to walk any farther through my house, I needed to turn back; but when I did, my room was gone and I found myself in a place unfamiliar to anything I had seen before. The walls looked as if they evolved into something better, a fancy type of wood rich people talk about when discussing wood and whatnot. The carpet let go of my feet and I cautiously walked to the only visible door down this field of carpet which was slowly turning into grass with each additional step I took. I felt a sting on the bottom of my foot, a pain strong than that of any I’ve felt in years. I fell down and viciously grabbed my foot to find what appeared to be a wasp stinger in my foot which I tore from my throbbing foot, now dripping blood from this minor wound which exerted such powerful pain. The stinger was oozing a clear liquid from it, implementing fear that my walking would have to end here and force me to crawl to the still distant door. My foot was beginning to swell making walking more difficult with each step. I got to the door and opened it, finding myself blowing out birthday candles in my kitchen from years ago. My father was there, smoking a Marlboro. I was looking through this window I have opened and stumbled across a memory I tried to repress because it was the first time I noticed my father’s cough. I stepped back from the window and fell onto the hard floor that replaced the grass I was walking on. I felt my body shake internally from this fall. I opened my eyes and realized everything up to that point was a dream. I could still hear the slow rain playing dissonant music in my backyard. I sat on the edge of my bed and rubbed my useless eyes. I had no desire to get out of bed and make use of this Saturday; I already had gone through a week of hell in school and planned on using this day for resting and possibly reading a little Vonnegut. realizing sitting on the edge was as useless as sitting on the edge of the grand canyon, I got up and started feeling around for a wall to guide me to the hall where my dream took me to a place I wish I could have forgotten. This time walking was much easier. No colors to blind me, and no door to seduce my curiosity. I was looking for my stick to feel around my path and not fall as I very often did. I walked very awkwardly, always hunched over a little and slowly moving my arms around anticipating a wall to punch me in the face. I found what I was looking for and sat at a chair in my kitchen waiting for something to happen. Nothing happened. My kitchen always had a strange odor to it, almost like a mixture of eggs and humus with a hint of cinnamon. I was always unsure of the birth of this smell as my mom never used any of these ingredients in her cooking. I felt the cold metal from the legs pressed against mine which soothed my heated body from the dream that was still flooding my thoughts. I needed some food to clear my mind, and started to stumble across the floor until I felt a cupboard that would contain cereal. The only cereal we had was these sugary rings that my mom bought to ensure I would not be confused by new things. I was alright with this because I did enjoy this for breakfast when Mom was not awake to make something fresh. I decided to eat my cereal dry because I figured finding the milk would be too much hassle for such a little reward. I found my chair again, sat in it, and began eating the cereal. I could taste the extensive amounts of sugar felting in my mouth as I slowly chewed up these rings that I was so accustomed to eating. I finished what I had in my hand and began lying my head on the table. I listening to the rain as it soothed my mind and dozed off back into a place that reality could not even comprehend.

First i'd like to say i have a idea of something medieval possibly lord of the ring style of writing. Somewhat mythological and full of medieval kittens. Wish me the best of luck and enjoy. There once was a boy named Manu from a village in the outskirts of Britain. Mended by his pure loyalty to the crown in which he would prepare the finest blades to all the soldiers. His secret knowledge of metals and ores remained hidden, he would never speak about his ingredients. But these blades were the best, Never to be broken in battle and sharp enough to break through armor. Manu would often train his sword skills by hours of practice, he soon became one of the best swordsmen's in all of the castles. Manus state was never peaceful his castle was always being attacked by the "gridlock" another state trying to concur the lands. Gridlock had concurred 10 previous castles and was heading directly towards manus home. Manu wakes up in the middle of the night to screaming, it seems a lookout has spotted the gridlock clan moving in on their castle. All are beginning to prepare for battle, while the women and children seek shelter. Manu instantly understands what he must do, he walks towards his bed and sits down beside his kitten Medule. Manu: Now i need you to know something medule, battle is upon us and we must not run, I CANNOT RUN, This is my home and i will FIGHT to protect it!" Medule: Meow purrrr Meooow Manu: Your gonna have a good life medule, i promise you, there will be tuna every night. Medule: Meow! Meoow!.... Meow :( Manu: I gotta do this medule. Good bye. As Manu prepared his things and walked out, medule shed a single tear and began grooming itself with its tongue, you know why? Cause Medule is a cat and thats what cats do. Manu had never been in battle, the streets were full of many men willing to give their lives for the crown. Everyone soon surrounded Manu, they all knew of his skills and wisdom. As this was all happening a slow pace cheer began to happen. They chanted ^Manu^^Manu^^^Manu! Manu! MANU! MANU! MANU!, out of all the commotion he noticed someone coming through the crowd. It was Medule, he swiped his legs puring. Then all of a sudden jumped onto his shoulders said Medule: ^Manu^^Manu^^^Manu! ^Manu! ^^MANU! MANU! ^MANU! Menu was speechless, Medule? you speak! YOU SPEAK!!! I always knew you could understad what i was saying! Medule then said "Menu, you can do this but my people are calling me. It is my time to go. Menu: "What go?! i can do this..! i can save my town and i can save you! Medule: "You can but my future has already been determined, my family needs me" Medule then floated away. PART 2 COMING SOON.

The Luggage From the beginning, I knew I had to sit on my father’s throne but life has played many tricks with me. If I could hop on a time machine, go back in time and wanted something that would have taken my life on a different path, it would have been to spend more time with my father. Fate has kept my father away from me my entire life. Those few months that I have spent with him are hardly registered in my memory anymore. Even if they were, it would have been harder to cope since my father is someone completely different ever since his brain stroke. It’s unfathomable to imagine one carrying Mt. Everest on its back but if I had to compare, it would be carrying the luggage full of responsibilities of my six membered family that was bestowed upon me after my fathers’ impairment. I was never raised to be someone capable of lifting such a heavy object and I fumbled constantly until my family gave up on me. If anyone still had hope on me, it was myself. I just knew it, it was written on the imaginary paper in my rich mind (fueled daily to drag my lazy body) but it never came to fruition until I met her. Memories of her are hard to discern now a days; it’s like a printed paper that has already been printed once before and the letters are deceitful to eyes and mind. I remember meeting her through the tubes that connect the entire world. I reckon she fell in love with me within few minutes of our conversation and didn't hesitate to confess it to me that very same night. I remember talking to her for endless hours on daily basis as if I was born with the intuition like an infant wired to grasp onto its mother's bosom. It was a part of my life, intertwined. But then one day she was gone as fast as she came into my life. There were no traces of her. If there were any, it was my transformation. She helped me build the strength to lift the luggage and carry it many miles. Many months have past. Now, my family has new found hope and respect for me. Afterall, I am a coolie carrying the luggage that was left by my father on his throne. I stayed awake many a night longing for the angel who helped me attain my strength. One enlightening night wasn’t any different. It was a starry night as I had my back to the red brick wall, sitting next to my dearest cousin, speaking of things only couple of men would do. As the night grew older, so did our conversations. And then for a while I remained silent. taking in the beauty that was rendered upon us. Stars and moons shining in harmony, giving life and light at the same time for us to continue to survive. I break the silence, "you reckon that song?". Pointing at the bright light that occupies our retinas from few blocks away. It was a late night wedding and the music was as loud as an erupting volcano. Some people didn't have any good sense of time or place. At least both of us loved the song and we didn't waste a minute but started to sing along. ♪♪ Maddening wind hardens, as my old friend returns. It has been a long while... To lose her again, frightens. ♪♪ And suddenly I halted, unable to hold back my tears anymore for the song was her favorite as well. My cousin being the dearest as he is, puts his hand upon my shoulder and asks, “what’s the matter, brother?”. I tell him the tale of her and watched his mouth remain open throughout as if he needed more air to aid his lungs to keep running. I wiped off the tears from my cheek, watch my cousin leave my company and continue to gaze on the stars and wondered whether they know where she is. After considerable amount of time and before the stars started to lose its feature my cousin reappears to show me documentation that hinders my cogitation. There were no one on the other end of the conversation with whom I spend countably infinite hours. My body remained inert, my mind wandered around, trapped inside a maze and I felt my luggage getting a few ton heavier.

It is said that a person is something the whole universe is doing, much like a wave is something the entire ocean is doing. His grip tightened, his eyes narrowed. A young boy stood still in a forest. Pools of sunlight slowly grew and retracted with a light breeze. Timelessness and faint understanding of place and existence crept in. Echoes of birds birthed a sting of emotion, tightly winding primal joy to this beautiful understanding of everything. How I never wanted to leave, for this place was not a part of the world that I was. My thoughts and convictions simply evaporated here. For the briefest of moments, I was truly free. A young man sat in a field. No roads were near, nothing to break his purpose. Tall grass, dotted with golden buttercups, purple wildflowers, and patches of goldenrod gently swayed. Warm sunlight eased his strain. Vividly green trees enclosed this paradise. Scents melded together, creating a delicate aroma. Everything was so alive, so detached. His world struggled to understand this concept. The young man embraced it as something more. Wisps of high cirrus clouds raced across the depth of the blue sky. Here, he felt himself become a child again. He shed his worldly concerns, closed his eyes, and indulged himself. I never wanted anything else but for this. A middle aged man sat on a small strip of sand, cradled from view by thick bushes. The skies changed hues, progressively darkening with each shift. All was still. His boat drifted forward gradually, leaving no ripples behind it. Stars and planets rose into view, reflected so perfectly that one might genuinely not be able to determine the difference between horizons. Auroras painted themselves across the sky. Fierce reds clashed with persistent greens, sending bickering splashes off in all directions. I knew all I would ever need to know. He snapped back into his world, almost as if forcefully ejected here randomly. His emotions and senses dulled, aware they were no longer in a perfect place. Here, purpose was sent helter skelter by pressure to succeed at trivial and pointless things. How burdened they are, he thought to himself. How strange I must seem to them now. How silly they will feel once they are me. His grip loosened, and his vision blurred. A photograph drifted slowly to the floor.

This is the first short story I've ever written so be brutal with your critiques. I want to improve. You could feel the heat from the earth. The sun had been out to leave its mark and close to an hour had passed since its exit. “How 'bout,” She turned away and let out her drag. “How about when we turn 22 we get tattoos.” The wind blew back into his face but it never bothered him. He'd taken to smoking himself and recently it'd crossed his mind one too many times that he's been smoking more than he ought. He'd planned on controlling it by only smoking while drinking. His inner monologue couldn't help but laugh. It did always have a soft spot for irony. A light smile worked it's way out. “You mean matching ones?” he said, his sarcasm almost too subtle for himself. “No.” A pause. A drag and a sip of hard coffee between them. “What do you think?” “Why not 21?” “Not sure. I just think we'd be more independent then, you know? I'd be almost done with school. Probably have a full-time job lined up. Would've moved out by then, hopefully. Our lives would actually be starting.” He paused for a moment. That thought was sharper than others. It sunk in and its weight hurt. His plans for when he's 22 were painfully absent. “I'll hold you to it, you know.” he finally said. “You think I'm going to forget?” “I think you're going to change your mind” he said with smile. Her mouth began to peak into a smirk as she struck out her hand. He'd been thinking about getting a tattoo for a little while now. Once he had the money, he told himself. Nothing small either. Maybe a half sleeve with some Mucha inspired female form. He'd joked with the thought of keeping it completely secret and getting during a holiday so it can heal in private, enough that it's presentable at least, and just showing up to work one day in a t-shirt. He took her hand. “Deal.” “Where ever we are on our 22nd, we're getting tattoos.” He found it convenient that their birthdays were just a few days off. They'd already planned nights of drinking and pub crawling on their 21th, but the pessimist who'd been taking the reigns lately always made it quite clear how dangerous planning friendships can be. Especially one with such a shoddy foundation. Never the less the alcohol pushed that thought away and left him to enjoy the view, content in friendship. The sky was still a deep dark blue where they could see. Behind them it had been pulled to black. A hint of brown forced up from the city lights kept the stars hidden despite the lack of clouds. You could feel how hot the day had been. A steady but most-times gentle breeze dried out the air. “These are the days I'll miss the most”, he told himself. Earlier that day he went by himself to a beach from his childhood and sat on a rough granite boulder midway up a rise from the water. The crystal white beach strained his eyes to look at. It had been years since he'd last been there. He could see the far end with it's protective mound made up of boulders like the one he sat on. Years ago he and his brother made homes there and caught tad-poles in the freshwater not far too back from the water. Scraped knees and hands stung with salt in the tidal pools. A day of climbing through the endless caves perched on the side of what seemed like a cliff and you were bound to get a few scrapes here and there; like any good adventurer. It shook him how small it looked. Even from a distance he could tell that time had taken its toll on those memories. A flush of disappointment welled up behind his heart with the reoccurring realization he's lost his childhood wonder and innocence. Before too long the sun became too much to sit under and he felt the emptiness of the bleached blue sky. He felt defeated and tired. He'd just let himself down. A failure of some sort but he couldn't quite pick it out. He passed the freshwater pools on his way back to his car. They sat like puddles, evaporating with his memories, rippling with the tad-poles that might as well have been the same ones he and his brother caught in beach pales over a decade before. He finished his lukewarm coffee but held on to the cup. His eyes followed the flickering lights of cars as they traced out the grid of the neighbourhood. She had introduced him to this area. The park they were resting in was unique in the way it was seemingly plotted on the peak of the neighbourhood. Its sloped sides were walled in by either trees or houses., but if you took the time to walk its perimeter you'd quickly find views that make it special. They'd found one spot in particular facing the sunset on a grassy bluff higher than the rooftops with the neighbourhood sprawled out below them. She flicked the butt of her cigarette down the slope. A thin trail of orange traced its way through the summer dark and held for and instant in both their eyes. The buzzing silence of the summer night reigned. He worked comfortably into the ground beneath him and glanced at her. In the dark her eyes reflected the flickering oranges and yellows of the city. He could feel its hum but it seemed to blend with the night. The branches and bushes nodding in the wind at the same frequency while the tall grass on the bluff rose and sank like waves on the crystal beach. Her eyes as wonderful as the caves.

I wonder if it's possible for humans to really empathize. Aslan always told me that nothing happens the same way twice, and if so, how could anyone ever truly understand what another is experiencing? This is the first time I have been completely sober in weeks, so forgive me if I ramble, all things lead to an end, n'est pas? Take, for example, the case of a boy who loves a girl so much, that he will refuse at every turn to let her fade away. He cuts himself nightly with memories of her - and when the blade gets dull, he sharpens it with the feel of her skin and the taste of her tongue. She, on the other hand, is in love with the world around her in a way perhaps too fundamental for him to grasp. He might be one of her lovers, but that is all that he will ever be while she is in this stage of life. Can they ever truly understand each other? Is it possible? At one point in my life - I wanted to think so. Now, I'm not so sure. I can't fathom how these two met and "fell in love". Was it a game for both of them? Did they both think they were playing the other, only to discover that this game has no winners? I write this on my porch drinking tea to ease my burning throat. The clarity of my thoughts is almost surprising to me - but already - I long for its release. If this is what living is, then I want no part of it. Take your sentimentality and choke on it for all the good it will do you. I am that boy and she broke my heart.

The director’s face was the first I saw upon returning. I had hoped it would be my mothers. His bifocals were constantly sliding down that pointy nose, and I could tell he was nervous from the constant smoothing of the stringy hair around his ears. Several emotions flickered across his face at once: fear, joy, excitement, jealousy. The last made me uncomfortable, and I shifted under the large man’s eager stare. “Well… what did you see?” he asked, rubbing his forehead with a handkerchief. His voice was higher than normal; normal being already slightly feminine. The others in the room stared expectantly, pen and paper ready in each pair of hands. Reporters, news camera crews, journalists, and anyone else who wanted exclusive information was jammed into the already cramped room. If I had more of an ego, I may have enjoyed the attention. Perhaps even more so if I had anything to tell them. They thought I was the perfect candidate, considering my experience. Every trip to the past had included me, either on my own or accompanying a person or group. They thought that I was good luck. I knew better, knew that I was the opposite. The first time, I had caught cholera, and had nearly died in Nottingham. The second, a stray Mongol arrow had all but pierced my heart. The rest are a jumble of disease, famine, natural disasters, and war casualties. Each time, as I was about to die, I was brought back to the present and the ailment cured. They told me it was worth it, for science and history. None of them ever volunteered to join me. If it hadn't been news of the meteor, I may have continued my disastrous missions into history. It had been kept quiet at first, but news leaked out, as it always does. People began to panic, rioters hit the streets, and religious extremists gained billions of followers. Of course, nobody knew if the meteor would actually hit; it all depended on the timing. Either a direct collision, pulled by our gravity, or else it will pass extremely close and shoot towards the sun. Impossible to tell. Then the director had his brilliant plan; if we could see the past, why not the future? In the state of panic, everybody jumped on board. The director became a sort of celebrity, and funding was raised quickly. And who better, he asked, to lead this mission, but the one who had been a part of all previous missions. I tried to oppose, of course, but they wouldn't hear it. I was going. I knew all along there was nothing to be seen. Even as they were inputting the coordinates, I was trying to decide what to say. You cannot predict the future; you cannot know it, because it does not yet exist. There are many possibilities, many different ways it could run. Astrologists and prophets appear successful, because they predict the most likely outcome, and brag intelligence or giftedness when it comes about. But there was no likely outcome, no easily discernible pattern to follow. It was one or the other, left or right, death or life. Heads or tails. I glanced down, as the face of George Washington stared mockingly up at me. With a practiced smile and show of relief, I proclaimed that we would survive; the meteor will pass close enough that offshoots will create much damage, but Earth will remain intact. Celebratory whoops and hollers filled the room, and the director did something of a dance. I smiled, shaking hands and giving hugs as everyone came to congratulate me. There was no happiness, no excitement, as I wait until the day the meteor would arrive. If I were to be honest with myself, I hope it hits us. Nobody will judge you when you are dead.

Run. Stop. Run. Take a deep breath. Run some more. This is basically my night. I really shouldn't have taken up Gary's offer to hang out. I mean, I love Gary, he's really awesome. However, his friends, they're huge douche bags. They're always wanting to start some shit. Whether it be a fight with some random guy, or getting arrested for shoplifting, they're always in something. They just had to drag me into it. I swear to God, if I make it out of this night, I am beating their white asses into the ground. I guess I should really start at the beginning, I do that a lot, get ahead of myself I mean. Gary lives two streets away from me, so I sort of grown up with the kid. We're 14 now. He started hanging out with the jackasses: Josh, Barry, and Mitchel, when he was about 13. At first. they seemed alright. Then they started to "live on the edge" as they like to say it. Anyways, Gary asked me to hang out with him tonight, since I was home alone, and I had nothing better to do, so I joined him. While I was expecting to just watch some movies and talk, his friends wanted to go start some shit, again. I get there and they are already discussing how they wanna "live" today. Barry suggesting to go steal some stuff, while Josh wants to go get pick up some chicks.(All three of these assholes are swagfags by the way.) However, Mitchel actually had a legit idea; graffiti. An interesting idea from such a jackass, comes once in a blue moon. It seemed actually like a fun idea. I've always wanted to do something like that. I just want my opinion to be out in the world, to be honest. After everyone agreed and we got the things together, we set out to have an adventure. Two hours later and we'll in alleys pasting pictures of war and words. Of course, Josh had to go and start being an idiot. He was throwing colors on to the wall and drawing penises and other dirty drawings. I tried to ignore it, until he dumped paint on top of my head. I was drenched in neon blue paint and holy shit, was I mad. I grabbed a pale of pink and threw it all over his shirt. In a matter of seconds, everyone started throwing paint on each other and started to laugh way to loudly.Porch lights went on and people came out. People started to yell, "We're calling the police!" But it took a few seconds to register what they were saying. Before we knew it, the police cars were being heard and we took off like lightning. "Shit, shit!" Was all I kept on saying as we sprinted in the opposite directions of the cars. Corner after corner we turned hoping to lost the police. My heart started to beat faster and faster as we heard the sirens get closer closer. Gary soon yelled out, "SHIT." As we saw police cars coming towards you. We cut through lawn after lawn hoping to find a safe haven. All of us started to lose speed and Mitchell soon began to work, as he panted. More and more police cars began to swarm around us. Not knowing what else to do, I simply started to sprint in some random direction. The police had to deal with the other boys, since they had a record and I didn't. Street after street I passed, until I finally reached my home. I flew open the door and shut it with a loud bang. I found a mirror and looking myself over, I was covered in neon blue paint that dried over my head, my jeans have been ripped and I had small cuts from running through bushes. I couldn't help but chuckle at my appearance. This sure was one hell of a night, that I don't want to relive.

Maintenance and Tow This evening was not going as planned. The car would not even crank, much less do anything else. The little black car was not old by any standard as far as cars come, rolling off the lot about two years prior, so for the engine to quit on it now only made Jeremy Soben near next to furious. His anger only further fueled the abuse Jeremy laid out upon the spent motor. Each turn of the key was met with grinding under the hood and grinding of Jeremy’s patience with the damned car. He looked out his window at the blackness of this mid-October night and knew the cold he would feel as soon as he stepped outside to contemplate his car’s lassitude. He knew he should have worn another layer. Never being much of a “car dude” in school, the only thing he could think of was the power supply from the battery. He reached under the steering column, grasping for the tiny lever that would release the hood of the car. Finding a level, Jeremy pulls it only to find it has adjusted the steering column itself, not the hood. Damn it. Reaching back further, the tiny black pull-lever is latched onto and pulled quickly, making a resounded snap as it returned to its original position and a *click* as the hood pops. Jeremy makes his way around and takes a peek at the battery, shivering as he went. There was some corrosion around the positive and negative poles of the battery, but it certainly couldn’t have been making his car turn into a devilish rapscallion; a second opinion was necessary, and so out came the phone. Luckily the number Soben looked for was second from the top: Thomas Arnold (with Erin Aaron being right above, forever possessing the top slot, and of that Jeremy was certain). Touching the name brought the dial tone to his ears in mere seconds and a tired, gruff voice half a minute later. “Thomas Arnold speaking,” was what came over the speaker a lethargic few seconds following the *click* of an answered line. “Hey Thom, it’s Jerry. My car just broke down off Westington, and wanted the number of that guy that you were so fond of when your car had fits that one day. You remember?” A few moments passed before, “Oh, yeah, you mean the guy who picked up my car in, like, twenty minutes during rush hour? That would be…let’s see here…,” there was a pause on the other side of the line, “…here we go. ‘Maintenance and Tow’ is all I have in my phone for them. The number is 332-363-9464. I don’t know any people who have called them out at night, but if their daytime performance speaks for their night, you should be fixed up in seconds.” “Thanks, Thom, I really appreciate it. I’ll see you back at work tomorrow!” Thom didn’t shut up about the service he got from the guy for a week. Jerry certainly thought it was time to try and validate the praise this one guy received. “Maintenance and Tow” was one of those discount body repair places one would see commercials for all over local television at two or three in the morning. The big selling point, as far as prices are concerned, for M&T was that just one guy did the whole operation, but “the savings of employment are passed on to YOU.” Not many people call them, as it turns out, since there should be, more likely than not, a long wait since it was just the one guy. Jerry could actually see the owner’s face in his mind’s eye from the commercial: long with an angled, clean-shaven chin; mostly bald but with buzzed, dark black hair ringing the equator of his skull. Thinking that the wait couldn’t be very long, Jerry pulled out his phone and dialed the number as he returned to his door and got back into the car. His phone rang for what seemed like forever when, right before he was going to give up, the other line clicked and a sleepy, gravelly voice answered, “Hel—,” cleared itself with a cough, “Hello?” this time a little clearer and less grainy. “This is—,” another cough, “this is Tow and Maintenance, the one and only Fredd Hattfield speaking. Are you in a safe place?” “Yeah, I’m out in a fairly well lit portion off of Westington. My name is Jeremy Soben and I’m looking to get some roadside assistance.” “That the ‘Westington’ in Greendale, sir?” “Oh, sorry, yes sir. I’m in a black Accord facing the west end of the street and I am out in front of a veterinary place…uh…the sign says ‘The Pet Spot’. My car won’t start, and I think I’m probably going to need a tow.” “Yeah, I know the place. Looks like it’ll be, oh, I don’t rightly know, about twenty minutes. You just sit tight, sir, and I’ll have you taken care of right quick. Just make certain you are there when I arrive.” Soben stowed his phone away in his pocket and reclined back in his chair, closing his eyes and contemplating what else he could be doing right at this moment. Immediately coming to mind is a warm dinner. Three days prior was Jerry’s thirtieth birthday, and in two more would be his fifth anniversary with Ashleigh, so the whole week around the two dates was special to them both: every meal each other’s favorites, every night filled with love and fun. Tonight was to be Jerry’s absolute favorite dinner: filet mignon, lobster tail with butter and lemon, and homemade mash with brown gravy. He had looked forward to it all day long, pushed through each hour at work and even skipped lunch so that dinner would be that much more sweet, and here he sat at eight at night, knowing his meal would be on the dining room table for at least half an hour before he got there, assuming this Fredd Hattfield would drop him off remotely close to home after this was all over and done with. This evening was not going as planned, but, soon enough, a fog took his mind. The fog was thick, the images within it fleeting. Jerry swore he saw his Ash dancing through the dense precipitation of his mind, and the sight of her made his stomach jump and butterflies flutter. More danced behind his eyes, but far from his sight, platonic forms hidden at the back of the mind but without physical body. His mind swam briefly and the long black train marched on without him. His eyes fluttered and he jumped awake, orbits wide and searching for a clock. 20:17. He’d only made the call fifteen minutes ago. He needed to call Ash, to tell her he would be late. Hopefully she wouldn’t be upset. As he pulled out his phone, just as “Ashleigh Soben” popped up on the little rectangular screen, as his thumb hovered over his dear wife’s number, a rap came a tapping on his car’s door. Startled, Jerry looked up and out his window, mind on high alert, only to find the long, bald head of Fredd Hattfield staring at him with a grin and smiling green eyes that should not be worn by any serviceman at any point in their life. Jerry rolled down his window, rubbing the remainder of his sleep from his red eyes. The man stood up straight, looking much taller than Jerry had pictured, wearing a thick, mud-brown, long-sleeve shirt and faded blue overalls. “Didn’t mean to startle you, sir. I’m Fredd Hatfield, from Maintenance and Tow. You Mr. Soben?” asked Hattfield, in slow, calculated speech. “Oh, no, you’re fine, and yeah, I am. Getting ready to call my wife, actually, but I suppose it can wait now that you’re here,” was Soben’s still-sleepy response. “Sorry to disturbed you, regardless. Mind if I take a peek under the hood?” Nodding his head in permission, Jerry prepared himself once again from the biting cold he would soon feel on his flesh, forgetting all about Ashleigh for the time being, while Fredd wound his way around to the front of the small car and stuck his head under the already popped hood. Hattfield’s first thought was, naturally, to look at the battery, and he immediately spotted the white build-up around the positive and negative ends. “That junk right there needs to be cleaned off before we go any further,” observed Hattfield quietly to himself as he produced a plastic scraping tool from his pocket. The corrosion fell away easily and proved to be minimal in volume. Telling Soben, who stood off to the side, he would return in a second, Hattfield made his way, slowly, to his truck, picked up his trusty screwdriver (with the long neck to reach those hard-to-get places), some newspaper to lay down, and hoisted a portable jump-box onto his shoulder and meandered back to the disabled car. Hooking red to red and black to black, Hattfield turned the device on and started to charge the battery. “While that charges, I’m just going to look under your console and see if there is anything come loose might be causin’ the problem. I’m a little greasy, so if you don’t mind I’ll lay down this paper to try an’ protect your upholstery as best I can.” Hattfield thus started spreading the paper out on the driver seat and floorboard and even put some down in the passenger seat as well, just in case. Jerry stood coldly by, hoping the car would get fixed so HE could drive home, but mainly wanting to get moving to some degree, be it towards a garage or his home. The cold clouded his mind in a way that sleep did, only in his case each amplified the other. He watched as Hattfield removed the bottom panel under the steering column with his long-ass screwdriver and started looking around with a small LED flashlight he pulled from his pocket, all the while “haroom-ing” and “humming.” After just a few minutes of looking and poking, Hattfield rose up a little to look at Soben and beckon him closer. You have a couple of wires that have come loose. Don’t know rightly how they could and you still drive around without the wheel lockin’ up on you, but the rightly sure have. Here, switch me places and look up to what will be your right.” They play a small game of tango as Hattfield attempts to wiggle around Soben so that one might occupy the other’s position. Finally, Jerry is lying on his back with a flashlight, looking around for what Hattfield is saying “a green and a yellow wire hangin’ around to your right.” Finally, he spots the miscreant wiring, smiled big, and said, “Damned if you weren’t right.” He wore that smile until he looked back at Fredd Hatfield right as his screwdriver plunged into his left eye socket, the tip slipping through the serous liquid, breaking the bone at the back of the orbit and plunging into his grey matter. Hattfield smiled as he felt the steel pierce the eye, feeling the pleasure finally after so long. No one called for him at night anymore, so it was a treat to get a customer after weeks of anxious waiting by the phone. Feeling proud of himself, he wiggled the tip around, ensuring the brain matter was effectively scrambled as he pushed his tool of pain deeper into the socket until finally the handle rested on the eye. Soben tried talking, screaming, anything, but nothing would come out…at least nothing intelligible. Good. He must have disabled, among many other things, his Broca’s area—the speech center of the brain. Savoring this man’s pain as he stood over him, he clasped his hands around his throat and squeezed until this unfortunate Mr. Soben’s face turned blue. The steely smell of blood hanging in the cab of the vehicle, Fredd hoisted his wonderful plaything over his shoulder, picked up the soiled newspaper, and carried him to the tow truck. And he did it all in such a well-lit place too. My…he was becoming quite the brave little fellow. The candles were set and lit, the nice tablecloth spread out, and Ashleigh’s favorite dining set constituted the silverware and plates upon which Jerry’s favorite meal sat. She was dressed lusciously in a red, floor length dress, the left side of which cut up to mid-thigh, with one thick strap wrapping from right breast to her left shoulder. It was brought in at the waist, further amplifying her figure. Looking down at herself, she could only smile and rub her stomach as she thought of the wonderful news she couldn't wait to share. She pulled out her chair, waiting for her lover as she watched the door in euphoric ecstasy of anticipation.

A short white flash, then darkness. When the room started to become visible again the walls were close, too close to be comfortable. But this was not the first time. Seb knew what to do. "Get up." He said it slowly, commanding himself to expand, just the way he had trained it. But even after so many times it still didn't work. "Get up! Get up! Get up!" Finally his body began to expand, legs protruded from his limb round torso, fingertips slowly pushed through the rubbery sides, reshaping the ball in an incomplete star. Finally his eyes began to move upwards and with them the room began to expand. Not just upwards, as it always did, this time it also expanded to the sides, the way Subject 3 had described it. Seb would have had a smile on his lips, if he had had a face, but it was still beginning to form. His body was still just an egg-shape with spikes at the bottom and sides. While suppressing the pain that his tearing skin signaled to his brain he thought to himself that this must be what giving birth feels like. Maybe he should stop making jokes about women after all. After an hour of effort he had shaped all of his hands and the stumps of his arms nearly up to the elbows. The right hand protruded further than the left, and it also felt bigger. But was that really the right? He wasn't sure on which side his eyes would end up. The team had warned him against trying too much at once, but all went smoothly and so Anton decided to try his luck. Exerting pressure on what felt like his stomach or lungs, he slowly pressed downwards and ignored the feeling of ripping tissue that accompanied the push. His legs formed quicker than his arms. He already had his knees completely shaped before he refocused on his arms, bit his unformed lip and pushed to painfully protrude the bigger part of his right biceps. Through trial and error - getting the angle right was still not easy - he finally managed to shape his right shoulder. That was a first. The left shoulder formed quickly and he barely felt the torn skin. There was a disturbing feeling - a sound, or maybe a smell - but that was maybe just a normal event at this level, after all he was one of the first to reach this state. Shifting his focus again to his legs he pushed harder on his stomach and was surprised that his legs seemed to be surrounded by a slimy and warm texture. Despite, or maybe beause of the gentle lubrication, his legs kept forming with relative ease. Muscles and bones smoothly moved into place, even the pain seemed to fade away. He felt a slight pressure on his shoulder and there was distinct chattering in the background, but he was too far to stop. His legs were nearly complete, his hips clicking into place for the first time and it was time to push harder to form his head. But a white flash interrupted him. "Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!" The sudden scream scared Seb and made him scream even louder. It took him a few moments to be back in the world, to remember that breathing was normal and that the water he could hear rushing through his ears was just the blood his heart was pumping around his body. Then the stench hit him, sour with a note of curry and bile. The lab assistant, Mark, stood smiling at his side. He didn't seem to mind the vomit. "You got far this time, didn't you?" "Yeah, I was nearly complete!" Anton was proud of his accomplishment. "Why did you pull me out?" Mark hesitated. "Do you have any idea how long you were in there?" Anton responded with a frown. "It was six hours, and you threw up on yourself a while ago. We had to get you out." After cleaning the largest pieces off with dry tissues Seb stood up on his shaking legs and signed the registration sheet. The young female researcher whose name he just never seemed to be able to remember handed him €120. She smiled at him. "Well done." He looked at her nametag. 'Sarah'. "Thanks, Sarah." Seb turned and walked out. "Well done." He repeated to himself on the way out into the cold autumn day.

The Gate My job was a simple one. All I had to do was guard the Gate, and make sure nothing goes in or comes out. It was an easy job. I usually sat against the wall, whittling small figurines or sharpening my sword. The days were long, and my home was far from the Gate, but the pay made everything well worth it. I was able to easily provide for my wife and daughter, and still had plenty of money left over. I missed my family dearly, however. I was only able to visit my home monthly because of the long journey between my home and the Gate, but I wouldn’t let it stop me from seeing my family. A week from today would be my daughter’s birthday, and I was going to leave in the morning to travel back home. As I looked through the rain at the Gate’s silvery, mirror-like surface I saw a man. The man was in his early thirties, and was weary of his long days guarding the Gate. His dark brown hair was matted to his forehead from the steady downpour, and his short beard dripped small beads of water as the rain rolled down his face. His green eyes were kind and caring, and full of hope as he readied his pack for the morning. My face stared back at me, and suddenly grew dark and gaunt. The man before me began to change, his figure distorting into something I had never seen. His arms extended into long, lanky things, his hands thinning almost to bone, his fingernails growing to razor edges. He began to tower over me as his legs grew as well. His face stretched and thinned itself, taking the shape of a skull. His eyes burrowed into his head, leaving only dark sockets that stared into my soul. His mouth stretched open, showing rows upon rows of knife-like teeth as he let out a terrifying moan. I stumbled back and grabbed my sword out of my sheath, trying to hold it in my hands, shaking with fear. The creature stood in the Gate, howling and moaning, until it suddenly lifted its hand, and lunged toward me. I dropped my sword as it grasped my neck, strangling me as I struggled for air. It began to pull me toward it, slowly and tediously, as if it wanted to watch me suffer. I fought to breathe but could not break the creatures grasp, and the darkness surrounded me as it pulled me toward its gaping mouth. ..…. ..…. I awoke terrified, grasping for air but finding that I did not need to breathe. I was walking down the path away from the Gate as if nothing happened. I could feel the weight of my pack on my shoulders, although it felt miniscule compared to how it normally felt. I felt strange as well. I felt strong and powerful, but at the same time I felt weak and powerless, as if something was controlling me. I swatted tree branches away from my head as I walked down the path and tried to stop, but my legs would not listen and kept walking. I had walked this path every day for years and I was never tall enough to worry about the tree branches. I looked down at myself and horror sunk into my soul. I was the creature, and the creature was me. I had somehow entered the creature that had come out of the Gate, but I could do nothing to control myself. I was a prisoner inside of its body, and all I could do was watch as it walked as me. I was unable to stand the revelation, and I fainted, although my body trudged on. ..…. ..…. I awoke again, my legs running in full sprint towards a small town. The town seemed familiar, but I could not gather my thoughts enough to give it a name. My body slowed as I walked into town, receiving welcomes from passerby in the town center. I screamed at them, wondering how they did not see this dark, demonic creature as they waved their hellos, but no sound escaped my lips. I passed the window of a small store and saw why. As I looked at the windows clear, mirror-like surface and I saw a man. The man was in his early thirties, and was weary of his long days traveling home. His dark brown hair was ruffled and dirty, and his short beard was ragged from the long days of travel. His green eyes were dark and sinister, and were empty of any emotion as he stood in front of the window. My face stared back at me, and I cried out in anger and fear. My body continued toward a small home in the back of the village, and my heart sank with fear. I saw Lily, my daughter, playing in the garden, and I saw my wife, Ann, through the window. Lily ran towards me and hugged me tight, and my body picked her up and smiled at her. She didn’t think anything was wrong, and my body put her down so she could continue playing in the garden. I walked into my home and I glanced at the mirror in the hallway. My face smiled at me as it drew a small dagger out of its sheath and hid it behind my back. I began to weep as I saw what was about to happen. My body turned and stopped as Ann rushed towards me. I screamed at myself as my arm thrust forward, and my life shattered. I guarded that Gate so that I could provide for my wife and daughter. I guarded that Gate so I could build a better life for my family. I guarded that Gate because I loved them more than anything. I guarded that Gate, and it ruined my hopes, my dreams, and destroyed everything I cared for.

I am not a particularly good writer, but this is the dream I just had, I felt the urge to post it somewhere and found this subreddit. ~ The air was frigid with cold on the dark January day. Seattle is far enough north that the winter and summer day lengths are disproportionate. Usually during this time of year dusk will be at four o'clock. The result is darkness, and rain, and even depression. The dark days seemed to mess with my head, make my sleeping patterns go crazy. Oddly enough I was going to sleep in the very early hours of the morning, and waking up past noon whenever I could. Tonight was no different as I went to sleep at almost 3 in the morning. Like any night I missed her to no end. I would likely never see her again, yet i clung to the very thought of her. Like most nights I fell asleep crying into my pillow, curled in my blankets as the rain drizzled down just outside. I was in a dark haze, not sure if i was asleep or awake. Suddenly I was awoken with a feeling of dread; my very insides were churning, my pulse quickened and adrenalin kicked in. I felt a sudden agony in my head; it felt as if my head was on fire. I twisted in my blankets and felt my stomach drop, the feeling you get when you’re on a roller-coaster on that first drop. A bright light filled my eyes becoming stronger every second, I felt my bed drop from beneath me and suddenly I was floating in nothing, light surrounding me. I was on the dry grass beside a busy road, my eyes adjusted then I saw her, waiting to cross the street just 5 yards before me. I was behind her she did not see me, nor did anyone of the cars rushing past. Somehow I was in Arizona. I began to pick myself up from the grass watching her as she started to cross the street. When something else caught my eye, it was a large truck, speeding through the previous intersection. I saw it, she did not. I shouted her name, attempting to warn her. I sprinted towards her just as she turned around to see the truck hurtling towards her. I jumped, pushing her out of the way and we both hit the ground hard. The trucks tire caught my leg and suddenly it was on fire. I looked again at her calling her name again as my head gave out. Yet I quickly came out again and I was on the side of the road. She held my head as I looked up at her amazing brown eyes, she was so fucking beautiful. I cried a bit, heard a siren and passed out again. I could tell my leg was in a bad shape as I woke on my hospital bed. I looked and saw she was beside my bed, sitting beside me on a chair gently sleeping while holding my hand. I lay there for an hour until she woke, we acknowledged each other silently then I leaned over and hugged her. My held felt numb and my sight went dark again, followed by pure light. I was in my own bed again, back in Washington listening to the sound of the rain fall endlessly outside.

My Obama Dream You probably felt compelled to read this article because of my fancy title. Well this is actually a story, not an article. This is a short story that is written using the memories I recollect of my Obama dream last night. While everyone else's dream about Obama is usually glorious and friendly, my Obama dream leaves me with no cuddly feelings inside. As parts of this dream are fuzzy at best, I have left the dream alone and not attempted to add details, the story may lack detail but the dream also lacked detail. My Obama Dream I was hanging out with Obama and John Stewart. They were finishing up a rally, for the people. There was a loud mouthed Mexican person who liked banana pancakes - banana pancakes have nothing to do with the story, but he would appreciate you knowing his softer side - this Mexican named Hezos was yelling mockeries of Obama. Obama was putting up with Hezos' hecklery, as a tall handsome president should. The rally came to it's finale. At the very end of the rally Obama, JStew and I started to walk to the First Limousine when out of no where the heckler yelled "Obama you would look bad in a mullet." Obama was angry now, and announced "I am going to get you." As quickly as Obama gave the get-sentence to Hezos, one thousand South-American, not so politically correct ninjas, jumped from the ceiling. That didn't happen, but I needed something to keep the reader engrossed in this, weird story - based on my dream. Obama set out after Hezos and followed him up a set of stairs into an empty hall. Jstew and I were curious so we followed. Jstew told me to wait behind, and I did, for a time. I snuck up a separate set of stairs and put my ear to the door opposite the far stair-case Obama went up. All I could hear were faint voices. "Listen you taco flavoured cracker, you get 5-10 years for disrespecting. Best respect." said Obama. "That is against the constitution" said Hezos. "Show me your birth certificate, Hezos" rebut-led Obama. Giving him the most unpleasant face he could conjure. Hezos knew he was cornered. I was quick to leave the staircase because I knew I wasn't supposed to overhear the conversation. I hadn't know it at the time, but I dropped my Game Boy. I quickly went to the car and waited for the president and Jstew. We drove back to their headquarters. When we got to the headquarters Jstew and the Prez went into the oval office. I went into the room beside the Oval office and put my ear to the wall. "I think David was listening in on your dealings with Hezos." said Jstew. "I know, the Game Boy we found is overwhelming evidence that he was listening in." replied Obama, the Prez. "What are we going to do?" asked Jstew. "Let's go have a talk with David." said Obama. I instantly knew I had to make my out of the building before they exited the office, that is oval. I had enough time to make it to the cliff-side garden that is behind the White House. Obama and Jstew made their way towards me. As soon as Obama reached me he began speaking "David, did you know if you are patient with your Magikarp, it will grow into a larger more powerful Pokemon?" he paused. "The secret to life is to hope for the best, even in Chinese carp monsters." He opened his chest vest to reveal my gameboy. I knew I had been caught. "We need to talk." I knew I had to alleviate their anxieties quickly, before things escalated. "I am Probama. I have always supported you. I understand that you have to be evil sometimes, for the greater good." I stammered "I know why you had to give the simple heckler 5-10 years imprisonment. I know how hard it is to be president. and to face ridicule every day." I noticed Obama's grimace fade and quickly regain his magazine cover smile. "Correct, I knew I could count on you, David." replied Obama. Obama started to turn when out of nowhere came the shrill voice of the gardener "Five to Ten years? Just like my cousin Pedro?" The gardener walked towards the president with a disappointed and questioning face. As soon as in arms reach, the president grabbed the gardener and threw him off the cliff, to his certain death. "He was a liability." snapped the president. "Something had to be done about that fool, and quickly." Obama nodded and Jstew and myself and casually walked back to the white house, although I knew it was now stained with blood. "I can't sit back and let Obama do this, we need to do something David." said Jstew. "You are right, the country needs us, the world needs us." I replied. We took hands and reached to the sky, each shouting a summons to our god. We rode into the sunset knowing we had to form a team to rid the world of evil. I then woke up out of my sleep anticipating a phone call from my co-worker, all the while wondering what the hell my dream was about, and knowing that people needed to know the truth.

Walking down Main Street, James sees something. He sees something florescent. It's glowing. It's calling is name. He must get to it. He needs it. He must find what is giving off such an enticing shade of green. He pushes past every person in his way--young, old, large, small, male, female-- he doesn't care. He needs to see it. He needs to touch it. Running as fast as he can, it only seems to get farther away. Oh, why can't he run faster? He's getting closer; he can feel it. *"But it still looks so far away."* He thought. He pushes a small girl aside and she hits the ground. And then she was gone. The girl had disappeared. James stopped running. *"where did she go?"* James looked around. *"Where did everyone go?"* The street that was a blur with people, cars, lights, and sounds moments ago was now inexplicably empty and so very quiet. He turned his body back to it's original position and saw there, lying in the street, the glowing thing that vexed him so. He started slowly towards it with sure steps, shaking with anticipation. *"Finally."* He stopped a foot-and-a-half away from the object and lowered himself to the ground. he reached his hand out to touch it and just as fast as everyone disappeared, so did the sun. Darkness stretched far and wide. James could barely see the street. *"I don't remember the sun setting. It all happened so fast."* He looked back to the ground to find that the object--like the little girl-- had gone. Speechless, he grabbed and scraped at the ground where the object was seconds ago. Anger and loss made it's way from the bottom of his stomach to the top of his lungs, and he cried out in anguish. He slammed his fists onto the cement, and suddenly, the street was gone. Falling through the blackness, James screamed and flailed his arms trying to find something--anything-- to hold onto, but found nothing. There was nothing above and nothing below him. How long had he been falling? Weeks? Months? It felt more like years. As time passed, he stopped screaming. He stopped grasping. He sometimes forgot he was still falling. He had become so accustomed to the nothingness; he almost felt like one with it. He felt peaceful. But he still asked the question time and time again: *"Will I be falling forever?"* Instantaneously, his body collided with stone. His bones cracked, his bladder released, and his mouth gave way to vomit and then blood. His lungs contracted and expelled all air from it's passages. Writhing there, half-dead, James could feel is organs begin to shut down. After what felt like hours, his lungs finally relaxed, allowing oxygen to enter. Coughing and gasping, James saw out of the corner of his eye, a faint green glow. He turned his head and saw the object lying there. The way it sat there, just out of reach, felt like it was mocking him; watching him; laughing at his pathetic situation. *"I have to destroy it."* He searched himself for any shred of strength. He stretched his arms out in from of him and started to drag himself toward the object that he now hated. He drug himself until he saw that, again, he was getting no closer to it. Dejected, he lay his head on the ground. **plink** He looked at the stone floor and saw a little white lump. He picked it up and looked closer. There in his hands, was a tooth. **plink** He looked down and found another. Confused, he ran his tongue along the teeth in his mouth and found two empty spaces; one where a molar once was, and one where a canine should be. **plink** Another tooth. And another. And another. James tried to put them back in his mouth, but his hands felt like they were underwater. He tried to scream, but his mouth was full of gravel. The high-pitched squeal of heavy machinery met his ears and bright flash blinded him. Clutching his chest and gasping, he sat up. The blankets had fallen to the floor and the pillows were at the foot of the bed. The sheets were damp with sweat. Trying to calm himself, James said, "Only a dream." Laying down, He said, "It was just a dream.

What am I doing with my life? I’m still sleeping in the same bed, in the same room, and in the same house as last year. I still have no plan. Do I want to write? I’m no writer, no one’s called me poetic, since last year Make art? I can’t draw, and people would rather hear death itself than my music. Go off the grid and hitchhike cross-country? Leaving everything behind, especially you, sounds good. I saw you. You were with him, with the same smile you used to give me. I wonder if you give him the same lies. I gambled my dreams, on a feeling; It makes sense that I lost. It is my love life, after all. Still in the tenth layer of hell; the same place I used to call heaven when I was with you. Success, I’m not surprised you’ve found it. I always made sure you knew of you’re talent. I’m glad you’re happy, I guess. That “Peter Pan” charm I used to have, is gone. No, I couldn’t play childish games in the past year. Since I don’t have fairy dust any more, Irish Red will have to do. Last year. Remember last year? Memories still linger in my mind. The smiles, the laughs even the tears; I would do many things to bring them back. It’s been a year since the goodbye. You weren’t the first, nor were you the last. But why do I think of you? I don’t deserve this pain. I’ll have to ask you to leave my mind, just as you left my life. You can leave now. I miss you.

Posted with her permission. She says she would greatly appreciate comments and criticisms. Without further delay, here it is: The moon hung like a haunting specter in the sky, casting a dim, eerie light over the city. From one of the darkest corners of the white city the fresh snowfall was marred by deep red as the unfortunate wolf found himself on the wrong side of too many debts. Those he'd wronged in the past had come for him and taken all that he had left to give them. He wouldn't be around when the sun came up. No, his debtors were smarter than that. By morning, it would look as clean and pure as the rest of the world. "Get -it- out of here" came a gruff, commanding voice. Hardly a sound from the two shadows flanking the figure was heard before they set to work refreshing the ground, clearing any trace of their presence, and getting what was left of the deadbeat wolf out of the alley so the trio could get home. It was going to be another long night. The leader sighed heavily, shoving the wolf's remains into a sack, while watching the other two work to remove the bloody snow. It was a tireless, thankless job, but it had to be done. That's just the way it was. After the snow in the alley was reset using a combination of fake snow and shovels for consistancy, the three took off and escaped into the rooftops as the moon started to set, moving quickly and quietly to get as far away as they could before the dawn was upon them, and the early birds were out in force, getting the city ready for the new day. A city with a big day ahead of it. A city full of busy people. A city now with one less resident.

I retreated to my room after a severe beating. I had spilled salt onto the table and this time it was the last straw. My face was red from embarrassment, black from the bruise that had already formed under my left eye, and green from the healing bruise under my right. My head was pounding and my whole body hurt. It took every ounce of strength I had to climb the ladder, so I could obey the command “Get out of my fucking sight before I do something even worse.” This wasn’t the first time he had hit me, and it wasn’t the worst. This time I was lucky. I could wait a few days til the bruise turned a lighter shade of angry and cover it with thick makeup. I’d wear sunglasses to cover the blood vessels that had burst in my eye. I knew all the tricks to concealing the bruises, scratches, and scars. I invested in every cream on the market that claimed to rid your body of those unholy blemishes. They half-assed worked on the smaller ones, but like the one from the kitchen knife while I washed the dishes had to always be cleverly covered by a scarf, or large necklace. It reached from one shoulder to the other. The doctor had a hard time stitching it up. The emergency room had heard every one of my excuses. I could tell from the pity in the eyes of the nurses that they didn’t believe a damn word that I was spewing, but they couldn’t do anything about it since we were two consenting adults, and I refused to press any charges. Pressing charges only makes things worse. It took me several minutes to will my muscles to move enough so I could get to the attic, which was my new “home” within my house. I was banished here shortly after the honeymoon. He couldn’t put up with me in bed, and he only ventured to my accommodations in order to satiate his primal “needs”. I learned quickly not to resist and the proper noises to make at the proper times. Even then, there was hardly a time that I wasn’t subject to his abuses, verbal and physical. Surfacing through the hole in the ceiling to my bare furnishings took every ounce of strength that I had. I had clawed my way up to what I thought was my temporary sanctuary only to find a noose hanging in place of my stuffed bear that sat in the corner on his little chair. I choked back a sob. Not for the sight of the noose, but because I had had that bear since my early childhood. It had been my only friend and confidant. Now it was gone and I had nothing. Was this the sign I had been begging for all of these years, or just a sick joke my mind or “husband” decided to play? I found myself drawn to this instrument of self destruction. It hung on a thick beam. No one would ever know. I had til five o’clock to decide my fate. That’s when I had to begin preparations for his dinner. I wasn’t allowed to eat with him. I served him in the dining room and I ate in the kitchen. I never feel like a wife, just a servant, an indentured servant that could never buy her freedom. I reached for the rope that was tied into this sinister knot, and pulled with all of my strength. It was sturdy. I certainly weighed enough to commit this final act, according to the things my loving “husband” relentlessly told me. Oh how tempting this was. I wondered if it was his idea. He would often bring drunk women into our “home” during the witching hours and expect me to undress them and have them waiting he would please himself and them, then punish me as soon as they sobered up and left. The noose became more and more appealing as the clock ticked away minutes and seconds. Minutes and seconds that I was wasting. I needed to make a decision. In my mind there were no cons and only pros. I had no family that cared, no children, and a husband that wanted me dead. Why not take my life into my own hands and end it before he had the pleasure of doing it? My hand had not left the rope. It was coarse and didn’t stretch. It was perfect. I could still hear him screaming downstairs in the dining room. I never wished death upon him, only myself. Every time he beat me, I prayed this would be the time that he took it one step to far. I prayed he would plunge the knife a little deeper, hit me just hard enough, break my nose and shove cartilage into my brain, throw me down every flight of stairs in our house, not just one, or just shoot me. He had threatened me with a gun seven times to date. He wouldn’t have if he knew that it would have caused me immense pleasure to have a fatal entry and exit wound through my head. He was a surgeon though and a sadist. He knew exactly where to plunge the knife so it wouldn’t hit anything vital. He knew where he could hit me to cause the most pain, but not kill me. He always missed me nose when he lunged for my face. He knew at my stature and weight, the right way to shove me, so I wouldn’t hit my head tumbling down the stairs. He never kept bullets in his guns, but he didn’t know I knew that. He also didn’t know that I cleaned his guns better than he did, or that I knew the password to his gun safe. There’s not much to do when you’re left home alone all day. The alarm clock on the floor next to my bed read 4:30 pm. Had four and a half hours actually elapsed since that beating? My knees did hurt, but I had attributed that to having my ass kicked again. My hand was red from handling the coarse rope. The realization of the time had brought me back to my semblance of reality, and had given me the sense of urgency that I needed to formulate a plan. It was now 4:35. I would not go downstairs at five o’clock. I would wait for him to come to me. He wasn’t going to win the game this time. He was going to get his. I wasn’t going to hide my bruises or scars anymore. I took my place on the chair where my bear had sat, and slipped the noose around my battered neck. It fit like a glove. I steadied myself and waited. The time dragged on. I could hear every second pass. I could feel every last minute slip through my fingers. At five o’clock an alarm downstairs went off. I was screamed for. I was told to shut the damned thing off. It took two minutes and forty five seconds for him to turn it off himself, and to start his search for me. I could hear him yelling for me in the kitchen. Calling out what he didn’t know were going to be idle threats. He went to his bedroom. The bathrooms. The dining room. He screamed my name one last time before it occurred to him that I now slept in the attic. I heard him approach and pull the string to the ladder to bring it down. I heard him take his first step. His second step. His third step. The abusive words grew louder with his approach. His sixth step. His seventh, eighth and ninth steps. There were 13 steps all together, and him being a tall “man” his head was about the attic floor, and he could see me. We locked eyes. He stood paralyzed for a second then smirked. He told me I didn’t have the guts. He didn’t believe me even after I had jumped from the chair, and swung back, crashing through the attic window and as the rope was severed by the force of my jump and the shattered glass, I landed on the sidewalk in front of the house. Bloody, bruised, and thankfully dead.

Under the Rug New neighbor moved in a few weeks ago downstairs. I don’t like him. I never even met him. The only thing I know is that he’s a chemist, calls himself an inventor. All he knows to invent are new ways to make me mad. He’s the kind of person that likes to take his work home with him. He works with Helium, a precious gas that will hopefully be wiped off the Earth. Though I never spoke to him, I know what he does. I feel it through the floor. He made a solid thing that floats. I heard thumping on my floor. The thump grew louder. There was a loud crash. The mad man broke my floor. I did not know that at the time, the object was contained in my rug. I panicked, so I grabbed my chair and threw it at the “bump” the object left. Ripping my rug, my chair landed on the floor below. He got the message, without a doubt. I lay awake during the next few nights waiting for his next attack. There was nothing other than the usual thumping that would drive me mad. One week passed, nothing; the thumping even stopped. That was the most soothing, peaceful week of my life. On the second week, he sent the helium object up again, breaking my newly fixed floor. Out of panic, I threw my chair again, breaking my rug again. To his surprise, my reaction was just and civil. I invited him to talk about how he will repay me. He made a promise to pay for any repairs necessary. Using my advanced persuasive skills, I made him tell me just when he would leave his apartment. I had a plan to sneak into his apartment and take some of that stuff that he calls “work.” I was going to let him taste his success, quite literally. The very next day I picked his lock, rummaged through his apartment only to find a gallon container filled with the stuff. It gave off a retched odor. I took a handful, put it in my pocket, locked his door and walked upstairs, knowing he would be back exactly three minutes past two. That was only twenty minutes away. As I entered my apartment, my mind raced with ideas. The only one that stood out, that was simple, yet clever, was to boil it and put it in tea. Yes, that would be perfect. I do my laundry and wash my hands; I set up several candles and spray air fresheners to steer away from the smell. Inviting him over was simple. Getting him to drink was the difficult task. He gladly sat down at the table while I brought over drinks. He rejected it. I then began using my persuasive skills to get him to drink. He then gave me a look as if he was sick of me. That’s how I know it worked. He took a sip and I smiled. I told him to drink up, and he did. He said he felt weak. I told him to lie down as he fell unconscious. By now, the tea got to his blood stream and in his heart. It must have started to clog his heart. He got weaker and weaker until I heard his last words “What is happening to me?” As he lay there, dead at 3.a.m. in my apartment, I grabbed a garbage bag and slipped him the hole through that he created. Knowing the evidence was not hidden, my plan started to turn into Swiss cheese. The body bag hit the floor with a thump. My heart started racing. I thought that the noise would be alarming and a neighbor would barge in while I stand peering over a dead body in a trash bag. I dashed downstairs. Opening the bag, I started to smell his dead body. I lift this man, who was surprisingly heavy, and lifted him on the couch. I moved his gallon of solid helium next to him. Later, I rummaged through his kitchen and made some tea. I spilled some in the sink and set it on the coffee table next to him. Going back upstairs, I entered my apartment. I took my helium covered jacket and burned it.

Greetings! I come from /r/TalesFromTheSnoo! It's a brand new subreddit where you can submit writing or art in any form for others to enjoy and also for the magazine proper. Readers will always be able to read and vote on every submission. At the end of every month, we'll take the top submissions and put them together in a big bad beautiful .pdf/.epub file. All for free! It's some good exposure for aspiring writers and artists, as well as some fantastic content for anyone and everyone. Submissions can evolve over the course of the month, and serials are certainly welcome! Ideally, we're looking for novellas, short stories, flash fiction, poetry, prose; all with any degree of science fiction and fantasy. Art submissions are welcome as well, particularly if they are pointed towards one particular story. Submissions can be from anyone, and of anything. Your brother's short story idea, some art you found online (we'll handle the permissions and rights), your own anything! Post it in the subreddit, and the community will vote on it! Please try and make sure that A) you get permission from the creator(s) and B) it hasn't been published before.

Mirror Who would you become if you suddenly found yourself in a world where your actions have no consequences? Society is stripped of any sort of law and punishment, any kind of judgment? Would you stay your current you, or would you become a monster with hardly any resemblance of who you once were? Epilogue Brandon CREEEAAAAK, “Oh Brandon nice of you to join us 1 hour before your shift ends! With that solider you won’t become Sergeant, Will you?” Said Marcus. “No sir, bu-“THERE ARE NO BUTS IN THE ARMY! Said Marcus “NOW DROP AND GIVE ME 20! Seth “Seth, you have the Johnson case done yet?” Seth hesitated he didn’t want to rush into the hunch but it was 99% true so what the heck. “Sir we believe it was a suicide Sheppard was left handed gun was on left side of his corpse and he has gun residue on him.” The officer in charge decided to make it a suicide and that was it. But what he didn’t know that the man had plans to derail society. Seth sent it to his military brother Brandon and when home back to his lovely wife Sarah Chapter 1 Societal Collapse Seth It happened when I was going to my job. Then nothing no more war no more peace and no more happiness. So like any other human that had guidelines and see them shattered into TRILLIONS of pieces I retaliated and I wish I didn’t.” THERE IS NO MORE LAW TO YOUR SIMPLE LIFES” I started asking around if everyone heard that announcement but as soon as I got to the city I knew everyone heard it. Flags were burning, even m- m- murder! Innocent bystanders to the crimes are being killed by the hundre- BOOM! A massive explosion comes from the east I get thrown off my feet. I climb back up the hill to see what was a city turned into a mad hatters paradise! Buildings are toppled people are doing what they would do if laws didn’t matter; I have to restore civilization to the world. What would our kin be born into? As I begin my descent down to the valley I get a call from my friend Connor and he tells me 2 words that burn into my stem I will never forget the words he said. My first choice is to go to the nearest church and see if they haven’t fallen apart yet. The nearest church is actually closer than I thought it would be a mile on foot within eyes distance so I ask the priest, “Father why has the world fallen into the abyss of everyone’s inner demon?” But he is no different from anyone else. “My son life is to be meant LIVED!” and he rips open his coat to show a bomb. I know it is illegal to carry a gun within city limits but I didn’t plan on making a trip to the city. I pull out the gun and shoot him in the head. And I just stand there and except the worst, something worse than the worst happened to me. Chapter 2 I’m sorry. Brandon 1 hour ago “Ok, this got me here so far so no quitting now” Brandon loads the machine with, himself the ultimate societal ender, Human sorrow. And just before the machine goes off I have to call my best friend. “I’m sorry” The machine fires tracking the phone and hits a mile away. Sending the world into chaos and bitter sorrow plagues the land for the rest of life.

If Looks Could Kill. Nothing could describe the fear I felt when I looked into her eyes. It was cold. Leaves scattered the ground, and the gravel under my back felt like sharpened icicles on my skin. The physical cold was only compounded by her eyes. My God, those eyes. Those piercing, icy blue eyes that seemed to tear a path to my heart like a frozen bullet. Those eyes that stopped the hypothermia and started melting me from the inside out, igniting a burning passion to thaw out my long dead love life. The contrasting feelings caused a slight sense of excitement. But I knew that this couldn't happen. She reaches down to help me up, I thought she meant to harm. Where am I? That's all I can think. Who is she? What did she do? I slap her arm away. She looks offended. What happened? I try to sit up, and suddenly feel a sharp pain in my back. I'm not going anywhere. My legs don't work. Upon this realization, my back follows suit, and I quickly feel the pangs of frozen rock on my back. For the first time in my life, I panic. I truly panic. She leans in close. Panic. Who is she? Did she do this to me? Suddenly I become aware of sounds. Noises. Like an infant in a game of peek-a-boo, I cannot seem to comprehend where these sounds were coming from. But it's starting to clear up. I look back into her eyes. Crystal blue ice turns to lightning as I feel her gaze connect with mine. Are you okay? She asks, as if I can understand her. I should understand. I can't. More panic. The sounds are becoming more clear. Her voice. It was muffled, but I could understand it. Are you okay? It's clearing up. It's being slowly drowned out. What's that noise? It's like.. a.. siren. That's what it is. A siren. Getting louder. Are you okay? No, I'm not. If only I could tell her that. My voice isn't working. I turn my head sideways. A bicycle. My bicycle? I don't recognize it. But I don't recognize my shirt either. The siren. It's stopped. The woman. She's getting up. Don't go. Please, I'm not scared anymore. We can happen. I just remembered, my arms work. I reach out. Grab her hand. Static. No, more than a static shock. Something. The connection. It's there. Why is it there? My back. Oh man, my back. The pain. The fear. Panic. I look away. A car. An ambulance creeping up. The car is really close. I can almost touch it. But I'm touching her. Her, with the frozen bullet eyes. Two men. Running. To me. Running to me. I'm not letting go of her hand. They touch me. She touches me. She has the electric fingers. They push her away. I wish I could protest, but my voice still betrays me. She lets go. I try to keep looking at her, but the men are in my way. The lights on the ambulance are bright. But they are getting dimmer. The men are trying to move me. It hurts. They pick me up. Please, stop. I can't tell you, but please. See my face. I'm hurting. Don't move me. I swing at the one on my left. He stumbles back and drops me back on the gound. They tell me to calm down. They are trying to help after all. Their voices. Getting quieter as they talk. Panic. I look around as much as I can. Every time I make a move, the world gets a bit darker. Where is she? I have to see her again. The men pick me up. I have no more strength to contest. She's behind them. Her eyes. Her stormy, lightning blue eyes. Clouded by tears, she just stands there, watching. I'm watching too. But not for long. I want to tell her. Her eyes are comfort. They are all I needed. The men move me to the ambulance. I think. I don't really care. The sounds have faded some. I can still see her from the back of the ambulance. Wait. They shut the doors. She's gone. Panic. Someone is in here with me. They move so fast that I only see them as a blur. It's getting darker. Darker. Panic. The blur is asking me questions. What is my name? It asks me, but I can't seem to recall. I can only remember her. Those eyes. The next question I'm asked fades to silence. Panic. What color was her hair? I didn't even notice. I've been moving too much. Things are almost out of sight. The pain is gone. I feel like I'm slipping. Darker. I'm just going to rest my eyes. I'm sure the blur won't mind. It's too dark to see in here anyway. This just makes it easier to see her eyes. I can hear some sounds. The siren is back. I think my eyes are still closed. Either way, it's dark. I feel like she touched my chest just now. The electricity was there. Both hands, bare flesh. The jolt startled me, and I knew she was there. I open my eyes. The blur is still there, but she isn't. Panic. I try to sit up, but the blur holds me down. The effort must have broke my back. The pain is back. My eyes are adjusting to the darkness. I can see the blur. It's one of the men. The one I swung at. The other one. Where is he? I look around the best I can. He's driving. Someone is in the passenger seat. A girl. Her hair. Red. Burning. It's her. I remember. She has red hair. I reach out towards her. Point. The man looks at her. We stop moving. The ambulance stops screaming. The men come to the back, and she is there with them. I take her hand. The men move me out and wheel me on a bed toward a building. She comes with me. They are moving me really fast. Everything is blurring, except for her. But her electric touch is losing its spark. Her icy blue eyes no longer reach as deep. Her burnt auburn hair is getting dimmer. I'm moving too much. It's dark again. I heard voices a minute ago, but now it's silent again. Her touch. The electric fingers on my chest. I feel it. Three times. But my eyes won't open. I feel it a fourth time, stronger than ever. All of my senses come rushing back to me. I can see her. I wonder if my voice works. I have to try. I love you. I said it. I heard it. My voice was weak, but I said it. And now it's fading again. I don't think she can bring me back. The sounds are fading again, but not as fast as my vision. The darkness returns, and I hear a soft voice. It's her voice. It's all I needed. I don't have to wonder. The voice. It told me what I needed to hear. I love you too. She loves me. It's the last thing I hear before the silence returns. I don't think I can come back. Her touch sparks agains my chest. But it isn't enough. At least I know how she feels. The burning hair matched with the freezing blue eyes. If looks could kill.. If looks could kill then she'd be the last thing I ever see. I'd be fine with that.

It was a point of pride for Jeremiah not to leave before his assigned time. He sat in stasis, shoulders hunched towards a whirring machine, listening not to the clock but the rhythmic sound of his over-pronounced exhalations. It was during these periods that his mind was most productive, something that, not unreasonably, didn’t always translate into physical momentum. He often sensed the promise of an oncoming epiphany that was always overtaken by the arrival of the assigned time and, once again, Jeremiah’s wait would be reset. The time was often filled physically with some light personal grooming. Jeremiah maintained a state of personal appearance that would meet any reputable societal demands but suffered with a dryness of the ear. Frequently, the skin would dry up forming a crisp husk around the outer lobe which Jeremiah felt compelled - primarily by habit - to remove, scooping his index finger around the bowed curvature of the concha. Not for the first time, the dryness had also crept into his inner-ear wax, causing it to solidify across his ear drum and rendering him hearing-impaired. He became aware of his breathing, controlling it to accord with his heartbeat under the notion that this was the natural order of things. He rationalised that the intake of oxygen should mirror the speed with which it was pumped around the body and didn’t want to exert himself physically beyond this motion, having expended so much energy on the decorum of his ear. Jessica's stare bounced off him with indifference but Jeremiah nevertheless furrowed his brow, the skin lapping over itself into a state of apparent concentration. His eyes quickly traced across the pixellated demarcations across his screen left to right, at what he judged to be a normalised reading pace. Occasionally, Jeremiah would allow his focus to drift slightly beyond the screen and the refocus just to see if Jessica was paying attention. Jessica's voice took on a background otherness, a separated entity in the room being controlled indirectly by Jessica but somehow being disconnected from her. It occupied an unhealthy and increasingly voluminous space in the room before being dispelled byJeremiah. "..Give me.. one minute," and he motioned towards her with a finger which he took care not to point directly at her. The space previously occupied by her voice became filled with the ricochet of her glare as it bounced around inside the room, trailing behind it. As Jeremiah finished the slow and forced tracing down the screen, taking twice as long as he normally dedicated to this ritual, he reached for his phone which lay silent in his pocket. "Sorry, I have to take this," he said as he made his way from the room.

Voices from the television, white noise to his vacant mind. Two men were talking to each other and he didn't see their faces. He saw moving lips. The stench of the apartment did not bother him. Half eaten food rotted on the floor. The most recent of this food was a bowl of somewhat eaten jello. It sat still on the table next to the couch where a mindless man sat. Who is this man? Most would say he's a brilliant writer of a dozen famous short stories; each translated into a dozen languages and read by much more than a dozen people. The characters in his stories have been analyzed time and time again. They are the best creations of his writing. His characters are the story. Their complexities are deeper than most imagine. This writer is a genius. But at this moment, he isn't a famous writer. He is Alfred Jones, the newest of his characters. You see, when the writer writes, he locks himself in his apartment for many months. He eats, but he doesn't finish. He turns on the TV and enters his imagination, unaware of reality, to build his characters for hours. He writes it all down when he awakes at midnight. He becomes his characters during these trances. He jolted wide awake. Is it midnight? He checked the time through a TV and found it was 9:00. Two men were talking on a screen. Who are these two men, Sally? He looked around. Sally was not there. This isn't my place. Did I get drunk today? No, I couldn't have. So how did I get here? The man stood up, puzzled by what was happening. The jello will stink, the jello will stink. He was startled by this incoherent thought. It wasn't his. Who was that?! WHO said that?! He grabbed a couch, trying for a grip of the demented reality. WHERE AM I?! The man ran to a bathroom. The jello will stink, the jello will- He screamed. He wanted to vomit. Was he going crazy? Water rushed through the man's fingers as he washed his face. This will wake me up! It will, it will, it will, IT WILL. He looked up to a mirror. Screams echoed in a bathroom. This isn't him! This isn't him! WHO IS THIS FACE?! WHO IS THIS?! He screamed and screamed. He clawed at the face. Is it a mask? He pulled but it wouldn't come off. Stink jello stink. The man smashed the face into a mirror. He's just dreaming right now! This can't be real. Blood trickled down the mangled face. Shards of mirror were dug into skin. They were deep. Where's your wallet? I don't know. Go find it. Who are you? The man walked of a bathroom. Blood dripped onto a floor. Why is my face on fire? The man went towards a room. My face hurts. Sally? Help me. Jello stink. I opened a door. Where is the wallet? Put out the fire. A wallet was on a bed. Whose wallet is that? It's mine. It's his. Put out the fire. He picked up a wallet. I opened it up. I read a name on a license. Stephen King.

The darkness engulfed my room as if I had suddenly gone blind for no reason. It was calm, and quiet. Nothing but the sound of the fan cooling me from the opposite end of the room. The fan was soothing for some reason. Like a glass of warm milk after a nightmare. It calmed me, and the cool breeze from its blades made it easier to sleep. I had a long day ahead of me tomorrow. The last day of school was finally in my grasp, and I was more excited than ever for summer. I had fallen asleep almost instantly. I usually never dreamt but tonight was different. I found the dream to take me to an airplane cockpit. There was a pilot and a man in a jumpsuit standing next to it. "Ready to jump?" the man shouted as he opened the plane door. A gust of wind flooded into the cockpit. "Remember, pull the blue chord, then the red chord!" he shouted at me. I nodded with an understanding of what to do. "Ready, JUMP!" the man shouted as he leaped out of the plane. I hesitated looking at the long drop below me. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes; I jumped. The wind pounded against my face as if someone had placed a jet engine in front of me. It stung my skin as it pounded against my mouth, nose, and eyes. It was horrific and terrifying. The man was no where to be seen. I panicked and decided to pull my parachute. I pulled the blue chord; nothing. I pulled the red chord; nothing. My parachute hadn't deployed. I began to freak out; my parachuted hadn't deployed and I was falling at around a hundred miles per hour towards solid ground. I was going to die. I frantically began looking over my jumpsuit for something that could possibly break my fall and save my life. A backup parachute perhaps. I remembered in lots of movies that the one who's parachute didn't deploy always had a backup parachute. I scoured my jumpsuit for something of such nature. I spotted a small handle with the inscription "emergency" on it. This had to be it. I frantically pulled it and a small parachute burst put of my suit. I was saved for the moment, but my trouble was not over. The chords that connected me to the parachute began to snap and break off. The parachute quickly disattached itself from my suit and flew away. I was falling again, and I was going to die for real this time. I looked down; the ground drew closer and closer by the second. I closed my eyes and prayed. When I opened them the ground was unimaginably close. Then everything went dark. "Wake up, you can't fall asleep on your last day of school," a voice said. I looked up to see Mr. Manson; my math teacher. I was in math class, drooling on my desk; oblivious to the world around me. I was at school; I was safe. I breathed a sigh of relief and sat up. It was time to learn and not sleep. The school intercom sounded; "Lockdown, I repeat this is not a drill, lockdown now!" Mr. Manson rushed everyone to get under their desks while he went under his. "Open up!" a strange voice shouted from outside the door. No one moved a muscle. The door then burst open with a cloud of smoke and fire. My ears were ringing so loud I could not hear anything. The man was shooting a machine gun into the room. I threw myself onto the ground in an attempt to save my life. The firing stopped as did the ringing in my ears. The man left the room. Cautiously I creeped from off the floor and looked around. "Hello?" I said with caution. There was no answer. I had stepped out of one nightmare and into another. Usually in a dream one could have control of the actions around them as if they were like a god, but this was no dream, this was a nightmare, and in nightmares, you're powerless. You can't even control your breathing. In this nightmare that man with the gun was the god of my subconscious. He decided who I was and what I did until he decided when the nightmare should be over. I had to find a way out. I frantically looked around the room for something to defend myself with. A pair of scissors or a small knife. I scoured the room. When I looked in the teacher's desk I found a gem: A 9mm pistol. I grabbed the pistol and looked outside the classroom door. The coast was clear. I ran for the next room; pistol ready. Everyone in the next few rooms were dead. Was I the only one left? Was I going to die here? Is the world like "A Nightmare on Elm Street" where if you die in your dreams you die for real? I prayed it wasn't. I continued down the stairs. Down the stairs was the man. He had just shot the janitor and a student. I had never met either of them, but my pity for them grew. I raised my gun to shoot the man. I cocked the gun. I began to sweat uncontrollably. I was about to kill another human being. I was about to take another person's life. I had to, it would set me free from this awful nightmare forever. I turned the safety off and pulled the trigger. 'Click;' nothing had happened. I began to panic. What if the man had heard the click? Was he going to turn around and shoot me instead? I prayed that was not the answer; it was. The man snapped around and pulled the trigger. I jolted awake covered in sweat and panting from the terrible nightmare. It was still dark in my room. I could only hear and feel the cold breeze from the fan on the opposite end of the room. I glanced at the clock which read one-thirty in the morning. I had five and a half hours until I had to go to school. Sleep alluded me for the time. I had just plugged in my headphones and watched the sun rise. Today was the last day of school, and I prayed the dream hadn't come true.

Chapter I Chapter II “Mom! Mom look!” I shouted while pointing at the closet, for once I thought I may have caught it. Mom came walking up the stairs, annoyed with the fact that this is the fourth time tonight that I’ve asked her to come to my room. “What is it, Daniel?” asked Mom, acting like she still cares about my stupid imagination playing tricks on me. “I saw it! I saw it again, Mom! It was that man that ran on all fours!” I shouted, while trying to describe what happened to Mom. She didn’t believe me, of course; she just told me that it was my mind playing tricks on me and told me that I can sleep in her room with Dad. It had been the sixth night in a row where I would shout for Mom, and tell her that the man has returned. I treated him like a friend, although sometimes he’d be really aggressive. Sometimes he would pull me under the bed at night, or throw things at me, but the thing I remember most was the scratching. All night, every night, he would scratch on my ceilings, my walls, even my floor on some occasions. Andy always thought I was silly, but he took my imaginary friend as an advantage, he would trick me into thinking it’s a ghost, or the boogeyman. Of course, since I was a child, I’d believe those things. Andy was two years older than me, so I’d believe almost anything he would tell me. No matter how many times he would anger me, it was only temporary. He was my best friend for life. But back onto the story, and events of my childhood. I would end up frightened, shaking in the corner, but my parents never even seemed to care, and they would just shrug it off and say “Daniel, it’s just a nightmare”or“Daniel, I know you want attention, but it’s getting rather annoying”. I suppose you could say that my childhood was filled with neglect, but I can’t blame my parents. Having a child who shouts every night due to the imaginary monster that cannot harm me in any way, and then complains when his parents do nothing about it. Eventually, the noises, nightmares and sightings cooled off, and I started doing well in school and had started making friends. But, one dreadful afternoon, I decided it would be a good idea to invite a friend for a sleepover in the backyard, with a tent, to tell scary stories. Later, after several fake stories about ghouls and ghosts, we decided to sleep. My friend, Max, whom was sleeping in the tent with me said he heard rustling outside, but, just like my parents during my childhood, I told him that it was his imagination. The next morning, he wasn’t there. I got up and walked inside my home, groggily, and asked my parents if they had seen Max leave or go to the bathroom upstairs. They simply shrugged and said his parents must have picked him up early. I called his parents shortly after, and asked them if they picked him up by any chance, or if he had walked home. They had the most worried tone I have ever heard in my entire lifetime, and told me that they were going to call the police. The police came and checked the forest on the other side of the fence of my backyard. They found what was remaining of Max by the river, about 50 yards away, it was a very dreadful day. Sometimes, even now, I think about what would happen if I had actually listened to Max and went back inside with him. I really wish that I had done that. Back to today, after a week of staying at Andy’s house, I decided to return to the apartment to gather a few things and possibly move away, but unfortunately I didn’t have enough money to afford a new apartment room, so I’d have to stick with the creepy, dark and fucked up one. So as I returned to my apartment, believe it or not, every thing seemed normal once more. Nothing destroyed, no police tape, nothing; Just my same old apartment. Since it was back to normal, I decided to treat it like nothing had happened, and went back to my computer. The chat was still on, and I saw the messages that I had apparently sent to Andy. I turned off my computer and returned to the dining room, sat on the couch and called an old friend, Diana, who really read a lot of shit about paranormal activity and demons, as I remembered. When she answered, she was surprised to hear that I was still alive and said that she saw my apartment on the news and thought of the worst possible situations. She wanted me to go over for some coffee and to chat a little bit, considering we haven’t spoken in two weeks, due to my retreat to Andy’s home. When I arrived, she greeted me with a hug, and offered a seat. Unfortunately, by coffee, she didn’t mean sex, but that’s okay. We spoke about life and other subjects that I can’t completely remember, but then I told her about the scratching, and asked her if there was any relation to some ghost or demon of some sort. Apparently not. So that ceased my paranoia, and I began thinking it was only my imagination once more, although I couldn’t push out the fact that my apartment was messed up and the police even arrived and saw the mess. We continued talking and telling stories until about 8:34 PM, when I decided I should head back to the apartment, almost completely forgetting about the recent events. I said goodbye and went on my way. Upon arrival at my apartment, I noticed that no lights were on in the entire structure. I thought it was rather odd, but I didn’t really think much of it, I just turned on my phone and used the light from the screen to guide me through the darkness. I made it up to my apartment room, entered it and tried the lights, which oddly worked. I spent a large amount of time on my computer, browsing Reddit and watching videos on YouTube until it was 11:07 PM, then I decided to hit the sack, considering I’d have to go to work in the morning. When I arrived at work, some of my co-workers asked me questions about my apartment, and my disappearance for two weeks, which I had to brush off and make up some shitty lies like “I went to visit family” or “I was sick for two weeks, and stayed at a friend’s house”. Luckily, though, they all believed me and the rest of the day went by just like a normal day. After work, on my way home, I decided to check on Andy, and maybe visit Max’s grave. Andy wasn’t home, unfortunately, so I decided to head straight to the cemetery and lay some flowers on Max’s grave. I promised myself that I would visit his grave once or twice a year, considering it was kind of my fault for his death. When I arrived at the cemetery, something seemed a little more… Eerie. A lot more eerie than usual. But I simply shrugged it off, and continued to Max’s grave, which was at the furthest corner of the cemetery. As I approached the grave of my once best friend, I noticed something very odd. I felt as if I was being watched, but I swore, I was all alone. I made my way to his grave, placed the flowers, and began my walk back to the car. As I was walking, once more, I felt eyes on me, except this time I noticed a tall hunched figure by a tree. I thought it was a man who had been lost, but as I approached him I noticed the most horrific things of him. I wish I never approached him. He had a cartoony smile with sharp teeth from ear to ear, no lips, small pinhole eyes and long, sharp fingers. I ran, I ran faster than a bat out of hell, entered my car and looked back in the direction. He was gone. Thank fucking god that thing was gone, if he was still there or if worse, chasing me, I’d have no idea how to react to that. I drove home with hopes of messing around on the internet, relaxing then sleeping afterwards. Upon arrival, I looked up at the window of where my apartment room should be, and saw that the lights were on and a silhouette of a figure was at the window. I hesitantly entered the building and went straight towards my apartment room, hoping it isn’t being robbed; I unlock the door and enter. Andy was standing by the kitchen area, waiting for me with a small cupcake with a candle in it. So much shit has been going on I didn’t even realize that it was my birthday. We celebrated with alcohol and video games; it was a great night, although I wish I forgot about that damned figure in the cemetery, staring at me, without a word. I had a nightmare that I was being chased by that thing in my workspace. I should try and find out more about this thing.

Have you ever heard the tale of the Walrus and the Whale? It started one day, just like any other, while she was going to Walrus School. The ground appeared to be just the same as the ground she walked on every other day, but she smelt brine in the air, and wouldn't you know it, there laid a whale smack in the middle of her path, for there were trees on either side of the path and the whale could do nothing to get out. The Walrus didn't know what to do so she thought and thought, and applying the lessons from the day before, went inside the whale to find the joy box, but it was no where to be found. And she looked high and low, but there was no joy to be found anywhere inside this whale. It was stuck, surrounded by trees, smack dab in the middle of the path, laying there, waiting for the Walrus to come along.

We are connected, you and I. I never knew you, but we are connected. I waited for you. I chose you. It could have been someone else. Just five more seconds and you would have passed, but you came around the building and I knew. It was the itch. The itch that’s deep inside. I’m sure you’ve had it yourself. The kind of itch you can never dig out. Trust me I tried. The first time I got the itch it felt like my stomach was being eaten from the inside out. So I took my knife and dug into my own flesh. But the deeper I went I realized I couldn’t reach it. When they found me with the black hole in my stomach, they thought you did it to me. They told me I was a lucky bastard and said I’d have a chance to get even with you soon enough. They told me I would live. So they patched me up and gave me pills, but I knew the itch would never go away. Now it calls me, guides me. It guided me to you. Please don’t think I’m a monster. I’m sure you would have done the same, wouldn’t you? I didn’t order you to show up when you did. I just do what I’m told, by the itch, and the itch chose you. I let ten of you pass from one wall to the other. I watched as the first of you leaned around the corner. I could have sworn you saw me, but you didn’t. The first of you leaned around the corner and gave a hand signal and you all came pouring out like ants from a hole. So if you’re looking for someone to blame, blame the signal man, not me. He gave you that red star on your chest just as much as me. The red star. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to get a red star. I used to think about it all the time, but after a while I realized making it this far meant I never would. I still think about it, sometimes. As I was saying, you came around the corner, and as soon as I saw you, I got the itch. What’s that? Why? Speak up, man! Why did I get the itch? If you have to ask that question, clearly I was wrong and you never had it. In short, I don’t know. I know that isn’t the answer you want to hear, but it’s the truth. I don’t know why the itch chose you. You look like a decent enough fellow. I didn't hate you when you came around the corner. Actually, I get the sense that we are similar. But you came around the corner, and I didn’t feel much of anything, just that small seed of fear. Surely, if you don’t know what the itch is, you have to know the fear. Even now, with the red star on your chest, I still fear you. I know, it sounds stupid, but I do. Because I could be you. Because we’re connected you and I. Someday, someone might get the itch, and it will be me that gets a red star. But this time, you came around the corner, and I waited. I know you want that red star to mean something. You hope that in some small way, that badge on your chest will make a difference, and you know what? I think it does. Maybe not in the final outcome, but inside, yes, I think it does because you can claim it as your own. You earned it. But not just for yourself. If this whole thing was only for ourselves, we wouldn’t be here, am I right? But we are connected, I know that much, and that’s how I know it means something. Well, I better get going. Say, what’s that? That in your hand? May I? Oh wow, what a great picture. She, wow, she is really beautiful. And look at those kiddos. Hey their Chief you have a helluva good looking-oh, Jesus. Man, I’m sorry. Here, keep them in a safe place. Take them. Common take them! Alright, look, I’ll just tuck them right in your pocket there. Man, don’t look at me like that. I told you it wasn’t my fault. Weren’t you listening to a single word I was saying? We’re connected. I waited just to be sure! The itch told me! Stop staring at me you sick bastard! I swear I’ll put another red star right in your damn forehead! Stop staring at me! *Pop!* It’s not my fault! *Pop! Pop! Pop!* *** The dead soldier’s face was unrecognizable by the time they stopped Private Anderson. The stock of his rifle was implanted in the side of the enemy soldier’s skull, but even without that final blow, Anderson managed to fire off a full clip into the man’s face and chest. As recalled by Lieutenant Jeffries, Private Anderson was being restrained by three other soldiers when he arrived on the scene. The private’s face had gone pallid in the struggle, his lips blue and twisted into a hideous form. And he was screaming. Jeffries had heard plenty of screams in war, but nothing so primal, so pure. It was like Anderson spewed a patchwork quilt of sorrow, horror, and darkness over the men, and when it settled it found every nerve in their bodies and plucked it like a guitar string. Watching him lose it, they all felt cold. Because they knew it could be them, that they were connected. They could be drug away with spittle flying from their mouths screaming, “the itch!” Just like Anderson.

The Painter. A few hours before sunset on the longest day of the year. An artist sat on the peek of a hill, and took a deep breath as he looked at the landscape which was sitting in front of him. He breathed in his surroundings and began to paint. The people in the city below, distant, were making their way from point A to point B like mice in a maze designed by man, which they were never to escape from. They knew nothing of the humble painter. Although they were unknowingly sharing a profound moment with him. He saw the world in poetry, art and music. His reality was his only reality, he saw through the many curtains of our little world and he knew who he was. The artist saw not cars and materials but only vibrant colour, each representing forgotten ideologies in there own right. And he heard only notes of music in the horns and sirens which symbolised so little to so many. As the sun began to set it, shone a powerful melancholic light across the city, which was toe be subject to immortalising before the moon had risen. The sun had shone many days before, and would shine many days following, but it would never shine like this again. It was a long moment so perfectly captured, one not observed by any one other than the artist. As the day began to slide away, the strokes began to get shorter and shorter as the night drew closer, and when the light of the sun had faded to black and darkness engulfed the skyline, he had performed the final stroke. His final stroke, so profound, releasing his last colourful gift to the world. With it he painted not canvas but the landscape itself. A dark rogue, his final piece, beautiful immortality. Many would look with unpoetical eyes and sigh, although others would see profound dedication. A dedication and a message to humanity. His last vision perfectly captured, in the landscape on the eisle which stood before him. Finally man could see as he saw. And his body may have been cold and lifeless by midnight, but his last painting contained the best of his years, his warmth, to be found in that captured moment until the end of time.

It doesn’t take long for the children to find their way. They follow the ready-made trail, usually hidden by the warm arrays of leaves in their orange and browns. It’s funny how these trees, appreciated whilst they’re green and living, are so magnificent once their leaves fall and die. It’s almost poetic; the little children following the trail of death to find home. And they will find home with me. Under the solace of the branches they will be safe and sound, warm and snug around the campfire. They will come to their Wendy. It’s interesting isn’t it? The lies these adults will tell to keep their children from misbehaving and wandering off. “Go to sleep when we tell you or the Boogey Man will get you!” or “Santa won’t bring you presents if you keep behaving that way!” or “Don’t get lost in the woods or people will find you. They will hunt you. They will rape and kill you.” All these silly lies. There are no horrors out there for children. Children are blissful creatures, to be cherished by all those around them. There is no greater delight than sitting, watching these dainty pixies frolic in the sunlight. Take children out of the equation and there will be no laughter in this merciless world. Silly adults, no one would dare do anything to harm the babes. I can hear them getting closer. How delightful! Those delicious dead leaves crunch under their little booties like the bones of the defeated. I love that crackle you get, it’s like candy for the ears, alike to a passing breathe of someone close by, sounds of the living. I heard a story a long time ago, it’s an old tale, older than your own ears. He told me about this place. It’s so far away and you can only get there by thinking happy thoughts. It’s such a wondrous place. There are mermaids and pirates and Red Indians and such beautiful creatures. There are children there too. Lost children far from home who need looking after. Poor children. If only they had their Wendy. There’s laughter in these woods once more! Joyful joyful noise! I always did love laughter. It tickles the belly and it resounds in your head long after. He always made me laugh. He had such a way with words, he could tell a tale and it was like you were there! I was helping him fight a blood thirsty tiger in the depths of the jungle. I was swimming with him in that long forgotten wreck. I was watching him interact with those Indians, turning them red as he burned down their village. I was watching as my father’s hands gagged my mouth and defiled my young body. He said it was a part of life. Children get hurt because adults need it. Adults need to take a child’s innocence because they, themselves have lost it and are jealous. They need that act of gratification because there is nothing that can compare to it. I won’t let them do it. No one can harm the babes. Oh I hope these children will be more grateful than the last few that came by. They wanted to leave so soon just when I was getting into my story. They said that their parents would be angry if they didn’t leave right then. I told them not to worry; they’ll be safe with me. I gave them more tea and they soon settled down and enjoyed the rest of my story. I’ve recently realised that I tend to talk a lot, it’s my fatal flaw or “hamartia” if you like. He always told me that it was going to get me into a lot of trouble one of these days. He said that if I didn’t let other people get a word in that they’ll want to cut my tongue out and chop it to pieces. I quickly tightened up after that, but only for a little while. I can’t help it, I like to talk and if I don’t talk then who will? And I have so many stories to tell, the children love it when they sit around and listen to the stories of their Wendy. I should get the tea on! I can’t expect them to arrive here and not have tea ready for them. The sleeping bags are all neat and tidy, surrounding the camp fire so that they shall be warm while they sleep. It’s getting cold out and I don’t want them to catch a chill. The children are always so polite, they say their pleases and their thank you’s and they sip at that tea so delicately. They’re so delicate, like little birds; little birds with their breakable necks and hollow bones, that sing so beautifully. There’s nothing quite like a child singing. That’s what my father said when we used to go see the choir sing on a Sunday; all those little children singing so sweetly in their robes. I wasn’t allowed to sing because singing is an act of the innocent and I was a sinner, so guilty that I had to be punished. I sang though, as each blow dented my little body, I sang. I sang till my lungs burst and my throat burnt. I wasn’t good enough, but the children are and no one shall harm the babes. They sit so serenely on their sleeping bags, little legs crossed and hands in their laps, like little angels. They can see the tea brewing on the fire and I’m sure they are delighting themselves in the smell. They look up at me with their big seeing eyes as I pour them their tea and they take their sips so tentatively. I can’t help but beam at them, my little angels. I watch them for a while in silence as they chatter among themselves, their sweet voices filling the forest air. Uneasiness begins to creep over them and I take that as my cue to start talking. “Children, did you ever hear the tale of a boy called Peter?” They nod their little heads, their hair bouncing like leaves in the wind, “Would you like to hear a story about my Peter?” Again, they nod and they take another small sip of their tea. “My Peter was such a joyful little boy. He came to me when I was seven years old, a lonely only child with no friends my age. He found me and he saved me. He came from a land so far away that the only way to get there was to fly and he flew so majestically. The very first time he came to me, he flew all around my room, darting towards the corners only to pull back at the last second. It was so exciting watching this mysterious boy with pale blonde hair and clothes made from leaves dance around the room.” I notice the children snuggle deeper into their sleeping bags, getting more comfortable to enjoy my story. “He finally came to a halt and stood right in front of my bed, hands on hips, brazen as the day. He was so big back then, his shadow came to a halt just under my tucked up chin and I looked up at him, grinning. He pinched the tips of my toes with his little twig like fingers until I giggled and pulled my knees up to my chest, like this.” I go to demonstrate and I watch as a few of the children copy, “He smiled and sat on the edge of my bed and looked at me. “’Why are you smiling like that?’ He said. I couldn’t believe this was real. He was so beautiful, children. Such childlike benevolence radiated from him, I felt like he was ethereal. I didn’t want to touch him for fear of him disappearing and I daren’t speak for fear of waking my father up. ‘Why won’t you speak?’ He said, “Cat got your tongue?’ This made me giggle even more, I had to bring my hands up to cover my face. ‘Are you a mute? Did you get your tongue cut out?’ I shook my head rapidly. ‘Well then, I guess I’ll just have to make you talk.’ At this, he lunged at me, taking his twiggy fingers and dancing them over me, tickling me. I couldn’t take it and laughed so hard my belly ached! It was wondrous! Even after he stopped I still felt the tingles of his fingers on my legs and arms, little scratches that bled like the tears of laughter that fell from my eyes. I yelled at him to stop and he smiled smugly and disappeared in a flash, leaving me in my dark room with my awakened father’s footsteps looming.” The children’s eyes were drooping, they were feeling sleepy but there was still more tea in the pot so I shared it round, giving each little boy and girl a smile as I did it. “Peter came back multiple times after that night, and after he got me talking, I never stopped. I confided in Peter and in return he told me such magical stories about the land where he lived. Let me tell you my favourite: In the depths of the forests where Peter lived was a humongous tree house. It housed a group of children, Lost Children, and they lived there and they frolicked and played in the surrounding woods. These children, although lost, were free. There were no adults around telling them what to do, no chores or lies from their parents. There was just a Wendy. A Wendy was a lady who looked after them but never annoyed them. She made them dinner, kept the tree house clean and she told the children stories and tucked them into bed at night. The Lost Children were so grateful to have a Wendy like the Wendy they had. She was the best, loving and caring, like the mother they always wanted. This Wendy had magical properties that made the Lost Children love her even more. She had the power to keep them young forever. Never will they grow old into adults and learn to lie and hurt people. They will forever be blissfully innocent. “That story stuck by me, children. Peter talked of this Wendy so fondly and warmly, it was easy to love her even though I had never met her. That was the magic of Peter’s stories, children, he transported you to places you had never been before, he could make you love or hate people you had never met before because of the way he told them. You could so easily get lost in Peter’s stories, I know I did a couple of times, always so disappointed to know I was back. I always asked him to take me with him, back to his home. We tried once; he stood with me by the window, the dark night looming ahead of me. He held my hand whispered in my ear, telling me to think happy thoughts. I thought of his Wendy, of the Mermaids of his lands, of the pirates and the Lost Children. He then kept hold of my hand and told me to fly… “I can’t quite remember what happened after that, children, but after that day I never saw Peter again. He had left me. We jumped and then darkness… he’d disappeared. We’d been through so much and he’d gone, and I knew why. I wasn’t his Wendy. But I can be his Wendy, children. I can be your Wendy, so just lay down by the fire dears. Listen to my song and let it relax you.” As I sing, I watch them close their eyes. This part is always sad, saying good night. I had to say good night to Peter, as he closed his eyes. The boy who never sleeps forever reigns on awake in my dreams. And so will these children. I tuck them in and kiss each one on the forehead and then I sit and listen. I listen out for the forest sounds of birds chirping and little animals scurrying around in the undergrowth and just when I need it too, it all goes silent. So silent that I can only hear the breathing of those beautiful children around me. “It’s okay children, nothing to be afraid of,” I whisper, “No bogey man to get you out here. No bad people to come and rape and kill you. Just me, I’ve got you.” I can hear their breathing start to slow as they slip deeper into their sleep. “I’ve got you and I’ll forever be your Wendy. Go and join Peter in your dreams.” Their chests move slower and slower as the tea begins to take its toll on them. “You’ll forever be innocent, my children.” Then, nothing. They fall into the deepest sleep they will ever have, among the dead leaves of the trees. And I swear, they have never been so beautiful.

It was 3am and I needed a ride home. I had a place to stay, but no idea how to get there. A car was driving up so I flagged it down. The driver seemed like I could trust him so I got in his truck and attempted to tell him how to get to where I needed to go. He was from out of town and was as familiar with the area as I was. He asked what I had to do, and I said nothing. He was passing through town to pick up sections of a chopped up tree that he could later turn into firewood and sell. He said his place overlooked Morrow Rock and asked if I wanted to go back there with him and smoke. I agreed on the condition that he gave me a ride back. He had a cool dog. It was a 6 month old boxer/pitbull with a black coat and amazing, bright, cream colored eyes. His name was Lazarus. The car ride was about 25 minutes long and he did most of the talking. I answered in short sentences that had a hint of an attitude that said “Don’t fuck with me”. He was a lonely man with no one left in the world. His dad died when he was young, and his mom is a drug addict who he regularly sells prescription pills to. Their latest transaction was pills in exchange for about a quarter eighth of an ounce of weed, which we later smoked. He was 28 and had a 9 year old kid who he never saw. This man only had his dog, and that night he needed a friend to talk to. He was a meth addict, which although he later told me, was evident from his firewood scheme, disjointed ideas, and overall behavior. He lived with an air of uneasy and uncertain enthusiasm. This was the reason for my slight attitude. He needed to know that I was only here to talk. I was not someone to be messed with. He needed to know that I was smart, and that the things he told me didn’t frighten or alarm me. I laughed at his 3 prison stints and called him an idiot for going that many times. I had his respect, and he told me everything he could think of. When we got back to his place, I saw Morrow Rock just past the inland part of the bay that was about 300 yards in front of me. We entered the door of the garage and I saw that this was not his house. He lived on a mattress next to the clutter of a senior citizen that hadn’t given much thought to a room like this in more than 15 years. There was a fridge from which he handed me a Gogurt and a water. He told me that the woman who owned the house used to swim with William Hurst in his beautiful pools of gold leaf and Roman architecture. His father had known her, and apparently he was doing some job on the house for her. It looked like nothing more than squatting. He told me about how he got kicked out of school at 16, and about kayaking in the bay when the tide was high, and about his favorite boyhood potato gun. He told me about his fear of being alone, and how he preferred to have someone with him as much as he could. His mom pays for the food that he and Lazarus eat. We smoked and talked until 8am, and then we started splitting wood. It was what he loved to do. He said his dad had bought him the hydraulic powered machine that I used, which he called a splitter, to separate the wood that they used to get from cutting down trees. At 8am the city allowed the operation of machinery. He took a brand new chainsaw out of his truck and cut wood that was 3 feet in diameter after we unloaded it from the bed. We turned sections of trees into firewood fit for a campsite. We finished up around 10am and I asked him to drive me home. He had been waiting to hear from his mom so that she could give him money to fill up his gas tank, but we had already agreed that I’d be back where I needed to be by 11am. He put 3 gallons of gasoline that was meant for the chainsaw in his tank. As we drove back to town he tried to convince himself that putting gasoline mixed with oil in his truck wouldn’t harm it, but he had no basis, or power to reason why that was true. I gave him a series of statements that followed logically and gave him reason to believe that it would be fine, even though I had no idea if the premises were true. He dropped me off at the local Right Aide around 11am, and gave me his phone number. I didn’t know his name and substituted it with August 26, 2012 in my phone. He honked as he drove away, and I thought about an interesting night spent with a man who didn’t have much hope. He had a very privileged youth, and his life could have been a thousand times different. But this is who he was, and after a sleepless night I was glad to have known him. I thought for the rest of the day about his life, and those whom he had known. I hoped that life could change him, and wondered if it could. In the hot, morning sun I hoped that he could move on to better things than splitting wood, and to be more than a date in a directionless man’s phone.

[Title Pending] The chilled winds of November blew the hardest they had all year. Simple contact of bare skin would leave you with goosebumps. But she didn't care. She was sixteen and she was independent. What better of a place to be for an independent teenage girl than the bus stop at midnight? Lucy was the average teenager, despite her claims of uniqueness. Her hair was multiple shades of multiple colors, and her jeans were ripped because that was “the style”. Her mother didn't care where she was. Lucy always came back by the morning. Why would tonight be different? And thus her routine remained the same as always. Bed by eleven, phone off, and doors unlocked for Lucy. She would never know until morning. The TANK was taking too long. And Lucy was getting stressed. Four, she had four cigarettes left. She'd have to get more in the morning. After two drags she was calming down, but still no bus in sight. Lucy suspected some cripple was slowing it down. Another drag, but her thoughts were not on her cigarette. It was on the noise coming from the bush beside her. It almost sounded as if something where moving in there. Adrenaline was already flowing throughout her. Another drag to calm herself, but the tobacco caused the opposite effect. Then it stopped. No more noise at all. No more wind, no more sound from anything besides herself. “What's a young thing like you doing out on a night like this? And don't you know that tobacco kills? Stupid girl.” She hadn't expected him; he stood at least a foot above her. And he had startled her. Lucy was out of words, and her adrenaline wasn't helping. So she took a drag. “It's like you didn't hear me at all. I said they kill!” He was shouting now. Then he advanced toward her in one smooth stride. She threw the only thing she had at him, her cigarette. He caught it as if he had expected her to throw it. As he clenched his fist Lucy could see the cigarette go out in his skin. But he showed no pain toward the burning ash in his palm. He simply tossed it aside into the bush. “Now that wasn't too hard was it Lucy?” He had said her name. The bus still hadn't come. Lucy had one plan, run. As she turned she collided with another figure. She never saw his face, and she never let out a scream.

It was a morning like any other when I woke up and realized, “This house means nothing to me.” I wasn’t born into money. I had worked hard for my money. This house was to be the fruit of my labor. It had all the amenities. There were no cold drafts in the winter. It was never too hot in the summer. But even a small house can be too big for one person. So I tore it down. By myself. With a good chunk of my expendable funds, I rented a miniature bulldozer and spent eleven hours obliterating my quaint but shallow abode. It cost me all but what was in my pocket to stay at a cheap motel for the next two weeks while I tirelessly built a log cabin the way my father had. There was no housewarming party when it was complete. The bed is creaky, and there are unseen gaps where the cold air gets in, but I am here to stay.

Looking out the window, George could see the harsh conditions of a Canadian winter. He smiled, seeing the familiar scene and sipped at a coffee. As he watched the snow dance through the air out the window, he thought of the potential this day had. The morning after the first blizzard was always his favorite. The trees smothered with white snow, the air fresh and cold. It also made for good hunting because all of the tracks found were fresh ones. But today was not the day to hunt, nor a day to admire the fresh layer of snow from indoors. When you live in a log cabin in the hills, firewood is something you can never have enough of. He wasn’t having a shortage of it, but he knew his current cache wouldn’t last him the winter. He wanted at least another cord of oak to be sure he wouldn’t run out. He would spend his day cutting and pilling wood. After George ate breakfast, he got suited up for the outdoors. He wore a thick red plaid jacket, and in his hands was .308 hunting rifle, that had been passed down from his father. He still remembered his father’s words when he presented it to him, “Son, one day this will save your life”. He brought the rifle out with him every time he went out, with those words echoing in his head. His father had definitely been right, the rifle had gotten him through many winters, and it had gotten him out some very close encounters with the wildlife. George continued with his preparations, grabbing his wool hat, and tying up his steel toed boots. Once he was ready, he opened his front door, and started towards the forest trail. He knew of an area with many large ash trees, but he knew carrying the wood back would be a pain. With the new snow, he couldn’t bring a wheelbarrow, and he didn’t have any other means of transporting the wood, except by hand. The trees were about a forty-five minute walk from his cabin, but that time would be almost doubled if he was carrying the wood. An idea came to him, and he turned back towards his home. He headed to his workshop, garbed a canvas tarp, and a few meters of rope. After a few minutes, and some craftsmanship, George fashioned himself a kind of sled that he could carry the wood back with. He took a second to admire his own craftiness, grabbed the sled and started back for the path. He could feel the .308 against his back, and he could hear the sound of the sled gliding across the snow. He continued down the path, until he came to a section that split into 2 different directions. Knowing the woods as well as he did, he didn’t hesitate for a second. He turned to his left and kept on going. He didn’t like travelling this path; he had had some bad experiences on it. More than a few close calls with wolves have taken place there, and whenever he walked it, he was always on his guard for another attack. Something in the snow ahead of him caught his eye, and he knelt down to examine it. His heart sank when he realized it was a wolf track, a fresh one too. He immediately went for his gun that was slung on his back. He loaded a bullet into the chamber, and brought the rifle to the ready position. He scanned the horizon for wolves but didn’t see anything. Just then he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He switched off the safety and whipped around, but saw a squirrel book it up a tree. He breathed a sigh of relief, but did not lower his rifle. He heard the ruffling of leaves behind him, and he went to turn towards it. Without even realising it, he had placed his right foot on his sled. When he turned the sled gave out, and he fell violently towards the ground, letting go of his rifle at the same time. He hit the snow just an instant before the rifle, and he had just enough time to look into the barrel of the gun before it smashed against the ground, causing it to fire a round straight through George’s skull.

Matthew woke from what he believed to be a long and sufficient sleep. He tallied off the events of the day, but could not recall any. As his eyes opened he attempted to adjust to darkness, but found himself unable to, it was an absolute dark. He saw the sort of blackness where it was easy to see the shifting of colors that his own eye projected. This was not normal at all, Matthew lived, somewhere, he seemed to have forgotten. As his arms to awaken, and his body began to feel again, Matthew lifted his head, but a body did not greet his vision. It was still an opaque dark. He knew what to do. Motioning his arms to feel his stomach, his arm passed farther than anticipated. A feeling somewhere in his body felt an extreme anxiety, the feeling one produces when contemplating death for extended amounts of time. His mind was flooded with the horror that he was disembodied, he suddenly felt colder, but it was only his mind was telling him that warmth still existed. He opened his mouth to scream, but no noise came out. It had been an insurmountable amount of time since Matthew had sensed anything. A moment was an eternity and an eternity a moment. He had grown used to a world without stimuli, what traces of memories left were gone. Matthew forgot about his past physical body, he became massless and volume-less in a sea of nothingness. “Hello?” Matthew’s mind was flooded with information at what seemed to be a sound. His mind raced to interpret what he had ‘heard.’ “Hello?” “Y-Yes?” For an eon Matthew heard nothing. Again, he grew used to nothingness. For what seemed an interval of years, he swore that his eyes could see pure black instead of nothing. He dismissed this notion, having no eyes at all. “Are you there?” Matthew had hoped this moment would come again, he had practiced a response. “Y-Y-Yeah, who are you?” “You.” “No, not me, who are you?” “Yes, I am you.” Matthew felt more fear than when he first entered this place. If it was true that the voice he had just talked to was his own, any chance of ever getting out was hopeless. It had been ages since anything had ever happened. Matthew could not speak, and he could not think anymore, his impulses and senses were gone. Matthew forgot about himself.

Sky spinning, trees leaning in and one bird swoops through all the crooked wood. I am lying here in sunken dark and death kneels over me, whispers penance in my left ear, pounds smartly at the throb of 2 a.m. blood on my knuckle. A long time ago you could have shown me how the sky looked catastrophic as the sun slipped away breathing fire. A long time ago you could have let me fall in love with your angled good looks, your swarming lies of art and people and pale, tortured love stories. A long time ago you could have found me chain smoking behind the library and told me my eyes made you weak. Instead I found your breath at the back of my neck, cool against my skin flushed with other people's body heat. You sank into the cozy sway of a crowd dancing. Said two words. A along time ago you could have kissed me on the top of my head, laid me down carefully and listened to the whistle of my breath as I slept. "Hey you" and I was tucked into the curve of your jaw, I was singing cheap rum and silence packed your smile. I was kissing brick and you cradled me well like I fit into you naturally. All I could see was road slicked mercury light and a dim sketch of your face straining, the feeling drained prickly numb from my legs, sky hopping up and down, up and down in your soft, strange rhythm. And after everything you brought me here, where I've spilled blood before: my skinny eight-year-old knee on a sharp shock of ground; climbing trees cat-like at twelve, reaching up then shaking at the height; sipping beer cross-legged on a log trying to impress a boy. After everything you stood useless at the foot of me, eyes shifting like two hands moving in perfect sync, like two hands clasped in prayer. An ease in your quiet. Everything swallowed in black, all wrapped up neat in night blindness; it's winter so there is no green to frame your face, nothing to soften twitching branches needling up and out. You are on holy ground now. Don't let the trees bite you on your way out; don't see my glazed eyes in yours as you make a mirror check. Don't notice the murmur of me in the dead air of your apartment, microcosms of dust swirling like small galaxies or flecks of ash falling. *Better to have never loved,* you might say. You don't want that hurt clinging in you.

Through the Eye The mahogany bar spread eight feet with dark boards underneath that swirled up to a marble top. A famous writer with taped up glasses and grey-flaked hair sat at a table in the back corner. Two Americans walked in and sat on the barstools. They acknowledged the writer and ordered drinks. They were big men, just like him, and he had seen them in here many times. It was a small room. Fifteen by thirty feet at most with windows only in the door. The writer drank his Asti Spumante. The owner of the bar, Giuseppe Cipriani, walked towards his table and crouched down. “Papa, a man has asked for you.” He spoke quietly and motioned towards the front door. A short man half the size of Papa in blue seersuckers stepped towards him. As he walked, his left hand swung wide. The other grasped a blackthorn walking stick. “Christ you're big,” he said and his hand stuck out. He leaned his stick on the table and took off his porkpie hat. “Nick Adams,” he said and it sounded familiar. The light above the table flickered. “No names.” Papa met his hand and winked through the glasses and the light flickered. “Your freedom's at stake.” “Well, what am I to call you?” He looked uneasy and his eye twitched to the left when he smiled. Underneath his eye was a four inch scythe-shaped scar. “Papa. You can call me that.” Smoke filled the small room as a young couple smoked cigarettes. Giuseppe asked for their orders. “I'll have a grappa. What's yours?” Papa said. Nick Adams hesitated. “Bring my friend a Bellini, Juice.” “With a peach slice?” “Do you want a peach slice?” “Is it good like that?” Nick asked. “It's all right. Give him a peach slice.” “Very well, yes, Papa,” Juice said and walked to the bar. He poured the drinks and left grappas for the two Americans. Papa looked at the clock. He had waited half an hour for Nick Adams to arrive and the clock read two. “A Bellini?” Nick asked. “Prosecco and peach. It's new here. It will catch on. The people will drink it.” Papa was in Italy to see his friend Ole Anderson, an old heavyweight prizefighter who lived in Fossalta di Piave now. He was always getting into trouble with bad people. Papa wrote a story about him once. A couple of men wanted to kill him in the story. Papa was in Venice to see his friend Juice, the owner of this bar Harry's, first. A man named Cole Anderson was shot outside Harry's two days ago so Papa told Juice to ask around and a man told him he'd be at Harry's today. The likeness of Ole and Cole's names drew Papa in. Juice brought the drinks and Nick Adams sipped his. “The bourgeois appreciates?” Papa laughed big and drank his grappa and picked up the walking stick. The two Americans sat drinking their grappas at the bar. One had taped up glasses and the other had messy grey-flaked hair. The one with the glasses listened closely. The other just drank. “It's the nicest piece of blackthorn in Venice,” Nick said and smiled. “I'll bet you fifty dollars I can break it with my bare hands.” One of the Americans said it. Nick accepted and the American lifted the walking stick and thrust it towards his head, snapping it loudly. Then he handed the broken pieces to Nick. Nick looked at the broken pieces and saw his life, split from his younger days. He hadn't always been a killer but he had always thought he was a big man until he met Papa. “Now,” Papa said. “Let's get to the killing.” “Good Christ, Papa, I've never seen anything like that,” Nick said, setting the broken pieces aside. “You killed him in front of Harry's. I was here.” “Whoa.” He looked up at Papa and saw his past. “Whoa.” He looked at his drink. He looked at the door. He didn't say anything. “Monday. The man in the street.” It was Wednesday and it was hot. “What happened?” He hesitated. “You are a reporter?” Papa shook his head slowly, opening his eyes wider. “Used to be.” The light above the table flickered. Juice asked if everything was all right. “He crossed the street,” Nick Adams said. “He was dead and that was all.” Papa looked at him and he looked at his drink. “I killed the wrong man.” The Americans at the bar listened and drank grappas. Four women entered the bar and joked loudly behind the Americans who didn't seem to notice. They shook and laughed and they smelled good but their voices were crass. Two of them smoked and the room got smokier than before. “And of this what would you say?” Nick asked desperately. “A writer should write what he has to say, and not speak it. And then?” “It was the man's wife and daughter. They must have weighed six hundred pounds between them,” he said. “Another two hundred for the man I killed.” “A large family.” Papa laughed. Juice poured more grappas and took one for himself. “They were the two biggest women I ever saw in my life. You couldn't believe they were real when you looked at them. They ran to the street and a car hit them. The driver stepped out and fell to the ground. Dead. All four innocent! A thousand pounds on me!” He took a cigarette from his pack and pressed it to his lips and lit it. The barrel lit up then shot out smoke. He cocked one eye to keep the smoke out. The barrel pointed at Papa. “Not that any of us are truly innocent,” Papa said. “Determination to kill yourself and others. Why now?” “It will pass.” “It doesn't. If it does—“ “Ain't you that Hemmen-way?” Papa looked up at a man standing above the able. The light hung behind his head so his face was dark but Papa could see his slight jaw and bony cheeks. “Listen, I'm in the middle of something.” He turned to face Nick. “Just a minute,” the man said. The Americans turned to face the scene after finishing their grappas. “Listen, boy, now get out,” Papa said as he stood up. “You're going to get yourself hurt.” “Christ, I just wanted a goddamned minute.” Papa grabbed his wrist and punched his stomach with it. “What do you think of that?” He looked at Papa. One of the Americans slapped him and pushed his chest. “Come on, now, boy.” The Americans made for the door. Nick followed, and then the man after him. “Hey, I ain't got no problem,” the man said. One of the Americans feinted and knocked his right side. He fell and looked up at Papa. They were in the shade of the building, but where he fell in the sun of the street, Papa's shadow covered him. “Now get out of here.” “Goddamned wops,” he said and walked away. “Are you all right? We could follow him.” Nick pulled a revolver from under his coat. “I could kill him.” Papa was silent. Nick wiped his gun carefully with a rag and Juice stepped outside with them. “Someone has called the police, Papa. Are you all right?” “Oh, Juice, Heaven and Hell.” “Are there such extremes in the afterlife, Papa?” he asked. “Why not end up at Harry's?” “For me, that's it. Juice, stash this gun.” Juice covered the snub nose with a napkin and stepped towards the door. “And Juice? Fix the damn light.” Juice stepped inside and Papa looked at Nick. “You hunt big game with a gun. But for me—a bull or a man you fight with your hands.” “A man also can kill a man.” “No, you're not a man for that. Even in war. I've seen it. Or what you did. Not how you mean. Have child, that what man does.” Papa ran the back of his hand on his cheek and felt the tape on his glasses. “That tree. A man planted that.” The tree sat in the middle of the sidewalk, grown up from a small patch of dirt and out of place in the sea of cobblestones. There hadn't been soil on this ground in years that hadn't been trucked in by men. “I must go,” Nick Adams said as he leaned towards Papa and whispered, “Not wise to be near the scene of a crime. Under any circumstances.” “Meet here tomorrow. Ten o'clock.” “Leaving for Fossalta di Piave in the morning.” Nick felt guilty about the people he'd killed and he looked for a reason not to go through with Ole Anderson. Papa stepped inside. A painting hung on the wall to the left of the bar. “This.” “Oh, Papa, I know you like the realists,” Juice said. “I've come to appreciate this. The harsh details in the background with the stillness in the foreground here—” It was Swans Reflecting Elephants by Dalí. “See this arrogant son of a bitch, Juice, missing the scene. The elephants standing on the shore and the swans floating over them.” Behind the swans grew trees, twisting to the sky. “He's so arrogant. And ignorant. He walked all the way from the town up the hill in the distance and here he's facing away with his hand on his hip. He can't see the color of the sky different from the reflection in the pond.” “Yes Papa, but he can't decide what he wants,” Juice said. “What do you think?” “Sometimes you have to look away. You look away and that's when you find something.” Juice pointed across the room and said, “Here is something you will love, Papa.” A few feet across the room hung Cézanne's Les Joueurs de carte (The Card Players). Two men face each other playing cards on a small table. “It's the man on the right, Juice.” Juice looked at Papa with concern. “The villain. Sometimes it's hard to tell. But you can trust a man who smokes a pipe. The man on the left shows us his cards. An honest man. Cézanne knew that.” “Dishonest men show honesty.” “His pocket lies open too. A trusting man. The man on the right sulks, looking down with his overbite and light coat. Look in the background. Look at the bar and the uncertainty beyond it and how the scene gets lighter from left to right.” “Have a grappa with me, Papa.” He poured two and they sat under the flickering light waiting for the police. When they came, Papa stood up and approached one of the officers. He frowned and Papa punched him in the stomach and said, “Hey, boy-o, there it is!” The younger officer looked alarmed but the first one assured him. “Papa, my old friend, I am glad you are in town. When I heard of a fight at Harry's I thought of you. Ole Anderson is here as well?” “No. I'm going to Fossalta to see him tomorrow. So it's settled. I have to go.” “Papa, one grappa,” the older officer said. Papa was drunk but told Juice to pour them. Juice poured four glasses and the Americans held their glasses out as Juice poured. They drank slowly and the officers said they would not raise suspicion returning late. “The man fled after I made his day,” Papa said. “He will not be back,” Juice said with authority. “I must go,” Papa said. “Officers.” The Americans paid their tab and stepped outside. Cobblestones ran through narrow alleys and slightly less narrow streets that led to the sea with buildings all along. Across from Harry's, a white building stood next to a red one. The Americans glanced at the spot the people had been killed. It was a few feet into the street and in line with the stark change in color between the buildings. Four children walked over the spot carelessly. They jumped and skipped happily to where the men couldn't see them. While they walked along a narrow street through tall, colored buildings, it started to rain. “Goddam, I hate the rain,” the American with the grey-flaked hair said and coughed. “What did you think about Nick Adams?” the other asked. “Not sure. This air is too thick for me. Too wet and too thick.” They stepped past a small cafe. People sat outside on tables under umbrellas. “Let's save ourselves here.” They walked past the cafe. Balconies hung over the narrow street with plants hanging down, breathing in the rain. “I think he's hiding something,” the one with the taped up glasses said. “Let's get out of this rain.” “He said he killed the wrong man and nothing else.” The Americans stepped into a dark music hall. Four men onstage played the blues. Low and slow. A few people sat at tables smoking. The band got louder and Papa saw Nick Adams at one of the tables. “Sometimes death calls to make sure you're in,” Papa said and Nick turned around startled. “Christ, Papa.” “Sometimes an opinion comes across vividly on the page, even in the most objective cases.” “Ask away,” Nick Adams said. Papa could barely see him in the dark. Nick Adams wanted an excuse not to go to Fossalta di Piave. “Who did you mean to kill?” The band got into a fast groove. “You wouldn't want to know him,” Nick said. “He's a real bright boy.” “Oh, yeah? What's a bright boy to you? You're something of a bright boy yourself.” “Be careful, Papa. You never know.” “I'm leaving tomorrow,” Papa said. “Fossalta di Piave.” “Me too.” Nick Adams winked. It wasn't that he winked or what he said, but he looked bad. The shadows on his face looked bad and he smelled bad from all the smoke. Words sounded bad when they fell from his mouth. The band got louder. “An old prizefighter. Ole Anderson. I have to go to Fossalta di Piave tomorrow. He lives there.” Nick Adams hoped Papa knew him or knew boxing or anything. He wanted to hear a reason not to kill the man. The band played fast and loud and the lights played off the horn man's saxophone. It was dark so the ever-changing light on the saxophone illuminated everyone's eyes. “It's a hell of a thing,” Nick said. Papa did not say anything. Nick reached down for a coaster and rubbed it between his fingers. “It's an awful thing,” Nick said. “Did you know him?” “I've known boxers. Was he any good?” “Good. Very good. The best, I hear.” The stage stood a few feet above ground level. Drums and bass rumbled the room and the piano reassured everyone. “What did he do?” “Double-crossed somebody.” “They kill them for less nowadays,” Papa said. There they were, less than three hours after meeting, and Papa's motive had completely changed. He wanted to warn Ole Anderson but didn't think he'd do anything about it anyway. He thought there was no reasoning with Nick Adams either. The horn man played from his heart. He played to their hearts. He raised a question and an answer and he gave a portrait of a man. The lights flickered off his horn and illuminated everyone's eyes except Nick Adams' looked black in the dark room.

//This is the first short story I've ever written, so I will be eternally grateful to get some feedback and comments on it. -- She said, there go the birds again. They would cry before the break of dawn perching on our window sills while making our home their shelter. I have never really taken notice of them. Their incessant cries in the mornings have always been just ‘part of it’, as were many other things. When I was little, Father used it to trap little sparrows with promises of fresh fruits; Mother even trapped a fruit bat once. It was exhilarating. However, we always let them go regardless of what they were. The trap remained empty after two weeks. This time, Mother’s intent was to make an example of these flighted vermin. Then came one. (The question) “What are you waiting for?” It kept its steady gaze on me, even as its head stuck out of the trap at an awkward angle, looking like a disjointed puppet. “You know, I'm the one who is trapped here,” it said, “so what are you waiting for?” At any other time, this conversation may have been a sign of delirium. But sometimes, it takes a new and unbiased perspective to put things back into perspective. “I’m not waiting for anything.” It knew at once that this was a lie and more. I was on my guard and I knew that it was simply trying to gain my trust and regain its right to freedom. “I can help you. I know you, I’ve watched you for a while and shared your pain. I’ve hear your thoughts even when you think that no one is listening.” Its sleek feathers were gently moving under the afternoon breeze. A dark cloud overhead threatened to bring rain, which would be fine for most people; we were safe under a warm roof but birds of its feather were vulnerable to the elements. “I do not think that you would care for a minute about a being like me, but I too feel the same as you do. Like I said, we share your pain, we know your thoughts, all you need to do is to believe and listen.” (The Confession) I realized then that I was holding my breath all this time, listening as the stranger spoke. “My mind, body and soul are not my own. I have lived my life in the shadows of others. I’ve moulded myself at the whims of those around me; my being exists for the convenience of those whom I hold dear. I am lost and I don’t know how to change.” The bird tipped its head and looked straight into my staring eyes. “And then what? Are you just going to continue making excuses for the rest of your days?” Excuses? Excuses… They were not excuses. These were the reasons that had moved me when I thought there was nothing else ahead. The driving forces behind a life that was once thought forsaken. But somewhere along the line it seemed, someone else took the reins. A wall had been erected and instead of protecting what was fragile, it contained what was meant to flourish. An infallible personality, loved and accepted, all done to blend in and move with the tides. Listening with a slightly bemused expression, the bird saw beyond the wall and into the core. It saw tears and blood, but they were empty. They were not shed from pain nor happiness, regret nor contentment. “What is it you really want? You cannot change what has already happened, and everything that had happened, did for a reason. You cannot seek the light unless you are already in the darkness; you cannot reach for the sky, if you have not already fallen to the ground. What you are bound to is only your own reflections of what you think need to be fulfilled. No one else owns the responsibility to you. If you want to fly, set yourself free.” A bird of far too many thoughts and far too many words. I slide the triggered catch and pulled. It did not move.

This is a rough idea and this is the first draft. There are probably a lot of errors, but my eyes need to look at something else for a while. In the meantime, it would be nice to have some feedback from a fresh perspective. Cheers. Bridge A man walks east along a dirt road. He carries a leather pack and inside is a stale loaf of bread wrapped in butcher paper, a few apples tied together with a handkerchief, and a metal canteen filled with warm water. His lips are chapped from the heat and his frugal rationing. On his journey he passes several towns, but he never stays the night, always sleeping far off the road and past the outskirts. Each morning he wakes in the cool darkness and walks slowly toward the dim glow in the east. He hasn’t spoken a word in months and hasn’t needed to. Eventually, the man comes to a bridge that leads over a large body of water. He stops before it and looks to the north. A large metropolis glowing with revelry consumes the horizon. He turns to the south and sees a vast desert fading into a mirage. He faces the bridge again and wanting neither the city nor the desert, decides to cross. The sun sets behind him as he makes it to the other side. He pulls off the road and sleeps until the dark morning. The man is startled awake by the brilliance of the sun. He has slept in later than he had intended to. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and gathers together his things, but then he stops. Something in the west catches his eye, or rather the lack of something. The bridge is gone. No evidence of its existence remains. He sees the shore of where he’s been as a thin, tan line upon the sea. The metropolis looks like a spec. Alarmed, but unshaken, the man picks up his pack and continues east, leaving the vanished bridge behind him. He walks for several hours until finally he hears the crashing of waves. He scales a small hill, following the sound. At its summit, the man looks out into an endless ocean. The bridge he had crossed that was no longer there had led him to an island. The great expanse of the desert and the sensory overload of the metropolis don’t seem so unappealing anymore. He stands there for some time, staring east into the void. Finally, he decides to turn around. The man starts walking west. It isn’t until the next day that the man reaches the other side of the island. He finds the spot where the bridge had been and decides to set up camp. “Perhaps the bridge will reappear just as it has disappeared.” The man didn’t believe his own mouth, but hope would be enough to keep him going. He fashions a shelter out of branches and large palm leaves. He digs a pit with his hands and starts a fire. Then, he waits. After several days, his bread and apples spent, the man starts building a boat, but with his increasingly weak condition, his labor is slow. At night, when the earth is cool, he eats the bugs and worms crawling and squirming in the grass and leaves. By the time the man finishes the boat, he is malnourished and hosting lice and ticks. His fatigue spreads to his mind, and despite all of this, he sets off into the water with nothing more than his oar. He paddles with vehement strokes, every other one in time with a thin, raspy exhale. Before he is even halfway across, the sun starts to sink. He fights to keep his eyes open, but the darkness takes him. With the last of his energy, the man falls over the side of the boat and into the water asleep. It is mid afternoon when he wakes in the sand, the waves forcing salt into his mouth and nostrils. He coughs violently, but silently. He looks around him, wondering how he was still alive or if he was alive at all. When he sees his shelter, he knows he is alive or condemned to Hell or both. He staggers to his feet and walks toward it. The coals are still warm in the fire pit. He sits next to it, almost not breathing. He leans against a tree and looks up. Hanging from its branches are several large melons. The man gets up quickly. He manages to get one down by throwing a rock at it. With another, he cuts open the melon and presses it into his face. He sucks its moisture and starts to laugh. He gathers some more and sleeps well. A few days pass and the tree is bare. The night comes and the man eats bugs. With his boat lost, he fashions another in his starvation and casts out. When tossed to the water and washed to shore, the man wakes among dead fish. He eats them over a period of a week. Days following, he begins to starve. He sees the line of where he came from on the horizon, and in his weakness, fashions a boat to set out into the treacherous waters only to brought back half-dead. He would wait for the bridge forever.

Ashes, a tee shirt, and a mental slideshow. That's all I have left. I gently pressed my face into the tee shirt, waiting for the scent to take me on a winding trail of memories. Mental snapshots took life, moving slowly, with blissful happiness. That place, those smiles, these uncertain days. I rejected my raging sea of emotions, only hoping to delay the storm surge for a while longer. Snap me back into my world, how I welcome and despise it. I lifted the plain tee shirt from my face, and put it into a small bag, and sealed it shut. Beside it, a small jar that contained everything I'd ever allowed close. It was the only other part that understood who I was. I gripped it tightly. More memories began to flow, the levees had finally given way. Beach, stars, gentle rumbling of waves on the smooth white sand. The air was totally still, only gentle wafting scents hinted at the fact the world was still slowly churning on. There, beside me, you sat. I was accepted wholly here, no regrets. A thick band of stars became obscured by soft light, making a thin dotted white strip across the sky. I wish you could still join me on those nights, watching the Milky Way rise. We used to sit here, picking out which stars we would visit before time ended. Everything blurred again. Face to face, eyes locked. We handed each other ear-buds, small grins traversing our faces. Our song came on, along with all those warm feelings. Late night fields filled with life, grass gently swaying in the midnight breeze. Starlight softly illuminated our world, everything became so tranquil. Peacefulness, happiness. Sunlight began to warm my cheeks. I furrowed my brows, I wasn't ready to leave just yet. I don't want to let go, I want to stay here. Why can't time grant me this one favor? Just one more experience, one more memory. One last souvenir to bury my stinging emotions with. I sat, looking over the field. Our field. Painful awareness had taken control for now. A jar of ash and a tee shirt, that's what all of this had been reduced to. No breathing, laughing, heartbeat, smile, watery blue eyes, nothing anymore. Carbon atoms, back to the way we both used to be, before the beginning of the world. Supernovas, the crucibles of our Universe that finally gave way. Your atoms had begun the journey back without mine to go with them. This haunting scientific realization meshed itself to my feelings. Everything you are to me, everything you were, could be, had been. My thoughts and reality pulsated, briefly merging with each other. I lost all control. Tears, hurt, and loss all rushed forward from every fiber in my being. I felt myself tear open, shattering into tiny pieces. Fear began to settle in. I fear that this beautiful maze of chance might never repeat itself again. Supernovas, where it all began. Where the lighter elements were fused into the atoms of life. This is where our story began. We exploded forth into this existence, atoms mashing and combining together. Our Universe ignited these elements in the void, watching as our miracle took place. It haunts me to think about us in this way. How, after all those billions of years, we came into contact, unaware of the framework allowing for this to happen. All I want when my days come to an end, is to explode with you once more. I want to surge outwards again, your atoms with mine. I want the maze to send us as wanderers across each other's paths again. I want to feel the same instant connection I felt when we met. I want to know that feeling of faint familiarity and unyielding curiosity, and it's absolute pull. I want to build a home in it all.

The grey sky wept heavy tears as an old man creeps along a smooth marble path, clutching his coat tightly with white knuckles to keep the frosted wind from stealing it. His head hung low against the rain, joints aching and lungs burning from the cold air, he walks on under the gaze of the silent marble guardians that stand all around. They are placed in concentric ranks, evenly spaced and facing inwards, ever vigilant. There are thousands of them; tens of thousands even, covering an area miles wide. They are spaced evenly throughout their rings with a gap just wide enough for two people to slip in between with twice that distance between each layer. Small engraved platinum plaques rest at the base of each, meticulously produced and maintained. At the center is an open space dominated by a large sphere which floats reverently above the ground. The Earth in all its glory, with its greens, blues, and browns – meticulously detailed. White clouds swirl and dance in real time in a never ending show that matches reality. If an observer looks closely, they see small ripples throughout the vast blue oceans as the moon engages in its eternal struggle with the tides. Yellow points of civilization dot the night side, ever struggling against the darkness which creeps steadily west. Giant black scars and craters run along its surface, an eternal reminder of events not long passed. Once in awhile the old man sees another like himself, walking solemnly through this holiest of places. He places a hand onto the cold stone of a statue to steady himself as a strong gust smashes into his fragile frame. He pulls back his hand as if bitten, a numbness spreading throughout his soul. As he continues forward he looks into the faces around him even as the rain soaks his face. He doesn’t notice as it slips down his coat, and doesn’t care as the cold steals the feeling from his skin. He is beyond knowing discomfort. It has been many months since he felt. Each face is alive with hand crafted detail down to the very pores of the shining stone skin. Their expressions are serious yet hopeful, sad but inspiring. They stand life sized and uniformed, medals and ribbons adorning their chests. Over each stone heart is a small pin with the shape and detail of the Earth. Had they not been made of lifeless stone, each likeness could be mistaken for a living being. They are the holiest relics of the human race, in a place that has become a religious site that has no priests and belongs to no church. They stand at attention in eternal watch over the planet in their midst and the pilgrims who walk through their home. As the old man draws nearer to his destination he slows his all ready careful pace to the barest of movements. He has entered the space of his nightmares, the place he visits each night in sleep and each day in life. It is a familiar place, one he has navigated through hundreds of times in the few short months since its completion. It has become routine in a sense. His path is always the same; the same stones, the same steps, the same faces, the same emptiness. He stops at each monument and memorizes every face before reading the plaque under it. Each one is long since engraved in his mind. They are his link to the past, to better times before. Some of the names he knows from the old letters. They are his most cherished possessions and the only thing of value he has. He falls asleep each night with a stack of them in his bed, only escaping into the embrace of sleep when he is too tired to remain awake any longer. After a time that may have been as long as hours or as short as minutes, the old man arrives at what has become both his hell and his salvation. It is a statue of a young woman, so perfectly detailed that the sight of it tears through his soul. He stares at her face and struggles to look away. The plaque at her feet tells only the barest of stories; that she was an officer; that she served all of humanity; that she died protecting her home. That she will be forever remembered. She has a face the old man is intimately familiar with. Her name is the same as his. He remembers how it all started. How smart and happy and full of life she was. How she glowed and seemed to brighten a room just by being present. How he always pushed her to strive for more, to live up to her full potential. How he had wanted a better life for her than he had ever had for himself. How she had applied on an off chance and been accepted into the program, and how she had gone with his blessing and his encouragement. How she had written every day after she left, and how utterly proud he was. How she was his only child. He remembers too how it all ended. How the Earth had been decimated. How she had been called up. He watched the live video as it all unfolded, remembers how three billion voices screamed as one when they were victorious. He remembers how none of those thousands of Earth’s children who had left ever came back. He remembers the guilt and the pain so heavy it crushed the air from his lungs. Amidst the howling wind, he trembles violently and falls to his knees. The rain washes the tears from his face as he sobs uncontrollably. The old man curls up at the feet of his life and waits to die.

Jonathan parked his car on the far side of the lot in a corner space. Even though there were plenty of spots that were closer to his final destination, he wanted to make sure that no one went near his new car. He contemplated taking two spaces but decided against it because he didn’t want to be that guy. He didn’t want to be a guy that he himself would look down upon. After all it was just a car, why should he inconvenience others? But it was his car. And it was new. Jonathan exited his car and began making his way through the rows of empty spaces in the parking lot. After about twenty strides he finally reached another car, eventually made his way to a sidewalk and began making his way through the park. He checked his watch; it was only 11:40 in the morning. He had twenty minutes to kill before he could begin doing what he came here to do. Jonathan walked along the sidewalk and enjoyed the scenes of the park. The sun beat down on him, as the cloudless sky was so picturesque it could have been on a postcard boasting of the stereotypical weather enjoyed by southern California in the summer time. While it was summer, the day was not exceptionally hot, although Jonathan began to feel beads of sweat form on the back of his neck. A black shirt and jeans may not have been the best outfit to wear outside. After a few minutes Jonathan reached his destination and checked his watch again. 11:43, still seventeen minutes before the Museum of Art opened. Perplexed with what to do, Jonathan began walking around aimlessly, hoping to find something interesting to amuse himself while he waited for the museum to open. He walked along the park, looking at the old buildings and admiring their architecture. But this admiration was fleeting, having seen these buildings numerous times before, their charm and allure was forgotten on Jonathan. While walking, Jonathan came across a garden he had never seen before, nestled in between two smaller buildings as a makeshift courtyard. Seeking refuge from the sun that was beginning to wear on Jonathan, he decided to try and find a place to sit and wait until the museum opened. As he walked along the courtyard, he could not find any benches that were not taken by couples, no doubt enjoying the scenery and company of one another that Jonathan was hoping to partake in. Not wanting to make any couple feel unconformable by sitting next to them and possibly ruining their nice moment, Jonathan instead circled the courtyard, no doubt being eyed by the couples wondering why this one man appeared to be seamlessly pacing around the courtyard. A couple finally obliged and left their bench as Jonathan was walking by. He sat hurriedly on the vacated bench and found himself next to an older woman in a wheel chair and what he presumed to be her daughter. They were talking happily and the older woman seemed happy to be outside. Jonathan sat there for a few minutes, occasionally hearing parts of their conversation while periodically checking his phone to see if he had any messages. He didn’t. He repeated this task every so often, not sure what he was hoping to find, but even more unsure about how to act alone in a public place. He felt that the couples were watching him, wondering why he was alone in a very lovely place on a nice day. Jonathan hoped that if people were watching him that by checking his phone maybe they’d think he was trying to get in contact with someone who would meet him at the courtyard, when in reality no one was coming. He checked his watch again. 11:56. Four minutes. Jonathan thought about getting up and walking back to the museum, getting there right as it opened. Right as he was about to leave, the older woman and her daughter decide to leave. Perhaps they were going to the museum as well? As the woman was wheeled passed Jonathan, she smiled. He responded with a unsure half smile and a head nod to acknowledge the woman. As he was about to get up, Jonathan realized he couldn’t leave just yet, otherwise the couples watching him might think that he was only there to view the old woman. Why else would he leave right as they were leaving? It couldn’t be coincidence. He’d have to wait an appropriate amount of time before leaving the courtyard, to make it appear that his departure had nothing to do with the old woman in the wheel chair. He would be late for the opening. Jonathan walked into the museum and was immediately receptive to the cool, circulated air. He was much sweatier than he realized after having been outside for almost a half an hour. After showing his member card he was walked past the counter and began to wonder about the museum. He liked coming on Sunday mornings right when the museum opened because there were less people. Unlike those days when membership was free and the museum was turned from a place of refuge with those of intellect into a hall bantered about by mobs of children and inattentive mothers who wanted to do something “cultural” for their children with the hopes that maybe a piece of great art would influence them, when in reality they were just happy to be out of the house. Jonathan disliked these people very much. Not the children, for they didn’t know any better, but the adults who treated his museum as a McDonalds play room. Jonathan only went to the museum once on a “free day” and vowed never to go back again. On Sundays Jonathan only had to put up with adults who acted inappropriately, talking to loudly, walking in front of him while viewing a work. These acts may seem trivial but Jonathan rather disliked them because of the ease of which they could be avoided, at least among non-oblivious adults. While Jonathan didn’t consider himself an artist or even one who knew a great deal about art, he knew what he liked and how to appreciate it. As he wondered through the halls he walked into a room and was completely surrounded. He had walked into a room that featured life-sized Buddhists statues, collected from various temples all throughout Southeast Asia. They stood over ten feet tall and towered over Jonathan’s average build. Eight statues filled the room, four on each side of the wall with Jonathan in the middle, alone, being gazed upon by the century old works. He had been in this room dozens of times before, but for some reason felt uncomfortable. He had to leave. Jonathan walked back into the hall from which he just came, unsure of why he felt so strange walking into the exhibit. Part of him thought it was because he was alone and caught off guard by the sixteen carved eyes all focusing on him, while another part wondered if he was burying some deeply guilt within himself that only eight Buddhists statues could reveal. Whatever it was, he didn’t care to find out and made his way into the German expressionist gallery. Jonathan wondered about the first floor of the museum for about an hour, making his way through some new exhibits he hadn’t seen yet. Being impressed with some and disappointed with others, he made his way upstairs to the familiar galleries that hadn’t changed since he became a member many years ago. He walked through the Italian Renaissance gallery and sat down on a bench conveniently placed in front of his two favorite paintings. Jonathan wasn’t alone in the gallery for very long, as people would occasionally drift in and out, viewing the works and mumbling softly to themselves or others. Occasionally people would stop and view the paintings that Jonathan was admiring. He could see the people out of the corner of his eye at times, watching him, wondering how he could remain so intently focused on just two works for such a long period of time. “They are breathtaking, aren’t they? These two works,” Jonathan said softly. This is my favorite spot in the whole museum. On the one hand on the left, you have Canaletto painting Venice in such an idealized way. Picturesque. Perfect. How anyone who has ever imagined Venice would view it. With water so clear and a sky so blue you don’t know which is which. Gondola operators singing in the canals to lovers new and old, their voices echoing off buildings that have seen more history than anyone of us could ever dream. Gloriously crafted buildings that have seen so much, so many lovers and families enjoying the canals, and so many more yet to see! It’s truly remarkable. And on the right side you have Guardi painting Venice for how it really is. Dirty, hazy, the canal littered with merchants and street peddlers trying to make a living. Clogging the beauty of the canal with just unorganized chaos. The buildings lose their luster, as they too are not immune from the damaging effects of the chaos, appearing unkempt and filthy. This is how Venice, I’m sure, actually looked in the 16th century. Not the picturesque scene that we want to see but rather one that is more representative of life. Where people don’t see the beauty around them but rather they can’t because they are just to busy trying to get by. Just trying to survive. I’ve been trying to survive for a long time now. Jonathan stopped his sentence and looked at the two paintings, putting his hand over his mouth and stroking his chin. He continued speaking. I’ve come here a lot, and I can always tell where I am in life based on which one of the paintings I focus on, the idealized imagery or the gritty reality. And the more I come here, the more I realize I never look at the painting on the left. Jonathan heard a low cough coming from behind him. He looked over and saw a docent, standing in the doorway, with a perplexed look on her face. Jonathan looked around, and saw no one else in the room. He was unsure how long he was talking or if he was even talking to anyone. He felt his face go bright red with embarrassment. He couldn’t think of what to do next.

Another day in this bunker, this long, winding prison I call home. The walls are lined with the blood of its former occupants, and the constant dripping sound suggests it’s fresh. Once again, the sound of dripping blood is blocked out by those things, those monsters. The sound of them walking in these dark metal hallways is unmistakable. And it’s getting closer. The pills can help me though, the pills make everything normal again. Now, where did I last put them? Damn it! I left them in the halls! Outside of this barely stable safe house. Maybe, if I’m quiet they won’t hear me. I enter the hallway, searching for the pills. I can hear them getting closer. And I know I won’t have enough time. Why did I even agree to this sadistic experiment? Money? Fame? Fortune? For gods sake, I can’t even remember what the sun looks like, much less the life I left behind! Those people, those demons that put me in here must be dead, or else they would’ve let me out by now, right? But the blood of former occupants suggests they couldn’t care less. Wait! I left the pills in the vent. Ah, the vent, the perfect place to hide things. I try to ease the vent out gently, but I can hear them coming closer, I need to just tear it off like an old band-aid I think as I grip the vent tightly. The sound of the vent tearing out is terribly loud and could be heard from miles away. Maybe the terrible sound will scare them off? No, I can hear them coming closer by the second. But now I have the pills! I can stave them off. Oh no! The lights have gone out. They’re about to reach me! I choke the pills down my throat. The effect is immediate, already this terrible fate is escaping me. The lights are turning back on and the monsters are weakened. I feel great. But I only have seconds before reality comes crashing back down on me. I need to run, I need to hide! Already I can feel the effects wearing off. But I think I hid some more pills around here somewhere. I must’ve, I’m the best! Why else would they choose me? Not enough time! They're too close! They’re on me! I can feel their teeth sinking into my flesh! A dank, sweaty lab, two scientists, Dr. Fitzgerald, a plump, stocky man, and Dr. Parker, a thinner, taller man, eat cheetos and watch through a screen, the picture of a man who has lost his mind. Subject P4C, he used to be normal. But then they got a hold of him. Twisted him, hooked him up to a machine and changed his mind. At first he resisted, but they gave him pills, and he stopped. But that experiment is over now. He is free to lead his own life again. Yet all he does is sit in his white, gleaming room, with only a single, solitary camera in it. And play pac-man, always putting more money in, playing again, and again, and again.

This is it. This is the moment that I end my own life. I’m on the rooftop and I think I’m ready. People are going to say that they had no idea. That they never would have guessed that I would do something like this. That might be true, if they’d ever truly talked to me before or really knew me. I’ve had depression for a long time but nobody seemed to notice. Maybe they did and I didn’t notice. That doesn’t matter now. Climbing up onto the ledge, I stare down into where my final moments will be. People will most likely say it was unplanned since I didn’t leave a note or anything and for the most part it’s true. All I did was research a couple of buildings with rooftop access that were high enough for my needs. Had to be sure the fall would kill me. No paralysed from the neck down, waist down or going into a coma for me. No I expect to be dead on arrival with that piece of pavement down there. It’s early morning so there’s hardly anyone except the odd car driving by. Hopefully I don’t traumatise anyone. Well this is it. I try to step off then try to jump but I stop myself every time. I’ve been up here too long. I’m too calm and my brain is hardwired to survive. I try to remember all the things that have led up to this decision here. Suddenly I can hear someone talking. I look around and notice that there’s a man with his back to me on the opposite side of the rooftop. “In life and death I will continue to be clear sighted and know the truth. That there is no point. The days of misery and mediocrity in this life are no more. So suck it world” he said. I shout over “hey!” “ahh” he jumps back startled then looks over at me, running his eyes up and down assessing me. “I’m already committed to this, you can’t stop me” he says turning back around getting ready to jump. “I don’t want to stop you. I’m here for the same reason” I call over. He turns back to face me a second time then charges at me full speed, his eyes flashing angrily. I wonder if he’s going to push me over so he doesn’t have to listen to me talk. He stops just short of me and I take a good look at him. He’s wearing a dark suit and looks to be only a year or so older than me. He looks at me and simply says “no” as if in answer to some unspoken question. I wait for him to elaborate. Both of us standing there patiently waiting for one to understand the other. The guy runs out of patience quickly “didn’t you hear me, get out of here!” “Ok just give me second” I said turning back round ready to jump. “No!” he shouts grabbing my arm and pulling me back off the ledge. “This is my spot ok go find somewhere else to die” he says shoving me away. “What no way I was here first” I say outraged. “It doesn’t matter. This has been my spot for over a week and I’m not sharing.” “why does it even matter we’re both going to be dead” I say incredulously. “Of course it matters. I don’t want people thinking we’re part of some gay suicide pact!” “ok i’ll pin a note to myself saying ‘I don’t know this corpse’ He shakes his head “that won’t work people will just think your ashamed of it. You have to find another rooftop” “I was here first you have to find another rooftop” “No this is my spot” “why does it even matter?” He grabs my arm and pull me over to where I first saw him. “look down there” he said. I look down and just see the pavement and road. “no no over there” he says pointing to across the road to a gym where the walls are just glass windows. “All those flabby house mums who just want to have sex again are going to see some reality fall in front of them when I go splat” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing “that’s not a reason to kill yourself!” He smiles as if he expected me to say that. “what I’m about to do is gonna stay with them for the rest of their lives. I’ll have left a permanent mark on their psyches.” Oh god, he's insane. I mean I guess you have to be to kill yourself but still. "Ok fine this is a good location for you thats great but I was here first and I just want to get it over with. So move" I said. "no" "fine" I say and head off to another rooftop edge. He chases after me and jumps in front of me. "ok ok. Look how about we play for it?" He asks and at this point I just want him to leave as fast as possible. "What did you have in mind?" I asked. “Got any change? We could flip for it" "No I didn't think I'd need change in the afterlife" I said sarcastically. "so you think there's an afterlife?" "yes... no, look what else have you got" "rock paper scissors.” I looked into the eyes of a man who was going to duel me with rock paper scissors with the grand prize of death to the winner and I said yes to that insanity. "this is crazy" I say getting my hand out ready. "ok 1... 2 .... 3" "wait your supposed to go after 3" "What are you talking about everyone knows you go on 3" he says irritably. "It's one two three and then you go" I explained. "fine we'll do it your way. ok 1 2 3 go, ha rock beats paper" "ok now your just fucking with me right?" "I had rock you had paper so I win" he said. "Paper covers rock" "and rock smashes through paper" he said triumphantly. "what... no it's... fuck its exhausting talking to you" He smiled "off you go now it’s killing time" and then louder he shouted "Dead man walking" as he approached the edge. I hadn't moved, in fact I was actively watching him transfixed by a morbid curiosity. He soon noticed this too and said "I thought you were leaving." "don't worry I'm not going to jump. You know gay suicide pact thing and all" His eyes narrowed "why don't you just find another rooftop" "that’s what I'm going to do" I said surprised "no you said you weren't going to jump. At all." "Of course I'm going to do it why else would I be up here?" "maybe originally you were going to but now you seem... unsure" "I guess doing all this shit with you. I mean if I really wanted to end my own life I'd have just ignored you to begin with and just did it" I said. He nodded as if he understood "maybe I'm just depressed" I offered. "maybe. Well two audience members are better than one" "now I’m the confused one" "you've been the confused one this whole time" he joked. I ignore it and press on "who's the other audience member" I ask wipingthe smile off of his face. He turns round back to facing the ledge "it doesn't matter" I get up onto the ledge with him and follow his line of site back to that gym. I see one woman in her mid forties exercising vigoursly on a stationary bike. "Is that your mum?" "yep" "Jesus, you shouldn't kill yourself because you hate your mum." "what would you know. You said it yourself your just depressed" he snarled "aren't you? Aren't you angry and sad all the time like me?" "You see that post there?" he said pointing next to the gym. I nodded "that's where I'd stand when I was little and mum had to exercise" "so what you had to wait outside for an hour every once in a while when you were little?" "It might have been that way a few times but mostly she'd find some guy and she'd disappear for the rest of the night and if she came back and I wasn't right where she left me at that post as soon as we got home she'd just start hitting me saying things like she wished she'd bought condoms that week." I didn't know what to say to that. "sometimes if the guy came home with her she'd have him do it for her while she got ready in the bedroom" Ok now I knew what to say "so what?" his eyes flashed angrily "didn't you hear a word I said" "yeah and you know what fuck her" "what?" "fuck her. don't let that bitch win. You don't have to take that shit any more. just walk away from her. Fuck her" He shook his head "I've left before and it always ends with her calling the police or me running out of money" "your what 17?" He nodded "so you graduate in like 6 months then. You only need to hold out till then" "I got kicked out. For fighting." I smiled "that's what other schools are for" I could see that he starting to come around "I've got nowhere to go though" "6 months will go by pretty quickly" I said. He shook his head firmly and lifted up shirt to reveal a large bruise running down his side. "Her latest boyfriend. I can't stay there" "You could stay with me then. All I know is you shouldn't kill yourself because of her. Fuck her now you say it" "Fuck her" "louder" "FUCK HER!" we both laughed headed back off of the edge towards the door "hang on one sec" I said. I went back over to that edge and peered over. If this were film or something all of our problems would be solved by now. But it isn't and they’re not. That guy who was abused as a kid who I think I can call a friend now after nearly dying with him was still abused and I'm still well... me. I don't want dive into my issues now it’s not a competition. I look back and the roof’s empty. Panic sets in. Did I just hallucinate him? Did this fucking cliché really just happen to me where the apparition shows the man the truth thus saving him from himself. Am I schizophrenic now? Maybe I should ju... “hey you coming?” he pops his head out from behind the door. Immediately relieved “yeah let’s go” “Christ your slow” he mumbles as we head down the steps.

Giant Frog The cottage was our favorite place as kids. When my grandpa was building it, he actually blew holes in the rock and surrounding area to be able to make a new cottage. That was his thing; he was always making things around the cottage better, cooler, more ridiculous. He did always say it was his true passion, in fact our family cottage was always more grand and better built and more expensive than any of our houses. He just wanted the cottage to be a paradise, and it really was to us kids. The actually cottage was at the very end of the very last road. It was on a five-acre square property in the corner of the lake. Inside is just a massive living room and a high ceiling with a moonlight cluttered with comfy couches, games, TVs, candles, games and instruments. The kitchen is too small and bright for such a big family, and the rest of the rooms are simple bedrooms and bathrooms. The patio with the giant barbeque overlooks the entire lake and is in front of the orange and purple sunset in the summer. The boat is raised on the dock and the dock goes 30 feet into the water, with a diving board on the end. To the right is a white-sanded beach with a trampoline and a homemade jungle gym with its own slide, monkey bars and jump platform, and a whole section of beach is roped off for volleyball. Where we parked doubled, as a field for bacci, soccer and Frisbee, and everywhere you look are old trees, staring back. The swamp part of the lake is in front of the beach and it was shallow for 200 feet out, with trails of rock which leave you knee high in water shaded by flimsy plans to walk through the swamp and catch the critters, endlessly detailed with nooks of rock and natural crevices of raised dirt and fallen trees, it’s weird how that’s the warmest part of the lake.

He slides around the corner, presses his back tightly against the wall, and they rush past him without noticing. Resting hands on knees, panting and sweaty, he takes a moment to catch his breath. They are after him. He has been running through this building for hours. Finding him has become a competition. We all want to be the one that traps the rabbit. He knows me from a time when I was on his side. I'm not sure if he will still trust me, but what's the worst that can happen? I gesture towards my door offering sanctuary, mouthing, "Come on! They are right behind you!" He scurries over, and darts under my arm just as a team of officers turns the corner. I shut the door behind him, and brace myself as he tries to force it open. "Hey, I found him! He's in here!" He is trapped and knows it. His executioners walk in behind me. He sulks over to one of my desks. We shoot each other sideways glances as we take our positions. We nod silently saying, "Good game." His case manager storms in followed by a suit. She immediately begins to deliver the lecture she has been waiting all day to give. I sit closest to him. He won't hit me... but her... none of us are too sure about her. The suit sits closest to the door, looking uncomfortable and annoyed. He tries to explain why he ran, but she had hours of chasing to prepare this speech. There were no planned pauses for his input. He is fidgeting and looking around the room. He knows I won't hesitate to tackle him if he makes a play for the door. He and I have been down that road together at "the other place." He locks eyes with me and I see big tears welling up. I can hear him telepathically asking for help. I want to scream at her to, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" but he must have been reading my mind too because he bolts up and yells it. The suit says in his best authoritative voice, "Kevin, stop." I think to myself, "What's that bitch gonna do." He and I lock eyes again and I ask, "So, are you taking any art classes this year?" He looks stunned. He wants another reason to yell but there isn't one. It dawns on him that I am throwing him an out and he grabs it with both hands. "Not yet, but I want to." In the background the lecture from Mr. & Mrs. Bitch continues, but we have entered into our own conversation bubble. In our bubble it is calm and quiet and the topic is art. "You know there are a lot of great courses offered here." We maintain intense eye contact because this reprieve is fragile. "Is there a sculpture class? Remember when I made you... POP! I had heard it in the background too. The Bitch crossed the line. She is already at the phone and looking up the number for his mom. He begins to shake. "You gonna call her so you can tell her more lies? Just like with that email you sent her." He is getting angry again and his eyes are darting around the room. He is starting to panic. "You know FUCK YOU BITCH! I've put up with fifteen years of abuse and you know that." "I didn't lie in that email. It's not my fault if your mom didn't undesta..." "It is your fault! I am back in that house now and I hate it. What happened over that email is YOUR FAULT." She moves uncomfortably in her chair and looks away. She does feel the guilt. She changes her tone and softly says, "I am so sorry if you got in trouble because your mom didn't understand my email." He senses her weakness and lobs into his verbal assault. He goes on about how she lies and how much she hates him. He begins to make fun of her for the tears in her eyes when I turn my gaze back towards him. "I know you don't like her, but do you know your brother hates ME?" This phrase strikes him speechless. I have known him for years. I protected him from the bigger kids when we were at "the other place." He has cried in my arms more than once. "It's true. I am the one that has to boss him around and he hates me for it. I was just trying to figure out what to do with him before we found out you were missing. He is worried sick about you right now." He studies my face to for a tell. I hold his gaze and continue. "Did you hear her? What she said? She said she's sorry and that you're right. Do you think you can forgive her?" His face twists with rage and tears stream down his cheeks. He looks at her and begins screaming again. I reach out and hold his hand. "You know, all of the problems with your mom were there before her. You can't blame her for what your mom did." And just like when he was small he sobs in my arms. On cue, his brother walks in. Kevin runs up and hugs him. I would like to say he hugged Mrs. Bitch as well, but truth be told, as soon as she got him into the hall he took off running.

Damn Foggy Glass He wore slim glasses, saggy blue jeans, and a dark grey long sleeve. At first glance you’d guess he's a 22-year-old Mexican guy with a sense of humor, but in reality he's a boring 26-year-old Japanese guy from Fullerton California, a suburban city east of LA. When he wants to talk he lunges toward you into a trap where you have no escape. You’ll stand there listening to his endless stories, which could be fake by its exaggerated nature. You’ll smile and laugh “ha, ha, ha” and you'll nod away till his dullness leaves the room, and only then are you allowed to take a nice deep breath of fresh air. Though he has a sense of humor from which you can tell he has been around, the dullness of his character and the size of his ego can reality destroy any positive image of him. For the weak minded, he’ll engulf your every thought with the very image of a total badass, but in actuality he's just another douche bag that talks down to you like a schoolteacher does to small child. Sadly, his very nature is found among many people all over California, a man so sure he’ll make it big one day, a man with an endless encyclopedia of catch fraises, and stories that have been recycled over the countless people who listen to them. For me, I have no choice but to listen to his grey stories because he is my roommate. A man I am forced to bond with because some asshole pared me up with him, and because without him ill be living in the bed of my truck at some parking lot, without free Wi-Fi, and a place to take a shit. The first day I met him he played broken classic rock covers on his guitar while I was trying to watch an episode of Seinfeld, and the only time he stopped was to recite Family Guy lines from an episode he was watching on his laptop. A few months later I had a girl come over from work to have a few drinks. We fooled around every weekend and one day in particular I was cooking some dinner and I heard my girl say something, so I nodded my head in agreement oblivious to what she had said. I heard the shower running, so I assumed she was taking a shower. When dinner was ready I went to check up on her to find that she was fuckin’ my roommate doggy style, and all I could see was the blurry outline of two bodies fuckin’ through the foggy glass. So without hesitation I got shit faced drunk off some cheap beer, beat the shit out of the living room, and took a piss on the floor. Next thing I know my girl comes running out from my room dry as hell in some lingerie, and my roommate runs out the door of the bathroom with some hot chick wet and naked. As for me, I'm standing there with one hand on my dick, one hand holding a beer, and my pants to my ankles. I slowly raised my pants, got my few belongings, through down some money for rent and damages, and left without saying a word. By the way my roommates name is Julian and he’s a cunt if there ever was one.

Hey guys, first story I'm posting on here - Let me know what you think! Written: 4:45pm Occurred: 12:40pm I hear the doorbell ring and realize I've changed. The way I watch myself bound down the stairs tells me I don't understand what I feel as well as I thought. Part of this realization isn't surprising - recently I've come to grasp that only in reflection do I truly find myself. We greet and it's not awkward, but I don't remember who to be, so I put on as best a casual, semi-joking tone as I'm able. I still don't understand your disposition fully, but it's changed. That trademark reservation still overcomes the newer, incompletely disguised cheer that implies some sort of excitement my presence now seems to elicit. We walk up the stairs, and I lose track of what I'd first like to ask, so generic pleasantries come first as we sit on my couch. The weekend-long text conversation was enjoyable, but leaves me blank as to what I'm specifically interested in talking about. The persona I've engaged you with tragically disallows any sort of emotional connection; but we've only got a few minutes anyway. Can I manage to display a shift in mentality? No, I'm not even conscious of the mistake I've already made. That facebook message was enough for you to disregard the fact that my walls won't come down today; your response of "words cannot express my gratitude for what you've written here". Are you even conscious of it? You look through my photos and I continue pushing the flirtatious vibes as if I'd met you last week. My roommate asks if we're ready, and as we head down the stairs behind him you ask: "ladies first?" I treat it as a joke, as if you're implying I should go first. Now I realize it's just a subconscious plea: where's the gentleman I'm starting to understand? You get in the back seat and as I sit next to you, you don't make an effort to move over too far; we're sitting close. I ask about the new pinky ring with a studded cross, we joke and you ignore a direct answer. Socialization is now required as my roommate's driving in the front. Cordial discussion of Thanksgiving break ensues. We get to your apartment and your roommates join us. The car's full and we hold hands as we drive off. A few minutes later, we're briefly outcast from the discussion going on in the front of the car. Quiet flirtation between us, subtle enough to be unknown to other passengers, makes me conscious of something - my raw, physical attraction to you. Something I guess I didn't really come to terms with. You're not letting me in at all now, expertly avoiding allowing me to even make a guess at what you're thinking. Aside from what can't be denied - that we're flirting. Everything else is a mystery. Oh, you're good at this. I fight to avoid the blatant, physical display of arousal any man is anatomically capable of. We walk to the restaurant and you mention that facebook post your father wrote. I make light of it, identifying the obvious humor on the surface - the type of response you knew was a possibility and probably expected. But there's more to what he said of course; when will I be sensitive enough to let you try to communicate that? We order food and I wait alone near the counter behind the condiment stand after filling my drink. You walk by to do the same, but after a minute alone I wonder where everyone is. I look over to see you and your roommates sitting there while the other two guys are standing nearby, unconcerned about engaging in the girl-talk. We get our meals and head outside. You shoot me a fairly casual glance as we walk out the door, not quite directly at me in the sense that it demands a reaction, but acknowledging something more than my mere existence. Throughout lunch you're distant. Despite the required group conversation, one-on-one discussions are still possible but you never explicitly try to engage me. Only in reflection do I deem this my fault. Jokes, parking meter, holding hands, better vibes than lunch. We walk down the street. We both act a little differently around each other, a bit more connected on a level we haven't yet talked about. After ordering Irish coffees, I make a few jokes our friends find hilarious. Your roommates find me funny as always, and even you laugh a little. We discuss the pictures we both took over the weekend, and you're willing to engage. You're enjoying it, but there's a sense of obligation. If I didn't bring it up, would you have? You're cautious, it seems. I've never been through a bad relationship; you've been recently hurt. How much of your reservation relates to this? We talk about the holidays. After finishing my drink and you offering yours, I'm moreso in the joking mood than I usually let myself indulge in anymore - I know I can be a dick. I make a joke in bad taste about thanksgiving, stemming from the fact that your parents never thoroughly celebrated Christmas. A sensitive topic. The car ride back we hold hands, but you're engaging your roommate to the left. I crack a few jokes to be part of the various conversations in the car, all in good taste this time. It seems like you've given up on who I am today: our physical contact rightly identifying your acceptance of my entirety, but a psychological distance coming from your subconscious disapproval of my state of mind. As your roommates get out of the car and I whisper for you to come back and hang out with me, you good-heartedly let me know you need to study. This is genuine in every respect: you know who I can be when you get me alone, but have an academic discipline that goes unquestioned. We leave, but the bad taste in my mouth only subsides as I finish this reflection.

On this particular chilly Eugene evening, I am on a bus headed for campus. Park lights illuminate the Willamette with their reflection off the dark surface of the water. The metal beams of the bridge flash in a green blur as the bus pushes its way toward the university campus. The time is 9:04 pm as I get off the bus which means I have some time to walk around before my shift begins at 9:30. I work at a cafeteria on the university’s campus washing dishes as a way to make some extra money. I walk through campus, passing buildings I see every day, in the silent, cold night. The lampposts littering campus and the music coming through my earphones are the nearest thing to company I have. Looking down the long stretch of vacant asphalt, I feel lonely in this empty environment of concrete and bricks. In search of something comforting, I decide to venture to some nearby neighborhoods. Less than a year ago, my friends and I would walk around the neighborhoods south of campus to talk about classes and smoke. These ritualized walks became a staple in my daily routine and the foreign area of Eugene became familiar to me. Coming from Las Vegas, and being a freshman in college, the entire university experience was new to me. Being a newcomer to Eugene, and the overall atmosphere of the northwest, I held a certain amount of anxiety to living in a new place and meeting new people. After a short while, I met a few guys, who lived in the same hall I did, and we spent a lot of our free time together conversing, venting, smoking, and learning, but I digress. I venture off the cracked sidewalk and cross the street. Just past the sidewalk is a large, wooden tunnel that towers over me as I pass through. On the other side of the tall, wooden tunnel is a grey and black ball of fur and fangs standing in the middle of a patch of grass. A raccoon the size of an overweight bulldog stares at me while its mouth hangs open, flashing sharp rows of teeth and fangs where he stands just five feet away from me. Our eyes meet. I could see the reflection of the lamps by the museum shining off his black eyes. I freeze, fearful that any move I make may scare the raccoon and cause him to attack me. I feel mad for a split second because I am too afraid to pass the raccoon, to test his patience; he claims this area. He kept eye contact with me, marking his territory, standing his ground. I see the open sidewalk in front of me, but I cannot move. Instead I am confronted by a living, wild road block in the form of a raccoon. He could attack me at any moment, jump at my shaking legs and claw at my body till he was finished. I can feel the thumping of my pulse in my chest and around my jugular. My pounding pulse surely must be visible to the raccoon. I am powerless against his brute force and wild instincts. I imagine the raccoon scratching at my neck, fangs out biting at my body for any piece of flesh he could get a hold of. The raccoon’s mouth opened even wider as he took a step closer to me. It was time for him to get rid of the intruder. My heart elevated to my throat. Fight or flight. I begin to back up without realizing it. About face and then I fast-walk back to campus as discretely as I can. I don’t want to show fear, for the raccoon could smell it and would take any advantage he could. A city in the middle of the desert doesn’t have wild animals lurking the streets, there are only diseased pigeons who avoid people. Encountering a feral raccoon is an experience I have never had, and knew right away I would not want to come across one of these creatures again. My fear arises from ignorance. Once I crossed the street, I turned my head and the raccoon was nowhere in sight. I can breathe again. A moment of anticipation and joy interrupted and ruined with a glance. The memory of the raccoon’s dark eyes lives with me, always watching. My memories of the wooded, charming neighborhoods are tainted by the vacant gaze of a raccoon flashing his feral fangs as a warning. The international sign for no trespassing. There is still an inkling of space in the back of my mind that wonders if the raccoon meant no harm and would have idly watched me pass by his temporary residence in the grass. Perhaps I should have tried; perhaps I am smart not to have tried.

Ravenholm. Once an old mining town, now a zombie infested wasteland. Ravenholm used to be a thriving mining town with great people long ago, and then later served as a stronghold for the Resistance. This stronghold managed to stay under the radar, but somehow the Combine found it. They didn’t do their usual “purge and sterilize” procedure, for this was to big a threat, they would have been outnumbered. No, instead of coming and fighting, they launched several headcrab mortars from a few towns over. The Resistance managed to stave off the headcrabs for a while, but eventually, their ranks were broken, infiltrated, and the headcrabs began gradually turning everyone into the monstrosities that we refer to as “zombies”. That was almost a year ago now, and the city is now a run down, heavily trapped, zombie infested nightmare. We have a phrase in the Resistance: “We don’t go to Ravenholm.” It’s not clever, witty, or comedic, it’s just simply a reminder of what happened and why we don’t go there, and even with all this, I’ve somehow managed to be convinced to go here by Alyx. Alyx Vance is one of the many leaders for the Resistance, she sent me here to find an “asset” that is critical to the Resistance; Gordon Freeman. Everybody has heard of Dr. Freeman, he was formerly a theoretical physicist at Black Mesa turned Resistance. He has helped us numerous times in battle, and he was like a machine; kill one Combine, move seamlessly to a zombie, then straight to an Antlion. I wondered where he received his combat training, considering he used to be a scientist right out of MIT, maybe he used to be military, who knows? He never says anything. Ever. Anyway here I am, sent to retrieve him, but I doubt he needs any help. My name is Alexander Sauer; I joined the resistance about three years ago. When I was around twenty five, my brother was taken to Nova Prospekt in a Combine raid, after that, I swore to get my revenge, no matter what. I was contacted by the Resistance when Alyx Vance and Barney Calhoun were passing through City 7, they heard about the raid and said I could fight for the Resistance and get the Combine off of our planet. Naturally, I joined right away to get back at the Combine for what they did to my brother; I wouldn’t let them do this to anybody else. So, here I am, in the middle of this sad parody of what used to be a town, looking for one scientist who is supposedly able to save the world. What a rut I have gotten myself into. I walked out of the abandon mineshaft that led straight from Black Mesa East to Ravenholm into an open grassy area boxed in by three or four buildings; it was hard to see in the dark. A small rustling sound came from my left. I swung my handgun up to meet the perpetrator, only to find it was a crow. The crow looked at me for a second, almost sizing me up, and then flew off into the night. “Strange.” I mumbled to myself. I started heading towards a small shack with a sickly yellow light radiating from it when I heard a second rustling sound behind me, this time much bigger. I brought my gun up again to defend myself from whatever was making the noise. I peered into the darkness with my gun drawn, but I couldn’t see anything. “Birds, I guess…” I put my gun back in its holster and turned around towards the shack when I bumped into a pair of dismembered legs hanging from a tree. “Dritt!” I swore in Norwegian, which was rare, I usually reserved that for special occasions. I stumbled backwards and tripped over a rock, falling down. My commotion had awakened a headcrab zombie from under the shack. I brought my gun up for a third time and put seven bullets in the things chest, which brought it down, but not for long. I made a b-line straight for the shack, leaping over the fallen monster and slamming the door behind me. I began taking mental inventory. I shot seven rounds, which leaves eleven more in the clip, plus my six other magazines. I also have my SMG if worst comes to worst. After making sure I was prepared, I checked around, looking at what the shack held. It looked like an old workshop of some kind, I saw old saw blades, propane tanks, and 2x4’s lying around. I began to wonder why a workshop would need propane, when I was interrupted by the gurgling cry that signifies a headcrab zombie. In a room I hadn’t bothered to look in, there were four or five zombies shambling towards me, thankfully there were boards nailed to the doorframe, but that wouldn’t hold them long. I began to draw my gun from my holster, when I had an idea. I returned my pistol to its home on my belt, and jogged over to the pile of propane tanks. I picked one up and, with much effort, threw it into the zombie filled room. It looked like somebody else had the same idea, because there were scorch marks on the wall. I unloaded three rounds into the tank in the middle of the room, and then dived for cover. There was a loud bang which left my ears ringing, but it took care of the zombies, so I wasn’t complaining. I vaulted over the boards and made sure the zombies were dead. I was surprised when I found the spent magazine of a pistol on the ground; it looked to be the same model as mine, which was Resistance standard issue. That told me two things; that somebody had already been through here, and recently because judging by the amount, or the lack thereof, of rust or dried blood on it. I thought to myself that it could have been Dr. Freeman, but then thought better. It could be anybody’s magazine; it is what the Resistance gives out, after all. But what if… I shook this thought from my head. If there was one thing I learned over the years it would be: don’t get your hopes up, you will be disappointed. If you have low expectations, you will be easily impressed and happy with the way things turn out. Too many a time I have hoped that my brother would come back from Nova Prospekt, perfectly fine and healthy, but that day never came. After about three and a half hours of wandering around Ravenholm in the dark avoiding zombies and headcrabs alike, my eyelids began to feel heavy. I knew that I couldn’t just sleep anywhere here; almost every room, closet, and air duct was filled with all kinds of baddies. I had to find somewhere safe. Thirty minutes later, I was still looking for somewhere to rest my eyes, when some yellow paint caught my eye. I made my way over to inspect the paint, and what I saw reassured me that I was on the right track. What I saw was a spray paint lambda with a circle around it that signified a lambda cache. Lambda caches are small stores of weapons, ammunition, and medical supplies that Resistance members have strategically placed in safe havens in and around City 17. Seeing that sign gave me immense hope, it meant that I had somewhere safe for at least the night, and also that I could resupply my weapons. The only problem was that it was on a ledge about twelve feet off of the ground. I began to scan the surrounding area for ways to get my tired body up to this beacon of hope. I saw a ladder about five hundred meters away, but there was a large group of zombies surrounding it. Up till now, I have been mostly trying to avoid confrontation with the zombies by finding other routes around or quietly sneaking by. I whittled myself down to two options: either I would come up with a distraction and sneak by while they were busy, or I could take them head on. Conserving ammo wasn’t really a problem for me because there was a cache right after this, so I chose the latter of the two options. I decided to not take any chances and use my submachine gun this time. I pulled it around on its sling, and levelled it with the first zombie’s head. I pulled the trigger in two short, controlled bursts, so that I could keep accurate, while still putting a fair amount of lead into the former-human’s head. The short, loud reports of my gun awakened the other zombies while the first one fell to the ground. I took them down, one by one; controlled, almost machine like. In a situation such as this, I couldn’t afford to let my emotions, my thoughts, get in the way. I couldn’t let the fact that these things used to be normal people, sons, daughters, fathers, mothers… brothers… I hesitated for a second, lingering on this thought, and then my training brought me back to focus. I kept squeezing off shots until they were all gone, just in time too; my SMG was out of ammunition. I sprinted over to the ladder and climbed up onto the roof. I made my way, rooftop to rooftop, towards the Lambda Cache, and almost nothing popped out to protest my progression. I had made it to the hatch right above the Cache; I scanned around to make sure nothing was watching me, and slipped in silently. The Cache was a small area of air duct that had been welded off from the rest of the system to preserve security. It was around five feet by five feet wide, and three feet tall. I looked around, and my heart sank. What I saw was a mattress, some tally marks on the wall, and empty ammunition cases. All the ammo had been taken! Somebody had made it here before me, and my SMG was empty! I cursed myself for assuming that there would be an abundance of ammo here. I took inventory again, I had around three clips for my handgun, plus whatever I had in the gun, but that would only get me so far. I curled up on the mattress. I needed rest; I would be able to plan better with full tanks. I began to drift off to sleep, let a warm blanket of dark drift over my body. I had almost fallen completely asleep, when I heard a shuffling down one of the branches in the air duct. I saw one of the paths leading off wasn’t welded shut like the others, it looked as though somebody or something had broken through it with their bare hands, judging by the blood. How had I not noticed that before? I need to keep my guard up, if I keep this up, I’m going to end up dead. I began to reach for my pistol, but it was nowhere to be found. I looked down the duct again, this time I flicked on my flashlight to see what was making the noise. The sight that greeted me was that of a severed torso from a headcrab zombie. I crawled over to the hatch leading out, but it would stop about a quarter of the way open. I tried to look for my handgun, but, still, it eluded my eyes. I began throwing my shoulder into the hatch, trying desperately to force it open. One, two, three, four. It my shirt ripped, and after around the sixth or seventh attempt, my shoulder began to bleed. It was no use, the torso was already at my feet, making its signature gurgling cry to alert the other zombies. I threw my shoulder at the door once more, putting all my weight behind it. It opened. I scrambled out and into the open air. It appeared the torso had succeeded in alerting the other zombies, this time, they were skinny corpses that moved at superhuman speed. I began running away along the rooftops. I jumped from rooftop to rooftop, trying to put as much distance between me and the zombies. I came to an extremely high drop, with no other rooftops in sight. I saw a water tower with an open top about fifty meters from the ledge and about ten down. I decided to leap for it, because I was dead anyway if I didn’t. I backed up until I thought I had enough room to gain sufficient speed. I sprinted up to the edge as fast as I could, and then I jumped.

To blog or not to blog, that is the question. The screen stares back at me, almost teasingly - what promises it held when first purchased, a lofty gateway into possibilities, options and gratification. Time has ravaged a once cherished friend - look at the imperfections, the dead pixel near the start menu icon, the fading sticker informing you of just how outdated the hardware specifications are by today’s standards... the only question left is whether to euthanise now, or force a few more difficult months from the machine before it meets it’s final fate. It certainly deserves a better memorial than instant replacement. It was a trusted companion in life, has travelled around the world a couple of times (physically as well as via VPN), seen good times and bad with the only judgement offered a slow, gradual descent into bloathood. How I hate you sometimes, you cruel memento to the passing of time. How I wish you’d stay forever young, new and vanilla installed. There must be dozens of us out there - dozens upon thousands of cruelly uninformed misfits whose inattention to immediacy has deformed their ability to appreciate reality, and who've personified, surrogated and subjected 'The Web' to the same lofty standards that physicians use to diagnose health, physically. I think I’m just blue, myself. I love technology, and I hate it at the same time. It holds me to ransom, sets me free and after all is said and done it draws me back in, back into the folds of upgrading, downloading, optimising and tweaking, all in vain as my usage varies so wildly and the cleanliness of my machine gradually becomes more and more a reflection of my dirty mind. Are there healthy webs and unhealthy webs? Is it possible that all of these neuralities and connections are merely entropy? What are the solutions to the gradual development of the Internet as an alternative, worldwide synthetic governance? How best to harness some of these issues, these driving forces that rule the world, change the world and allow yesterday’s gatekeepers to gradually catch up to us and shut down the doors that should remain open. ‘No taxation without representation’, but the founder of The Pirate Bay is now imprisoned and digital freedom fighters seek safety in the houses of dictators. Technology’s constant drive feels like a threat, at times; equal parts bounteous, beautiful avenue filled with hopefulness, curiosities and treasure troves, or detritus riddled back alley in a sleazy South East Asian tourist hellhole with walls that ooze and a scent that threatens to help you reprise your last hurried meal. Even if you subscribe to the rosy cheeked optimistic outlook, the mere fact that you’re probably not a tech millionaire as you’re reading this feels like you’re missing out on something you ought to be clever enough to figure out, and that’s another frustration of technology’s unfulfilled promises. Where the fuck are our fucking hoverboards? The world is always falling apart - and just because technology can be used for any purpose, is that reason enough for it to be applied to problems blindly? Why don’t more offices use linux? Perhaps we should be taking advice from the Amish - whose attitudes towards technology embody a lofty ideal that focuses on relationships first and all the rest a pale, secondary consideration. Why2.0 - A format for a bored decade. ‘What was porn like before the internet, daddy?’ ‘Well son, in the past, it was only a small group of ladies who made pornography - it used to be much more difficult to see a good gangbang or triple fisting, as the economics and delivery methods presented tougher barriers to entry than your classmates have to worry about now. Back when I first started masturbating, we would be thrilled to see even just a nice set of boobs - you don’t know how lucky you’ve got it now, son, I’ll tell you that much... why do you ask?’ ‘Well Mr. Fantasme at school was discussing his sex life with us and Jeremy asked him if we could watch some of his home videos. Mr. Fantasme said that they haven’t even made any! We couldn’t believe it.’ ‘Well son, he’s probably telling the truth. It’s important to remember that Mr. Fantasme comes from France, and their attitudes towards pornography are much more conservatives than ours - they don’t even allow people under the age of 13 to masturbate!’ ‘Gee dad, you’re the best! Thanks for answering all my questions - I’m off to my room now, and won’t be back down for an hour!’ I haven’t had an honest discussion about wanking in a long time. The last time I raised the subject I was quickly asked to lower it, which was quite a blow to my ego. She wasn’t amused about my phrasing and I was a bit frustrated that she had initiated the general sex related conversation but was now wanting to cherry pick the subject matter. It’s confusing to have your hot female friends posting wank related statuses on Facebook, especially as you know her mum uses it and how the hell does she manage to get away with it all? I don’t even feel comfortable cracking slightly blue jokes in case of parental repercussion... I’m probably just jealous. Perhaps we males should be planning how to discuss these types of issues with our children before the well meaning femisogynists take over. Our collective masculine inability to be honest about sexuality is gradually destroying our ability to enjoy sex, and that’s a fucking shame. There are still alpha males out there, we’re constantly told, and they seem to operate on a different of rules to the rest of us frustrated white boys. Well meaning parents who open our eyes to all the world has to offer don’t really appreciate it when we come back from Thailand talking about how cheap the ‘friendships’ were, and who can really blame them - it wasn’t an option when they were our age. I remember porn BI (Before Internet) - the stolen glances at ‘men’s magazines’, the gradual realisation that ladybits were very, very interesting indeed and that perhaps, in a strange, unfamiliar and very unlikely future, I might even get to know some of them on a personal level. I remember stealing (literally and figuratively) porn from friends, newsagents and the library - my school was a bit slack with network protocol and we sure knew how to respond to that! The fiasco is that kids understand the Internet better than their parents - at least at the moment. Coming of age in an epochal shift has never before been documented as it happens, because it’s a rare luxury to have the resources to appreciate, measure and commentate on epochal change factors (let alone be able to realise you’re subject to them), and to have those resources and opportunities laid out freely in front of children discovering their teenage neurologies, chemicals and motivating factors is something that noone can really predict the outcome of. We Millenials will rule the world eventually - because The World revolved around us, for a decade or thereabouts, a decade of immense, unparalleled communication revolution coupled with optimistic economic growth and a seemingly constant relief that Y2K’s veiled threat proved an embarrasing blowover, reinforcing the idea that technology can do anything. I welcomed in the new millenium walking the streets of Melbourne, and a year later repeated the party in Sydney - then Beijing, then Manila, then Berlin... - the list goes on. When it’s possible to party why should anyone bother to work? We will rule because every generation rules, just like the generations before them. Just kidding! Not every generation rules, and not everything your mum and dad told you to do is possible, let alone appropriate in a constantly changing socio-political globally networked hyper-real synthetic playground. Before we rule we must disobey. Before we revolt, we must vault - and before we vault, we must lay the foundations for the desired outcome. Technology is not an easy matter. You cannot live through it - you cannot surrogate life, via technology, without becoming frustrated, cynical and optimistic all jumbled together - unless you have before you a great idea which raises you above misery, weakness, perfidy and baseness. Before these young upstarts - these filthy 90s kids - before these Bieber babies of tomorrow outsmart us, we need to filter out the rubbish and focus on the relevant subject fields. Me? I plan on planning. I don't know what I don't know and neither do you. We Millenials will rule the world eventually just as these dirty 90s kids will too - every generation having their time in the spotlight. The personification of technology will become a faster force to factor, and synthetic psychiatry a realm of worrying optimism. We behave a little better with strangers in the room, and so, with the ubiquity of personalised robotics, perhaps our behaviour will improve as we bring manners to contexts previously not deemed worthy of respect. I don't want to be the voice of a generation - I just want you to shut the fuck up, to stop telling me what to like, what to prioritise, what to focus on and what to spend my hard earned on (even if it comes to me via Centrelink), to stop applying your values, experiences and attitudes to the problems I face. What worked for you may not work for us, even if you believe in the universality of general goodness applied professionally, socially and ethically. What’s wrong with being volatile? What’s wrong with prioritising my own safety above the safety of an employer whose only morality is measured in code hidden from sight, an unspoken deference to the almighty power of compound interest - an AAPL a day keeps the Doctor away... There are literally dozens of us. I don't need you. You don't need me - in the same way that you don't 'need' clothes. You could choose to run around everywhere, naked, and many do. But you want me - you want everyone like me, to ‘like’ you - to be like you, to think like you, to act like you and to value all that you think made you the decent, productive person you believe you are today. She doesn't want me anymore, and that hurts. She told me this casually, as we fucked. It was heartbreaking, especially as I've done the same thing to girls in my own way, without fully realising how much it hurt the people I was trying to avoid hurting. Casual sex was doing me bad but I couldn’t shake the need for it without picking up a different demon... Plan B knows what I mean, an irony given how frequently I succumbed to my second best option. Her Arrogance was competing with my own and I could hardly bear it. She was so fucking bored, fucking - it was like there was no reason to bother expressing anything at all, as her contempt for the mundane, generic role that this occupies in her life took over, autopiloted her body into Orgasmania and destroyed my ability to stay hard. I felt like I had encountered the lady equivalent of a semi, but only for the mind. How could someone be this bored during sex? It wasn’t ‘bad’ sex - she knew what to do and vice versa, and our bodies were demonstrating that nature was progressing as per usual - but there was an utter detachment of emotion from the act. There was no fantasy being met, or even failing to be met - there was nothing behind those eyes except salts, minerals, liquids and the like, coalescing and coordinating to confuse me, as I struggled to feel emotionally connected with the carcass in front of me. Nothing but chemical building compounds. Why? My ego suffered pretty badly that night. I couldn’t articulate what had happened between us, and she didn’t even seem to realise that there was something wrong - so passé had the exchange been, so trite... I think I need another beer. The ‘how’ of something is probably a simpler question to look at / assess than the ‘why’ - we humans love thinking and believing that we know what’s happening, but we never really know what might end up being in our best interests. It took me more time than I’d care to admit to come to this realisation, and by the time I had actually grasped what that might mean for me and the people I care for, it was already too late... Welcome to Causality.

Day 3. It’s a wonder the lights still work. After all, I never would have walked into this hell hole of a pizza parlor in the first place. It’s funny how the only reason I’m alive is that this archaic building from the early twenties happened to have a damp and abysmal basement that sheltered about twenty of us while everyone else in the city dropped dead. “Repent!” he said repeatedly, “I warned you all this would happen! I told you!” That lunatic in the corner just won’t shut up. “Maybe if you sacrificed yourself for your gods, this wouldn’t have happened,” I blankly stated. He glanced at me for a moment and then continued to scratch at the wall. I can’t wait to get out of this miserable shack. I haven’t seen anything outside for days. We used all the pizza dough in the storage room to fill the cracks in the windows and the doors. I’m fairly certain that the dough facing outwards was cooked through because of the radiation but I’m not even gonna bother trying. It probably doesn’t taste that great anyway. We should have seen the warning signs coming but the people simply stopped caring. They were too distracted. They let themselves be distracted. And one thing led to another as a couple of guys in lab coats and business suits wiped out most of the human race. And here we are. In a two-star pizza parlor. Twenty of us packed like sardines. Well, if there is an up-side to all of this, it would take the form of a girl. Catt. Catt Mondino. I never really would have even thought about talking to her before. I never really saw the reason to. Sure she looked nice and all, but I was able to survive just fine without her, wasn’t I? I didn’t realize until now, when I’m here surrounded by these people, that I always lived life as a loner. Again, I don’t see too much of a problem with that. “You need some water?” Those were the first words she said to me. I shook my head. In truth, I did need some water. But why did I need her to get it for me? I easily could do so myself if I really wanted to. Anyways, she looked somewhat disappointed with my answer, and I really saw no good in leaving her in that state, so I went on. “You live in the area?” “Well, I used to. The apartments not too far from here.” She pointed off to her left. Those buildings probably aren’t inhabitable anymore. In my opinion, the building we were now sitting in was completely uninhabitable. I hate being around so many people all the time. They speak constantly in hushed tones. An incessant, annoying whispering. “Well, that’s nice. If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to sleep for a while.” “Oh, alright then,” she replied. I wasn’t really going to sleep. I figured that it was about time I take matters into my own two hands. That’s just the way I’d done things before this mess, and that’s how I plan to get by now. If I could just sneak out through the attic, I could head west until I reach the mountains. I’ll nab some climbing equipment along the way and make it up to the top. I had nothing personal against these people. They really were nice, with the way they always asked each other if everybody was ok, or if somebody needed this, or if somebody could use some help with that. But that just isn’t my style. It was a little past midnight (I think) when I headed towards the attic. Sleeping closest to the window was of course Catt. I thought back to when she asked if I needed some water. I didn’t realize it then, but there was something different about that particular instance. She genuinely reached out to help, unlike some others, who simply took to asking questions like that simply because it seemed like the thing to do after an apocalypse of sorts. They were parrots, really. I whispered a goodbye and climbed out the window. It was worse than I thought. The smell was unbearable. A ghastly wind flowed through the empty streets. I dropped down to the ground floor and took a stroll towards Catt’s apartment, just to see what was left. That’s when the radiation started getting to me. I started blacking out. I had no idea what I was doing or where I was going or why I even left. There really was nowhere else to go. I had to head back. Sure I would be back at the place I complained about without end, with those people. But still. I guess there is some good in looking out for each other. At this point, I didn’t care. By the time I got to the front door, I was barely crawling. I reached up to knock at the door. And before I could even do that, I blacked out completely. I woke up lying in the attic. Catt walked in. With a kind, warmhearted smile on her face, she asked "You need some water now?" I nodded, yes.

Once upon a time there was a little boy born in a little town. He was perfect, or so his mother thought. But one thing was different about him. He had a gold screw in his belly button. Just the head of it peeping out. Now his mother was simply glad he had all his fingers and toes to count with. But as the boy grew up he realized not everyone had screws in their belly buttons, let alone gold ones. He asked his mother what it was for, but she didn't know. Next he asked his father, but his father didn't know. He asked his grandparents, but they didn't know either. That settled it for a while, but it kept nagging him. Finally, when he was old enough, he packed a bag and set out, hoping he could find someone who knew the truth of it. He went from place to place, asking everyone who claimed to know something about anything. He asked midwives and physicians, but they couldn't make heads or tails of it. The boy asked alchemists, tinkers, and old hermits living in the woods, but no one had ever seen anything like it. He went to ask the merchants guild, thinking if anyone would know about gold, it would be them. But they didn't know. He went to professors at the university, thinking if anyone would know about screws and their workings, they would. But the learned men didn't know. The boy followed the road over the mountains to ask the necromancers, but none of them could give him an answer. Eventually he went to the King of Vint, the richest king in the world. But the king didn't know. He went to the Emperor, but even with all of his power, the emperor didn't know. He went to each of the small kingdoms, one by one, but no one could tell him anything. Finally the boy went to the High King across the sea, the wisest of the kings in the wrold. The high king looked closely at the head of the golden screw peeping from the boy's belly button. Then the high king made a gesture, and his servant brought out a pillow of golden silk. On that pillow was a golden box. The high king took a golden key from around his neck and opened the box, and inside was a golden screwdriver. The high king took the screwdriver and motioned the boy to come closer. Trembling with excitement, the boy did. Then the high king took the golden screwdriver and put it in the boy's belly button. Then the high king carefully turned the golden screw. Once: Nothing. Twice: Nothing. Then he turned it the third time, and the boy's ass fell off.

We left the club hours ago and I can still feel the wave of the beat. The perfectly synchronized rush to explosive electronica heaven is building in the sound system of my mind - again. And again. The chemicals are slightly wearing off so as I tip out of the cab, I fumble in my back pocket for the crushed pack of cigarettes, find the next hapless victim, cradle her in my lips and light up. I have no idea how I'm even standing but I skillfully negotiate against the refrigerated wind and as the relieving foul tasting heat crackles from the suction into my lungs, my head begins to spin - or spin faster really - and I take off again helplessly laughing at the non-existent idiosyncrasies of everyone around me. Is there anyone around me? The burning rum purchased at the airport lounge is nauseatingly dancing its way through my digestive system. Sunglasses on and sleepless, I sidle past the smiling strangers in row 31 and slump into seat A. The moment my forehead touches the cold glass, my fever subsides. Soon the chill becomes unbearable but I can't move. I'm too high to sleep. All I want to do is tap my feet to the quiet roar of the engine, wedge my face against the window. And stare. It's a 3 hour flight from New York to Chicago and beaming through the thin haze - how many feet below us? 20,000? 30,000? - lies god's ice tray. Neatly separated by the fences of past disputes and lawsuits yet to be settled, last night's snowfall purposefully shimmers in random and infinite directions. Naturally vying for the attention of the other passengers - a standard fair of middle aged business travellers, pretend writers and holiday makers - the world outside cannot compete with the opportunity of a guilt free break from the kids. Or with the - soon to be discarded forever - typing. Or even with the Adam Sandler movie being shown for the 50th first time. Most of the shades are down. As we chase the sun, stalling its escape behind the horizon, I see another plane frozen in the sky slightly ahead of us, beating us, indifferently flaunting the majesty of the parallel streams in its trail. Like a yawning peacock, fanning its tail at cooing tourists, it casually gives permission to stare at how effortless it is to be graceful and humble and beautiful. "Why don't you be beautiful too? Can't you see how easy I make it look? Now eat my dust." This is not a race. There are no television cameras or radio commentators or photographers secretly hoping for a career making collision. No one is cheering along for victory. Well.... Not on my flight anyway. But I reckon that's because we're losing.

Rastus, the stand-up comic, grabbed the mike and began his routine: “Yowie, Yowie, Yowie—fun night—Friday night. How are we—fun people?” He stretched the word “night” out and put a mad, contorted look on his face. A few women laughed. What most of the audience didn't know was that Rastus was not funny at all; he was, like all the comics or professional funny people I’d met to date, a very serious and rote minded character. He routinely stole jokes and one liners at every opportunity. For instance he would sit or stand around BBQ’s asking people if they knew any good jokes. If one came up, he would never laugh, never. But he would say,”Hey, that is funny!” In the same way another person might admire a piece of art. Most people when they hear a funny or humorous line take their joy in the act of laughing or being amused, not a comedian, they only analyze it and put it in their bag of tricks, a collector of what makes people laugh without real enjoyment in the simple act of laughter and humor itself. Rastus’s real name was Vinnie Vincenszo, now that is a perfect name for a funny guy—Vinnie Vincenszo, not Rastus, which is a contrived silly name of someone, quite obviously trying to be funny. We had this conversation many times, I would say, “Vinnie drop the Rastus, thing man, it’s not funny” “I am Rastus, he is funny, you ask anyone, Rastus is the Funster, Vinnie is not funny—I don’t want to have this conversation again— O.K.!” Vinnie had just finished half his gig and I had called around to see him perform. I don’t know why really, he was the most boring, repetitive comic. It did annoy me that other people would be amused by his antics. A tipsy woman came passed us and noticed Vinnie, she said. ” My God, Rastus, you are the funniest guy ever, hilarious!” Vinnie smiled and said. ” Yowie, Yowie, Yowie—thank you!” She walked away giggling. “You see that, you see that—that’s what Rastus does! Learn from the master if you ever want to get a laugh.” Vinnie bragged. “Are You kidding, that woman would not know funny, you think that Yowie, Yowie crap, is funny, that is not funny, man, get rid of it, show some class, funny; that’s not funny Vinnie!” I said getting quite annoyed. “You know what, it’s you who doesn't know funny, you know that. These people love me, they know funny— funny is Rastus!” Vinnie was raising his voice now. He continued, “why do you come here every night, it’s always the same, you come to criticize me, I’m going to ban you, if you keep it up. You know your problem, you’re a comedian wannabe, that’s it, isn't it. You can’t stand the fact that people get a real lift out of my stuff—because you my friend would like to be funny like me, but can’t because you got no sense of humor, you’re an unfunny guy, that’s your problem.” Vinnie actually had a grin on his face, he was enjoying himself now, he felt the flow, the roll of it. I on the other hand was really annoyed; perhaps there was some truth in what he said, maybe there was a component of the comic wannabe that kept me coming back. He let out one final jab, “I’m going to ban you—unfunny guy.” He was laughing now and headed back to the floor. Grabbing the mike he made a sort of “stewwwww,” sound, followed by a longer “naaaagggooa,” almost spitting into the mike. People actually sniggered in their beer over this puerile sound-blast. “You know what peeps, I have a friend, I call him the unfunny guy. He’s the opposite of funny. I betcha when he was born he came out with a sour look on his face. Thing is he wants to be funny; he’s the sort of guy that does a course in How to be the *Funny Guy at Parties.* Anyway I’m going to ban him from my show. You hear that—Mr. Unfunny guy.” The audience picked up on Vinnie’s enthusiasm, they were with him, he was carrying their expectancy and his delivery had a confident punch to it. He was looking straight at me; it was time for me to leave. People laughed at my departure, it was a good joke at my expense. My point had been proven, Vinnie could only be funny with my help, I’d be back, he needed me.

((Note: This story is written by me and I have to say it's not grammar and sp checked. It is merely a rough draft that I thought you guys might like. I'm not very good at reddit spacing so i'm sorry for the block of text feel this has. If anyone has the solution please inform me! This is mainly to see if the plot and twists are interesting. Thanks for reading!)) Within the light of day I saw the greatest site. Small butterfly floating to my right. My eyes followed the dreamy creature through it fantasy glide through the cool summer breeze. Not a care in it’s mind aside from that of pollen. The trees around us encased secrets of these woods. No man outside had know of the well of eternity just below my feet. Immortality hides away here. Having found sanctuary within the realm of magic. Hidden away for eons from the sight and mind of man except to only flourish in tales of myth and false legend. From the well a tree drew it’s source of life. Growing proud and tall around the many dead oaks of the forest. The leafs shone as if silver and gold while the branches seemed to a mere man to be as strong as steel. The tresure lay not in the strength, nor the twirling green, but in the golden fruit i bear only once a few hundred years or so. Some remained held high above while some lay at the bottom of the hill where I stand. I look to my feet to see a slightly bruised fruit stuck in time. I reach down and scoop up the magic juicy ball and slice in half eating one and offering the other to my new found friend the butterfly. We sit there enjoying the sweet dreamy cream inside while a rustling in the trees begins. To my right I look to see a new path to have formed in the wood. Being adventurous I take up the challenge presented and trot off to the south. Once I arrive to the opening in the dense thicket I notice a gate made of dark metals slightly ajar as if inviting me to take a stroll beyond into what it guards. I become wary for the trees around have died long ago it seems, the light of the eternity tree seemed dim from where I stood. Temptation grew louder than my guts. I pushed the gate open to hear a soul wrenching creak that put me even more on edge. Once I was through the passageway it seemed the sun its self fear this place. Darkness of pitch swallowed me whole as I pushed onward through the thicket of hate. Soon I felt my feet dig into what I believed could only be sand. Toes pushing through and wiggling I wondered if somehow a beach lay in the darkness ahead. With increased caution I carried on. In the far distance I saw a light. Purple in color it seemed. I could tell it was very far away due to it being merely a spec on the invisible horizon ahead of me. I remained on the path though something inside of me most likely my soul urged me to run the other way. I surprised myself by doing the opposite. My pace quickened and my vision tunneled down to that only of the light. Nothing else seemed to matter. Only to reach that dark goal. To meet whatever fate lay ahead, head on. As I ran I could feel something was different around me. My vision may be a slave to the light ahead my other senses noticed a change in the night. A rustling and tearing of branches followed on either side of the sandy path. Someone or something was keeping pace with me. Maybe there were other paths? More people like me racing towards the distant beacon like a swarm of moths to a flame? I didn’t know, but at this point my addiction and need to feel the false light had grown pitiful. I drooled, panted, and growled like a dog. My mind began to lose grip of reality. It seemed like all that mattered and will matter is the flame. The purple shining gem now closer, but somehow the same distance all the same. The noises around me grew louder. Deafening and rabid to what I realized was just like my own. All of a sudden I reached the light. Much unexpected to me considering it was not a lamppost or a fire as I expected but merely a small light-bug floating softly in the air in front of me. I could have sworn as long as I had looked it the little beast smiled an evil grin. To what end I could not come to as to why it seemed so deadly yet my salvation all in one. Soon I realized the bug grew in altitude. Floating higher yet somehow remaining still. The demon looked down at me and I could have sworn I heard a laughing voice speaking to my corrupted soul, “Should have stayed near the ocean of eternity for now you sink in the shores of false divinity.” With those words of burning truth finished I felt my lungs fill with sand as I slowly lowered beneath the broken path.

Darkly twisted not the words I would have used to discribe the innocent creature sitting before me But as these many weeks have past digging deeper through this outward facade revealing an ever increasing labyrinth of which I feel I have only glanced apon the surface giving only hints while seething among the depths are many terrors that I would dare not to put to paper for fear of relinquishing that which I hold most sacred the continuation of my work and more over my sanity I cannot even to you my most trusted friend give more then an impression of my findings so far For without the scientific evidence to support my claims I fear a padded cell and lovely new coat would be the only just reward for revelations More to come.

The bloody sun was nearing its highest point when the man reached the outskirts of the ruined city. It was a breezy day, and the shifting grass seemed to shy away from him as he made his slow voyage across the plain. He was a tall man, well tanned from being in the sun for long hours, and his face had crinkled into an expression of age and rugged wisdom. His body was strapped in torn leather, and his facial hair suggested a few days of no shaving. In his right hand he bore a walking stick, sharpened at the end to a point, like a spear. A holster hung about his waste, and in it, a 10 millimeter Bren Ten, with a single clip left to use. Hoping to find some much needed supplies, the man continued his trek, glancing between the skyline of ruined towers, and the great mountains beyond them. A sign, eroded by age, read in large white letters “Welcome to Denver.” He heard of the place before. They used to call it the “mile high city,” but that was long ago. Back when he had friends. He had been the first male born to his tribe, he recalled, and he was called "blessing" by many. They told him the stories of how the great tribes fell, and the towers became empty. They told him of sky people, who had come down to the earth and snatched its inhabitants. But in defiance, they fought back and were swiftly annihilated. Seeing their potential slaves mostly dead, the sky people fled, and left them to their ruined home. His tribe were his friends. But his friends had sent him out here, out West. He was to find civilization, and return to save his people. But more and more he feared that there was no civilization to be found. So now there were no friends. It had been a long time since he had heard the sound of another voice. His own often provided that helpful second opinion. He liked his voice, but he often remembered his friends’. Thinking of these things made the trip seem shorter, and he soon found himself amongst the great tombs of skyscrapers, monuments to a greater time. The man saw nothing but rubble and trash, nothing worth collecting. He kept on, his spear held tightly in his hand. Who knew what monster may inhabit these crypts? The place was deathly quiet; the only sound was the slight rustle of the wind upon the grass. But his ears perked up as a piece of rubble fell out of place. Stopping, the man looked around, until he saw a figure reveal itself in the shadow. A friend…finally? No. A bullet whizzed past his head. He dropped the spear, and quickly whipped out his pistol. Taking aim as the figure approached, he discharged a bullet. But in the mere sliver of time before he pulled the trigger, he saw the figure’s face. It was a woman, a beautiful woman, not scarred by the brutal reality of this hostile wasteland. He could not cut down such beauty; his heart would not allow him, even for survival. His hand moved the slightest inch out of line as he fired, and the bullet sailed off, striking nothing. She fired back, this time not missing. He felt the hot lead hit his chest, and the pain seared him. Dropping his gun, the man slowly bent down on one knee, and then another. He grasped at his chest, and began to breathe raggedly. He could feel his heart hurting. As he fell backwards to the ground, tears began to form in his eyes. As the darkness began to surround him, he felt not fear, but joy. He wished the woman a farewell in his mind, and hoped she lived to escape this harsh place. With his last breath of life, the man looked up at the great towering tombstones, and to the clouds beyond. “It is fitting,” thought he, “to die in a graveyard.

I've always wanted critical feedback on a piece I happened to write, what do you guys think? The pungent stench of stale sweat, poorly disguised by the cheap cologne, tainted the office to the point where I could almost taste it. Just like I could almost taste her fear, distress, hope and confusion. “Never expected this hmm baby?” I whispered seductively. “Like I never expected you to humiliate me on national television?” I continued as my tone immediately transformed to one of disgust. Pinned to the wall by my sturdy arms, her body tensed as I watched emotions flash in her eyes, hopelessly attempting to discern my weakness. Her instinctual reaction, as most girls her age, was to use her body. Desperately she pushed up against me, as her hand gently ruffled my hair and slowly trailed down my neck. “It doesn’t have to be this way. I still love you” she declared faintly as her lips brushed the spot her fingers just left. Her eyes locked mine in, her soft brown eyes, as she stood on her toes to reach my lips. Some girls think the moment of anticipation right before the kiss is the way to entice a guy, but she knows better. Her lips tenderly grazed mine, and then she pulled back, luring me in. I was far beyond the influence of my self control. Sensing her victory, she launched herself at me, full on. I casually withdrew and smiled. I recognized these moves, but enjoyed them nonetheless. “You’re going to have to do much better than clichéd apologies. Haven’t you heard, seduction leads to destruction. And that’s what’s coming for you,” I threatened, with my most irresistible voice; I found that it gave the threat a chilling effect. I forcefully pinned her back against the wall, chuckled for the sole purpose of infuriating her, and then began explaining how she would transfer all her property, money, and valuables to under my name without arousing suspicion.

Dear A, It might seem weird and stuff that I'm writing you a letter. There's just something I need to tell you. Anyway, do you know what lucid dreams are? They're when you're dreaming and you realize you're dreaming, and then you can control it because it's all in your head. Anyway, that happened to me last night. I forget what happened at first, but I realized I was dreaming, and then I remembered about lucid dreams and stuff. And then you were standing there. I grabbed your hand and suddenly we were flying through the sky. Then we were falling (but just for fun, I didn't let us hit the ground or anything). Then we were soaring through the ocean past fish and stuff, but we could still breathe. Then we went to outer space to see the stars close-up, and we could breathe there, too. After that, we were suddenly just in a room together, sitting in two chairs and talking for hours and hours. I don't remember what we talked about. I guess it wasn't important. Anyway, that's it. I don't know why I felt like I had to tell you that. Sorry if you're weirded out or whatever.

A story I wrote while waiting for the train one day. I have never read it, or attempted to edit it after I was finished. It is how I felt during an argument with my girlfriend. Enjoy. An Afternoon In The Park There is an old man that everyday can be found on the same bench, feeding the same birds, and he always shows up at 12-noon on the dot. Although few take notice of him, he goes about his day and keeps to himself. It has been almost a year since his wife passed, and everyday his age starts to become more and more transparent. Every Saturday his son keeps him company. Usually the two sit in silence and face outward toward those passing by or the birds as they wrestle over crumbs of bread. Occasionally one nods to the other, and gets acknowledgments through a grunt. Call it guilt; call it the universal fear of regret that every son holds onto when they realize that they can lose a father without really ever knowing him. Today the son decides to reach out and learn something about the people who brought him into the world. “Tell me about mom.” The old man stops moving. He looks out to the horizon, up to the sky, and finally right into his son’s eyes and offers a simple response of, “She was my heart and soul.” He maintained eye contact until he could no longer hide the weight of the tears that were beginning to form in his eyes. Even as a proud man he could not hide how much he truly missed his wife. Her death left him a hollow shell that could only continue on by maintaining the same mundane schedule. The son sat silently in a state of shocked disbelief. Throughout his life he thought he had seen every emotion possible from his father. Yet he had never seen grief such as this. When his father looked him in the eyes he could see an old lonely man. While the two had a loving relationship they had never really connected with each other. His father’s face displayed the many hardships and loss that go along with the happiness and joy in life. The youthfulness that he always attributed to his father had been replaced with a visage that resembled a young boy whose dog has ran away never to return. He wanted to lighten the mood so he tried to recall a happy family memory. “Remember my first day of college and moving into the dorms? Remember how much mom embarrassed me by handing me a box of condoms in front of that big group of girls in the lobby?” Sitting on his left, all the son could see was a smile and chuckle as the old man replied, “Your face was redder than the school’s mascot.” His son would never know, but a single tear feel down the right side of the old man’s cheek as he relieved such a happy memory. “Didn’t you and mom meet at state?” asked the son. “Yep.” The old man replied. “She always told me you went there to be with her and how romantic it was.” “Nope, I went there for myself.” This surprised the son. He had grown up with the idea that his parents met because his father went to State to be with his mother; if this wasn’t the case, than what about all the other stories? “Didn’t you quit drinking for mom?” “Nope, I did it for myself.” “What about your job? Wasn’t there a time you got offered a corporate position and you turned it down to start family?” “Nope, I did it for myself.” Frustrated, his son couldn’t believe what he was hearing from the man he called father his whole life. “What about all the money you worked for? The Corvette? The house you bought? Why you quit smoking and drinking?” With each question asked the old man would give the same response: “I did it for myself.” Fed up with getting nowhere the son stopped his inquiry, and the two sat in silence for a while. Eventually it became overwhelming to the son and he blurted out uncontrollably, “What did you do for mom then?” Once again the old man looked out, took a deep breath and replied: “Everything else.” For the rest of the afternoon the two sat together in silence. For the first time in his life the son felt that he finally saw a glimpse of his father that he swore did not exist. The old man never made a claim toward achieving perfection in his life, but those two words will forever leave an imprint on the son’s impression of the man he calls his father.

The Prisoner sat in the chair, the cold eyes of the Captor showed no emotion, no fear, nothing. The barrel of the Colt 45 M1911 looked hollow and millions of miles long from his perspective. The Prisoner had long since given up on struggling against The Prisoner’s bonds. They were tightly wrapped and knotted; he knew there was no escape. The two were to be locked in an endless staring contest until the trigger was pulled; Captor and Prisoner, facing off until one of them died. With time, the Captor finally spoke. “Had there been any other way, I assure you it would not have ended this way. But we are both professionals, I’m sure, deep down, you understand.” The Captor’s words were issued from his mouth with the smoke from a long drag on a cigarette. “Are you not afraid of the fate you are facing?” Our Prisoner continued staring at the Captor, as if to pierce the Captor’s soul with eyes and his words. “No, I do not fear death. Death is nothing. Can’t you see it? We are already dead. We are being born. We are caressing our loved ones; we are in school. We are learning. We are young and innocent. We are here. We are where we will be in 20 years. We are everywhere we have ever been and ever will be right now. In this very instance, our whole lives are. They aren’t continuing they aren’t ending; they simply are. Such is the dichotomy of time. The very fabrication we have believed because we can’t perceive. But I have seen it. I understand it. Time is not a progression. Time simply is. Everything that has been done IS BEING DONE. Everything that will be done IS BEING DONE. Right now, everything is happening. Right now, Romulus is being born, and Rome is falling. Right now, the universe is coming into being, and it is collapsing. I am not afraid of this bullet; I do not fear this pain. I have already experienced it; I just haven’t perceived yet.” The Captor nodded. Turned eyes away from those of The Prisoner, and pulled one last draw off of the cigarette. The cigarette fell to the floor, to be crushed by The Captor’s boot. “Then this will not surprise you.” The Captor pushed a button on the side of the gun. The magazine fell. One bullet rested in the chamber; The Prisoner knew this. The Captor handed the gun to the Prisoner and released the Prisoner’s bonds. “I have ‘perceived’ enough of this life. I hope all that you have left to ‘perceive’ is pleasant.” The Prisoner stood, gun in hand. At this the Captor knelt before the Prisoner, and with one last locking of eyes, the Prisoner pulled the trigger. edit: formatting.

Each stone in the wall had more age and life than I could comprehend, my fingers play upon the cracks careful not to break the aged lines. My hands find themselves searching every message these rocks have to give, nails run ragged clicking in rhythm to the music preserved to each crack like notes to a score. My wrists hurt from the shackles bound to them, their embrace neither tight nor loose. The mere presence enough to remove any will to break the binds, or even to perpetuate an imagination capable of the thought to escape. The air so thick from a rippled blanket of decay, my nose burnt by the remains of those I once considered brothers. No family behind these walls, no blood between those too depraved to shed it. To say that a life without these walls isn’t but a distant memory is a mockery of what I’ve suffered here. Every second of my life prior to its cage blazes past my eyes in patterns so intense that I’ve lost the sight for anything else. My memories of the world as I now know it are by no means a life to live, regardless of how long my stay is to be, I was dead long before my last breath. My mind still in its endless waltz at instances takes certain pauses, eyes of miasmic storms just large enough to allow awareness. During these oppressive voids, I torment myself with the beckoning of questions. As my body turns to dust, I always have the same inquiry, forever wondering why had this not happened sooner? Had my life been ended early, the temptation of a return would be weaker, the husk left behind stronger enough to face its abysmal existence. While I would never call to the death of an innocent child, regardless of what bleak, treacherous future lay ahead, the punishment would fall too great on those still attached to the child. Any preemptive actions would be regarded heinous by even the most apathetic. The question while never passed by my own lips, was still on the mind of many, was why the set task of imprisonment, when the sin committed called for a permanent solution. Why hands drenched through with more crimson water than all the great seas could wash away, was left to stain the land they still fell upon. As if regret was enough of a solution, to merely whisk me away into solitude, the naive dream that death by time is any more innocent than ending by their hands. They speak of a death as merely a transition, those seen favorable go above, and are left to judge those in waiting. While those of unsavory natures go below to rot in endless turmoil for their transgressions, is that why they leave me above to rot, or is it they themselves know nothing is left beyond death. A makeshift netherrealm to stand in place of what lies they tell themselves, or maybe they feel the same sinister urges under their flesh. They want to inflict pain, but would never wish to bear the burden of guilt. Letting me turn into the catalyst of sin, a whipping boy to all that lay sight upon me.

He sat down with his friend. It had been years, he was sure they were going to last forever. His friend had never had good luck early on, but this time things seemed different. The day she said yes was the best day of his friend’s life. It seemed like their love was an unstoppable force a law of the universe destined to last until the end of time. Knowing he had a wife to go home to made everything worse when he looked at his friend. The crash had come out of nowhere. The hospital room was cold and dark. The doctor explained in cold terms and a colder tone what went wrong. Where the surgery failed to save her, and where God had abandoned him. “There was nothing we could do.” His friend recoiled and sobbed as the doctor reached out to offer a consoling hand on the shoulder. The doctor retracted, and left them to their mourning. He had been his friend’s best man. She was now cold. No soul remained in the once vibrant and bubbly corpse. Her face was bruised, but otherwise largely the same. If not for the blue-green hue of her once glowing pink flesh it would look like she was just sleeping. He sat there. He stared into space. “What am I supposed to say to a man who has lost everything? Should I give condolences that will be lost to a sad revelation that no condolences will bring love back? Should I give apologies that a fateful heartless world snatched away the only thing he had left? Should I quote meaningless songs written for the masses to identify with? “What do you say to the man who has lost love? Nothing can console this loss. Nothing can console this fear. Nothing can console the understandable hatred of everything and overwhelming sense of decay and hopelessness. No one can fix this. Nothing will change what has happened.” He sat in silence, and offered a hand to the friend. In silence he helped his friend stand. He gave the only advice he could thing to give a man who had lost the world. “Move on.” His friend looked at him shocked, appalled, and somewhat relieved simultaneously. He spoke again in a tone calm and collected enough that even he was shocked by his own faux composure. “Nothing can change what has happened. No amount of obsession. No amount of remorse. No amount of fear, regression, solitude, or company will ever fix this. No advice will heal your broken heart. “There is nothing anyone can do for you. This is a battle you have to fight alone. You have to understand that. The only thing you can do is stand up, brush yourself off, and tell life to go fuck itself. She lost her years, you still have yours. As fucked up as this is: it was meant to happen. You have a life to live. Don’t waste it.” With this he turned and left the room. His friend sobbing quietly in the background; the sobs grew softer as he walked away. Nothing could help his friend now. Only time would heal these wounds. ~ Months later, he considered that day. He sat at home with his wife and son and thought. His wife playing with their infant, giggling, everyone was happy. A knock came on his door. He stood slowly and walked to the door. He opened it with deliberate purpose. He was greeted by a fist to his face. His friend stood at the door and offered him a hand to stand up. “You’re a dick. You didn’t save her. You weren’t there when I was in my darkest time, and you walked out on me. No, on us. You left me to watch them put her in the ground, alone and broken.“ He breathed deep and his face relaxed. “But you did help me. You did what you needed to do. You pushed me to my own feet, and made me realize that I had to do it alone. No one could have led me through that hell. Thank you.” His friend turned and walked away with a smile and a suitcase.

“All things come to pass…” The words danced in Daniel’s mind in the voice of his ever-absent businesswoman of a mother. “Well mom, maybe some things don’t,” he persuaded his conscience as he opened the squeaky bathroom door. His hands felt warm as he brushed them across his clammy forehead. He looked in the dim bathroom mirror and clumsily dropped his hands to the sink’s icy porcelain ledge and stared at a disturbingly pale visage. The eyes that met his seemed to have abyssal centers that grew larger as he gazed into them. Suddenly he found that the warmth in his hands had been replaced by a lack of any feeling at all, and the same went for his feet. By the time he realized this, his eyesight began to fail, and the room began to diminish at its edges. Daniel closed his eyes, and found that they were much harder to open again. The ceiling welled at the center in his peripheral vision as his legs buckled and gave up their purpose for the very last time. He wasn’t aware that he’d fallen until blood from the sink dripped down into his open, and now front-toothless mouth. Daniel watched the lights on the ceiling morph into the gravity well of pooling fractals as he half-swallowed a mouthful of warm blood and tooth fragments. He felt his mother’s touch; the love in her fingertips warmed his skin as she brushed his hair softly away from his forehead. She was not there. He heard darkness pulling away at the inside of his mind, erasing the seams of reality and easing him downward into some indescribably comfortable realm of lost moments and memories seemingly eons since passed. A melody of his own faint breathing washed over his ears and barely registered in his failing brain. The world grew dim around Daniel, and his faculties began diminish one by one. His liver, of course, was the first to succumb to the chemical punishment of nearly five-hundred Tylenol, along with his now bleeding stomach with its lining eaten away entirely by the drugs. Despite his biological deterioration, he felt quite good; calm, content, and as though he laid not on the cold, hard tile floor of his bathroom, but in the warm, loving embrace of the arms of an endless ocean. It cradled him as he sunk into its bottomless depths; the light from above growing ever so dim to his near lifeless eyes. Daniel managed to blink away the illusion of spiraling multicolored lights in a distant sky, and see the Earth as it truly was for the last time; a manila-walled bathroom with yellow-stained plastic bulb covers emitting a mild, placid light across an uncleanly world of bacteria and over-priced cleaning product residue. Daniel sighed.

We should have seen it coming. From the early 20th century, real political power moved silently and steadily from the hands of the people and government and into the hands of faceless corporations. The tipping point came in the early 21st century when corporations were legally assigned first amendment rights and Corporation Personhood was crystallized. First amendment rights gave them political leverage like never before - advertising directly to consumers pailed into financial insignificance compared to ensuring favorable export laws, generous subsidies and school sponsored product placement. By the mid 21st century the political landscape had forever changed. The 2052 US presidential elections will be forever remembered for the surprising landslide victory of Pepsi over Coke, although few people remember the candidates or parties involved. As we all know, the demise of Coke soon followed due to hostile import policies introduced by Pepsi (although Mexican coke still remains popular in some southern states). The 2052 elections also marked a dramatic increase in the number of active voters - where people had been apathetic to unrelatable political candidates, they associated themselves fiercely to brand names - the political policies came second to the brands they knew, trusted and loved. With such political power it came as no surprise when total Corporate Personhood was approved by the Supreme Court in 2054. It was no longer necessary for companies to front difficult to sell human representatives. They could now represent their safe, trustworthy and lovable selves directly. By the late 21st century the role of corporations as head of state was cemented and with such power the legal system was changed as never before in the history of America. The introduction and nullification of laws was shifted from a moral compass to a commercial compass. If a law stood in the way of profit, it had to go. After winning the 2106 elections the monopolistic record label RBMG immediately set about reducing and deconstructing the FDA. This left the public confused and unsettled. While such behavior had been seen previously it had always been limited in scope to the sector within which the head of state corporation traditionally operated - this was an unspoken rule between the major political candidates. Rumors circulated about new drugs that enhanced music appreciation and food/artist based tie-ins, but these were generally dismissed by experts. One thing on which all experts agreed on was that RBMG planned something big. Factories all over the US had begun operating in earnest, an endless line of trucks supplying the automated facilities. Political pundits were bewildered, RBMG produced only digital media and yet here they were devoting all their resources to physical manufacture. For 2 years RBMG remained tight lipped while the factories continued to operate full time. Excitement built into a fervor which became a crescendo on September 12th, 2106 as every TV and streaming channel stopped the normal programming for a major political broadcast. The world stood still. A projection of the huge, early 21st century pop idol, Justin Bieber, appeared. It was Justin Bieber who had launched RBMG on a trajectory of incredible success and through him they had perfected the recipe for molding and delivering hit after hit. Dying at a young age due to an untreatable genetic defect, Justin Bieber had been immortalized in the public consciousness of the time and RBMG had kept his memory alive through covers, tributes and interpretations of his genius works over the following century. The holmera panned to the right, revealing more of the stage, and from the right walked Justin Bieber, followed by the RBMG representative Friendly Joe. "Ladies and Gentleman", Friendly Joe started, "As many of you know, today marks the 100th anniversary of the day that Justin Bieber joined our family. Justin is considered by many of us here at RBMG as our father and his heart breaking, insightful and frankly touching lyrics made us what we are today.", A tear rolled down Friendly Joe's warm and crinkled face. "While many have followed in his footsteps, none have touched his beauty and grace and why try? He was, frankly, perfection.". Friendly Joe reached into his worn jeans pocket and fumbled for a moment before bringing out a glass vial which he held up to the holmera. "The world grieved as they watched Justin take his last breaths on live television, but what was kept secret up until now was the words he whispered before passing, 'I don't want to die'. We at RBMG wept at this, and took his words to heart. We knew that there could never be another one like Justin Bieber and so before being cremated we took a lock of his hair. A lock of hair I now hold in my hands.", the holmera closed in on the vial and revealed a few strands of perfect, lustrous brown hair before moving to a close up on Friendly Joe's tear stained face. "It is with tremendous pride that today, on the 100th anniversary of him joining us, we can announce that we fulfilled his dying wish. Ladies and Gentleman, I bring you, Justin Bieber 2.0!", the holmera rapidly tracked over the the smiling Justin Bieber who waved. An invisible crowd was in uproar, the sound of screaming teenage girls at having their idol resurrected pierced all other frequencies. "Justin Bieber 2.0 is a perfect clone of our beloved father, he is identical in every physical detail and we have preprogrammed him with basic speech mannerisms and more importantly, Justin Bieber's top 10 greatest hits!". Friendly Joe paused until the noise of the excited crowd died down. "When we started this project we thought to ourselves, how can we share the greatness of Justin Bieber 2.0 with every person in America? No venue is big enough, no tour long enough. How can we ensure that every person in America gets the chance to feel Justin Bieber, to experience Justin Bieber, to love Justin Bieber? And, ladies and gentleman we have the answer! I'm happy to announce our new venture, Justin Bieber for Everyone! Our factory robots are hard at work growing and customizing your own, personalized Justin Bieber. It is our goal that by Christmas, every family will have their own Justin Bieber! And if you visit our website right now, you will be able preorder one with guaranteed delivery by December 23rd!!" "And with that, I will leave you with the immaculate, immutable and immaterial JUSTIN Bieber!!!", the room exploded, the holmera again focused on JB2.0 as music started playing. The crowd quickly hushed as JB2.0 opened his mouth. "If I was your boyfriend...

(Sorry that the line spacing is off. It won't format properly.) Cold. Freezing. Jacob was cold. White snow fell around him and on him. The snow on the ground next to him was stained a scarlet red. Jacob’s head turned, painfully, side to side as he gazed at his surroundings. The sun was setting, its last golden beams vainly trying to penetrate the ever darkening trees. No one was in sight. Jacob was too weak to call out loudly for his missing comrades. His comrades? Where were they? A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind as he struggled to remember what had happened. He looked down at his stomach, which was a painful reminder that jolted him back to the present. His abdomen was slashed open and he was missing large chunks of flesh. Somehow, all major arteries had remained un-severed, so he had a little more time to live. Suddenly, the gory smell became overwhelming and Jacob felt bile rising in his throat. He turned his head sharply to the left and vomited out the contents of his stomach, which was mainly bloody stomach acid. Pain flashed through his stomach as he wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve. The nasty taste in his mouth receded a bit. Jacob tried to move away from the vomit, but only succeeded in moving a foot or so. Memories of a dark shadow flitted through his mind. Then it all came back to him in a flood of memories. **TWO HOURS EARLIER** “Hey, Parham, c’mere!” Corporal Walton shouted. Jacob turned, the edges of his lips and eyes crinkling in a small grin. “That’s Sergeant First Class Parham to you,” he replied jokingly as he sauntered over. “Here, have a cigarette,” the corporal offered. Jacob declined and sat down on a small stool. About ten similar stools formed a ring around a small crackling fire. Jacob counted two seats open and two faces missing. Those two had just left on patrol. The remaining men were to wait in base camp until they got back. Then two more would take their places. The men were due back in thirty minutes. The two that had just returned from patrol were chatting with the others about what they had found in the woods of Germany. “I swear it was a footprint! A huge one, too!” one of them was protesting as the other men laughed and patted him on the back. “There’s something out there!” He turned around to face the sergeant and Jacob realized that it was Kirby. Kirby was a green private, fresh from boot camp and completely new to the war. Jacob figured he was probably just overreacting. “Listen here Private,” Jacob said calmly “It’s okay buddy. It was probably just a bear out there. It wouldn’t come near our camp, they don’t like the noise. No worries.” “B-but,” Kirby stuttered, “Bears don’t live in Germany… Right?” Walton chuckled and shook his head a little. “Don’t worry about it,” he said as he handed Kirby a cigarette. Kirby was not really paying attention, but somehow managed to slip it into his mouth as he fumbled in his pockets for a lighter. Jacob sighed and slipped out his own lighter, but, to his dismay, found it empty and returned it to his pocket. He felt in his other pocket, but the only thing in it was a grenade. Just in case. Kirby’s patrol buddy, Sergeant Phillip Wooden was busy showing off a “treasure” that he claimed to have found on the patrol. “So we’re hiking through the woods, right?” he said to the others in his New York accent, “And we come across dis place dat could have been a German camp about a year ago. An’ dere are scattered remains of things all over the place. A few empty shells here, a button over dere, and maybe a boot half buried in the ground, see?” He turned to find Jacob staring at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh, don’t worry about it Sarge, the place’s cleared out, I made sure. Dey couldn’t have been living dere recently, dere were no signs of recent activity!” He turned back to continue his story. “So me an’ Kirby here were scoutin’ around, lookin’ for anything worth something an’ we find dis guy, strike dat, dis skeleton juss’ layin’ on the ground. Flesh all gone, been eaten off by rats and insects, I s’pose.” At this point, Kirby put his hands over his ears, seemingly desperate to avoid reliving the grotesque discovery. “He was wearin’ a tattered German uniform and his skull was a bit cracked on the top,” said Wooden, not paying attention to the private. “We figgered he had been hit on the head with somethin’ hard. I found dis helmet on the ground a few feet away.” To prove his point, Wooden held up a German helmet. It was a dull shade of green with a faded black swastika on one side. The straps hung loosely from the sides, ripped and frayed, and there was also the usual dirt smears and smudges. Wooden grinned and slipped the helmet into his bag while Jacob pretended not to notice. “Hey!” Walton yelled, “What was that Wooden?” “Nothing,” Wooden grinned. “Ooh look, cigarettes” he said as he tossed a pack to Walton. “Next time, just ask.” “Thanks buddy, you’re a pal,” Walton replied as he slipped a deathstick between his lips and lit up. The time went by as the men told jokes, laughed, and played cards. All of the heads popped up when the two returning men emerged from the woods, guns propped against their shoulders and grins on their faces. The others rose with shouts of greetings, except for Walton, who was groaning sarcastically about having to go on the next patrol. Everyone felt great. And then, something happened. A dark shadow flashed out from the woods and both men were knocked to the ground. One was tugged screaming out of sight within seconds. The other men scrambled for their weapons and the poor fellows screaming suddenly stopped. Everyone was still and quiet for a second as though a hushed silence had just descended upon them. Jacob broke this spell by running towards the woods, his rifle loaded and trigger finger itching for action. The squad spread out through the woods, scanning every inch they could. Somewhere in the woods, a man screamed. Jacob grimaced. The scream had belonged to Walton. He moved frantically in the direction of the scream. He could hear only the crunch of the leaves beneath his feet and the snapping of the twigs. Then he saw it. It was a standard M-1 rifle. That was not the problem. The problem was the still twitching hand holding on to the rifle. There was a class ring on one of the fingers. Class of 1939. Walton’s. Jacob gulped and turned around as another scream sounded. Jacob froze. He looked all around, scanning the trees around him. Five minutes later, the woods were silent. Jacob’s palms were sweaty on the gun. He licked his chapped lips and took off in the direction of the last scream. He had to find his soldiers. He just had to! He followed the trail of snapped branches, trampled undergrowth, and crushed leaves, all dotted with drops of bright red blood. A bird twittered in a branch above Jacob’s head and he flinched. A small animal darted through the woods past Jacob and he involuntarily squeezed off a few shots at the poor animal. The squirrel fell dead in its tracks. Jacob passed right by it, not even paying attention. His right eye twitched a bit and his finger became jumpy and shaky on the trigger. A branch broke and Jacob turned in the direction of the sound. His gun pointed at a silhouette in the darkening forest. “W-Walton?” he stuttered, “Who’s there? Show yourself!” As the thing moved closer, Jacob’s gun barrel became very shaky and he was hardly able to keep a grip on it. A few rays of light landed on its face. It. A hairy beast. Seven or eight feet tall. Jacob gasped nervously, eying the ram’s horns growing out of the beast’s head and its glowing red eyes. It was chewing on something and a muffled crunch issued from within its mouth. The matted fur below the mouth and its chest were stained bright red. But Jacob’s eyes had focused on something else. A torn piece of camouflage material hung from the creature’s mouth. Jacob’s mind snapped and he screamed like a homicidal maniac, which, in fact, he was. Jacob’s finger clenched around the trigger and the gun barrel began spewing bullets right and left. A few shots hit home, but they didn’t seem to faze the creature. Click. Click click click. No more ammo. A large hairy fist slammed into Jacob’s stomach and he collided with a tree. He coughed up blood and the bittersweet taste returned him to his senses. Painfully, he stood up and began to run. His mind was completely blank. He relied on instinct. And right now, instinct told him to run like hell. So he did. Adrenaline surged through his veins and Jacob felt the pain recede. But he didn’t care. Nothing really mattered anymore. The thing was in hot pursuit. Somehow, Jacob managed to stay ahead. A clearing soon appeared and Jacob’s heart skipped a beat. He was running straight towards a flowing river, ten feet across. Jacob gulped, but he kept on running. Time seemed to slow down. Ten feet to the river. Five feet. Two feet. Inches. “Jump.” Jacob’s mind told him. Jacob jumped. He launched himself over the river. Little minnows and bigger fish alike darted around in the water beneath him. It was very deep. Jacob’s feet hit the ground on the edge of the other side of the river and he leaned forward into a roll. Dizzy, Jacob stood and ran a few more feet before turning to look behind himself. The monster had paused at the edge of the water. “Aha ha ha ha!” Jacob laughed. The beast glared malevolently at him and Jacob suddenly wished he had remained silent. The beast put its foot in the water and did the same with the other. It took a step and the water went up to its hairy waist. Another step and the waters were up to its shoulders. The thing wasn’t even halfway across when its head disappeared beneath the calmly moving water. Jacob knelt and began to pray as he had never prayed before. “Let it have drowned. Please, please let it have drowned…” The surface of the water was still smooth. “Oh God, please let it have drowned, please God!” Jacob’s voice had become shrill. A head poked through the surface of the water, causing small ripples. Jacob’s jaw dropped and his heart skipped a few beats. He slowly got to his feet as the monstrosity emerged from the river, water dripping from the shaggy wet fur. It looked and him and growled a deep guttural growl. Jacob yelped and stumbled onto his backside. He began pushing himself back in a desperate attempt to escape this horrid fate. But Fate had different plans and the monster lunged at him, seeming to grin. **PRESENT TIME** Jacob coughed up blood again. The cough wracked his entire frame. He heard heavy steps growing closer. Jacob fumbled at the chain around his neck. His numb fingers were unable to undo the clasp. Growing desperate, he yanked and the chain snapped. He held it up and opened the small locket, ignoring the dog tags that fell to the ground. Inside the locket was a picture of himself, his wife, and his son. Tears glistened around his eyes as he fought the urge to cry. A sob escaped and he heard the footsteps grow closer. He kissed the locket and slipped it into his pocket. Death was knocking at his door. But Jacob was now ready to welcome Death. He found himself grinning for some reason. There was a little lump in his pocket. His fingers closed around the small metal cylinder. From out of his pocket, Jacob pulled a grenade. He giggled. “Hey you big creep!” he shouted, half moaning. “Come and get me! I’m right here you big lump!” Jacob heard the deep growl behind him and cocked his head towards it. He was struggling to sit up when a powerful grasp closed around his waist. The already stabbing pain in his mangled chest intensified. Jacob shut his eyes and resisted the urge to scream. He pulled the pin on the grenade and extended it close to the monster’s terrible face. Jacob’s eyes opened. “Go to hell,” he said calmly. The grenade exploded.

They stood huddled in the dark, barely noticeable to any passer by who might be out on this cold dark evening. “Has there been any news?” the biggest one asked. The others looked at each other uncomfortably as their leader waited for a response. After a moments pause the messenger stepped forward. “Alpha group report complete infiltration, the numbers look good and they are way ahead of schedule” “Good”, the leader replied, “and what of Beta group?” The others shuffled uncomfortably. “Beta Group have come up against some obstacles, the Organiser was killed, we believe by a contract assassin. Once news of that got out there was panic within the ranks. Attendance at the alignment programs has dropped and some are starting to think that this is a bad idea.” The little one cringed, expecting some violent rebuff for passing this news on, but to his surprise there was no outburst. The leader was lost in thought… “Damn! I always thought Beta’s Organiser was a fool, but to let himself get killed!”, the leader mused. “That’s the last thing we need. If only we had more time! That Beta Group needs some good discipline, but then that would just make them panic even mor…” They all froze at the sound of footsteps. Then dispersed slightly as they’d practised so many times before, wandering around randomly so as to avoid too much attention. An elderly lady ambled past without so much as a glance in their direction. They watched as she slowly drew into the distance. Having had a chance to gather his thoughts the Leader cleared his throat and spoke. “As difficult as they may seem, Beta group are vital to our plans, without them we won’t win the war. I know it’s risky but considering their current state I feel that the only way to win them all over given our time constraints, is another demonstration.” The intake of breath around the group was audible. After a few seconds a larger member, silent till now, stepped forward. “I understand what you’re saying Leader, but do you not think that it’s dangerous doing another demonstration so soon after the last one? We do not want to rouse suspicion before it is time. We’re not prepared fully yet. If they move early we can not win.” The leader paused, he was angry that one of his own officers had spoken out of turn. But he couldn’t react, his officer was right and if he punished him there might be dissent within the group. “I understand your fear, but it’s unfounded. We will not lose, we can not fail, we have been careful in our planning. The work we have done and the preparations we have laid have been meticulous. Alpha group have all been programmed and are ready for action, but have *They* noticed?! We have assembled a great army right under their noses, but *they* are too preoccupied with their own lives to see what’s happening! It is important we win Beta group over immediately, so that we can move tomorrow if necessary. Our time is almost upon us!” If we chose our target carefully as before, the demonstration will not attract attention, Beta Group will be strong and we will win power over our oppressors!” The officer stood back, the leader was right. The leader was always right, nothing could go wrong and soon power would be theirs. “Assemble 50 of the strongest members of Alpha group and all that you can muster from Beta group. We shall assemble at 04.00 in sector A8 in the downtown district. There resides target 6. He is one of the weakest ones I’ve seen and sleeps alone, there should be little resistance” // Bill Murray was drunk. He’d managed to con a young man into giving him a couple of quid so he could check into a hostel to “get out of the cold” for the night. As it was the bottle of gin he bought with the money gave him all the warmth he needed and he dozed between consciousness and sleep in the doorway of a family butchers. He’d been living on the streets for most of his life and had become used to ignoring the multitude of peculiar noises that you seem to only hear in the ungodly hours of the early morning. As such the fluttering didn’t bother him, he heard it, but it didn’t seem that strange. It was the sudden and complete silence that dragged him from his foggy subconscious back to the real world. The last thing Bill Murray ever saw was a thousand eyes staring at him, unblinking. // “It was a triumph”, the Leader thought. “It could not have gone better”. His officers had managed to muster several hundred of the Beta group. There hadn’t been as many as he hoped but the important ones were there and they would spread the message. It had been necessary to make sure as many of the troops could arrive simultaneously as possible and as such they congregated above before the attack. “There are no more of them in the vicinity. Even if he shouts we will be done long before any assistance arrives, that is if he is even heard.”, the main scout had reported. The plan had been for his best troops to attack while Beta group watched from a distance, to show them that victory really could be accomplished easily. But as the troops had approached it became obvious that this target was not going to pose a threat. It was something to do with the shiny bottle he clutched, they had figured out that much. The Leader beckoned Beta group closer to join in the attack, there was no risk to them. They lined up row by row in front of the target, who was oblivious of his impending doom. He only became aware of their presence the final moment before the attack. He was strong. They all were strong, but his strength was no match for the numbers of what assailed him. Pushed to the ground under the seething mass of his attackers, his eyes were ripped out first, then officers went for his neck whilst the less experienced Beta troops had ripped at his legs and torso. It was a matter of minutes before he stopped moving completely. A cheer had gone through the crowd, and those of the Beta group that had been there had a new light in their eyes. The taste of blood was good, and they had helped defeat one of *them*, the unstoppable. Those who were there, now knew, they were the ones that were unstoppable. Word spread throughout the night, and by morning Beta group was transformed. They were ready for the war. The Leader smiled. They were finally ready. With such great numbers, surely they could not lose. As the sun rose over the city, his heart fill with pride for the land that would soon be his. // “And in other news. Police are intrigued by the death of Bill Murray, a locally well-known homeless man. Generally recognised as the “Quicksave guy”. Bill had begged outside Quicksave supermarket for the last 4 years and was liked by many, despite his eccentric behaviour. Details of his death are peculiar, it seems that he was attacked in a fashion not unlike that in the classic horror “The Birds” by Alfred Hitchcock. This is the third such death in as many weeks and the council are now investigating methods of control for the growing numbers of pigeons in the area, who seem to be the perpetrators of these incidents. The country's top ornithologists have been investigating these events since the first case 3 weeks ago and can provide no explanation for this behaviour, or cite any previous incident. There is to be a council ruling today to decide whether or not pigeons in the area should be culled following these events and it seems that a low level gassing will be the likely method of extermination. If approved this will begin at the beginning of next week, despite the protest of some bird lovers and those who oppose the corresponding council tax increase.. But on a lighter note…” The pretty, young newsreader carried on oblivious. The war had finally begun.

“Gather ‘round, children. I’m going to tell you the story of the Mighty King Colossus”, Grandma Eleanor announced. She had loved telling her grand-daughters her stories, and they quite enjoyed her tales. Mary, the oldest of her sisters, playfully urged her other siblings to the bench around their grandma. “But Grandma, have you not already told us this one?” Maggie, the youngest sister, pointed out. “Do you not want to hear it, dear?” she responded. “No, we do!” the middle sister, Lily, giggled. The old woman sat in front of them, ready to tell the family fable. The three children’s eyes grew wide in waiting. Green, hazel, and brown. They had such pretty eyes. Their attention grew, and she began: Once, long ago in a castle much like ours lived the Great King Colossus. He was a kind and powerful ruler, and was given a name to be remembered for centuries. One fateful day, the Kind and his Queen were in the courtyard, playing with their two children. Everything was perfect. No wars to be fought, the soft whistle of the wind swaying through the tall grass, and the calm, blissful sound of the river flowing nearby. But, things were soon about to get very weary for the King. A messenger rode up to him, knelt before his majesty, and held out a letter. The King opened it and read aloud; “To King Colossus, Your time as king has run out. I send this message to you as but a forewarning. For come sunrise, you will die with my blade in your heart. It will happen in the woods. Signed, Zenoriah. You have until nightfall.” The King was astonished. Zenoriah, the much feared King of Fire who sought to destroy him and his kingdom, had threatened them. But he would not stand by and let him succeed in his mission. And so, he set out to fight the final battle. But, his family refused to leave his side. “I won’t stay waiting for a second dreading your death. If you are to go, let us, your own family, stand by your side.” With great defeated argument, he accepted, but they needed to be well hidden. And so, they ventured off into the forest together, searching for the fiery fiend. It was nearly nightfall when he appeared. But before the King could encounter him, the Queen stopped him. “Take this rose of the faeries, my love”, she said, “and be granted a second life.” The faeries had been known for blessing precious items, ensuring another life, fortune, luck, and other sorts. He was struck. But in return, he handed her a bottle. In the bottle was water from the famed Fountain of Youth. The King had collected it on one of his first voyages, years ago. “Take this, my Queen, and be granted eternal life.” Tears started to form in her eyes as her husband ran his fingers through her flowing, butterscotch hair. They were running out of time, and she and her children ducked under a well hidden cave opening. He then turned to face his enemy. Zenoriah’s black eyes stared menacingly at him. No sign of a soul, just cold pits of darkness. “I’ve been waiting”, he cackled. His voice was like a hissing snake. “I’d thought you wouldn’t make it. But, can’t miss your going-away party, can you?” And with those words, they both unsheathed their swords. The King wielded a blade forged in the very tunnels of Crystal Pass. But Zenoriah, his sword was created in what were probably the very pits of Hell. What with its burning, metal surface. Sparks flew into the air as his enemy’s ember blade crashed against his own. And in a sudden clang, his sword was broken. The fire of Zenoriah’s had melted through it. His shield was his only hope. Every blow from the evil in front of him into his shield inched him closer and closer to the thundering waterfall. It was dangerous to be this close for the King, but even more for Zenoriah. The water would extinguish his flaming skin. In a single swing, the King went tumbling down the edge. He clutched for dear life on the wet rocks, his fingers slipping. It was too late. Or was it? As his hands were about to give way, he grabbed Zenoriah and pulled. They both plummeted into the dark water below. It was over. Or so he thought. He had transformed into a hawk, the symbol of his kingdom. His second life had been granted. His family was still hiding in the small cave, waiting for his return. After no sign, they emerged from inside. They thought that the worst had come, but all thought of that vanished when King Colossus flew overhead, and dropped the very rose down into the Queen’s hand. The royal family was absolutely euphoric to see that he was alive. But alas, he could no longer be with them. He was now a spirit guardian, and was responsible for watching all over the land. In his loving memory, they planted a towering oak tree. And to this very day, King Colossus flies high, watching over the land. “That’s my favorite story”, uttered Lily when her grandma had stopped. She nodded, and directed the children inside. Once out of view, she turned to face an oak tree, in her hands a rose. She placed it on the ground, and looked up to see a hawk resting on a branch. “Farewell, my love”, she tenderly smiled at it. And as she walked away, the bird responded, “And to you as well, my Queen.

The counter looks at me with its big innocent brown eyes, and I can’t meet them. Flour liberally dusts its almost perfectly flat surface, and that reminds me of last night. I swing my leg over, I sit on the counter like I did when I was younger, when (I remember) I’d feel on top of the world. The familiarity hurts. Its smooth flecked exterior smells like lemon. Funny thing, I thought I recalled what happened the previous evening, but now I’m trying to put it in the front of my mind, it escapes me. So anyway, the counter and I, we’re alone, this is totally awkward, and I’m almost panicking. Those eyes, I can’t escape them. But there’s something different now, you know, and their vitality is dimmed. God, I’m a monster, and I can’t even remember why.

Footsteps echo in the long stone corridor. Small chains can also be heard. The man is panting, running towards a wooden door with golden engravings. He rams in the door, forgetting about the doorknob. The door hits the Jester, who then falls to the ground and breaks his nose. In the middle of the room, is the leader. Without wasting an instant, he yells “Sire! We are under attack!” Yells the Subreddit knight. “What?” Screams the leader, standing up “Yes sire! Castle Repost is breaching our walls! It won't be long now!” “What are they after?” “The same thing as always, they wish to break Castle AdviceAnimal's walls and reach the Front Page fortress!” “This shouldn't be a problem, our Downvote cannons are always charged! Tell me what happened!” “They managed to outnumber us. They silently shot down our defenses with their Upvote Cannons. From that point, they burned the front gate and slowly walked in.” “Where are they now?” Asks the Leader “We managed to arm our comment guns and slow them down, but soon they will overpower us.” The knight explained “Did you try calling on an ally Castle? Like Castle Funny or Castle Aww?” “We did, but they said they could not arrive for a few days. We sent messages to Castle Atheist and Circle-Jerk, we have no response yet, but I'm sure they will refuse.” “What about the citizens?” A cannon shot is heard, then a smashing sound. Screams flood the air, followed by another explosion and screams of glory. “We tried to make them leave by the secret tunnels, but many citizens took to arms and jumped into the fight. Many died and are still dying. The ones that decided to escape found that most of the tunnels were blocked. We lost many.” Explains the Knight, a hint of sadness in his voice. “How many men do we have left?” “When I left, a few were still standing. A few of our men have been captured and enslaved. The Fortress was still untouched, but, as we heard, that has changed.” “Then follow me, we shall gather what few we have and craft some plan that might turn the table.” Commands the King. The King opens the door. A few cats run away from the room. The Jester stands up and runs to the corridor, where a cannonball smashes through and hits him. The Knight goes first, but turns left. The King follows him. They walk through the stone corridors and passageways, on their way seeing the Castle Nobles running awry. The Scumbag Brain is hitting a door, trying to get in, while the Scumbag Steve and Stacy are pushing people aside, running in circles. As the Knight and King finally arrive to the armory, they realize that it's completely empty. “Where are they all?” Asks the King “At the walls, fighting off the enemy. We were lucky not to encounter them.” More screams are heard, this time closer to them. Again, the same victory cries are heard. “We don't have any time left. The enemy is here, searching for me. We have to act now.” “All the weapons we have left are here. A few pounds of black powder, some swords and dagger and two shields.” Counts the Knight, as he locks the door. The King walks and sits in a corner. As he does this, the door blasts open in a cloud of fire, smoke and blood. The King screams as portions of his newest friend splatters his robes. As the smoke dies down, an orange arrow smashes into the wall next to his head. “So, you managed to outlive all of your little guards? No matter, you will join them soon enough.” A voice chuckles. “So you are the new general that managed to recruit all of these newbies? You are new yourself, but competent.” Tells the King. “Why thank you, but don't think complements will save you. I am here on a mission.” Exclaims the General “You are competent, but still inexperienced. Exactly like your army.” Explains the King “And why is that?” Asks the General “Because you didn't think this through. The worst place to be when you attack a Fortress, especially when you confront someone, is the armory.” Slowly says the King “Explain.” Demands the General “Let me show you.” The King says The General and his army intensely stares at the King, while he reaches into his back pocket with his left hand. He slowly pulls out a gun. “Downvote gun, one of the most powerful ever built” Says the King. “Don't even think about shooting me or yourself.” Confidently says the General. The King lets out a little laugh. He slowly points the muzzle to his left. The entire audience looks left, over to a pile of swords and daggers. As fast as he can, the King takes a shield and shoots to his right, on a pile of black powder. As the audience looks right, they see a large flash of light, then another ball of fire, smoke and blood fill the room. Screams are heard, but no victory cries are heard this time. When the smoke falls, the King uncurls from behind the shield and stands up. “Time to rebuild, again... Will these attacks ever end?” He sighs As he walks out of the room, he looks at all the damage done to the Fortress and the Kingdom. A cat walks to him and starts cuddling. - “I really need a bath.” He whispers.

I wrote this short story about 3 years ago in my junior year of high school. It is obviously not as technical as it needs to be. I also am not a fan of the title, among other problems. I would love your constructive suggestions, or if you think it is a tired idea and I should just let it go. Thanks! Begin Short Story: The Heart of Man, Alone There is a silence in the air, cold and dark, as the lone Space Cruiser slips through the dead of eternal night. It weaves itself in and out of any string of celestial obstructions, carefully making its way towards its final destination. Shooting into the abyss, random assortments of stars dance around in an awe inspiring scene of phantasmagoria. If one were to see it now, soaring through the sky, it would seem motionless, with nothing in the backdrop to signify any sort of movement, only blackness. Then, the calm is broken. It is a low, deep hissing noise at first. Gradually, it becomes a repetition of high, rhythmic clicking sounds. Then silence returns. Minutes, even hours seem to pass as the ship remains in a silent darkness. At last, a sharp panging sound breaks the silence, like the ringing reverberation of a church bell in the early mists of a Sunday morning. A final latch comes loose, and the door of the cryogenic pod is allowed to break free from the steady grip of its fastener. The lights of the ship slowly flicker on, seeming to activate in order to display the fragile contents buried within the pod. And then, awake. Bright, everything is so bright and glowing with an intense white luminescence. My eyes are so unaccustomed to this radiant stimulation. I soon forget of my visual pain, though, when I find myself gasping for air. I feel as though the air is too thick for my porous lungs, and with each new gasp my chest becomes more weighted and heavy. My throat is clogged with a dense, warm film. I force my heavy body out of the pod, but no sooner than I do, I find myself on the ground, limp. The muscles in my legs feel so tired, as if drained of all life supporting energy. I look up, dazed and confused, still battling to gain every breath. I frantically look about the small, faded cabin for water, or anything, to clear my respiratory obstruction. All around me, the dim lights continue to flicker on, pulsating around me in an irritated, sporadic flurry. More frantic now, I reach out to grasp a thin cord hanging off of an ostensibly promising counter top. Small bodies begin to shower all around me, hitting my head and shoulders. In my desperation, I do not even feel the hard thudding against my skull. A single light fixes now, spotlighting all the treasures that fell from above. The lone light shines, with all the rest continuing with their intense strobe. With new vision, I am able to see a little glass vial filled with a mysterious black liquid. I grab for it in desperation, and let the quick, cool liquid slide down the back of my throat. As I continue to drink, not only do I find my choking obstruction wearing away, but also a strange sensation of pulsating energy all throughout my body. My weak, zombie-like state is lifted, as I bring myself to my feet. All the lights go off--but just for a moment--then return with a steady, illuminating brightness. With my new empowerment, I also feel that the black cloud enshrouding my mind has lifted. I am able to begin accessing my situation. As I look around me, I see a white haven bathed in a sheet of artificial white light. Smooth, white metal floors and walls, white counters and white space suits surround me. A tall panel of buttons framed in a large white containment lies on the wall immediately to the left of me. Completely regaining my senses now, I begin to remember. I remember a place other than this, with colors other than this bleak, consuming white. If I looked up ward, a vast pool of blue would engulf all my vision. You could feel a smooth breeze against your skin, not just the cool, stagnant air contained in this small room. This ship. And there were others, too. Other people like me, laughing, singing, running, playing. And then I remember. The others! I turn my attention over to the large metal pod from which I had emerged. I touch the cool metal casing, and run my hands along the soft, cushioned interior where my lifeless body had spent the last 150 years. For a moment, I let my thoughts run to my previous life, the one before I had been chosen for The Mission. I suppress my pang of nostalgia, and allow myself to move on. I then read the small control screen on the outside covering of my pod. "Thawing Successful," it reads. I found it bizarre that I was alone. Why had my two comrades not been unthawed by now, just as I had? All of our pods had been programmed to open exactly seven days before our landing on the planet, and we had been given strict instructions on how to use this time for the preparation of that. I ease myself, explaining that our times had merely been elapsed slightly for energy purposes. Energy was their biggest concern; I remember that from the ship's modeling. When they had done it, all the world was ecstatic. The first trip beyond our solar system was no longer merely a topic of high school sci-fi fantasy, but a reality. A reality that I am now living. Bringing myself back to the present, I turn my tall, thin body towards the two other pods situated neatly next to mine. I read the screen on the first pod. No, that can't be right. I rub my eyes roughly, as if trying to remove the painful sheet of reality from my vision. I read it again. "Error," it says. I begin to toy with the buttons on the keypad. Calmly at first, but I soon find myself becoming more and more frantic. I turn towards the next pod, which has the same reading as the first. I am at a loss of what to do, but feel that I must do something. I grab a long, metal pole at the other end of the room, accidentally smashing one of the ships lights as I do so. It becomes dim and dreary. Using my weapon, I begin to forcibly pry open the thick, heavy metal door of the first pod. I feel no struggle or pain, only the pulsating kick of adrenaline coursing through my blood. I dent the latch keeping the door in place. Success. I am able to pry the door open now, and am surprised at what I feel. There is no thick, rolling of cool compressed Nitrogen coming from out of the pod. No, only the sticky, consuming smell of a rotting carcass. I begin to wheeze, and my eyes feel as though they begin to bleed. The morbid scene horrifies me. The pod had been tightly sealed, but had never gone to the protective cooling stage of suspended animation. My comrade's body had merely been left to collect a heavy cloud of thick human decay within the pod. I cover my nose and eyes with my shirt sleeve, trying to save myself from the putrid odor. I run into the next room, filled with emotions of horror, grief, and anger. I find myself in the control station. I frantically grab for the speaker, and project my voice desperately through the millions of miles of heavenly void. "Earth! Please, please come in. Earth!" There is no response, and I find myself desperately sobbing now. I continue to call out, but all in vein. "Please, this is station P461, reporting from the intergalactic mission. There is a major problem here, I repeat, a major problem. Hello!? God dammit, answer me!" And then, silence. I slide back into the large, engulfing cushions of the captain's chair. I cannot cry; I don't have the energy anymore. My frenzy left me with a feeling of overwhelming exhaustion. I just sit in a sullen daydream. I am alone now, completely alone. All that I had left behind has frittered away. I have been left in ravages. I was on a mission. I had chosen to leave my life behind, to pursue glory and honor. It was a choice I had made, and a choice I have to make again. I gaze out of the ship's lone window, the only thing connecting me to the outside. I stop for a minute. The only thing I see is blackness. The deep, sort of concentrated blackness that one experiences only when gripped strongly by the darkest clutches of slumber. Or that of eternal peace.

…”The truth was, none of them would ever quite make it home, and the rest of us would feel just the prudent amount of badly about that for the rest of our self-obsessed little lives. In fact, in the rare cases in which their bodies might make it home, a certain highly disputed other little piece almost certainly would not. It can be a fragile thing… We justified this, I think, by giving ourselves the usual excuses, I don’t know how or if we didn’t know that we were sneaky, lying little rotters who weren’t fit to polish Boggins’ bootlaces. Or maybe we knew but we just didn’t care less. Maybe we were thinking of our wives and children. Right. Did you know that if there was something wrong with a certain part of your brain, I forget what it’s called, but if you show somebody who’s missing that certain little part, let’s say, a picture of an elephant, he’ll know what it is, but he isn’t able to explain it? Prize for the worst sentence I’ve ever said, but that was just how Boggins always was, ever since I’d known him. I’d like to say we were best buddies since kindergarten, you know, but the real thing was, we first saw each other at the haircutters’. I was applying for a job there; he owned the place. Loeb and Masters were all palsy-walsy, and they came there for a trim occasionally. Together, which we thought was weird, but it’s understandable now. Binstead might have been a friend of a friend, in fact there might have even been another a friend into the bargain, but it didn’t seem to matter, because once he was there, he pretended to fit right in. And we? We faked it ‘til we felt it, like our mama bears told us, the annoying little grub. So we were there, we had the idea of friendship in mind, and the philosophy; we had our notes, but we still had to sit the practical exam. And the first two, they were the worst months of my life. But not for Boggins, he liked things like that. Maybe because he actually had a soul. He was always vocal about his purpose, though, and he didn’t try to hide from himself or anyone else what he thought he needed to do. “I’m going to dunk my head in this fountain now, Troy,” said college-Boggins. Of course the fellow did, and he didn’t even regret the pneumonia that came of it. But anyway, Boggins, he would always stop what he was doing to tell us that he didn’t know why he was doing it, he just was. He made us feel like worms; what we didn’t realize was that at the time we didn’t need to, and we swallowed our feelings when they came true. We were young, if twenty five was young; the thirty I am now is mostly considered young, but I am old now. What follows could be considered the reason why, although if I were told so, I might try to deny it. I guess when we were all younger, we all thought we had a purpose. Boggins knew he didn’t, but he thought he did, and we thought he was noble or something for that. In fact, I remember distinctly wishing I were him, because I was an idiot. Still am, would be the last to deny it. But unfortunately now I’m something worse as well, well, we all are. We’re craven cowards, you know. And one time we thought we’d take something, that wasn’t ours, you know. You do, right? You know, it’s great to have someone like you, someone who can listen. And of course Boggins didn’t believe in anyone but himself and his purpose, and he shook his head and said, “You know what? That’s brilliant,” and he came with us to an alleyway in Garden Street… And there was an apartment there. Thank you, this is great. Do you brew it yourselves? So we convinced Binstead, the unlucky gangling child, to climb the windows, and bring out something. We thought we were so original, and I can’t understand it now. But Binstead, he was ever the child of the Bible and all that. What was curious was Boggins’ moral code; he was fine with stealing something, but not with letting someone else to do it. He thought maybe he was going to hell anyways, but that was us… ▲ ▲ ▲ We waited a long time for the decrepit old young middle aged man to wake up, but he never did. We weren’t watching what the hell he was drinking, but about an hour after closing time, we shook him and shook him and no deal, you know… He just wasn’t alive anymore. It’s a fragile thing… We buried him in the field back.

This is not a utopia. It is the perfect universe from a mathematical perspective. It is the one possible universe, out of the infinite number of possible confirmations the universe could take have taken post-bang in which the mass and energy of all was, all that is, and all that will be in the absolute sense of the universe is in two equal and opposite distinct points. In this perfect universe, these two distinct points would be traveling at equal and opposite velocities in all existing planes except for one. This mean this one and only one universe, out of the infinite number of possible confirmations the universe could have taken post-bang will have the most massive explosion, the most impressive display of force that has ever been possible at any point in any universe's history, would occur. Can you imagine it? It would be the most glorious thing that has ever taken place or ever will take place in the entire cosmos. In this universe, after this tremendous display, all would be silent. Everything was equal and opposite, and all would be silent. Space and time no longer exist, or mean anything as concepts. This is one universe, in all of the possible universes. Literally one in an infinite number of possibilities. We have no math to understand the concept of that. It literally does not make sense. That is how unlikely that occurrence is. That's how tremendous the power of that one occurrence must be. I use "single" in this case in the symmetrical sense of the word. Because, mathematically speaking, this single equal and opposite velocity can occur in an infinite number of directions in an infinite number of planes. There is another universe. In this universe, the big-bang occurs in such a specific way, as before, a particular set of circumstances occur. However, in this universe, our planet is formed. The masses of heterozygous quantum-probability decisions take place over the billions of years that the planet exists, creating life. This life divides, evolves, and interacts in such a specific way humans exactly as we know them form. All of these humans have the exact same social interactions and procreation patters as they do in our history so you and I were created. This means that one out of all the infinite meiotic divisions that could have occurred in the germ lines of all humans ever, and combined with the correct mate, occurred. Which means all chance meetings that led to marriage, all the stupid fights that led to divorce, and all the drunken kisses that happened in our world happened. And in that universe, everything in our lives happened like they did. Out of the infinite number of possible decisions we made, we made the exact same ones again. And in this universe, you were friend's with my friend's friend, and we went to the same party. And then I met you, in that one instant when our eyes met. In that one instant, in that single, completely and utterly and mind benignly improbable moment that it is truly and rightly one single occurrence in a certain and awesomely infinite number of possibilities. More impossible than anything that could ever be imagined. The tremendous nature of the magnitude of that one moment will never leave me.

He woke. It was a breathless waking, the kind where you slam your own bed as if rushing to the ground. He had hardly blinked away the heaviness in his eyes when he noticed. Something was wrong, different, unsettling, his room seemed, brighter. It wasn’t a comforting light, it seemed to vibrate from everything, as if all objects had a new glean. He took the whole feeling as a shuddering, a resonating chill lasting only moments. Curling his fingers over the edge of his bed he swung himself across the lip of the sheets. His feet touched the ground and the tactile sensation of the carpet caused him to shift uncomfortably. For the first time he was conscious of the fibers, the rough spun cotton flowing underfoot. He thought he might be able to count them all, every strand, and find them all to his liking. He found this unnerving. Straining his eyes the room came into focus, his vision was acute and the details washed over him in waves. The colors were deeper and patterns more noticeable. This made him realize everything about his immediate surroundings, the four corners of his room, arched ceiling, tissue box, miss matched curtains, everything, appeared flawless. Nothing had moved, nothing had changed, it was simply right. It was in its place. It was at home. All except the door. It was the same. The familiar had a new temptation, a magnetism, an undeniable pull. The door was already cracked, pale light slipping in from around the frame. The dark ruff cut wood, bronzed hinges and dented knob stood in flushed contrast to the perfection surrounding it. He rose, pushed off the bed, and stepping towards the doorway, reached out, clutched the handle, gave a sharp pull, strode out, and fell.

He woke. It was a breathless waking, the kind where you slam your own bed as if rushing to the ground. He had hardly blinked away the heaviness in his eyes when he noticed. Something was wrong, different, unsettling, his room seemed, brighter. It wasn’t a comforting light, it seemed to vibrate from everything, as if all objects had a new glean. He took the whole feeling as a shuddering, a resonating chill lasting only moments. Curling his fingers over the edge of his bed he swung himself across the lip of the sheets. His feet touched the ground and the tactile sensation of the carpet caused him to shift uncomfortably. For the first time he was conscious of the fibers, the rough spun cotton flowing underfoot. He thought he might be able to count them all, every strand, and find them all to his liking. He found this unnerving. Straining his eyes the room came into focus, his vision was acute and the details washed over him in waves. The colors were deeper and the patterns more noticeable. This made him realize everything about his immediate surroundings. The four corners, arched ceiling, tissue box, miss matched curtains, everything, all of it, appeared flawless. Nothing had moved, nothing had changed, it was simply right. It was in its place. It was at home. All except the door. It was the same. The familiar had a new temptation, a magnetism, a undeniable pull. The door was already cracked, shadows slipping in from around the frame. The dark ruff cut wood, bronzed hinges and dented knob stood in flushed contrast to the perfection surrounding it. He rose, pushed off the bed, stepped towards the doorway and reached out tentatively. He clutched the handle, it felt slightly chilled, as if it hadn't been turned in a generation. He stood there, preparing to breach, wondering why he would pause. Feet shoulder width apart, sideways to the door, he surveyed the room with a last calculating gaze. Suddenly, in a lapse of time without thought, he gave a sharp pull, strode into the darkness, and fell.

Christ Mass. Even as an adult it sent a shiver down his spine. Christ Mass, a time for repentance, a time for respect, a time for sorrow. Nick shook his head, it was getting late and his mind was starting to wander. He had a lot of work to do, tomorrow was a big day, tomorrow he would test the time suit. It was no coincidence that Nick had chosen the 25th of December to test his machine. Nick's machine was an affront to everything the OTC stood for and he couldn't think of a better way of saying "Screw You!" then to violate the very laws of Physics on their most important day. By 8.00am he was already in the suit. He settled the butterflies in his stomach by finishing a glass of milk - his favourite. After a moment's pause he stood up, pressed the button and fell out of time. Nick was a genius by anyones' standards with an unnatural aptitude for working with multi-dimensional problems. At university he came to understand that our perception of time is simply a shadow of a multidimensional field. This realisation was coupled with the reality that he was beyond his peers and professors, he dropped out. It took 3 years to finish the machine. 3 years of working in secret. 3 years of sleepless nights, unhealthy eating and personal neglect. By the time it was complete Nick was a state, morbidly obese with an ungainly beard, but his work was done. Falling backwards, the world dimmed and blurred. His brain struggled to process the unphysical reality. He perceived a stream of colours as visual information from multiple moments arrived simultaneously - it was nauseating. Fortunately he didn't need to make sense of it all, his suit did all the work. He pressed another button and started hurtling sidewards a year at a time. The surface of history spun in front of his eyes, the motion sickness faded and a rainbow of colours washed over him as the years passed. Coming out from a trance he had the shocking realization - the colours were fading, he was still falling! In a panic he pressed the button to return to the time event horizon. He came too lying on a crowded street. A quick survey of the dense terraced houses and thick smog suggested that he had emerged around the Victorian era. With ease that surprised himself he sprung to his feet. The people around him remained motionless. Something was wrong. An examination of his suit controls revealed the problem - he wasn't back! Draining its batteries, competing with an unanticipated force, the machine had died anchoring him on the very edge of time. Nick explored the town. Here on the cusp of time he could feel the air, the sun on his back, feel gravity pulling him down, even smell the local bakery but the experience was diluted, ethereal. Walking the back alleys put his life in perspective. The strict discipline that came with Christ Mass made him feel like he had suffered hardships, but here was true suffering. At the edge of town he found the worst of it; an orphanage. Most of the kids looked 3 missing meals from starvation. Nick remembered the bakery he past earlier. He felt guilty taking bread from under the plump baker's nose but couldn't shake the image of the starving children. Eight trips and several hours later he'd managed to supply most of the kids with loaves, rolls and pastries. He stole one last glance at the baker as he carried the bread-filled sacks out the door. The baker's mouth was formed into an "O", his expression one of shock. It was strange, Nick didn't remember seeing this before. The final visit to the orphanage confirmed it - the smallest glimmer of joy showed in the eyes of the kids Nick supplied first. Time wasn't frozen! It was just passing imperceivably slow. The joy he saw in those children's faces elated him. This was the first time in Nick's life he had ever felt purpose, felt useful. He was especially gleeful that he could bring such joy on the day of Christ Mass, a traditional day of suffering for children.... Cogs whirred in his brain, his version of Christ Mass didn't exist yet! The OTC hadn't been formed! The OTC gained absolute power exploiting the misery of people during the hard winter months. It was ironic that the children in the orphanage would always associate this day with a happy memory. It was a shame, he thought, that every child couldn't feel this way about Christ Mass because then the OTC would never happen. But you couldn't possibly make every child on earth happy. Right? It was evening by the time he finished. It had taken the whole Tunguskan forest, but he had finally made enough toys for all the children of the earth. His body within the suit remained in time stasis, but his hands and face had aged and his beard had turned to purest white. He set off with his first payload. It would likely be midnight before his work was done, he just hoped he would get to see those glimmers of joy once more before *his* time ran out. Either way, Christ Mass would have a different meaning for the world of the future than it did to Nick. It was a magical night that night. Those lucky enough saw a flash of a giant smiling man with perfect white beard and glowing redshifted suit. And if you listened carefully, you could even hear his Doppler shifted laughter resonating through the air.

The morning light shines through my window, hitting my face, bringing me back in to consciousness. I throw off my duvet cover, and the cats jumped off the bed in surprise. I have my fuzzy robe on within the minute, and after making my bed, my journey to the bathroom begins. Brush teeth, wash face, comb hair. The morning routine has been drilled into my head for ages. But I like it that way. Orderly. Routine. I start to make my way back to my bedroom, pausing at the first doorway on my left. It was the twin's room. A bunk bed in the corner, the top with a bright pink blanket, the bottom with a baby blue one. Toys scattered the floor, a half-full glass of dark red juice sitting on the bed-side table. I pick up the worn, stuffed rabbit from the carpet, feeling the threads, barely holding together. It was once my toy, but it was given my sister. No one ever asked me if I was okay with that, they just assumed I was finished with such childish things. I never liked the rabbit anyway, toys seem like a waste of time. I walk over to the dresser, running my finger along the edge of it, gazing at my reflection in the mirror on the wall. My dark hair falls just past my shoulders, contrasting the pale skin and light green eyes I inherited from my mother. I softly close the door behind me as I exit the room, making my way to the next one. My eldest brother's room is even more messy than the twin's. Clothes and books and magazines and pens and CDs and game controllers and posters everywhere. They scattered the now-invisible floor and futon bed and red walls, like a collage of my brother and everything he was. The CDs he had bought at a yard sale last weekend lay piled beside the bed. A picture had been thrown to the ground, ripped in two. He had recently been broken up with, and seemed very distraught over it. I don't understand his emotions. Why would he feel sad about someone who didn't want him anyway? I slam his door as I leave, it had been difficult to close ever since him and my father had been playfully wrestling and broke through it. I remember it sounded like a gunshot, or at least what I thought a gunshot sounded like at the time. So loud and out of place. The next door was to my parent's room. My mother had tried to keep it orderly, the effort was evident. Clothes folded, but never put away. A small garbage can in the corner, but it hadn't been changed in so long it had begun to overflow. Both had worked 9-5 jobs and had four children to raise - so keeping a neat room was not a priority. I lay down on the their cozy, king-sized bed, with its deep red comforter and silky white sheets. I could smell my mother's favourite perfume and my father's aftershave that my brother had bought for his birthday. Amateur hand-drawn pictures by my siblings lined the walls, maybe to remind the two that they had something to get up in the morning for. I slowly closed the door to the room, to avoid that irritating creaking sound it made. As I enter my own room, I feel the breeze come in from the open window, blowing my hair behind me. Most of my room is white, the colour always looks neat. I gaze around at my books, all ordered alphabetically. At the bedside table, where my alarm clock and lamp are placed flawlessly parallel to each other. At the closet, where the transparent curtain covering it revealed the neatly hung clothes within. At the desk, where not a single thing is out of place. Perfection. Hunger hits me suddenly, and I hang a sharp right outside my door to go downstairs. I ignore the sticky wetness under my feet as I put some bread in the toaster. I stare out at the cloudy sky through the window over the sink, an airplane speeds across and a flock of birds land in a nearby tree. Sometimes I feel like I'm a bird - floating through life, often with no direction, no feeling. The popping toast breaks the perfect silence that had fallen over my house. I eat it plain, my hunger wouldn't allow for any more delay. I finish the toast, and sigh, my stomach finally satisfied. I feel content. I turn around and look at the family kitchen. Red smears the walls, the cupboards, the counters, the floors. And the four bodies on the floor. Their faces and clothes and skin all covered with that ruby red substance. Some dishes and cutlery lay scattered with them, knocked down in the struggle. The colour coats the fallen items and people, blending them all together. Red. So much red. A scream pierces the air, breaking that beautiful silence once more. A look of horror on our neighbour's face as she walked into the kitchen; I forgot she was coming by to pick up her casserole dish. I sat down in the crimson and ran my fingers through it as she sobbed into the telephone, summoning emergency services. I don't see what the emergency is - there's no saving those who are gone. **Is it clear in the end that she is the one who killed them? In the last line, I am trying to show that she is emotionally "gone", and her family in gone in that they are dead. I also tried to have the colour red a few different times in the story. How do I make it better? Also need a title.

The sky is poetic when you consider it emotionally: sunsets draw tears and rolling tongues of clouds pull mouths open and vicious, wandering storms inspire dizzying cries for God or help or *someone*. I am not poetic. This is what makes me stare at the cottage-cheese ceiling in my room at night and wonder why I will never admire myself. I conjure you and watch you effortlessly twist nails into your hands, watch the wounds bleed ink and meaning, because you always told me you admired me but I never believed you, and the way your eyes would look not into me but behind me made me nervous and I think that’s why you could never really love me. But I tried. *Fuck you* I tried. I tried and then I told myself that your angled good looks were beyond me and that your ancient, slippery tongue would never find mine and then I ached until I could convince myself of some flaw you weren’t aware of. I tangled myself into tight enough knots that I couldn’t walk straight and I couldn’t unwind myself for long enough to make hollow conversation or take deep enough breaths. I wanted your easy wit and your offensive charm but I wanted you to give it to me like a lesson so I could hang it on the wall like a picture and remember the time I fell in love with the idea of a boy. And I didn’t care that I knew you would never feel awful, rooted things for me. I never cared about that. And I made like I was finding myself or something because your body sitting next to mine made me feel shallow and hopeless and all I wanted to do was be *your* type of person and then you would let me crawl inside of you and decipher your secrets for myself. You were different than anyone I knew with your swarming lies and your spangled lines of art and people and pale, tortured love stories. You drew me in with those choked eyes of yours like the depths of you were hungry for something you knew you would never have. Storms strike first from a distance: all swirling, coked-up air and this graceful, rhythmic dance between high and low pressure that spins so far out of control it makes hearts grow restless even when all you can see of it makes it look like a gray, stretched-out cotton ball. I watch cagey men on National Geographic. I watch them crawl in head-first, greedy-eyed. I cringe at their middle fingers raised to the clouded sun. You gutted me. You gutted me and you didn’t realize that you’d done it because I didn’t turn myself inside-out for you like you thought I did. I absorbed you and leaked you back out and you smiled at me as if to say *you’re the girl I’ve been waiting for* and I was so drunk with your approval that I couldn’t look at my toenails without seeing them through your eyes. But my heart pounded with each inch you let me head in your direction and you welcomed me with your spinning, wild arms and I smiled at you as if to say *you get all of me but you don’t get to know why* because that was my idea of mystery. You didn’t ask questions. I watch storm chasers and I watch twisters pick up houses and cows and spit them back out crumbled and worthless. I watch how the air, coiling, grins and doesn’t stop. I watch adrenaline-junkies point their cameras and get the shot and I watch their smiles: that kid on Christmas morning clutching a toy helicopter like it’s all he’s ever going to need. I haven’t moved from this place since you left. If I move I’ll get caught up in your backlash and your intelligent, twitching fingers with those sweet, tidy good-byes of yours. I’ll gag on the memory of you and your drugged march because you had to be going somewhere always, forced to inhale the comforting slant of your whole body, the one I knew like the curve of my own reflection. I remember you gave me a notebook once, and you wrote my name in your earnest chicken scratch on the inside of the sturdy red cover and you told me *go crazy* but I didn’t. I sat and watched you scribble yourself into oblivion on your own blank pages. I could never dream up enough words to write a good sentence. You thought we were kindred, back then. You told me not to look for it, just to find it, and I would know. You told me a lot of things and I remember them all, but your words sit beside me like a pale sketch of you, eyes wide and shoulders slack. For a long time your words filled me up but now they’re just scraps of your character that I can’t seem to hide anywhere. Sometimes I wish you were still here but mostly the riprap of ripped-up ground and shattered houses you have left me with feel like home enough to crawl into and sleep. The imprint of your body here is big enough so the sheets puff thick around my head and I’ll never have to breathe again. You were poetic enough for the both of us.

Nell sat on the great boardwalk and glanced nervously back. The fires would be coming, she knew this as surly as she knew the sun would rise. But for now all was peaceful, the bog in which she sat was entirely still other than the swarms of biting flies coating the landscape like an ominous and buzzing aura. Nell's face and arms had already been stripped bare by their assault, and teams of flies were working with a level of cooperation rarely seen in creatures of such small-mindedness to tunnel through the woman's flimsy armour to reach the rest of the adventurer’s supple flesh. Nell dibbled a toe in the bog, the splashing pleased her greatly. Out of the bog walked a man, his features indistinguishable from the thick coating of bog over his being. The bog writhed with flies. It was the middle of fly season. "Thisbe?" Nell asked, hoping her search would finally be at an end. "I am Thisbe", the bog man replied. The flies buzzed, informing other flies in the area that this man was Thisbe. Nell nodded at Thisbe, Thisbe nodded back. Nell nodded at his nod and then they stopped. This was their exact level of agreement. "You should leave this place" Nell informed the man. "The fires are coming, you know". "I am Thisbe", Thisbe replied. Once again they nodded. The flies had finished their tunnel into Nell's chestplate. It was not a well-made tunnel and none of them were truly proud of it, but for the moment it would have to do. Each fly gave a nod to his companions and then they entered. The flies consumed Nell, each bite a sweet reward for their effort. They stripped flesh from bone as they each took exactly seven bites each, the number of the Lord. They then left Nell's chest forevermore, leaving only a small brigade behind to work towards adding to the aesthetic appeal of their shoddy tunnel. Since Nell's task was too sacred to be interrupted by such petty annoyances she continued on as a hollow shell of her former self, forever hiding her terrible secret. The flies would go on to be mighty kings among the insects, until they all burned alive when the fires came. Thisbe's body had been consumed long ago. "I am Thisbe" said the flies, nodding to one another in apparent agreement.

It was initially a writing project for the final assessment of the last French course in Quebec cegep. It was initially written in French and translated afterwards, albeit an essential translation more than a direct, word-by-word one. I do not intend much with it, and such the critique is not to be with any specific aim other than quality. I have no intention of publishing for now, be it this story or another, but am still interested in improving. I will leave the untranslated preface, although I am not quite sure how relevant it is: I wrote it as asked by the initial guideline of the course, not because I felt it important. The references are important in an analytic sense, but one does not lose much of the story by not knowing. Easter eggs, if anything. Préface-Avertissement : Cette création s’inspire de Comment faire l’amour avec un Nègre sans se fatiguer (1985) de Dany Laferrière par opposition thématique. Le Vieux de Laferrière recherche son émancipation : il adule et embrasse le rêve américain profondément narcissique, et se retrouve ainsi, par la suite, accepté par la société québécoise postmoderne. Joseph, au contraire, c’est le blanc dit émancipé, tristement individualisé qui ne se reconnaît pas, comme bien d’autres, dans ces traits conditionnés par la société macabre hypermoderne. Ce Joseph, dans son cheminement, déconstruira son narcissisme aux suites d’un premier contact interpersonnel signifiant, contact quasi-impossible dans notre monde contemporain. Ainsi, thématiquement – en présentant l’envers de la médaille d’un nègre du Québec d’autrefois – nous rejoignons le roman Frontières ou Tableaux d’Amérique (1995) de Noël Audet et son thème unifiant de déchéance du rêve américain, à travers ses personnages forcés à un individualisme qui ne leur sied guerre. Nous retrouverons aussi l’antithèse du Montréal du Vieux; la ville reste symbole de sa société contemporaine, mais ce temps n’est plus à l’espoir de débauche hédoniste, au contraire, mais bien un temps d’une société qui n’accepte pas la décadence des valeurs révolues d’Oncle Sam et de Marilyn Monroe. Y sera représentée Mary Wang, la huitième Marie, Miz Gin, l’alter-égo de Miz Littérature, qui n’est plus une WASP envahie qui se révolte contre sa culture, mais bien une immigrante chinoise – l’envahisseur – qui se révolte contre sa culture qui tend à reprendre l’erreur du capitalisme états-unien. Joseph, c’est Joseph Bélanger-Leblanc, le fermier noble. Il est rude et cru comme le Vieux, mais pourtant émotif et profond comme le personnage éponyme de Palomar (1997) d’Italo Calvino, car il n’y a pas d’aliénation sans opposition, et Joseph, c’est l’archétype de l’aliéné hypermoderne, dans toute sa complexité apparente. It is one of those mornings when we are alone of all our billions that the cold reminds us our solitude. The cold embraces us, isolates us from one another, filling every breach through which we might escape it. Then, it is the unsettling *angoisse de l’âme* that settles in, Charles’ *spleen* read aloud to a shaking rendition of Boulez’s Anthème below a crimson sky on the sea falling, a glass of gin clutched in the left hand, the other hand empty. It is but autumn arriving to this beautiful city of Montreal. Once the festivities are over and the forgotten joyfuls home, settles down the glacial air that separates us with its stinging weight. It is my city, a town ruined in pretending no warmth is lost. Yet it never fails freezing when the leaves leave us for southern reaches. ∙∙ “Oh mon Dieu!” ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Even inside the bus, coldness does not separate us any less. The teeming couples would not fathom rebelling against their thick furs, losing themselves in a frustrated silence which lovers attempt to bury under confining music, as if unknown to one another. It makes me feel sick, this anonymous freezing of our time taking roots. ∙ Marie cries out, as Joseph brutally penetrates her. She, tied to the four corners of the bed, at his mercy; the medieval torture has for only goal the liberation of the soul, so may it elevate itself to the high heavens of the divine kings, pursuing Marie’s wail. ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ “F=ma=-kx, solve for y. It is a quadri-dimensional progressive wave system.” [sic] I happened to have an optical thermo-directional mechanics course this morning. It doesn’t mean anything: I was not attentive, my eyes preferring listening to the clicking hand of the fleeting time, only in wait for the break to go fuck Miz Gin with proper normative étiquette: absent of love, eyes gazing – lifeless eyes – at some arbitrary speck of dust on the off-white wall. After, goodbye. Clean up, fare well until we meet again tomorrow. There is nothing better than making love at noon, ‘tis said. ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ His fist tightly shut, he hits her, pounding. Marie viciously finds herself in ecstasy, in front of this sought attention. Finally! liberation of her entwined phantasms. ∙ The teacher throws up his memories to a wall painted with students – may he feel comforted of speaking alone. “Did you enjoy the novel’s reading?” And a student, whispering under his unborn beard: “Some shit!” But we do not want to know, we do not want to learn, we do not want to understand, so we keep quiet. “So?” Yes, teacher, we know of the illustrious Narcissus Laferrière. Except – in personal accordance – I would gladly stuff that dreaming nigger like a turkey, with a side of cranberries, to accompany his beautiful American dream beginning with hole and ending in thanksgiving. But I am drifting from the point, please excuse me. Being granted a role in *les grands homes*, I may fathom compliance, but I wish nothing dooming me to the loneliness of a frozen mountain peak. Especially if we must be alone from the very start, less chance is not even. ∙ She orgasms, a laugh escaping through the breach of her torn lip. If her parents could see her – a shock it would drive home. She shivers at the innocuously comfortable thought; it is the love of pain that mends the pains of love. ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Miz Gin, Marie Wang, guides me to the melancholy club. In it, hundreds, thousands, billions; an entire universe of lesser gods dance in the hall with mirror walls. And we too dance. Marie is breathtaking. She warms up like a professional; one would be tempted to forget the absence of pole. The others around, despite, do not appear to see her. The poor blokes gaze in her general direction, but the stare passes directly through her. The photonic information is not recognized. Does not compute. The music is drowning the electromagnetic wave and – maybe for it – they resemble automata: incapable of meaningful communication, instinctive machines, unable to understand their given. Nor do they seem any troubled by the impossibility of knowledge. Were I a greater god, I would replace the minds of every partners and not an eyebrow would be raised in questioning. It gives me nausea, a dizziness of the soul deploring its sidereal distance from any sincere subject. They are, at this instant, but objects of my story, despite my crying invitation. And Miz Gin that is still dancing of all her person... ∙∙ “Plus fort, my white nigger!” He takes her from behind. They go on fucking, fucking away the remorse coating their guts. ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ The walls are made out of dead trees, and pieces – of art – occupy them, balancing the monotony of the uncultivated life with the perfect spirit of beauty, a beauty I will as overwhelming as exalting. A perfume penetrates and populates every point in the room, meticulously coating the skin, filling the lungs and calming the hearth of being. This odour capsizes me: my eyes are afire of an unalienable happiness. A beer lies on the table ahead of me, attached to the wall. A tall pitcher, filled to the half, but there is only a single bock for the whole of the table. It is in my hand that I shall carry it, the left, because there is no hand anymore at the end of my right arm: there is my – my – Miz Gin, my Marie. At the extremity of my arm, it is her body, albeit I do not know where it starts, where my previous person ends. Her body continues from mine: I would not know how to untangle it, as she goes on petting my right hand, in the middle of our new being, with hers. ∙∙∙∙ Their perversions vaporize on his American white pine, as she impales her sex – with gracious joy – up to the vice that grips her throat. ∙∙∙∙∙ And I am drunk of a comfort that pervades me. The sea is not tempest-ridden yet: she is still a maternal beating that kindly rocks a child. It is Freud’s intemporal return to the mother, the impossible reinsertion in the warm and humid placenta, which makes us see the feminine sex. The return that – although rejected by the common reason of contemporary science – pulls on the soul’s string with such agility that we cannot fail to vibrate in unison. ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Blood spoils drop-by-drop the white residence bed, recalling into reality the metaphysical sex. This blood is Marie’s promise. – Mademoiselle Wang tells me I fainted at the club. Maybe have I neglected breathing? I do not know. I foremost intended avoiding the heart’s demise, for getting back up from such a fall would not be a simple answer of summing electromagnetic and gravitational forces. She understood: we are now at the pub. She is quiet. She will remain quiet. There is nothing left to say. Her silence, it is more eloquence than past. I could have ripped my ears off of my body that I would not have spoken as much in my life, because the past’s word is empty, and Marie and I, Marie Wang and Joseph Bélanger-Leblanc, we have known each other – now – since the dawn of time and for immemorial eternity. Our souls tame one another, the first in decades. ∙∙∙∙ In unison: “Oh, yes!” For better and worse; Joseph, elevated by this virginal oath, removes himself softly, squirming his hips as not to sever the link uniting them, that united them. A tear rushes at the sheets to dilute the blood. His. ∙∙∙∙∙ Man is a wave on the ocean. The image designates and defines humanity in all its insignificance. He is but a quantum wave sailing on the sea that is the universe, our mother. Yours and mine. And I am partly her, without distinction. I am but a wave, a negligible tremor of existence, but I am not alone for it. I am not alone, because I am only a movement of the world and these movements imbricate together, are born and die of the same wind. It is the wind of the sea, under a sky of ink painted on rice paper, rocking us endlessly with its brush.

chapter 1: Thisbe Nell sat on the great boardwalk and glanced nervously back. The fires would be coming, she knew this as surly as she knew the sun would rise. But for now all was peaceful, the bog in which she sat was entirely still other than the swarms of biting flies coating the landscape like an ominous and buzzing aura. Nell's face and arms had already been stripped bare by their assault, and teams of flies were working with a level of cooperation rarely seen in creatures of such small-mindedness to tunnel through the woman's flimsy armour to reach the rest of the adventurer’s supple flesh. Nell dibbled a toe in the bog, the splashing pleased her greatly. Out of the bog walked a man, his features indistinguishable from the thick coating of bog over his being. The bog writhed with flies. It was the middle of fly season. "Thisbe?" Nell asked, hoping her search would finally be at an end. "I am Thisbe", the bog man replied. The flies buzzed, informing other flies in the area that this man was Thisbe. Nell nodded at Thisbe, Thisbe nodded back. Nell nodded at his nod and then they stopped. This was their exact level of agreement. "You should leave this place" Nell informed the man, "The fires are coming". "I am Thisbe", Thisbe replied. Once again they nodded. The flies had finished their tunnel into Nell's chestplate. It was not a well-made tunnel and none of them were truly proud of it, but for the moment it would have to do. Each fly gave a nod to his companions and then they entered. The flies consumed Nell, each bite a sweet reward for their effort. They stripped flesh from bone as they each took exactly seven bites each, the number of the Lord. They then left Nell's chest forevermore, leaving only a small brigade behind to work towards adding to the aesthetic appeal of their shoddy tunnel. Since Nell's task was too sacred to be interrupted by such petty annoyances she continued on as a hollow shell of her former self, forever hiding her terrible secret. The flies would go on to be mighty kings among the insects, until they all burned alive when the fires came. Thisbe's body had been consumed long ago. "I am Thisbe" said the flies, nodding at one another in apparent agreement. chapter 2: Tavern The tavern had never been known as a pleasant place, but today the ear-splitting din outside was making it an especially unfriendly establishment. The house was packed; even the slightest of movements involved a struggle to displace the being currently occupying the space. Patrons were being hemorrhaged out the windows every second by the frenzied shoving to reach the bar, the screams of the ones ejected reminding those still in the tavern why they must remain where they are or die trying. Nell and Finnegan nursed their drinks. The drinks were warm; it was truly a terrible tavern. “I don’t see why we came here today” Nell said, barely audible over the cries of a gnomish family she and her brother had flung from the tavern to get a halfway decent seat. This seat was next to a window; the view was picturesque. In the distance a mighty waterfall flowed into the ocean, the constant explosions only adding to its majestic beauty. In the foreground they looked over the seat of parliament, an intricate structure of marble that houses statues of mighty kings and priests none now dared to remember. Before the parliament was the family of gnomes, the unlucky survivors looking with envy at the gnawed carcases of their more fortunate kin. The survivors had been stripped, and each gnome held a stone; only the winner of the melee would be allowed to survive. Finnegan had no time to enjoy the view. He looked his sister in the eyes and slowly began to finish his drink, never breaking the stare. “There weren’t any wars at home” Nell added. Finnegan’s cup was empty; he slammed it into his sister’s face. The glass shattered, leaving only a cloud of bloody shards where once Nell’s cheek had been, and knocking another gnome out into the bloodbath. Nell only flinched slightly from the blow, being well versed in taking such discipline. Outside the tavern, a rock wielding gnome wearing nothing but blood and fresh skulls screamed a mighty battle cry. A new challenger was approaching. “You will speak only when spoken to” Finnegan spoke in a voice of incredible depth, his words providing the tavern a soothing baseline to the treble of the parliament exploding, “For that is the way of the lord”. Nell nodded, her brother was wise beyond his years. chapter 3: Fire Nell bit in to her sandwich as she watched the ever spreading fames. The sandwich was decent, she felt. The villagers who crafted it certainly knew how to enjoy the simpler things in life, making it all the more shameful that most of them were now no longer. Still, Nell knew they would likely be proud to know their vital role in the ritual, if only they knew. Water was pouring out of the east. Atop it rode villagers, each riding a little boat built for just this occasion, many drinking mugs of cider and laughing merrily. Nell looked back over her own people, the few still alive doing nothing more interesting than screaming and cursing their god for their recently fire-filled existence. Nell was jealous, she spoke to the water in the language of the old gods and it obediently ignited. The people on the boats continued to drink cider and be merry as it was the last chance they’d ever have to do either. An old wizard walked over, who Nell recognised from his dashing hat as Rufus. “Where did my water go?” Asked Rufus, his puzzlement shining through his all-covering beard, his hat just beginning to combust at the tip. “On fire” Nell replied. “And the earth and air?” “Also on fire.” “So then what are we summoning?” “I don’t know. More fire, I’d assume.” Nell and Rufus nodded to one another. Nell bit into her sandwich once again, but found that it had been made crunchy and unpleasant by the flames. Rufus agreed, so they threw the toastwich into the inferno to be consumed just like the ones who made it. Behind them the gateway stabilized and opened in a flash of unholy light. A single man exited, he introduced himself as Tybbolt and he wore a foppish hat. Rufus look at it suspiciously, as he had recently lost a hat much like it. chapter 4: Monks Nell ran her blade along the dead monk’s face, the edge of her cut as complex and detailed as any average fractal. Around her were skins of monks just like this one, each one’s skin cut in a pattern equally as complex and arranged with care from horizon to horizon, covering every visible landmark and shrub. Beside Nell, the undertaker glanced nervously into the distance. He could see smoke rising over the peak of the mighty mountain Stranglehorn. Soon the air would be filled with the pounding of the war drums. They were running out of time. “Can you hurry this up, they’ll be here soon” The undertaker said, his voice trembling with fear. Nell cursed under her breath, out of all the people who might be saved today it had to be the coward. “These things must never be rushed”, she replied. The monk had been prepared. Nell grabbed a flap of skin and carefully peeled back, her skill made obvious as the infinitely complex pattern fell effortlessly off the flesh it had once housed. Three more monks ran over, two of whom grabbed the skin to lie decoratively over the mulberry patch while the third offered himself as yet another sacrifice. Nell left the undertaker to wash and shave the new monk in preparation; she had to lay the old one’s body on a hill with his feet facing towards the morning sun with the rest of the monastery’s former inhabitants. This last monk had taken only two hours to prepare, the first one took twenty. Nell beamed; she only rarely improved at things. Figures were visible climbing over the mighty Stranglehorn. Each a warrior; each clad in burning pitch as a symbol of his zeal, some holding drums made from the skulls of dragons. Nell cared not; the ritual was almost compete. After the final monks were skinned and decoratively arranged only one final act remained. She and the undertaker stood on the hill and faced towards the morning sun. Nell spoke prayers in the language of the old gods, the undertaker recited mantras; with each unholy syllable they uttered their souls became a little more damned. Finally they both dropped to their knees. It was finished, they waited for their salvation. In the distance, the drums were beating. They waited. The drums grew louder. They continued to wait. The drums grew louder still. They waited some more. A fly discovered the pile of dead monks, crawled over them for a while and found the experience pleasurable. Nell swatted it, leaving it smashed into where the archbishop’s forehead usually was. It was a wasted effort, more flies were coming. Again they waited, and again nothing happened but ever-loudening drums and ever-increasing amounts of flies. Nell’s heart sank; she realized she had been tricked once again. “Damn lying oracle bitch” said Nell.

josh was an ordinary boy Just like you or me or... so it seemed, on the outside he was just a boy who for some reason , Hated life. In other words he was just a fifteen year old boy who showed no emotion, no feeling, no compassion. He appeared as if he WANTED to be hated in public, wearing clothes no other would DARE to wear at fancy party's he wore jeans a novelty shirt such as a video game character and he always held a cane for NO reason when asked the question "josh what has happened to you" he would reply, "that name serves no purpose to me ... and what did i TELL YOU! i am the same GUY" but he wasn't he had changed... he had not always been like this with jet black hair the dyed red tip scraping his chin. people around him would know, he would only talk sorrow and death after that day...

Black and M Part 1 Black josh was an ordinary boy Just like you or me or... so it seemed, on the outside he was just a boy who for some reason , Hated life. In other words he was just a fifteen year old boy who showed no emotion, no feeling, no compassion. He appeared as if he WANTED to be hated in public, wearing clothes no other would DARE to wear at fancy party's he wore jeans a novelty shirt such as a video game character and he always held a cane for NO reason when asked the question "josh what has happened to you" he would reply, "that name serves no purpose to me ... and what did i TELL YOU! i am the same GUY" but he wasn't he had changed... he had not always been like this with jet black hair the dyed red tip scraping his chin. people around him would know, he would only talk sorrow and death after that day... he spoke to M for the very ... last...time M a woman who no one dared mention the full name of in front of black was a fifteen year old girl who had no confidence in herself whatsoever yet black rather... josh, taught her to have some but that is one of his many regrets josh found resolution in M as she was a quite attractive young woman who could no nothing but worry and that... was just what set her over the top. Her wavy pink hair gave her all the power to men in the world and black had power over that he never used it... he wished he did. Black didnt have many people he concidered friends but he had many people who was TRYING to be his friend he knew it... but did not want it he was happy with the friends he already had there names all changed when he changed to blackdare... well atleased to him he had his best friends Linkkirby, grayslimer and M wait black thaught to himself why did i "OH NO" he shouted outloud as his mind jumped back in time... this was no "flashback" he could controll himself but... things always had the same outcome that night when M leaned in and said ... it was to painfull to say but ha always, he always said the same thing "no I...I DONT WANT TO HURT YOU" he regains control but the part that really pains me, you , black its hard too tell 1st,2nd or 3rd person who am i the world just pushes us and when we push back the world cries. GAH black awoke with a freight he told the only erson he could tell "kirby it happend again DONT CALL ME MAD ITS NOT A DREAM or a flashback" kirby replied five minutes later "JOSH its 3AM my name is not kirby pull yourself together your father already said family curse" "KIRBY i am NOT josh and do NOT mention my father you have NO right" the skype call ended there with the same words every covosation ends with"you have alot of people who want to help you they were friends with josh ... not blackdare and i am starting to see why" I did not cry ... she had my tears and she misused themi got up and had asoden thaught that i was afraid of so i forgot about it it would drag me back there but perhaps...this time. Part 2 Kirby "OMG josh is soo annoying right now slimer" "what do you mean NOW kirby he has been like this ever since he said the UNUSABLE PHRASE to m kirby god how long have we known eachother and we dont even know eachothers names" "oh no daniel i know your name im robbie so TTYL AFK and all that" I shut my laptop and thaught how good black had it his folks were rich and he acts like he is POOR his mother loves him and his father is "cursed" but he acts like he is homeless after M left kirby was blacks one outlet in life he used daniel as a way te escape the VR as kirby lived far away but little did he know he was the key to niagras heart he did not know what that ment he just heard black mention it beforeway back then when they broke up kirbys memory spiraled "dont worry kirby she may have left me but you haha are niagras heart" that one scentence stuck with him... it was the last time black was truly happy Kirby was a young boy 13 years old had the whole world goin for him brown surf swept hair a clam necklas and the whole 5,0 but the only problem is after blacks big "phrase utter with M" his confidence was knocked too he was a profestional in sword fighting and sometimes took black 1 on 1 but the one thing he would never try was to even talk to M as last time he god a warning but NEXT TIME the sword will do more than toutch his neck kirby got up and walked to his old secret creek just down the road from niagra falls as kirby and blackdare used to live there thats where they met M but after the break up black moved too canada kirby now being the only one who new the location of the creek had a old picture pinned up he looked for a good thirty seconds at what it used to be...

## The Mountain He was tired. He had been tired for as long as he could remember, swaddled gently, almost protectively, in a deeper, more profound fatigue than the fatigue that comes of hard labor. He had been born tired, his mouth already yawning before he had even seen the world for the first time through heavy-lidded eyes, had taken in the dust and the leaves that settled heavily on the bed as though they had been planted and taken root and had grown wild. Even then, even when his experience with the world was nothing and he was not anything but could be everything and yet was incomplete he did not sleep. He rested. Never long enough he rested, but he lay alone and let the darkness rush in upon him. Darkness did not fear him and he did not fear darkness. Once he could walk his world expanded, in the same way the world expanded and shifted itself when he discovered how to make the noises that everyone else made, the wondrous noises that made him like everyone else but also made him aware of his difference from the others. They feared the darkness. They feared it because they could not see , had never felt , did not know . But they saw it in his eyes, and they feared him. The mountain had existed long before him, and will continue to exist long after his time on this earth is over, but it did not exist and he did not exist until he saw it for the first time. He was walking in the forest and suddenly became aware of it. There it was, looming up out of the land, fighting against and up and out of the land. He saw it and it saw him. He started coming back to the clearing each day and night to watch the mountain. It stood, massive, unknowable and known, through sun and moon and dry and wet. He stood, watching. It was of itself, he was of himself, they were almost one. He was going to build a road. He was going to build a road up the mountain. His mountain. He worked first as a logger, venturing deep into the forests with the strong hard men that had walked this path every day of their lives since they were ten, that had become a part of the forest, moving within like a part of the whole, at ease among the towering giants, looking upon them as they would look upon an old friend. "I'm goin' to build a road" "Where" The question was asked during lunch. "Over the mountain" At that they stopped eating and stared at him. He sat, unaware that he had had said something out of place, so sure of himself, sure of his goal his purpose that nothing could stop him that the older men who had grown so used to the way that life worked that they could no longer remember a time when anything was possible. They recognized in him a vibrant solemnity and so they left him be, just as they left him be when they saw him pause and stare into the forest, face taut, his eyes searching for something only he could see, just as he left them when he had learned how to fell trees with a single mighty blow of his axe. He left, and he bought two horses to haul the wood. They had never seen him sleep. He left them there, and went to the mine. The first time he entered he felt that he could not breathe, the familiar darkness unfamiliar and enveloping him and the mountain bearing down on him. His mountain. But he was stronger than his fear and so he pushed on, learning how to listen for the whispers of the rock. "I'm goin' to build a road" The miners did not laugh at him for they had seen the way he looked at the mountain each morning as they descended. They had seen his eyes, eyes filled with . He knew every tree that had ever grown on it, every stone that had torn loose or been removed, every crack in its face that had been there since before his birth. He surpassed the miners, learning the secrets of the mountain, his mountain, the twistings and turnings of the rock. He woke the next day, feeling rested for the first time in his life. *The road* He made his breakfast, moving quietly. His tools were heavy in his hands as he carried them carefully to the chest. The horses outside stamped their hooves. *I am ready ready am I ready My hands are my own and my hands know how to do what hands do, but how do I know how to do what hands do* He lifted the chest onto his shoulder, not even noticing the weight, not bothering to close the door after his passage. The horses' breath hung heavily, mixing with his own breath as he heaved the chest into the wagon, only after feeling the burn in his muscles. He turned. The mountain, his mountain, loomed above him. *I hear the horses I hear the trees I hear the land I hear it hear the mountain hear you* The horses moved forward steadily. Behind him the house retreated, fading from view and memory as if finally surrendering to something greater than those that built it, greater than the mountain, greater even than memory. As he reached the base of the mountain, the horses suddenly stopped and stamped their feet, mouths foaming and eyes rolling, and refused to travel any further. Once again he stepped down onto the dirt, placing one foot deliberately and then the second. Once again he walked to the back of the wagon and hoisted his precious chest on one large shoulder. Leaning slightly to compensate for the load, he continued toward his mountain. It was still several miles distant, but he could see the clearing where he would begin. He continued walking towards the mountain, into the land, into , and vanished.

The garage was gone, one side blown away by an explosion weeks earlier. The landscape outside was one of sadness and desolation, desert scrub and dirt covered in wreckage of various machines, smoke obscuring the skyline. The horizon was a deep orange, nearly red, intermingled with a glow like gold illuminated by halogen. He looked out the door way into the garage, sparing a look for the outside before quickly ducking back inside in case of prying eyes scanning the landscape for refugees and supplies. Turning around he walked down the hallway. The inside of the house was dark; electricity having stopped flowing weeks ago, the only light they had left was the sun and the moon. When the smoke cleared. Peering into the rooms as he passed, they no longer held much other than furniture and trash. Old mattresses and non-working televisions, various odds and ends lay strewn about. Anything of worth had been stripped down or discarded long ago. He stopped at the end of the hallway, there he found his brothers body, he knew he would find it there. Sparing one last glance at his younger brother, not a child but far from a man still. He closed the door quietly behind him and continued down the hallway into the common room. He glanced out into the back yard, it was quiet. But that made it worse. Even through the smoke and debris and dust in the air, it was calm and still, not peaceful, but still like death. He picked up a small satellite phone he had left on the floor amongst other things, blankets and small canisters, batteries and small cans of food. There were two pistols on top of a large metal case. It was filled with ammunition of a smaller caliber. Large weapons were hard to come by so he made due with what he could find. He dialed a number into the phones keypad and waited silently, wondering how long it would take for the worlds communications to fall. They worked on batteries, but how long the satellites would last was anyone’s guess. He considered the fact that someone must be maintaining them, perhaps a remnant of the government, he knew not. "Hello?" A voice said on the other end, "I’m ready to go," He replied. "Did he make it?" The voice asked, sounding somewhat hopeful, "No he didn’t, but we need to move now so please come quick." The voice on the other end never replied, just clicked back at him as the user hung up. He sat down, methodically fitting bullets into eight magazines, four to fill each firearm. As he completed the final magazine, a man opened the front door and quickly slipped inside. "Is this all?" He asked, gesturing to the supplies he had gathered. Without answering he rose from the ground, handing one pistol to the man and beginning to gather the various objects. He stuffed them into large ruck sacks; he had found them in the back of a truck a ways down the road the night before. They finished filling the bags and moved outside, throwing them into the backseat of a small pickup truck, they pulled out of the driveway. Neither would ever return.

A nation's Intelligence Agency released a 140 page report detailing the lack of food and water for the planet's growing population, the inevitability of climate change to keep elevating dangerous weather conditions, and the destined collapse of the current monetary system. The whole nation was already full of unhappy people, a generation that had been fed the lie that if they worked hard they would eventually be prosperous and happy, were unemployed or held dead-end jobs where they were constrained, bored, underpaid and unappreciated. They were furious at being mislead. A generation of baby-boomers before them had stolen all of the prosperity from the nation and left a dying planet behind as their inheritance. The nation’s news-media grew increasingly cynical, morbid and depressing every day. Networks were purely out to make money and the dying nation, which felt helpless to help itself, ate up these stories and wallowed in its unhappiness. As a result those with mental disorders such as antisocial personality disorder, psychopathy and narcissistic personality disorder, began to believe that they were in fact part of the majority, as people had forgotten long ago that TV was not a true representation of reality. Such individuals became so convinced of their normalcy that they never sought out the mental counseling they so desperately needed, and as their self-assurance grew so did their boldness. A few started openly killing innocents, and once made famous by the greed of the media, more joined in. Soon even innocent children were not safe from the crossfire. With every disaster that befell the nation its people, scared and delusional, gave up one civil liberty after another until the freedom the nation once held proudly over the heads of the rest of the world was nothing more than a distant memory. Its citizens grew divided between the five stages of grief; denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance as though each stage were in fact an ideology to live by. Only a small percentage of the population had made it to the final stage and the deniers were so desperate to believe that everything would be OK that they turned their back completely on science and reason, the two things that human beings prided themselves on the most. The desperate actively ignored the evidence that came to light more and more every day, and lashed out at those who sought to end their ignorance. These people controlled vital aspects of the government, and so the nation was locked in a terrible stand still, completely unable to deal with the current problems and imminent dangers of the future. Only one solution seemed to remain; revolution. A total revision of government and civilization. But revolution was never to happen, too much of the nation had become convinced that they were completely helpless to influence the world, and reverted to total depression, complete apathy or a mix of the two. Each time an uprising started it was never able to gain enough momentum to stop the government from quelling it, through military and police action, and more powerfully through clever manipulation of the press and propaganda. People came to fear conflict more than anything, especially amongst themselves and so they created societal restrictions on which words they could say and which situations they could show in movies and on TV. In this stifling environment people became unable to think for themselves, and creativity and originality were snuffed out. Suicides, murders and sickness grew. Some began openly hoping for the end of their world. Nature began lashing out in its death throes as the misery of money continued to strangle it. Floods, droughts, blizzards, and terrible storms wreaked havoc across the planet. Wars over resources broke out around the globe, and finally the government took total control of the nation through military and police supervision. Each and every citizen was now a ward of the state, but even with strict laws in place limiting the production of more children the population had already grown too large to sustain. Soon governments around the world began to consider something once thought to be unthinkable-nuclear war. All it took was one missile, and all pandemonium broke out. No one can remember who made the first move, but it hardly mattered once a nuclear winter, an event which scientists had been warning about for decades, consumed the planet. The access to food and water, already scarce, became virtually non-existent and the starving population bottlenecked. The humans, plants and animals that managed to survive were plagued with genetic mutations and disease. Extinctions on a massive scale ravaged the land and sea. Eventually only a small niche of organic life remained, breeding and evolving over many thousands of years to create a new era. Although some mutated form of the human genome survived, the human race is never again at the top of the food chain. All information that humans had gathered and analyzed over the centuries was lost forever, for you see, the human race had been so distracted by war and money that they had never mastered space travel. When the sun eventually went supernova, any existence of life on the planet Earth and possibly in the entire known universe was completely eliminated. Doomed to revert to the stardust which had originally allowed for its creation. The end. This is my first time writing anything other than a research paper really, so I'm curious as to how other people view the style, and what you all generally think.

It used to be that a man ranting and raving in the street would be deemed insane. It used to be that murder and sin would be scarce, and that we could all sleep safe in our beds. I long for the days that used to be. Times were that we could live solely for ourselves, develop hobbies, and survive. Now, it's a do or die enviroment, where theres just two choice: Co-operate, or kill. Should it be that we choose kill, we become no better than those who hound us, seek our scent and divulge into the most barbaric of natures. However, co-operation carries it's own risks. Emotional attachment is always far too common, and not a day goes by where we don't lament upon the fate of others, or envy the fortune of the rest. It appears that the seven deadly sins strike into each corner of the globe, taking victims as they deem fit. Sloth strikes upon most, the creatures of the wastes striking as they simply just lay there, incapable of movement. Their cries are heard throughout the encampments, and no one man is safe, regardless of weaponry or strength. Lust fuels the savage, whether it be for money, power, or more... carnal desires. These men show no mercy, and create in-fighting, deterring our attention from the true enemy. Gluttony leads to a drain on resources, and as famine and starvation plague our "society", we are left far too weak to retaliate, and so some are left to die, their frail bodies posing no threat to those outside. Greed appears to fuel all these sins, sowing the seeds of treason, trickery, manipulation and violence. This avarice simply descends into anarchy, devolving a once civilized location to simply survival of the fittest, or the most under-hand, as it would seem, with raiders occupying many old-world establishments. Envy and Pride are rarely seen seperate, as many men are born and slain by their own hubris. We all long for a greater life, and so we channel this through personal possessions. When bartering cannot offer you that which you seek, some would descend into such primitive nature, as, to quote an ancient bard, civil blood makes civil hands unclean. And so we all invoke Wrath. We all are led to the same fate. And we all, inevitably, decay.

He looked up as Dr. Sun walked into the office. He was nervous; his wife hadn’t been the same lately. He could see that something was wrong. At first he thought nothing of it, but once the quakes started happening he knew she needed to be taken in to see the doctor. “I’m afraid I have negative news to report to you sir. She’s very ill. She appears to have some sort of parasites on her. They are incredibly destructive. At first her body didn’t recognize them, but now that it has, it’s trying too hard to fight them off. You may have noticed this. I’m sorry Mr. Neptune, she has a very slim chance of living. She is still very contagious. Try to keep yourself and your family protected.” He began to weep, thinking about his family. Together they had six children and a dog, how would he cope without her. He walked into her room and looked at her. Her big beautiful green eyes looked dead, only her salty tears confirmed she was still alive.

Richard Hale lifted a fresh cigarette to his mouth. His feet on his desk, his papers scattered about, he inhaled the fresh nicotine and exhaled heavily. There was a knock. With a sigh, Richard unseated himself and sauntered over to the frosted glass door. “It’s Mickey,” came the voice from the other side. Richard closed his eyes and took a deep breath, sucking in as much as he could before opening the door. “We’ve got a new case,” Mickey explained. “That so?” Mickey nodded. “Morphine.” Richard stared out the window to the streets of L.A., a trail of smoke rolling off his lips. “Again?” he asked, slightly frustrated. “Again,” Mickey confirmed. “Say, Richard, I thought we agreed you wouldn’t smoke in the office. And I’d rather you didn’t at all, it’s really not a good habit.” Richard turned to look at his partner of seven years. His movements slow and methodical, he lifted the cigarette to his mouth once more, eyeing Mickey and blowing a stream of smoke up into the air. After one last puff, he smothered the flame and disposed of the cigarette. “Thank you,” said Mickey. Richard seated himself once more, leaning back and resting his size nine leather shoes on the cluttered desk. Mickey cleared his throat. “I have a few leads,” he stated. Richard gave an inquisitive look. “About the case,” he continued, “I believe I know who the supplier is.” Richard stood. “Lead the way.” Mickey stepped outside and into his Chevrolet Styleline, Richard following at a steady pace. The car slowly accelerated, as Mickey was careful about his things, particularly his car. They sat in silence, other than a single attempt by Mickey to initiate conversation. Eventually, they arrived at a bar downtown. Mickey led the way inside. The bar was filled with cigar smoke, and Richard took this as an invitation to light up one of his own. Mickey dared not say a word, and ignored his partner’s actions as he sauntered over to a table occupied by three men. He sat down, leaving Richard to stand, as there were only four seats. Richard swore he had seen the man in the middle before. The pale, round face and striking blue eyes screamed of familiarity, but Richard failed to determine from where. Mickey initiated conversation. “How’ve you been, Ballard?” The man across from Mickey gestured towards Richard. “Who’s this,” he asked in strong a Bostonian accent. “This,” replied Mickey, “is my partner Richard.” Richard’s brow furrowed. “I don’t like him.” Mickey turned to Richard, a pleading look in his eyes. “Could you wait out in the car? I’ll be ten minutes or less.” Richard looked at the two man and left the room without acknowledging either man. Minutes later, Mickey emerged. “Sorry about that,” he apologized. “Tom is… uncomfortable around strangers.” “What I’m more concerned about is why you don’t fall under that category.” They drove in silence until arriving back at the office. “Don’t wait for me,” Richard instructed. “I’m in no mood to go home to my wife.” “That’s not a good attitude to have.” “Don’t lecture me, Michael.” Once inside, Richard sat down at his desk and closed his eyes. He enjoyed being in the office, it being the calmest place he knew, but was only able to grasp a moment of respite before being interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. With a sigh, he answered it. A woman’s voice on the other end went into details about a case. “Hold on,” said Richard, “I need a pen.” Richard set the phone down and opened a drawer. He fiddled with papers, but found nothing, so he reached over to Mickey’s filing cabinet. It was the first time Richard had ever looked into Mickey’s filing cabinet, which was always kept locked. Fortunately for Richard, the key had been left sitting directly on top of it. Opening the top drawer, Richard peered inside. “Son of a bitch,” Richard muttered to himself under his breath, as inside, bound together with a rubber band, labeled “T.B.,” was nothing but a three inch high pile of cash. He leafed through it… all twenties. Richard closed the drawer and went back to the phone. “I’m going to have to call you back.” Before the woman could protest, Richard hung up the phone and dialed his partner’s number. The night was quiet as the clock struck ten. Far from downtown Los Angeles, Richard Hale stood, waiting. A car passed, then another. Neither was the one he was waiting to see. Thunder rumbled in the distance, yet not a drop of rain had fallen. He slid his hands into his coat pockets, feeling the items within. The smooth paper in the left, the cold metal in the right. Richard heard another car and looked up. A maroon Styleline rolled to a stop in front of him. Out stepped a man. “What’s so urgent?” Richard drew his left hand from his pocket, revealing the stack of bills. “Where the hell did you get that?” “I should be asking you the same thing.” Richard watched as the man’s face twisted. He motioned for Richard to approach him. Richard obliged, and watched as the trunk of the car opened. He glanced inside, then back at the man before him. “You know,” the man said. “I can get you in on this.” Richard glared. “I thought… I thought you were better than this.” The man’s face twisted into a wicked grin, a grin far different from the one Richard had known for so long. “Every man has his price,” he said, grinning at the ground as rain began to fall. He looked up. “What’s yours?” Richard pulled his right hand out of his coat, the object within in his grasp. The man’s smile disappeared, his eyes widened. “No… Richard, please, no.” Richard shook his head in disgust. “You were a good partner.” The streetlights cast a shadow on the streets of LA. As the rain poured, a figure in a trench coat walked off into the distance, alone. Richard Hale lifted a fresh cigarette to his mouth.

A lone man stands with the only mind that knows the full story. With eyes covered in tears, he looks to the beach of the reservoir; to his surprise he had left no footprints in the sediment. Not that it mattered. His thoughts, as unfocused as they were, had one thing in common, what lied in front of him. At least once in every man’s life, he will reach a problem that he cannot explain. Whether or not this problem is self-inflicted isn’t important, what is important is how he tries to solve it. Much like other men he turned to those who have never helped him before, those whose faces have never been seen, and voices never heard. The man laid down his head and whispered: Oh supreme, who has seen my Struggle Who has seen my truths and tale Oh supreme who helps those who deserve it not Who gives wealth to those who need the wrought Oh supreme who as heard all But only listened to the greedy Not the needy Oh supreme will you give me the knowledge Or shall I stay alone as always He received no answer. Looking at the body that lied before him, he felt only the purest fear. He looked at the dull eyes, the eyes that used to see, and glisten, but now are pale and only see death. The torso showed twelve lumps could be seen on each side, and the waist has not seen nourishment for many days prior to the death. Inside the most expensive of shoes, two feet twisted in unnatural ways. These were the same shoes the living man had worn, and with those shoes they both had the same suit hanging on their body. With further observation one could tell that the man first broke his ankles, and with no motivation did not crawl to help. For it is not uncommon for the greatest of men to fall, and never to get back up.

You cut off its foot so you have luck. it grows another and runs away but you have luck on your side and other hunters traps are laden around the forest, waiting for the unique rabbit to get clumsy and fall prey to the traps. You run just as fast as the rabbit, but since it is unique, it can't do the same thing as any other being, so it slows down, already being at its top speed. You catch up to it, never running out of breath and happen to have a water bottle in your pocket to keep hydrated. It takes around 1 hour, 34 minutes and 36 seconds for the rabbit to reach its home, you following close behind. Now, the rabbits hole isn't just a simple hole in the ground. It has a French Two Door opening with small circular windows in each frame, small ornate handles and inside is something completely intricate I won't even begin to explain. It's beautiful though. A maze of tunnels formed by the rabbit dug like no other rabbit. You follow him inside, get lost, but happen to find the way the rabbit is going, into his secret bunker UNDERNEATH his tunnels. You find it, crawl in the hole and the rabbit is sitting in the corner crying and with his knees to it's chest. You walk over to it, knife in hand, say "why are you crying?" the rabbit says back through its tears, "I am unique, I'm not supposed to die like the rest of my people..." You sit down next to the rabbit, and think for a minute. (should I kill him? I have this deep pit in my stomach that says I shouldn't or else something really bad will happen to ME...) You look at the rabbit, and say "so what's your story?" the rabbit looks at you, wide eyed, still scared but kinda happy someone finally took interest in him, and gave him another unique thing, and says "my dearest close-to-be-murderer, I have lived a long time. I have quite a story to tell..." you look around the room, see too fluffy chairs, one small and one close to your size, a fireplace, and a small lamp lit. You stand up, walk over and sit down in the chair, Mel into it a little, and say "well, since I'm gonna be here a while, may I have some tea?" the rabbit hops up, beams at you, "you'll just love my earl grey, I make it with fresh herbs I pick every day." he hops up out of the bunker, makes the tea, and comes back with a tray, tea pot, and two cups waiting to be filled with herbal delight. He sets them down on the small table in between them, pours them both, and begins to tell his tale..... The End.

There isn’t much to be said about a rain drop. Falling from the sky, hurtling towards an inevitable end, oblivious to its own grim eventuality. It ends much like it began. Silently, swiftly, with no fuss or clamor. Pitter patter, pitter patter- we hardly notice the death rattle of millions. It’s raining in the desert. The ground is so dry that it resists the water, so dense that it cannot seep down into the earth. Rather it floods over it, running in wild streams, carving gullies across the sand. It pools and puddles in basins and on the plain, growing larger as it is fed by the runoff and its cousins falling directly to it from the sky. The falling droplets make ripples across the surface- by this the volume of rainfall may be seen. The ripples slide smoothly outwards from the point of impact. The first is largest, the following lessen. Ring after ring glide out, until they turn from faint to finished. As they expand they roll over ripples from neighboring points of impact. Gently, they roll over each other, skewing their course. They are quickly lost from sight, buried beneath the waves of later generations. The desert won’t remember the rain. In a day’s time, it will again be dry, the wind and sand will hide the gorges the water ran through. The air will be parched, the sky clear. Innumerable storms have swept across the sandy expanse. But one would never know, looking out on it. None of them left a legend. Every droplet failed to make an impression. For a time, they stood united in great pools and winding rivulets, snaking across the sand, shaping the landscape. But as quickly as the rain came did the desert reclaim the sand. Man is the rain. Man’s end is also a quiet ripple. His passing is noticed by those closest to him, their lives are changed and their own ripples turned aside slightly by his. And then his ring expires, written over by new waves, new ripples and new stories. Those who knew him pass, those who knew them follow; the desert drinks up all memories thirstily and erases any trace of any being there. So lives are measured. Not in years or in virtue, but in impact. The violence of man’s expiration is the ultimate tribute to his existence. If his substance is to be lost amidst the mass of millions, joining together into one indiscriminate mass of fluid, marked only by a quiet plopping and subtle splash, so be it. Such an end is chosen every instant by the individual to whom it represents. They chose timidity over boldness. They are just part of the storm. That’s all man is. A storm of feeling and thought. There is chaos in every human heart. From the collective soul echoes such pandemonium that may shake the world to pieces. Fully expressed, man will be the hurricane. The typhoon. Man is a force of nature like no other. Alone man is no howling wind. His rage today is not expressed even as a gentle breeze. Man has allowed himself to become but wisps of warm air- stirring ever so slightly the leaves of trees as he moves along. Man’s raindrops fall slowly to the ground, fat and tear shaped, splatting gently against some surface infinitely more resolute than he. But not all men. Some refuse to be a party to a complacent demise. Some men’s wind will blow their rain sideways. They will sting the skin and their heated fury will turn the rain to steam. No faint drizzle, their droplet will be the herald of a downpour. The hate that drives them is the hate of the gentle rain. They hate the soft, white clouds that litter the sky, occasionally precipitating some minor rainfall, failing to even mark the day as overcast. How can a man or woman consign themselves to such a fate? Are they so filled with apathy that they simply accept the world, allowing gravity to pull them down, directly? Where is the resistance? It’s lost, and they’ve sworn to find it. Their only drive is to effect this change. They find the air to be stale, the water stagnant. In the wake of the hurricane the world will be scrubbed clean.

* I recently got a job writing short blips up to 350 words. They need to be lighthearted and humorous. Just looking for feedback, as this job does not provide any. > Owning a dog is comparable to having a toddler for 15 years. Very recently I dated a girl with a dog, I live downtown and she lives in suburbia to have a nice yard for her "Fuzzy Wuzzy". This wouldn’t be an issue except that every evening had to end at her place so her dog could have a "wee" (side note: it often had a "wee" well before we got there). I’m not saying I’m an alcoholic, but I thoroughly enjoy adult beverages. I like drinking them downtown and then walking home responsibly. However, her dog made this impossible, because every night had to end at her house and her house is not walking distance from the bars. In addition to this, unfettered travel is ruined by dogs. I wanted to go to Vail for a weekend, but again, her dog made this impossible. “What I am supposed to do with my Fuzzy Wuzzy?” “Fuck.” Sell the dog and get a cat. Cats shit in box and are perfectly content alone for a weekend with a pile of food and a bowl of water. Also, you don’t need a yard, and slobber is not an issue, nor is "dog odor". I feel like all the reasons I hate dogs translates to why I’ll never have kids. I mean, kids are worse. Children stick around a lot longer than 15 years, and people judge you if you leave them home alone while you’re at the bar.

Giant Frog “Dude,” Gitch yelled. “Wake up.” Body slamming a sleeping Cameron seemed the only way to wake him up at the cottage; he could sleep for hours into the late afternoon if he chose to. Cameron slowly woke up, hearing the loud noises in the busy hallway now he was awake and his door was open. “Breakfast time,” They were cousins, and best friends, and only Gitch’s persistence and energy could make him get out of bed by shaking him, Gitch was an early riser, always at seven. “C’mon, grandma made eggs and hash browns, and it’s the Regatta today!” making Cameron’s headshake, he finally began to move, not wincing anymore. Slightly shorter, thicker and darker than the lanky, sticky and blonder Gitch, Cameron sat for a second on the end before getting up off his bed, not changing out of yesterday’s bathing suit, they all didn’t. Gitch led the way through the hallway, which was the busiest place in the morning. Twin uncle’s Sandy and Frank were putting down the last of the new tiles quietly and in sync, and Gitch’s younger brother Brett was running around them, bumping and falling constantly but never crying. Tall and skinny Dillon was replacing the batteries in the smoke detector as the graying cloud thickened around him, “We’ll kick ass today, yaw?”, smacked his two cousins in the shoulder and laughed as he pointed into the washroom. Nikki, the half Indian cousin but still retaining the same smile they all had, was patting Sam on the back as she cried with her newly discovered makeup running down her face sitting on the toilet about her boyfriend of two weeks who had broken up with her. “Its ok, Sam, he doesn’t deserve you anyways, besides,” Nikki said sighing, Sam looked up at her. “Relax, you’re only 13.” The words seemed to hit Sam with such power that she stood defiantly and looked at her younger cousin’s in the face, suddenly not in tears. “I’m going to get chocolate.” Swinging her hair around and strutting, she pushed through the two boys in the door. “Hey,” Cameron shouted at her back, “Can you get me some?” “I’m not coming back! You just don’t understand!” Running up the stairs, Sam slammed her door and began to loudly weep. “OY!” Plates being set on the table could be heard from the washroom and hall, “Breakfast! C’mon kids!” Grandma yelled from the kitchen. Rubbing her temples and exhaling, Nikki herself stormed past the boys, who looked at each other confused at what had just happen, and went to the kitchen, but they didn’t see Dillon on the way. The red walled kitchen was soon filled. A brown table was covered in platters of pancakes, breakfast sausages, toast and cereals and it smelt like coffee and cigarettes. Grandma, holding a mug and puffing away, always poured Brett, the youngest, juice first and then started throwing food onto all the kid’s plates. They all chewed hungrily as their grandma, who was beautiful and a model once, stood leaning tiredly on the counter, watching her grandchildren. “AHHH!” Schrieking as Dillon came running into the kitchen, she hid behind the kids. “GET THAT OUT OF HERE!” “Why?” Dillon reached into the bucket he ran in with, and pulled out a small frog, grandma was afraid of them. He closed in on her, all the cousins cheering him on. “Just give it a little touch!” Running and chasing her, grandma reeled out of the kitchen, screaming her way to the living room. The table erupted in laughter as all the kids looked into the bucket to see what Dillon had caught. There was always competition to that could get the best catch of critter at the cottage. Dillon, being the oldest and skilled, usually won, catching lizards, frogs, giant fish, even squirrels. The real winner was who could scare their grandma the most; she was scared of most critters, she never got too angry though. Pulling out a white toad, the cousins sang their “ouuuh’s” and “ahh’s” together. They all become excited when it came to catching critters and at their cottage their grandpa had built to be off the grids. The cottage was the favorite place when anyone went up. When grandpa was building it, dynamite was used to blow holes in the surrounding rocks to make a level surface to build on. That was his thing; he was always making things around the cottage better, cooler, more ridiculous. He did always say it was his true passion, his cottage more extravagant than any of the family’s houses. Without saying much he just wanted the cottage to be a paradise, and it really was to those who visited. The actually cottage was at the very end of the very last road. On a five-acre square property in the corner of the lake. Inside was just a giant living room and a high ceiling with a moonlight cluttered with comfy couches, tables, games and TVs. The kitchen is too small and bright for such a big family, and the rest of the rooms are simple bedrooms and bathrooms. He added windmills, solar panels and water filters, it even had it’s own waste treatment process underground. The garden wasn’t used to grow food but large flowers, but it could grow enough vegetables to live on. All the sliding doors including the kitchen’s go to the patio with the giant barbeque that overlooks the entire lake and is right smack in front of the orange and purple sunset in the summer. The boat is raised on the dock and the dock goes 30 feet into the water, with a diving board on the end. To the right is a white-sanded beach with a trampoline and a homemade jungle gym with its own slide, monkey bars and jump platform, and a whole section of beach is roped off for volleyball. Where the cars parked doubled, as a field for bacci, soccer and Frisbee, and everywhere you look are old trees, staring back. The swamp part of the lake is in front of the beach and is shallow for 200 feet out, with trails of rock which leave you knee high in water to walk through the swamp and catch the critters, endlessly detailed with nooks of rock and natural crevices of raised dirt and fallen trees, it’s weird how that’s the warmest part of the lake. But to the kid’s it was just their favorite place to go during the summer, to explore and have fun; their grandpa had already signed it off to them, to be shared when they all turned to adults. After Dillon had convinced grandma that it was safe to come back the kitchen and given Cameron the frog, she rushed everyone out, making the children go outside. “It’s too nice a day to be inside.” Gitch and Cameron agreed, going outside together first. “Phew,” Gitch winced at the sun, “It sure is hot outside.” The sky was clear and the sun was beating down on the patio, where most of the family was. Dragonflies hummed around, large enough to eat, the cat was driving himself crazy running around the brown wooden patio, just not fast enough to snatch one. They headed quickly together to the beach, going down the old concrete steps with moss on them. “We should practice for today!” Grabbing two nearby bamboo nets, Gitch threw Cameron one. They ran together towards the swamp, laughing loudly, following the familiar path. Cameron was slower but because he had a bucket with the white toad in it. Finding a nice rock, they scared off the frogs and left the toad sitting confused in his new home. “Frogs are too hard to catch this year,” Gitch said as he stumbled and splashed, his net coming up empty. “They’re too small and quick!” Frustrated, he swiped at a frog, only to have it jump away at the last second. The water around them became dirty and they, shirtless, moved on, becoming focused on the animals around them under the shining sun. * * * * * “Boys!” Dillon yelled, tilting his sailor hat, starting the boat. “Let’s go! Regatta time!” Revving the engine, he checked the stats. “Dillon!” Laughing together, Cameron and Gitch came towards the dock, both holding the bucket, staring into it. “Look what we got!” Sloshing the bucket towards Dillon, he barely looked into it. “C’mon let’s go!” He said sighing. “We’re going to be late! And then you cant-“ “Ok, ok, sheesh.” Gitch said as he dumped the snake and fish they had caught, jumping into the boat with Cameron. The boys sat in the front, and their long matching hair whipped around them as Dillon cut through the lake, towards another, smaller cottage, which had dozens of boats surrounding it. Slowing down, Cameron and Gitch noticed it was mostly teenagers, like Dillon, being loud and running around each other. “Listen,” Dillon spoke softly, he never did that. “You two are here for the critter catching, we have to beat everyone else, and winner gets a free case of beer.” Looking up at the beach, Dillon seemed focused on one spot. He was staring a girl in a red bikini, who was obviously too old for him and dancing with the older boys. “CINDY!?” Gitch yelled, throwing his arms in her direction. “You want the beer for –“ “SHH!” Smacking Gitch on the arm, Dillon looked around to see if anyone had noticed. “Alright,” he said sighing and shutting off the boat. “Let’s go get this.” Walking behind their older cousin, Cameron and Gitch stuck together, feeling out of place. The cottage without a beach was filled with teenagers, all half-dressed and stumbling. Music they weren’t allowed to listen to was blasting, and bodies thrust into each other. They lost Dillon for a while and ended up next to the porta potties, watching young adults stumble over themselves. Finally, after they got restless, Dillon came staggering towards them. “All right, alright, listen-“ Dillon put a hand on both of their heads, and looked around, probably for Cindy. “EVERYONE!” A fat teenager stepped on a barrel, and the music cut out. It was obviously his cottage, because no one made a sound. “Alright,” he said, looking around. “Welcome to this year’s Regatta Bash!” Cheers erupted and people jumped up and down. Waving his hands, the crowd settled again. “There’s three competitions this year,” Holding silence for effect. “Flip cup, wakeboarding, and critter catching.” Cameron and Gitch grinned at eachother, knowing why Dillon had brought them there. He was notoriously good at flip cup, but needed the boys to really win the competition. “Ok,” Dillon came in-between them, whispering his beer breathe. “You guys, have, I mean have to catch something. There’s only sex, I mean six others in your competition.” Standing to his full height, he clapped both boys on their shoulders. “Do me proud cuzzies.” And he walked off, surprisingly straight, to the flip cup table. “Anyone who’s catching stuff,” The fat boy yelled at anyone who was paying attention but losing his steam. “You have one hour! GO! Flip cup over by me!” Cameron and Gitch sped off, not knowing where they were going. The cottage they were at was more heavily forested, and they headed towards the water, dirty as it was. Formulating a plan, they decided to walk down the coast, to find a nook where they could hopefully find a turtle or snake. Making no progress for the first twenty minutes, not even spotting a fish, they became worried. “This sucks!” Cameron threw his net into the water and huffed towards the short to sit down. “There’s nothing to catch, Dillon’s going to pissed,-“ “Don’t move.” Gitch interrupted. He raised a finger to his lips and pointed with his net to behind Cameron. Without moving, he turned his head. There, right behind Cameron’s foot, was the biggest frog either of them had ever seen. A foot across, solid green, it’s eyes looked like ping-pong balls. It hadn’t moved but it was so big they could see it breathing. “Dude,” Cameron whispered, “Don’t miss.” He handed Gitch the bucket and nodded. It was easier then they thought possible, the frog didn’t even move; just let itself be squished into this bucket, taking up almost half of it. It’s ribbit sounded like a trumpet. “THIS IS INSANE!” Gitch yelled, looking down at the frog. “We’ll forsure win!” They brought the frog bucket back to the party, where they spotted Dillon throwing down a red cup and yelling. “YEAAHHHHHH!” Dillon screamed as he spotted his two cousins, running towards them. He face planted, and pulled himself up, smiling with a mouth full of dirt. “Guys, thanks! This, this, this is ridiculous!” He looked into the bucket. “That’s gotta be, Cindy!” Turning his head violently, he gestured for her to come, and she sloppily made her way towards them. “Wow,” She said and looked at Dillon coyly. “Guess you were right about your cousins.” But she wasn’t paying them any attention, rubbing Dillon’s back. They had never seen their older cousin look happier or redder in the face, but maybe it was because of the beer. * * * * * With Cindy in his lap and looking very pleased with himself, Dillon started the boat, winking at his cousins. Petting the beer while Cameron and Gitch looked at the frog, the ride back was pretty peaceful, with the sun going down on their backs, their cottage glowed. Approaching the cottage, Cameron and Gitch noticed they were going too fast. Looking nervously at Dillon, who seemed too caught up with Cindy, they started yelling, but their voices were lost in the wind. “DIllON!” Gitch yelled in his ear, and finally he pushed Cindy off of him, pulling the throttle back. Except they didn’t slow down enough, and they were headed right for the dock. The boat approached the dock quickly, and they all screamed together, but it bounced off the wood, only throwing their heads forwards. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING YOUNG MAN!” Slipper in hand, grandma came running down the dock towards Dillon, who was re-parking the boat. “You could have killed yourselves and everyone else! Have you been drinking! You nearly made me faint!” Cameron and Gitch got off the boat, only to be hugged tightly by their grandmother. “Yeah, sorry, I didn’t you know,” Slurring his words, Dillon knew he was caught, and seemed to forget about Cindy, who looked equally as scared and disheveled. “I was stupid and wasn’t careful, I sorry, grandma.” Then he vomited all over the boat. Before she could yell back at him, grandma had looked into the bucket, fainted and fell into the water. She was not pleased with what they had brought back to breed in the swamp.

About a month ago, my girlfriend asked me for a fake name idea for one of her law school papers because they have to be submitted anonymously so the teachers aren't biased when they grade them. Anywho, I came up with a name and a story to accompany it... I'm very open to criticism. I'd like to see how it does from people that I don't date. Beefy Bitch... Cornelius Harberdash VII While his name might allude to an impressive pedigree, Cornelius comes from a rather rough past. Growing up an orphan is never easy. With a name like Cornelius, it was a matter of time before the other orphans started calling him Corn which then led to Cornbeef which then led to Cornbeef bitch because as we all know, children love simple alliteration especially when it is used to make fun of others. Irony won when a child born "Cornelius Harberdash VII" eventually found himself haunted by the painfully shortened nickname "Beefy Bitch." Beefy Bitch awoke and began wiping the sand from his eyes. "How'd ya sleep BB?" said Tom O'Horseraddish. "Okay, I figures" BB grumbled. Today was one of the best... Grilled Cheese Tuesday. BB loved Grilled Cheeses most of all. More than pudding. More than Oreos. More than Oreos dipped in pudding. He could NOT wait for lunchtime. Hopefully Ms. Wartburger would let him get in line early if finished his chores first. Cleaning the toilets with toothbrushes wasn't that bad - especially if you compared it to THE other chore. The chore that was so horrific and inexplicable that only the worst of the orphans was burdened with its doing. Last month, Tom had been given the chore because he set 5 tacs in my Ms. Wartburger's desk chair. In short, Tom hasn't been the same. He doesn't even like Grilled Cheeses anymore which conveniently enough is great for BB. "Say O'Horseraddish, you gonna eat yer Grilled Cheese today?" BB said rhetorically. Tom's eyes got puffy and he went silent for a bit after the question... "NO, it's all yours," Tom spewed as he choked back another gag at the thought of cheese. The day went on, and BB's passionate for Grilled Cheese fueled the most spectacular toilet cleaning imaginable. One would feel guilty for even breathing on the toilets after seeing their pristine glisten. BB showed Ms. Wartburger his accomplishments expecting a congratulatory praise. "Dat shitter looks like shit!" howled the Burger. "But Ma'am I went through 6 packs of teefbrushes today, and last week Timmy-Bob used only 2." BB pleaded. "You givin' me lip boy?" bellowed the burger. "No'am" "Damn straight, you're not... Now get the hell out of here 'for I change my mind and make you clean 'me again" BB scurried off hoping to beat the other orphans. His only motivation to keep going was founded in the Grilled Cheese. Without it, he might as well forget how to breath. As he turned the corner to the kitchen's food-line, he saw something that literally altered his existence. "Cornbeef" showed on the Kitchen's Bulletin Board. To this day, there exists no string of words to describe BB's emotional implosion when his eyes scraped over each letter. As BB stood there, anger began to culminate. A fury started to swell that is illegal in most moral municipalities. BB's vision faded and his concept of reason dissipated. He took twelve solid steps forwarded and cried, "CORNBEEF?!?!?!" "Haha what's da matter Beefy Baby Bitch!" mocked Sampson Puddlenut. "Look er'body, Beefy Baby Bitch is sad bout the Cornbeef." BB mechanically turned his head and fixated on Puddlenut. He had always picked on BB. However, today was quite possibly the worst day for Puddlenut to toss a snide comment. Puddlenut had essentially signed his own death certificate. "Dafuq ya say to me?!" BB challenged ferociously. Puddlenut immediately knew he had made a mistake. Even though he was 3 years older and 2 feet taller, Puddlenut had heard about BB's origin's. Until today, BB's past had seemed to be but fiction. BB's current intensity confirmed the rumors in an instant. Puddlenut couldn't handle the realized folly anymore. He wet himself on the spot - which led to his eventual nickname "Puddlepants" but nevermind that now. "That's what I thought Puddles, now MOVE OUT OF MY WAY." The sea of orphans split as BB marched to the front of the line. Nobody had breathed, let alone moved freely in the past 57 seconds due to fear of capturing BB's attention. Movement in the kitchen only corresponded to the inaudible demands made by BB as he cleared the way. As he scanned the staff for the highest ranking adult he met eyes with none other than his eventual mortal enemy. That's as far as I got before purposefully pulling the "to be continued?!" bullshit. I wasn't sure if I'd keep writing but I thought why not leave it open ended? Cliff Hangers are pretty popular for a reason. Closure can leave the audience satisfied and ready to move on with things.