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Allura 9

She traces her fingers around the outline of his shadow, scared to let those fingers touch his physical form. The afterglow having turned harsh and uninviting, she decides to shuffle off the bed and quickly begins to dress, suddenly self conscious. The previously warm glow from the corner lamp now seems too bright and revealing. The night before he had seemed so kind, offering up his jacket and holding the door for her. She had never been one for chivalry; in fact, she didn’t really care if it was dead, as the prophets at the Daily Mail seemed to think. It was the way that he so casually made her feel appreciated that really struck her. Almost as if he wasn’t just trying to get in her pants. She meanders to the door, hoping he asks her to stay and dreading it at the same time. “Well, I guess I’ll see you ‘round,” he drawls, unsuccessfully hiding his unease. She leaves with a mutter or two about calling him later and with that she is walking down the hallway, accompanied by a door slam filled with relief. *Well, I guess we can chalk that one up to bad luck.* It seems to have been happening more frequently as of late. Expectations, it would appear, are a bit of a bitch. Her routine of going out for a quiet drink or two, hoping to meet someone who would playfully flirt, take her number, and call her the next day, had become a routine of quickly falling for potential. Most nights now ended with her on her back, or on her knees, or on top. Not quite the ending she envisioned but not altogether unsatisfactory. Now outside, she gathers her bearings and steps on an arriving bus. Finding a free seat, she sits down and contemplates the odds of finding someone whom she found to be friendly, fun, and fuckable in a city as big as Toronto. “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” *Well, then. I guess it’s high time to start narrowing down those odds.

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 days of playing zelda with our feet in the water the days of yaunder gone by but hope all he could it would be a LONG time before that happened again. I looked back at the picture we were all gathered around in a semi circle as we did and i looked happyer i suppose when M died we all died alittle i looked at her she had smooth skin and this one freckal on her left cheek her face was the only one compleatly visible , her hair was a sholder height pink it was wavy and pretty... she always had a look of pain on her face you could put her in ANY type of people and she would stick out... exept from us her face was the only one visible she never wore make-up but her lips were a cherry red i saw her staring up at me from the image... i never told black this but i always liked M alittle but they suited each other. The creek around was a nice place... A small stream swam throughout the center but the place was well hidden there was sand at one side whenre they would lie down if they were not in the cave and a grassy side with a hill with a medium sized cave about the size of a flat in it . The cave was a beautiful brown place with bean bag chairs computer chairs and tables it it, the cave was just a dirty hole before twe came along ... we transformed... we made it our own but now, it is only mine ,as everyone had moved or... All but two I heard black say im the "key to niagra" M was buried next to niagra falls... Is that what he means Part 3 way back then I looked back and i saw Josh he was happy and i liked it because... One of us had to have been all of the girls at school taunted me for my choce of clothing ... I usually go for a mettalic silver-ish feel, being with josh was my only outlet of somewhat happyness. We were just sitting in the sandfeeling it inbetween out toes josh braught robbie and daniel we dicide that day to give eachother nicknames Josh is to be known as blackdare Robbie is Linkkirby Daniel as Grayslimer And me. With the VERY CREATIVE name M but i diddnt care... I liked it it expressed the amount of CARE i give into everyday society but... i liked calling black josh ... I dont know why? I just liked the name and i liked him but i would still call all the others by the nicknames... "Black" kirby yelled and i see why it had just appered asif there was two of him for a moment every word that came out his mouth sounded rehersed... like he had done this a MILLION times over "M im sorry for all im going to do but... when you accept me as blackdare things will... change ... i i love you" I had no idea what he was talking about so...

He was speeding. Driving twice the limit, full of excitement and anticipation. He slowed down as his automated direction giver announced a shorter distance to his destination with every turn. Eventually he arrived, his six hundred mile journey had finally reached its end. And now his heart could start his first step. He parked behind his arrival location, making every movement discreet as possible. He looked over himself, in his car's mirrors, trying and hoping that he looked as good as possible. When he deemed himself presentable, he grabbed something from the glove compartment, and set out. He was going to surprise her, the two hadn't spoken in months; and now that they were of age, he could finally make his intentions clear. He walked slowly, trying to keep his composure, and his cocktail of emotions under wraps. Excitement and nerves, it would be the first time that the two would meet, yet they've known each other, and loved each other for years by this point. They dreamed of this day, and hopefully this would live up to all of their dreams and imagination. He exhaled, and continued the final leg of his journey with confidence in his strut. His hands in his coat pockets, fumbling with the item he pulled from his car. He stepped up the steps to her door, and knocked with three heavy knocks, quick in their repitition. He could hear heavy footfalls coming from the other side of the door. Hoping she would answer, he held a certain kind of joyful stance. The composure would die as quick as a short breath after calisthenics. To his surprise, she did not open the door, but a taller much more somber looking woman answered. He tried to hide his intial disappointment, and cleared his throat. "Is Breanne there?" There was a pause in the air, a lingering feeling of doubt, as if he asked the wrong question. His doubts were answered as tears rolled down the woman's face. He was clueless, wondering how such a question could cause this reaction. "What's your name, son?" He answered quickly."Edgar, Edgar Williams." She nodded. "She's talked about you, I recognised you from a photo she shared with me" There was a curious look on his face, then she motioned for him to come inside. He walked in, and the door closed behind him. She pointed to the small, black leather couch in the living room in front of him. He sat down, anticipating either bad news or a stern talking to. She, though aware of the stranger in her home, walked upstairs to get something. Edgar sat there in silence, observing the area around him. She then came downstairs, hold a few pieces of paper in her ebony hands. "This is for you, you were the only person she wrote to besides her actual note. Seeing as how you're here, I can only assume you don't know." She handed him the papers, her hands shaking, and him looking at her with a look of curiosity. "Don't know what, ma'am?" She coughed, but then spoke. "She died last month, she killed herself." Edgar's world just came crashing down on him. He looked at her in agony, his caucasian complexion redding as he broke down in tears. She sat down next to him, a smooth arm wrapping around him, consoling him as he cried. "I didn't read the note she did put aside for you and you only. Not to push you, but what did she say?" He stopped, sniffed, and wiped his eyes. He took ahold of the papers. He looked down at the papers to see a letter, a picture, and a folded paper heart. He unfolded the heart first, and to his surprise he saw it was one of his own writings to her, a poem he wrote to her when they first starting falling for each other. He placed that down to the side, as the mother picked it up and read it intently. He looked at the photograph, a self potrait polaroid of Breanne. On the back of the picture, it read this. "Don't ever forget my love is always here. I'm sorry" Breanne's mother spoke up. "The letter" He wiped his eyes from freshly falling tears, and held the letter up so he could read. "Edgar Our love may last forever, but alas, I cannot outlast Death. I could write novels as to how I came to make this decision, but I will simplify. Life hit me in a wave that I could not handle. I hope my mother is sober enough to provide further points of clarification. I hold nothing against her, but she wasn't there like you were. So even if I pushed you back, I always loved you. And I hope you know that for forever. And while we could never be, I'll always be your darling, your darling, your life and your bride. I ask you not to hate me for what I have done, as I know it may seem I've cheated you out of forever, but I did what I thought was necessary. My heart is, and always was yours. With love and apologies, Breanne" It was short, and to the point, like most suicide notes. No tears rolled down his face nor the Mother's. The subsiding sniffles from earlier were dying out. "Take me to her" He asked, almost demandingly. "I don't think you want to do that," She said with a caring inflection. He looked at her puzzlingly, and with a twisted look on his face, he was enraged. "WHY!? She's dead and maybe because of you!" He realised the sudden pang of his words, as he watched her collapse onto him. He kept muttering apology after apology. Instead she just gripped harder, and inbetween her sobs, she began to ask: "Her heart was to you, she told me that" He was thinking about what she was going to ask. "Did you love her back completely?" "Take me to her, and I'll show you how much." They collected themselves, and they went for their vehicles. Before they set off, she asked where her other children were. She told him that she lost them in an even more recent event, a divorce. He found it as a miracle that this woman could hold her own, but her job as a soldier with military training can help greatly with emotional silencing. they went to their cars and drove off. The drive was lengthy, a decent 45 minutes until they reached a suburban environment,filled with green fields. They reached a small cemetery, and stopped. Her grave was the only fresh one, flowers still colored and soft from her recent burial. He, dressed in all black, fell to his knees on a strangely cold summer day. From his coat pocket he pulled out the object from the glove compartment, a ring box. The mother gasped at the object, staring in both awe and pity. He opened the box, and placed the ring on her tombstone. Muttering, no one hearing but her and him. "One day after this life.

I don’t think their life could be anymore sweet, only described as a husband and wife in an imaginary home. Their little house made them feel like king and queen living in a faraway castle, where the stories they read always took them. It was an old house for sure, old wooden planks with flaky paint like a birch tree’s bark. Even though they felt alone in their world, their new mother and father watched over them, their true parents died a long time ago. It was always warm and kind in that house, no matter how cold the winters became. They spent their time in the little nook in the wall up the stairs, in the room with the bookshelf where they shared their summer afternoons and their Christmas Eves, hands intertwined and heads leaning against each other, where they knew their parents couldn’t see them. “Rainier?” She asked him, letting her hand slide over the weathered page, her frail hand slipping into his as he set the book read a thousand times down. “Aislin?” He smiled and looking into evergreen eyes with a sheen, the lamp glowing in the corner of her eye. “Have you ever thought it was like outside this house?” Aislin paused and took a glimpse out the window, the grey skies with the contorted trees, twisted fingers for twigs, pointing out into the cold world outside. “We’ve lived in a book for so long, I don’t know if I can imagine the world outside of our house.” Rainer pursed his lips in thought, letting his eyes sink to the floor as if his answer was written in the soft carpet. “Do you really want to go out there? Just look at the window, it has cracks of ice in it, the trees are mere seconds from turning to monsters and snatching you up!” He smirked with a charming crease, putting an arm about her. “I don’t want to have you taken by those scary looking things!” She pulled away from him, letting his arm fall to his side. “I know we’re happy here. I know we’ve spent all this time in our head, reading the stories we could read again and again, live the same stories with the same ending…” She stopped to let her head snap slightly in certain directions, as if trying to calm herself. “Rainier, I love this, I love you! But there’s so much more out there! I’ve always known there was something more, like that golden sunrise. We’d watch from the castle spire in our book. Imagine seeing that with our own eyes? Imagine living something that magnificent?” She pleaded him, her frail palms pinned together. He paused and breathed, something jerking in his eye. “Once we go out there it would never be the same. We’d always want more; crave that actual sight of the real world. Aislin, I would be afraid something would spark in you, to go into the real world, and run away from me.” He let his head fall between his knees as he peered at the floor, with holding the over flowing dams in his eyes. “I’d never leave, never leave you. But just imagine that; imagine the world of the brighter than the black ink we read off?” Rainer picked his head up and looked into the evergreen eyes of Aislin, always provoking, but she was right, they had deprived themselves, and maybe it was time to see the world with their own eyes. They took their first steps out of their room. The house has gotten older since the last time he saw it, dust on the vases with the drooping plants with darkened carcasses, holes eaten in the hand rail of the stairs. They walked slowly hand in hand down the steps, creaking horribly with age. “My legs seem so weak.” Rainier said with his arm supporting Aislin to the best of his strength. “Maybe the book did cost us something.” She chortled, taking the final step off the stair with Rainer in tow. Aislin got to the door before he could stop her. The door burst open and smashed against the wall outside with a resounding thunk. For some reason the world was a lot brighter out here than from that little window. The sun was pinned in the high noon sky with excitement, it didn’t move for minutes, hours. Aislin loved it, for the days to come she sat on the porch and watched the sunrise. But Rainier became jealous, reading his book with the king and queen who fell in love. But Aislin began to detach from Rainier, just as he suspected would happen on that dreaded morning. She became restless sitting with him and reading the story, even to where their parents couldn’t calm her down. She would take long walks in the night to hear the coyotes howl and the wind whistle through the trees. She always brought a candle, of course, for good measure, just to see her foot prints in the snow back to the house she grew more and more disliking for. But then the one night she left, she was so tired from her travels she forgot to put out her candle, and knocked it over on top of Rainier’s book that he read another thousand times over. Their little house burned and burned with the fuel of a hundred page life: The life that Rainier and Aislin once shared. Rainier made it with his body in tact but burned. But the Dream called Aislin wasn’t so lucky, the fire swallowing her whole as if it we’re friends with the monstrous trees that Rainier told her about. But as he and her family laid her to rest, he shed a single tear for her, dripping into the snow below his feet, the scars in his face still visible, only leaving him a memory of the world he had, which was burned down. He sat outside the ruins of the little house they once lived, fiddling with a small fragment of the book that manage to endure the fire. His father put a hand on his shoulder, tensing, “She was a good girl. But she wouldn’t want to see you like this.” “She’d do the same for me, sit here, and wallow in us. Why can’t you understand that?” “I don’t want you to waste your time reveling in the unchangeable.” Rainer let his head hand between his knees, just like he did that night a long time ago. “She can live in my heart, until the day I die.” The father paused for a moment, and smirked a little and gave his son a pat on his back, looking at the small page left from the fire, “The story must go on, Rainier, you can’t keep reliving this ‘end’.” The father turned and walked away, Rainier left in shambles, crying between his legs His compass points were washed out by his own tears, metal rusting away after her death. A year had since passed, and the boy walked into school with his over bared back and the now common statue-frown on his face, the burn scars there too. It was a different start than what you might think. He had his usual day walking into school, the Principle, Ms. Sentria; stood by her usual window looking at all the cars go by. The children were sitting in the lobby talking smack and school politics. “Morning, Rainier.” The Principle said to him as he peeled through the doors. He didn’t say anything, just wrapped in his head, sitting with the mental embers of his long-gone house. He took his place in front of his water fountain, about to take a drink. The water tasted different to him, sweeter, as if each drop of water had a drop of honey with it too. He licked his lips of what was left and bent back upwards. A boy named Mr. Able grasped his shoulder quickly, startling Rainier. “Whoa, relax dude I’m not gonna kill you. Hey, come with me and meet some of my friends!” Rainier stood staring at him, eyeing him, turning his presence over and over in his head. Mr. Able stated right back at him, taking a moment to put a comforting hand on his weary shoulder, wanting to free this boy from his troubles. “We miss her too, more than you know. But just because she’s gone doesn’t mean you have to live as a statue.” Rainier cringed at his remarks, shrugging off his hand. “Able I know you care, about her, about me. But our life was torn down, burned with the book we read. I know you care, but I rather be a statue, so I could at last pretend to be frozen, and maybe forget to breathe someday.” Rainier held his tears well in his eyes as he almost got out of his arms reach. “But who isn’t to say that her void could be filled? Walk with me; I want you to meet some friends of mine.” Rainier paused a moment, seeing the embers of their house begin to die. “Go on Rainier.” Aislin’s voice said to him, somewhere cramped in a cupboard in his head. “Taste something sweet for once.” Rainier, let his dams break in his eyes, trickling like the waning icicles of his internal winter, lifting to the spring in which he found here—with new friends. The new friend he made showed him to all of those people. What brilliant folk they were too, with warm eyes and playful hair that swayed in the back draft of friendly conversation. They talked and talked for what seemed like minutes, but (only until they heard later) ended up being three hours. Their Principle still stood at the window and watched the cars go by, now brighter, quieter. My friend, the one who startled me at the water fountain, Mr. Able hushed all of the chatter to ask the question no one wanted answered. “Are we late for class Ms. Sentria?” The Principle reveled the question a moment, as if swishing it around in her head, like mouth rinse. She replied with a relaxed tone in her breath, “Class started three hours ago—but I let school out early today. “But why,” All the students said collectively, beginning to haul their bags onto their shoulders and leave the lobby where the sense of home began to set in, “The sun is still shining, nobody died, what’s the problem?” She smirked at the crowd, all with the questioning look in their eyes. “Everyone put their bags down, stretch a little, and listen up, I have a little—observation I want to talk about.” This was different. For as long as Rainier or Able could remember, Ms. Sentria was a cold as stone and about as hard as one too. Even her soft side was comparable to snow, even though soft, the needle pricks of the frigid blanket. She was even having trouble collecting herself now, and it began to scare all the students. She was the perfect human replica of a robot, but now her human side began to break through her tough skin. “I think we all remember when Rainier and Aislin were put into the hospital after the house they stayed in was burned to the ground. Rainier, I hate to put you in the hot seat, but I’ve never seen a human being so much like a statue in my forty years of being a Principle here at this school.” Rainier sank into his seat at the thought of Aislin. “I lost the greatest dream in my life, even her name meant it.” Rainier mumbled just loud enough for all of them to hear. “You had your swings, your times when you fell on your face in the dirt and didn’t want to get up, but then you disappeared for a year. We all missed you dearly.” All the students hung their heads now in the thought of that dreaded time. “But—.” He tried to cut in, but the Principle “This morning, I’ve never seen something so—beautiful. I’ve been here long enough to know this school isn’t exactly the most accepting. But this morning, I’m pointing at you Mr. Able, where you grabbed Mr. Middle’s shoulder and helped him find his home again. You may have all thought I was staring out the window into the road, just watching the cars, but I was really listening to you all. Rainier, I’ve never seen you more alive than this…” “I’ve never been so alive!” Rainier collapsed, his new friends supporting him as he cried, with their own tears creeping out of the cracks in their eye sockets. “I was such a fool! I spent so much time outside that little place, as a statue, a monument to her death. But Now that I’m here, you all saved me, even you mutes!” Those hours he just lived, the ones spent on the floor in the window sunlight, talking about all of life and its actors. He had never been so warm before, even in Aislin’s arms. Ms. Sentria walked for the door, her heels clacking on the floor. “You can stay for as long as you want, just lock the door when you all leave.” She pushed through the door and walked outside, and I swear I saw a tear drop roll onto the concrete outside. “Thank you, Mr. Able.” Rainier laughed as he lightly punched Mr. Able in the arm. “Ha! Don’t thank me bro, I’m just glad I could help you find your Sweetwater.” Aislin appeared in faded pixels to Rainier’s eyes, tears in the evergreens in her head.

“*In the beginning, there was the Room. Then from the room came the Rule and Man. Man learned from the rule, and from the rule, built upon the planet*.” This was the opening line of The Rule, a preamble to how people should act around The Room. The rule was simple “*You may enter the room one for every cycle, but you may never tell anyone what you see inside*” From this rule, the wise rulers and scientists of the nations of man entered the Room, and from their experiences, they developed a civilization. Many years passed in this manner until one man entered the Room. He was sent from a small village after winning a lottery and entered the temple, like the others, naked and empty-handed. For it is known that the Room provides for all who enter. As The One approached the great steel door, he heard otherworldly noises as ancient gears sprang to life, swinging open the metal door and bearing the maw within. Quickly and quietly, the man entered, unsure about what would happen next. Suddenly, the door slammed shut and light began emanating from the walls. In the room he learned about the technology kept inside the room of a past civilization. As he prepared to leave, he was approached by a figure. This new man was as ancient as the Room itself, but he flashed a knowing, mischievous, and lively smile. As he introduced himself as “The King” he gave The One a new machine and then disappeared in a blink. This machine was one that no one had created before; it could capture images with far superior speed and appearance to even the best artist, and with it, The One captured every inch of the room in the image machine, and then donned the coat over the clothes given to him by one of the machines of the room, and left. After he performed the necessary ceremonies, The One stole back to his village a continent away from the one the Room was on. Once there, he began building his own Room, but this time it would be open to all. The other people in the village, and soon many others, backed The One’s venture, and scientists lent their own ingenuity to create a Room even better than the one before. Once completed, the Room stood grander that the one before. It became the heart of a University, and soon word reached the Original Room’s teachers and scholars. In anger for this blasphemy, the teachers and scholars tried to get people to leave the new room, citing everything from loss of tradition to an outbreak of Lyme disease. But the ones who already entered the room and learned from it knew better. Unfortunately, those who didn’t know better sided with tradition, and soon a great conflict split the world down the middle. Great armies clashed, each man wielding a weapon from one of the Rooms, each being more devastating than the last. After a long and bitter struggle, the scholars of the Old Room began to slip, but instead of loose, they unleashed the secret weapon of the Room. As orbital strikes prepared to ignite the planet into hellfire, The One issued an order. This order was spoken from his secure bunker inside the New Room, the bunker contained only the most important creations of humanity: Longevity, Human cloning, communication, and some small things, like some paper, and old Camera that he kept on his desk. The order issued was one that scared the receiving General, because he knew what would happen if he issued it. Knowing it was for the greater good, he activated The One’s orbital strikes as well. Just like everything else from the New Room, it had been improved on from the original and when the strikes hit, just for a second, everything was peaceful, as each side realizes what the other had done. Then the planet stopped living. Everything was destroyed in the same instant. The earth was lifeless, even the Rooms themselves were wiped out. The only thing left standing was the bunker where The One had been. As he looked at video feeds across the lifeless wastes, he smiled. This smile that he would have recognized had there been a mirror nearby, but why would a King care about his appearance when all his subjects were ash. He began working on a way to clone humans and let them again populate the planet. After years of working, simple life returned to the planet and he decided it was time to releases his humans upon it. After they went off to re-populate the earth, he finally got the punch line of a joke he had told himself once.

I walk farther into the woods, seeking seclusion and safety. I can feel the wind on my bare back, and the soft moss beneath my feet. Pausing on a hill, I curl my toes into the soft earth and look out at the sunset. For anyone else, it would be a beautiful sight. For me, it is terrifying. I have maybe two minutes left as I scramble quickly down the hillside. I reach a small clearing and begin making my markings. A circle in the dirt, and X on each tree, and taking the brush out of my pack, I mark the center of the circle with an X of my blood. As I head to my pack for my clothes, I run out of time. I hasten back to the center of the circle as the sun goes down. The moonlight filters through the trees, and my terrible night has begun. *Running, wind whipping back the fur. There’s no one in sight, no one! Wait! There! There is a fire. There are people. Charging, leaping, biting, tearing. Screams, blood, scattered ashes of the fire. Roaring, scaring. Feasting.* I wake up on the forest floor, in the center of the circle. I’m shivering, and I quickly go to my pack and get my clothes. Hearing a crack, I turn quickly, dropping my pants and falling into a low crouch. There is a man standing behind a tree with a camera phone. In the early stages after the metamorphosis, I still retain some of my speed and strength. I charge forth and before the man has time to react I am in front of him, lifting him into the air by his throat. I pitch my voice low and intimidating and I growl, “What are you doing?” The man confuses me then. Rather than being afraid as I hold him inches off the ground by his throat, he spits in my face and say. “You killed my friend,” he says, “But now I know who you are, and I've sent your picture to some very powerful people.” I drop the man and back up. No, it wasn't possible! I had searched the forest, made sure there was no one around! I sit down on a tree stump and bury my face in my hands. “No,” I groan. “No! I came out here to make sure there was no one. No one for me to hurt.” But when I look up, the man is gone. He has fled from the monster. After gathering my pack and brush, I follow my own tracks from last night. It isn't hard. I left a path of destruction through the forest. Although my trail is easy to follow, it is long. I had woken around nine in the morning, and it is now nearing noon. Finally, I arrive at the campsite. There are still tents, and ashes and logs from a long-dead fire are scattered across the area. But the sight in the center of the camp makes me sick, and I turn aside and vomit into the shrubbery. I apparently had not finished my meal last night. Lying in the center of the camp, in a shiny pool of sticky crimson, is a human arm. I had come out to this forest so I wouldn't hurt anyone. Now I am a murderer. I stagger sickly back the way I had come, to the circle and markings I had made. I don’t understand why it works, but every time I start in an area that I marked that way, I return to that spot after the transformation. I don't know how I know that, nor do I care enough to find out. That it works is good enough for me. I reflect on my life so far as I walk. I've been living like this for three years now. Thirty six times I have transformed, despite my continued attempts (short of suicide) to stop it. I never remember what happens, but from news reports I know that I have killed twelve people, and last night made thirteen. An unlucky number. I return to my circle in the dirt and the markings I had made to attract the Wolf. I've always preferred to treat that part of me as a different person altogether. In a way, it is. The Wolf does things I would never consider doing, and it is different from me in every possible way. It has no intelligent thoughts, no higher conscience. It hunts. That is all it does. It hunts humans and its sole purpose it to hunt. Luckily, I can never remember what the Wolf does. I am glad of this. I believe that if I knew what the Wolf did…what I did…I would kill myself. Suddenly, I want to leave. I do not wish to remain here any longer. So, taking my pack, I head home. It is a long walk home, and I haven’t a driver’s licence. I used to have one. I had a really nice car, too. It was a Mustang GT convertible. It came time to renew my license two years ago, but given recent events, it did not rank high on my priorities. What did rank high was finding a job that would allow me to take at least three days a month for vacation time. I didn't want to transform anywhere near my small home town in the suburbs of Austin. I found a job as an author. As it turns out, having undergone the transformation several times myself, I was able to write a rather good werewolf fantasy novel that sold decently. It was perfect for me. Successful enough that I could make a living off it, but not so successful as to make me a celebrity and attract attention. A few people recognize me now and then, but not a lot. I come out of the woods, walking across the open grass lands and heading towards the city I vacationed in. The walk has taken me about six hours, and it is now nearing 6:30. I’m quite hungry at this point, and so when I reach the city around 7:00 I head for a fast food place rather than home. The kid behind the counter recognizes me and keeps me at the counter for about ten minutes while he babbles about my book. Finally, I take my food and sit down to eat around 7:30. *Great fast food,* I think, *Took me twenty minutes for me to get it.* Finally I sit down to eat. As I chew, I feel something in my mouth besides hamburger meat. Reaching in with my fingers, I pull it out from under my tongue. My teeth are still sharp, as they will be for a few days after the transformation, and I cut my finger on one. I look down and see what was in my mouth. It is a fingernail. A human fingernail. I grimace and look at my burger, although I know the fingernail didn't come from the burger. I have taken two bites. I throw it away and head home. I’m not hungry now anyway. I open the door to my apartment and start to turn on the lights when something stops me. It’s what I've come to call my Wolf Sense, another lingering effect after the transformation. For about two weeks afterwards I have heightened senses and an animal-like instinct for danger. I scan the dark room, able to see better than most as a result of my Wolf Sense. I see signs of someone being in the house. A corner of the rug is turned over, and a couch cushion is on the floor. I see him then, or at least his fingers poking out from under the couch. It’s a usual, unimaginative hiding place. After each person I've killed, someone has seen it. Most of the time they do not know who I am, but six times I've been discovered. Six times I've had to fight for my life and kill as a human. After the third time, I enrolled in martial arts classes. For the fourth time now, I bless the day I made that decision. I decide not to arouse suspicion until I am in a good position, and then let him make the first move. Flicking on the lights, I head into the living room and stand in front of the TV, directly in front of the couch, but I do not turn the TV on. Instead, I watch the reflection in the TV screen, pretending to be texting someone on my phone, as the man rises up from behind the couch. He is wielding a knife. As he creeps closer, I tense my body in anticipation for action. Finally, he gets close enough for me to act. I drop down and roll behind me, taking his legs out from under him. As he falls, I catch his knife arm and wrench it behind his back in a hammerlock. I kneel on top of him and take the knife, preparing to drive it into the back of his neck. Suddenly, I hear a gunshot. I look up and see a man in a suit standing in the open doorway. He is holding a gun. Looking down at the man beneath me, I see a drop of blood fall on his neck. I realize this is the man from the forest earlier today. I look down at my white shirt and see a crimson circle spreading slowly from my heart. My fingertips grow cold and numb, and the knife clatters to the ground. “Detective Bradford,” says the man with the gun, introducing himself, “And you killed my partner last night, you goddamned animal.” The coldness has now spread to my arms and my legs, and I topple sideways off the man from the forest. He gets up and spits on my face. “But you missed one, eh? You missed his brother, huh?” He taunts with a thick Cockney accent. “Stupid blighter.” “Come on,” says Bradford, “Someone will have heard that.” As they exit, the cold has spread to everywhere except my chest, and I am slowly losing my vision. I wonder if the bullet in my heart is silver. It doesn't need to be when I am in human form, but these men wouldn't know that. I can be killed by anything, it’s the Wolf who is invincible. It’s the Wolf who killed Bradford’s partner. I open my mouth to speak to these two men as they leave, but I cannot move, and I cannot feel my tongue in my mouth. But I want to say something. I so desperately want to speak to these men. These men who killed me, assuming that I was a monster like the Wolf. These men who assume that it is fine to kill me because, in their eyes, I am not human. To them, I am an animal, a dumb beast. I want so badly to talk to these self-righteous men who see fit to kill me without understanding who or what I am. Without knowing the whole story. But I don’t. I die. I die before I can say what I so desperately wanted to say to these two men. I die before I can say… Thank you.

Jack was a happy man. He had a good wife, a good son who took care of him, a good job, and a good house. Jack was a happy man. He wore sharp suits, gold watches, silk ties. Jack was a happy man. He hosted parties and everyone came. He never forgot anyone’s name. He had six Mustangs in his garage that he never drove, and two that he did. Jack was a happy man. He got along with his in-laws, his parents visited him often. Jack was a happy man. One day Jack went to a train station. He didn’t have a ticket, but he wanted to go to the train station. He walked to the train station and saw many people he knew on the way to the train station. The people smiled and waved at Jack, and Jack smiled and waved at them. Jack was a happy man. When Jack got to the train station, he had to wait for a little bit, because someone he knew was waiting for a train. Jack knew most people. Jack was a happy man. Jack and his friend talked for a long while about sports, the weather, and politics. Jack’s friend told Jack he should run for mayor, because he was smarter than the current mayor. Jack said he’d consider it. Jack was a happy man. Jack’s friend boarded the train that pulled in at the station. Jack’s friend waved good bye. Jack waved good bye. Jack knew the conductor, and they waved to each other. The train left the station. Jack was a happy man. Jack took off his hat and coat. He looked around and saw a homeless man. Jack gave the homeless man his hat and coat, and, as an afterthought, his wallet as well. There were four hundred dollar bills and three fifty dollar bills in that wallet. Jack was a happy man. Jack looked down the tunnel, and he saw his train approaching. Jack was a happy man. The train was almost to the station when Jack stepped directly in front of it. At his funeral, Jack’s family was confused. Jack had never had a problem in his life, everything was easy for Jack. They all said “but Jack was a happy man.

I wrote this in high school, was thinking about trying to get it published, any thoughts or critiques would be great Once there was a pickle named Girth. Girth was a very happy pickle, a little green for his age, but he got along well with all the other pickles in his town. When his parents told him his family had to move to a new town, Girth was very upset. This meant he would have to leave his family and friends, including the town he grew up in. No more strolls down Strubb Meadows, Girth thought, or family dinners at the People Barrel. Although Girth was devastated about having to leave his beloved town, he was also excited about the idea of moving somewhere new. When all of his possessions were packed up, and the car ready to go, Girth and his family set off for their new town. When they arrived, Girth noticed that this new town was very similar to his old town, with one major difference. Instead of everyone being dark green and bumpy, like they were in his old town, everyone here was smooth, and a lighter shade of green. “How very odd” Girth thought to himself. When he asked his parents about it, they told him that everyone in this town was a ‘cu-cumber’. “What’s a cu-cum-ber?” Girth asked, curious to know about them. “Well” replied his mother, “They’re just like Pickles, just a little smoother”. “Oh boy!” Girth responded gleefully “Cucumbers! I can’t wait to meet one!” When Girth got home, he eagerly packed his school bag, excited for his first day at school. The night flew by and the next thing Girth knew, it was time for school. When his Mom dropped him off, she gave him a big kiss, and drove away. Girth walked in to his new school, excited for his first day at Cucumber Collegiate. As he walked to his first class, Girth noticed that many of the other kids were staring at him, whispering things to each other and laughing. Girth assumed they did this to all new students, and continued walking to his class. The day went on and it seemed that everywhere he went, people were staring and whispering. Girth was beginning to feel very uncomfortable, and started wishing that he had never moved to this strange new town. Every time he tried to talk to some of the other children, they would call him a word he didn’t understand, and run away. At the end of the day, Girth was closing his locker and getting ready to walk home when a big scary looking Cucumber approached him and knocked the books out of his hands. “Ouch!” cried Girth. “What was that for?” wondering if the Cucumber had knocked him by accident. “Look Bump face” said the cucumber in a booming voice “You don’t belong here, so I suggest you leave”. “And take your bumpy face with you!” yelled someone from the group that had begun to form around Girth. Girth’s cheeks turned a bright green, boiling hot from embarrassment. He grabbed his books off the ground and ran home as fast as (his legs would take him) he could, hearing someone call out “Relish Breath!” as he ran away. When Girth got home, he ran straight for his room and started to cry in his pillow. Days passed and every day seemed to get worse for Girth as he was teased and bullied by all the Cucumbers at school. Girth couldn’t understand why he was being teased until one fateful morning his father finally explained it to him. He told Girth about the feud between Pickles and Cucumbers, and how Cucumbers had enslaved Pickles until not so long ago. Girth couldn’t understand why all the Cucumbers teased him because he was a pickle, but continued going through school miserably. One day, on a particularly miserable afternoon, Girth ran into a mysterious old cucumber on his way home from school. “What’s wrong child?” the old Cucumber asked. “Nothing you could possibly understand” Girth replied and continued walking. “Nothing indeed...” the old cucumber muttered to himself, sneering as he disappeared into the shadows. The next day, Girth was walking home from school again when the mysterious old cucumber approached him again, this time carrying something under his robe. “Here child, drink this potion and you will find the happiness you seek.” Girth was very scared to drink the bubbling potion, but figured that desperate times called for desperate measures. Girth stared at the potion, watching it froth and bubble in his hand. “But what will the…” Girth turned around and realized he was talking to nobody, as the old cucumber was gone. While he remembered his parents saying something about taking candy from strangers, Girth didn’t particularly remember them saying anything about potions. At that, Girth shrugged, and drank the potion. Like magic, his body began to transform, his skin stretching out and his colour changing to that of a Cucumber. When Girth ran home to show his family this amazing change, they did not recognize him. “But Mom! Dad! It’s me!” he cried. “Get off our property you crazy cucumber! Haven’t you people tormented us enough!” they yelled as they slammed the door in Girth’s face. Although Girth was terribly sad about his family kicking him out, he was now fitting in very well at school, as everyone was being very nice to him. When he passed pickles in the hall, he would sneer at them and call them names as the cucumbers had called him when he was a pickle. After school Girth would go hang out with his new friends, causing mischief by teasing pickles, or vandalizing their houses. One day, when Girth and his cucumber friends were out causing mischief, he realized that the house they were about to vandalize was the house he had used to live in. A cucumber beside him threw a rock through the front window of the house, causing Girth’s parents to run outside. “Go back to where you came from you pickle scum!” one of Girth’s friends yelled out. Girth saw his mother run back inside crying, his dad slammed the door and ran back inside to comfort her. Girth continued life like this, going through school, causing mischief with his friends, and everything he had dreamt of before the transformation. Although Girth was doing all the things he thought would make him happy, he realized that he was in fact, not very happy, and hadn’t been happy in weeks. Girth decided to look for the old cucumber that gave him the potion so he could turn himself back into a pickle and be with his family. When he found him, he asked him to transform him back. “Looks like you got yourself in a dilly of a pickle.” The old cucumber chuckled to himself. “Sadly, I cannot transform you back, only you can”. “You worthless old cucumber!” Girth cried. “Look what you’ve done to me!” As he ran away, he started to cry and his tears burned hot against his skin. As his salty tears fell, his skin began to darken, and bumps began to form. When Girth looked at himself, he realized he had transformed back into a pickle. Now looking like himself, Girth went back to his family, his parents delighted to see him again. Although he was still teased by the cucumbers, he just smiled it off and continued doing whatever he was doing. For the first time in a long time, Girth was finally happy, and continued being happy until the end of his days.

It’s like your head is a conference room where all the decisions about your life are made. At the front, there’s this guy in a business suit. He has graphs and charts and PowerPoint presentations, and he’s droning on to a group of Japanese businessmen. But they aren’t actually businessmen, and they only resemble the Japanese in that they don’t speak his language. They’re more like destructive monkeys, and they aren’t listening to the business suit. They’re running around and wreaking havoc. They destroy everything. They pull the blinds open and shut. They pull strings. And suddenly, you’re doing what the monkeys say. The man in the suit is giving a presentation and presenting evidence proving that you shouldn’t do it, that you should just leave it, that what you’re about to do is a bad idea and just leaving it would be good. But the monkeys are in control, and he watches from your pupils with overworked eyes, knowing the grave consequences of your actions. Then you’re at the low and you already ignored the suit man once. When you hear a voice that sounds less like screeching, you listen. This voice tells you just one flick of silver, just bleed a little. You deserve this, remember? You messed up and now you should be punished. He sounds so reasonable, even though it’s suspicious. Your suit man would never tell you this. But you like the way this voice thinks so you listen harder. You stupid bitch, you stupid bitch. The suit man swoops in to stop you with the blade frozen on your skin and you go to bed, tears in your eyes. The man in the suit watches sadly. He can’t do much to help you. He knows you’re slipping away. The monkeys are still running wild and his dark doppelganger still urges you towards blades and pills. He looks so weak and tired, so do you. And you’re so very sad, when the doppelganger suggests suicide, you can’t help but wonder. The man in the suit springs to action at the front of the room, with a presentation of the joy in your mechanized dreams, the future and possibilities. The doppelganger just whispers, “You won’t be sad anymore. Not sad, not sad, not sad,” and he’s so compelling. You listen and the suit man keeps talking but he won’t raise his voice. He does still have a little strength, and he cries weakly for help without actually asking. He wants to be saved so you do too. In the car you get the call, and you know exactly who it is before he tells you. You know what your mom’s silence means. She’s upset and you don’t want to worry her, but you don’t want to talk. Your brother stays quiet then gets mean, but you don’t want to talk to him, so you shut him up. Your mom wants to take your car but you won’t let her. If you can’t drive your car, you’re really screwed up. You need to be normal to be ok. You’ve thought you were ok a thousand times, but you never are. You don’t know if you ever can be. You’re not even sure if you want to be anymore. Ok seems like some far away dream. You don’t remember it and you don’t know what it looks like. So you wait and see, and maybe someday you’ll understand it again.

no name for the story, and i did submit it to /r/literature but i don't think ANYONE read it at all. feedback, por favor? a young man walks into a bedroom. it's dark, and there isn't much light in the room save a lone bulb, dangling from an old ceiling fan that probably should have been put out of use years ago. it's the kind of room with its own stairs, the kind that, if you got it, all your siblings are jealous for the entirety of your growing up together. it's a rectangular room, with a window at each short end. the ceilings are slanted in to follow the sharp angles of the roof directly overhead, and the wall paper is a smoke stained white from years of his great grandmother sitting up there reading her old shitty romance novels and chain smoking. he flicks the power switch of an old tube amp, just as stained as the walls. with a snap the tubes begin to warm, and he starts to tune his favorite guitar. after about a minute or two, with the G string still a little flat, he begins to play. he plays a few songs he knows, not in their entirety of course, just fragmented parts to a greater whole. a greater whole he feels he can never accomplish. as he plays what comes from the guitar starts to lose all clarity, all sense as he begins to think about her. deep in thought, he forgot what he was playing. his mother shouts up his stairs for dinner time, and it takes him a few moments to realize what's going on. he turns off his amp and joins his family for a quiet dinner. the next morning comes and goes as nothing but sleep dictates his schedule, besides his court ordered alcohol classes and the bi-weekly therapy sessions his mother put him in. he decided not to go to college, having just graduated high school, abandoning all hope after botching the placement exams, though his family doesn't know this. they simply think he's disgruntled, and will come around eventually, but he has kept private, his reasons. he wakes around one forty five in the afternoon, to a grumbling stomach, he ignores it. since he can't drive anymore he is void of any plans or anything to do, so he decides to walk to their spot about two miles from his house. their spot is the creek where as children he fell in love with her, the place they spent all their time together. they met at a young age no one can recall, and before the age of ten their parents were were putting on bets they'd get married. he missed talking to her. now 18 and alone, sitting in the woods, face blank overlooking the creek. glaring at the water that's shit brown from all the mud and pollutants, he looks around his spot. there are large rocks scattered about, all covered in moss. most are half submerged in the wide but shallow creek, but a select few are in what he considers awful places to put such a large rock. the trees are tall and thick, hundreds of years old. they're the only ones around save the few trees in people's yards, since the construction companies came in to build his development. but that was a long time ago. sitting in his old woods, he begins to think about her again. his eyes start to get that rubbery feeling, and his vision blurs. he sits in silence as tears roll down his face. an hour passes, or longer, he doesn't care or know how long he's been there. he raises himself up and carries himself home. when he gets to his house, he rushes straight up his stairs avoiding his siblings and father, ignoring his mother's question as to where he had been. it's four in the morning, and he's sweating. he decides to take a walk, and finds himself on his way to the only place he seems to go anymore besides his own house. his spot at the creek is down a small road that would probably be considered a country road if it were not for the multitude of single family homes jam packed down the street. he passes the sign for the state park, which some kids had spray painted a large cartoon penis onto. he kind of chuckles to himself, but as he reaches the turn his face sinks into a deep grimace. he hated how much time he spent at his spot, but he felt so guilty if he weren't there. when he reaches his spot, he begins to climb the tree he had when he were younger. the tree he always climbed with her. the tree that served at the catalyst for the breaking of his arm when he was eleven when she laughed until she saw the thin piece of bone sticking out of his arm with the stream of crimson dripping heavily from it. he sat in his tree and thought. thought about everything. thought about his family, thought about his few friends he didn't talk to anymore, thought about how much he missed her and how sorry he was for what he did. as he always did at his special place in the woods, whether it be on the banks of the creek or up in their tree, he cried. he asked himself why he thought he'd be alright that night. why he let himself do what he did. out of his backpack he took out a rope. it was a course rope one might think was made of sandpaper, but was really a thick twine for cattle or other. just a moment later, he was dangling by his neck from the thickest branch on the left bow of the tree. he couldn't help but stare at the spot she had died. he always found it ironic, the place they fell in love was the same place he had killed her. vehicular manslaughter the police report called it, along with DUI and reckless driving. maybe if she were wearing her seat belt he wouldn't have had to go through the agony of watching his only love get ejected through the windshield of his father's impala. when he climbed out of the car he ran to her. he ran to her like he had one thousand and one times before to the same spot they had played at as children. he found her laying face down on the shore. half of her was in the shallow water, with one leg bent up backwards past her head. the top of her skull was almost flattened, like a military man's flat top, only pushed down to where it wouldn't look humanly possible. to where it wouldn't be humanly possible save some sort of skull crushing event. he held her and cried for an hour. she was gone before he even got to her. she was probably gone after the fender of the impala was crushed from the impact of the moss covered rock jutting out next to the road. with only a moment left of consciousness before his vision, then subsequently his life, faded to black, he realized he was making a mistake. he thought about his family again, only this time he wasn't so critical of his parents' scoldings or his siblings' arguments. he thought about the friends he wished he talked to more. and lastly, he thought about her. he wished he could have done better by her, but knew it was too little, too late. he wished he could have said goodbye, maybe get a little closure, but if that happened he wouldn't be where he is now. realizing he was a fuck up, he also realized it's not too late to change. only, with your neck in a noose and you're feet dangling 8 feet above the ground, change is difficult. groping for the rope to try to relieve his weight, he wasted more of his precious oxygen. as he became heavier and heavier, and as the rope cut more and more into his thin neck, he began to cry one last tear.

Scratches She closed the book, and placed it on her kitchen table. Even with the heavy reading she struggled in order to keep her mind off them, the scratches continued to cut into her door, slowly whipping the soft flesh of the old wooden door. With each scratch the hair on the girls arm stiffened, leaving her frozen solid, without a waft of breath to leave her mouth. They were long, heavy scratches. Their owner must have been tall enough to reach the top of the door, where the scrapes sluggishly traveled down the outside of her door to the floor, where they finally stopped, only to resume a few seconds later. No other sounds could be heard on the other side of the door: no snarling; no hissing; no whimper. They were intensely simple, each gash ripping out sections of the membrane that kept the girls worst fears at bay. As she reached the window, she carefully opened up the blinds, as if they might turn to dust with too sudden a movement. Leaning to the window, she got a good look at the dark world she was trapped in. The stars were dimmer than usual tonight, making them a haunting background to the sinister gloom of the trees surrounding her house. Each one was taller than the girl could see, with dagger-like roots that stabbed the ground, only to reveal themselves a few inches later. They were like tendrils, slowly wrapping around the mind of the small girl, trapping her like a rat in a hole. The moon, with it’s deep pale glow, was like an eye, watching the girl convulse at the loud scratches at her door. The eye illuminated the smallest detail of the damp ground outside but with the new, somber grin of the world outside her window, the girl longed for the moon to return to it’s horizon. Stepping away from the window, the girl finally decided to open the door, and release the beast which hid behind it. As she got closer to the door, the scratches became louder, louder, louder. She gripped the doorknob, her hands dripping with frightened perspiration. They clawed at the deepest depths of her ears, pounding like the drums of war. Slowly turning the knob, she hesitated, afraid to follow through. As one scratch began, she swung open the door, and there was no more sound. There was no more scratching. The cold breeze of night caressed her arms, cradling her and keeping her safe. The scratches still echoed in her skull but she was pleased that they had finally stopped. Where had they come from? Why did they have such an effect on her door? Questions tunneled through her mind, and she had no answers. Standing in her doorway, her heart started to beat quickly again. There was no scratches on her door, but she knew something was wrong. Perhaps it was the cold wind which left her, or the moon that almost seemed to turn from a glossy white to an infected tinge of yellow. Her legs started to shake, and a feeling of dreadful sickness fell over her, like the curtain at the end of a magnificent play. She felt delirious, as if she hadn’t eaten for days, and started to frantically run her hands around her waist as if to make sure she hadn’t disappeared like a flicker of candlelight. She felt her hips, and moved her hands around her thighs, and then up to her stomach, where she felt something odd. Was she turning to liquid? There was a thick trail of fluid running down her stomach, like a deep river, and it was coming from her. She then lifted her shirt, and saw hundreds of scratches marked on her stomach and chest. They were deep, stained red with the broken soul of the girl. She collapsed in the doorway.

Richard was pulled from a strange dream (he was a used car salesman in Wisconsin) by a wet nose rubbing against his hand. He half opened his eyes, catching a wall of golden fur and a long snout before shutting them tight again and smiling to himself. He rolled over to the other side of the bed, and began to fake loud snoring sounds. This always drove Annabelle crazy. His world shook as she lept onto the bed with a playful growl and began furiously licking his face. "I'm up! I'm up, girl! I'm up!" he shrieked with mock terror, trying halfheartedly to push her away. One more lick and she jumped off the bed, sauntering accross the room with a decidedly self-satisfied gait. Another playful growl as she looked back at him just before leaving the room. "I'm up" he yelled again as he sat up and watched her leave. He chuckled softly as he crawled from his bed and made his way to the closet. She would lay outside his bedroom door for a few minutes, he knew, making sure that he stayed awake and was getting ready. If he took too long, there would be consequences. Moments later Richard emerged from the bedroom, wearing blue running shorts and a time-worn Nematodes Are People Too T-shirt. "Alright, Ms. Annabelle, lets do this." he said with enthusiasm, leading the way into the next room. He turned on the music, opened the blinds, and started both the treadmills. "This fast enough for you?" he asked sarcastically, smiling wide as he adjusted the speed to her treadmill. She cocked her head slightly, looked directly at him, and stepped onto the quickly moving belt. "Sorry, sorry, my mistake." He doubled the speed, then hopped onto the other treadmill. He began running at a comfortable pace, playing with the dials and nobs and settings and doing his best to ignore the judging eyes. A loud bark from Annabelle broke his false concentration. "Oh come on..." Another bark. "Fine." He doubled his speed as well, far past what he was comfortable with, instantly feeling the strain in his legs. "Bitch.

Richard was pulled from a strange dream (he was a used car salesman in Wisconsin) by a wet nose rubbing against his hand. He half opened his eyes, catching a wall of golden fur and long snout before shutting them tight again and smiling to himself. He rolled over to the other side of the bed and began to fake loud snoring sounds. This always drove Annabelle crazy. His world shook as she lept onto the bed with a playful growl and began furiously licking his face. "I'm up!" he shrieked with mock terror, "I'm up, girl! I'm up!" He pushed her away halfheartedly. One more lick and she jumped off the bed, sauntering across the room with a decidedly self-satisfied gait. Another playful growl as she looked back at him just before leaving the room. "I'm up," he told her again as he sat up and watched her leave. He chuckled softly, crawling from his bed and making his way to the closet. She would lay just outside his bedroom door, he knew, making sure he stayed awake and was getting ready. If he took too long, there would be consequences. Moments later, Richard emerged from the bedroom wearing blue running shorts and a time-worn Nematodes are People Too T-shirt. "Alright, Ms. Annabelle, lets do this." he said with enthusiasm, leading the way into the next room. He turned on the music, opened the blinds, and turned on both the treadmills that lay in the center of the room. He fiddled with the dials on one, the belt almost coming to a stop. "This fast enough for you?" he asked, smiling widely. She cocked her head slightly, looked directly at him with what could only be described as lost patience, then stepped onto the slowly moving belt. "Sorry, sorry, my mistake." He cranked the speed and incline up, then hopped onto the other other treadmill. He began running at a slow, but comfortable pace, playing with dials, nobs, and settings, and doing his best to ignore the judging glances thrown his way. A loud bark from Annabelle broke his false concentration. "Oh, come on." Another bark. "Fine." He turned the speed on his treadmill to match hers, and instantly began feeling the strain in his legs. "Bitch.

He walked like a man who had conquered every challenge he had ever faced. His large shiny forehead, a bulwark against those foolish enough to oppose him, glistened in the sun. His sat down at the table across from me. This guy certainly didn’t dress like I imagined most men of his trade would dress. His red leather jacket was hardly inconspicuous and his flashy black sunglasses looked expensive. This is a man that is so good at what he does he doesn’t have to blend in. “Hello Mr. Smith. How are you?” I posited. “I don’t have time for that shit.” he puffed back. “I’m sorry I don’t do this kind of a thing very often, you are the first guy we have had to hire” “The target is Martin Pierce Lepnick, is that correct?” “Yes.” I have seen this exact scene play out in movies a million times and in the movies it looks cool, but I can’t help but feel like a complete dipshit. This whole thing is dumb. … Six days ago my boss the fucking president of the United States of America called me into his oval shaped office. He said, “William I need you take have someone taken care of for me”. I tell him “I’m sorry Mr. President I don’t understand. Like you want me to make sure they are taken care of? Do I need to have Sandra check the Lincoln Bedroom’s availability this month because I think you already have it booked till next Spring”. “Fuck Lincoln and his shill of a bedroom! I need someone whacked!” “This sounds like something you might want to talk to Director Schiller about. I can get him on the line…” “Fuck that fat fuck Schiller! I want you to handle this.” “Sir, that’s really not my specialty. I don’t think it’s even appropriate for me to hear about matters of national security” The President gets up from his sofa and walks right up to me. I can smell the whiskey emanating from the large flapping orifice that resides above his presidential chin. “This has nothing to do with national security” He pulls out one of his flasks from his suit pocket and dumps the contents into his mouth. “William do I need to have something happen to you to? That would be a shame.” “Sorry Mr. President” “I’m sure you’d like to bang that blonde girlfriend of yours a few more times, wouldn’t you William? I know I would” “What would you like me to do Mr. President?” “I need you to set up a meeting with my guy. Sean Smith” … Sean let out an annoyed sigh. He repeated “Martin Piece Lepnick?” “I just want to confirm that I am being set up by the president of the United States before I stage my coup and hang our beloved commander and chief in the streets” “Wait WHAT?” “Shut your fucking cock mouth up for a moment and listen” “Lepnick is the guy who books whores for Republican Congressman.” “When a newly elected guy arrives in D.C. they send their finest whore to fuck him. Sure she will pretend to be some unwitting intern or a slutty secretary but they paid to ensure they fuck the new guy” “Then they have blackmail to call in when they need it.” “It’s an effective system to control your lackies and the President has a lot of lackies to control, that’s where Martin comes in” “Mr. Lepnick finds the right girl for each job. He also makes sure to dispose of the girl once they are done to keep things quiet. He is the only other guy that knows about this whole shitshow.” “Well that sounds awful, but I don’t understand. How exactly is he setting you up?” “Because last week they found one of Lepnicks botched disposal jobs floating in the Patomic. They have called him in for questioning and the jig is up. He probably wants to cut a deal.” “That makes a kind of perverted sense though.

So there I was last night, driving on the 101 interstate. Two pints of cheap lager and a shot of whisky in. The cherry on my cigarette glowed as I puffed the last of the tobacco from the stick. I turned my face to the side to spit out my lit cigarette into the wind. I've never looked cooler speeding. My favorite song came on the radio, I blast it on my speakers and proceeded to sing along with the highest pitch my vocal chords allow me. 'Love you like a love song baby... repeat peat peat peat peat' I mumbled the lyrics, I need to learn this song. I'm a sucker for these pop songs, they just feel right. I cautiously yet furiously made my way towards the fast lane only to be stopped by the last thing I wanted to see at such an awesome moment. The fuzz. Blue and red lights filled my rear view, my heart skipped a beat, I put the music down to think for a second. I realized I'm buzzed enough to not give a fuck, I put the music back up and sped up. It's a strategy I heard somewhere, or probably made up on the spot, whatever the case, it felt right at the time. It confuses the police, makes them think I'm a wild man, puts the ball in their court. I make the ballsiest move by picking the spot to pull over, they have to follow with something to intimidate me. I get it, I know, I've been around the block. I didn't slow down this whole time, even when I decided to exit the freeway in downtown. No turning lights, no hand gestures, just balls. I pulled into a dark empty street, killed the engine, lit up another cigarette and waited. Lights surrounded my car, a trembling silhouette approached. 'H-have you been drinking?' The cop's voice cracked as he reached my window. 'Drinking what?' I blew my smoke his way to let him know that respect wasn't there. 'I drink a lot of things. Water, tea...' I teased him, but before my list got any longer he snapped. 'Quit play games!' I took a long drag from my cigarette and looked at him. I could see him shaking. 'Now step out of the vehicle, please..' He continued. He knew I was one of those he had been told not to fuck with. We both knew this could get ugly quick, but I complied for his sake. 'Did you have any alcoholic beverages tonight?' He persuades me. With a firm drunken stare and a loud whisky belch I answered, 'No.' We stood there looking at each other for what could have been twenty minutes. People tend to get lost in my eyes, I waited for him to faze out of the trance. I finally decided it was getting too late for my convenience and asked if we were done. It took him a while to respond but he finally let me get back in the car and escorted me home. At least he tried to, I drove way too fast for his bitch ass. Edit: What really happened. I was speeding home one night and got pulled over. I had a couple of drinks prior to this so I was extremely scared. I'm sure the cop could tell I was trembling and he let me off with a warning and followed me home to make sure I got there safely. When my friends asked me the next day what had happened, I wrote them how I remembered it which is the small narrative above. Just to clear things up, yes it's meant to be unrealistic and douchey.

March 2021- The MC just finished summarizing the operation, calling it "The most successful infantry op of the 21st century" I'm the only man in the ballroom not wearing the Army Service Uniform. It's a small gathering, just a platoon, a small platoon of thrity men or so. The only reason why I was here is because of my job. I'm the MI liason for the CIA, providing key information to SF and Infantry units. I provided the information on this op, and I know now that I'll live to forget it. There was a silence, then a young corporal stood up and spoke. "To Lieutenant Morton! For his leadership got the job done, and kept us alive! To John!" The audience followed suit. "To John!" I raised my glass half-heartedly, knowing that I have ruined that man's life forever. The festivities began, and I stood up. I walked towards the officer's table. He was surrounded by his family, and the family of his late Platoon Sergeant. It's been almost fifteen years since I've seen John. He was my best friend through Junior high and high school years. I haven't spoken with him since we left for college. I got medically declined my third year of ROTC in college. He was commissioned top of his class at West Point, class of 2019. So I got a job at the CIA, serving and working as close to the army as I could, working as a mission spook. In a way, we were doing the same job, except I made two hundred thousand dollars a year versus his fifty-three. I tapped his shoulder. "John? John Morton?" I asked in confirmation of his name. "Yes" He replied. John didn't look like he was in his twenties at all. He had a long, jagged scar across his face, and mutliple pale patches of skin on his right hand, making the skin grafts noticable. His left hand, there was no left hand. A metal plastic prosthetic replaced his missing flesh. "Who are you?" He asked, looking at my face intently, like I looked familiar. "I'm Matthew Magee, the spook." Smiling afterwards. John excused himself from the table and walked with me to an empty table. "Matt! Damn! It's been years since we've talked. What's going on?" The man who had once been my best friend in school at been shot at, blasted at, and gave his right hand for his country, yet he was still lively and friendly as he was in school. My eyes watered as we talked about our lives. The family, the army life, spook life, and eventually the mission that we had just taken part of. There was a brief pause in the conversation. He then spoke. "Thanks for the info you gave us. You got most of us out of there alive--" A tear rolled down my eye. He stopped talking and asked me what was wrong. I pointed to his prosthetic. I blinked back my tears and cleared my throat. "John, the mines...." I paused. "I knew about them. I tried to tell your Platoon Sergeant, but I was cut off by radio security procedures. Then the mines went off." He put his left hand on my shoulder. He and shared tears that only combat veterans can share. Serving the country, the guilt of alternative service.

Something I wrote while trying to sleep. Fuck grammar, syntax, and structure, for now. How does someone wake up everyday wanting to shoot themselves? I wonder this everyday. I wake up. I open my eyes. I wait for reality to seep in, and I cry. I don't know why I do this or if anyone one else does this;but I do. I wait for my nerves to calm down and get ready for the sound of my perpetual fan to fill my ears, and I stop. Sure, I wonder, when is this gonna stop? Is my nose red? Will my family notice how red my eyes are? But, regardless, I wake up; I find my shoes; I put on some pants and walk out. At first I really don't notice anything. I hear the snores of my father, sometimes my mother's. I walk towards the bathroom in the hallway and stare into the mirror. My eyes are red, and my nose is red. I don't really think people notice how red my eyes are anymore. I think they just think it's normal. The majority of people don't say anything and think it's natural. You know, like when someone has a rather large mole underneath their left eye or when someone's nose has clinging mucus. I, and they, don't say anything. I just smile through the bullshit of reality and hope that they don't notice that I've noticed. I've always wanted to meet some lovely girl with a lazy eye, you know, a really, really lazy eye. I mean, she's be absolutely beautiful. Her lips would have they radiating pinkness which would vibrate in the dark. Her hair would be eternally black and wavy, kinda like that fear you feel when you stare into the woods at night. Her body would be sharp, tight, and skinny like a ballerina that moves violently, perfectly on her toes. I would meet her somewhere...like some fucked up bench outside of an abandoned school's playground. She's be smoking a girly cigarette and pretend like I wasn't there when I'd come up to her. I sit next to her, she'd look at me and smile. At first I'd think she's just staring at the ground, modestly smiling at my presence. But I'd soon realize that I'm looking her lazy eye. She really wouldn't say anything, just mumble something like, "I used come here when my parents were beat each other up. They never really noticed I'd leave." I sadly smile and fall in love with her. She's stand up after a while, slowly tip toeing around the room, each second that'd pass her toes would move faster and faster and faster. I'd hear and watch them click across the concrete. Then, out of nowhere, she'd laugh. At first it'd shock me, I'd think, "What a deep laugh for a girl so small." Then she's begin again, moving her body. I'd tear up, a little. Then she'd whisper, I must leave. She'd come up to me, with lazy eye and all, and kiss me, half on the lips, half on the cheek. It wouldn't be sexual. It wouldn't be dull. It'd feel perfect. I'd sit there a while watching the trees sway and imitate her dance in the heavy, high wind. The moon would shine too brightly, but wouldn't be able to overcome the darkness. I wish I'd meet her. So I rub my nose and some watery substance drains out. I look again, some minutes have passed since I started thinking about her, my nose is no longer red. I sit on the toilet with my pants still on and wait for my mood to change. After sometime passes and I realize I need to get to work soon, I shift my thoughts. I focus on my clothing, on brushing my teeth, and taking a piss. After I do all those things I sit again on the toilet. I sigh. I walk out my front door, lock it behind me, and begin walking.

My name is Joshua Callenway, written some time in 2013: Im writing this because I have no idea what else to do. I don't know how long its been since the 21st. Nobody really believed this would happen, I didnt believe. But here I am, walking the same streets I did before. Why Am I still here? Im not the strongest, Im not the smartest, Im not even handy for fuck's sake! Im just an accountant! Yet im here. I haven't seen a living person since the office party. Im so lonley and scared. I need help, from anyone or anything. I see signs on buildings claiming " Survivers Inside!" But nobody is in there; only trash and blood. The rummbling in my stomach is so loud and painful; my once plump stomach has now receeded to expose my entire rib cage. Every time I sleep I only have nightmares, if I even dream at all. If this be Hell, where is Satan? Unless this is Purgatory. Im not a religious man, however I think I might start. I miss everyone I know. To whomever reads this, if anyone ever does, if you find a woman named Caitlin with a birth mark on her left elbow, tell her that Josh loves her and he spent the rest of his life trying to find her. Im in Boston now, but I need to see if my family is ok. Im going to start walking to Spokane Washington. I'll walk the I-90 until i get there or drop dead. Im sorry for the things I've done, but im going to make it up to everyone, somehow, someway, I will make things right...

“Hey Ricky, can I have the last of the Oreos?” “As long as I can have the last Twinkie.” “It’s a deal!” Jon bit down into the last of the delectable little morsels, savoring its sweet and creamy inside. The cookie was sweet and beautiful, a delicious respite from the chaos outside. He knew damn well it was likely to be the last Oreo he would ever taste. Although their sweets were running low, their supply of other foods was another story. Living inside of a Wal-Mart had its benefits. And its own set of problems… The door, a gateway to the outside world and all its disgusting remnants. Ricky was preparing for his morning jog outside of Aisle 12. Regardless of what conditions were like outside, staying in shape was always a good idea. As he stretched, Jon came shuffling over in a lethargic state. Wearing nothing but boxers and a white t-shirt, you could never have guessed he was standing in the middle of a Wal-Mart at the end of days. His common and relaxed demeanor ceded nothing to the knowledge of the apocalypse in which they were now living. The door, hastily welded shut and barricaded with simple grocery carts. Ricky lay silent in his makeshift bed, his mind cramped and hazy. As he stared off into space, he could hear the sounds of trees slapping the sides of the grocery store. The wind was howling, and as the rains buffeted the parking lot outside, a crash of thunder could be heard, somewhere far off in the distance. The rain and the wind created a dull humming, both broad and low. Ricky hadn’t been able to sleep properly in weeks. Jon, on the other hand, seemed calm and stable. He fell asleep just moments after his head smashed into his pillow. Ricky lay there awake, thinking about life. About survival. About the door. The door, the breaking point of their defenses against the world outside. “30….31…..32….33 boxes of cereal ” “Got it.” “1…..2……3….4….5…6….7….8….9…10….11 boxes of nutra-grain bars.” “Kay……got it.” “1……2…..3…..” The door, thin panes of glass across its surface. Jon was refilling the gas in the generator when he heard it. The sound of breaking glass followed by a guttural moaning. They had come. The door, the breaking point of their spirits. The apocalypse had come to greet them. Death awaited with open arms. The door.

Checking out at the store, the young cashier suggested to the older woman, that she should bring her own grocery bags because plastic bags weren't good for the environment. The woman apologized and explained, "We didn't have this green thing back in my earlier days." The young clerk responded, "That's our problem today. Your generation did not care enough to save our environment f or future generations." She was right -- our generation didn't have the green thing in its day. Back then, we returned milk bottles, soda bottles and beer bottles to the store. The store sent them back to the plant to be washed and sterilized and refilled, so it could use the same bottles over and over. So they really were truely recycled. But we didn't have the green thing back in our day. Grocery stores bagged our groceries in brown paper bags, that we reused for numerous things, most memorable besides household garbage bags, was the use of brown paper bags as book covers for our schoolbooks. This was to ensure that public property, (the books provided for our use by the school) was not defaced by our scribblings. Then we were able to personalize our books on the brown paper bags. But too bad we didn't do the green thing back then. We walked up stairs, because we didn't have an escalator in every store and office building. We walked to the grocery store and didn't climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time we had to go two blocks. But she was right. We didn't have the green thing in our day. Back then, we washed the baby's diapers because we didn't have the throwaway kind. We dried clothes on a line, not in an energy-gobbling machine burning up 220 volts -- wind and solar power really did dry our clothes back in our early days. Kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing. But that young lady is right; we didn't have the green thing back in our day. Back then, we had one TV, or radio, in the house -- not a TV in every room. And the TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchief (remember them?), not a screen the size of the state of Montana. In the kitchen, we blended and stirred by hand because we didn't have electric machines to do everything for us. When we packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, we used wadded up old newspapers to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap. Back then, we didn't fire up an engine and burn gasoline just to cut the lawn. We used a push mower that ran on human power. We exercised by working so we didn't need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity. But she's right; we didn't have the green thing back then. We drank from a fountain when we were thirsty instead of using a cup or a plastic bottle every time we had a drink of water. We refilled writing pens with ink instead of buying a new pen, and we replaced the razor blades in a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got dull. But we didn't have the green thing back then. Back then, people took the streetcar or a bus and kids rode their bikes to school or walked instead of turning their moms into a 24-hour taxi service. We had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances. And we didn't need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 23,000 miles out in space in order to find the nearest burger joint. But isn't it sad the current generation laments how wasteful we old folks were just because we didn't have the green thing back then? *I didn't write this story, and I don't know who did. I like it and want to share.

The date is 24/3/52. It’s 8 o’ clock, and the morning commuters are exiting their homes to head to work, myself included. No one questions this act; it is performed without command. I step into my vehicle, close the door, and begin to drive. As I make my way down the light gray side street lined with colonial housing, I look around to see my fellow men. My rear-view mirror shows a Caucasian man of indiscernible age. I have never seen this man before. I may never see him again. I am surrounded by hundreds of thousands, and yet I am alone. I reach the end of my street and turn right onto a four-lane avenue, headed toward The City’s commercial sector. A perfectly arranged row of trees is to my left as I continued to drive east into the inner part of The City. Cars line the avenue, chunks of them disappearing on occasion. No one seems to notice this. I can only hope that such a thing never happens to me. I suddenly become aware of the haunting quietness. I turn on the radio. The Morning Announcements are playing, a female reporter speaking. “Mayor De Facto’s approval rating is up to twelve out of twelve. City citizens are calm and content. City population is now-” I quickly switch off the radio, preferring the silence to the endless stream of statistics that is the Morning Announcements. I’m not entirely sure why they’re referred to as such, as the Morning Announcements abruptly become the Afternoon Announcements at noon and the Evening Announcements at five. All three are exactly the same. I eventually reach the end of the Residential District and enter The City’s Commercial Sector. I make a few more turns and arrive at my place of work, Chalmers Co, at precisely 9 o’ clock. I am one of 75 workers. Each day I perform my duties as employee from nine in the morning until five at night. I do not know what I do at the company, only that everyone else seems to be doing it as well. I look around, surrounded by a mass of cubicles. With walls of drab gray and carpeted floors of ambiguous color, Chalmers Co. is the pinnacle of modern business. I find my cubicle and sit down, booting up my computer as I do every morning. “Hey there!” says an excited voice. I turn, looking upon a chubby face. I’ve seen this face and heard this voice every morning for the last eighteen years. “Good morning,” I respond quietly. “Did you hear?” the man asks. I give a confused look. “The Mayor has zoned for expansion of the Commercial Sector,” he explains. “Westward.” “Westward?” I question. He nods. “By the end of the week, The City will have the largest commercial sector of anywhere in the Nation!” he exclaims. I think for a moment. “Westward… wouldn’t that spill over into the Residential District?” The man nods once again. “Where will the people go?” The man’s facial expression twists into one of utter confusion. I am looked at like a foreign object. He walks away. I turn back to my computer, which has successfully turned on. I access the internet, entering the search query, “Map of Nation”. My result is brought to me instantly. “No search results found. Did you mean *Mayor De Facto*?” I sit back in my chair, staring at the screen. A burning desire to break out of this mind-numbing routine begins to build up inside of me as it has several times before, and I fear I can’t go another day without acting upon it. I take a deep breath, and set to work. My vision darkens. With a sudden jolt, I come to. I check the time; it is 5 o’ clock. The work day is complete, and my co-workers are packing their things in preparation for the evening commute. Briefly, I fear that I have fallen asleep on the job, but I inspect my monitor to find a full day’s worth of typing. “See you tomorrow!” says the plump man as he passes my cubicle without waiting for a response. I gather my belongings and head for the door. I step out into the parking lot, which is already nearly empty. The workers are all headed home or out into to the Shops. I have a different plan in mind. I enter my vehicle and pull out of the parking lot. Rather than turning right, to head westward towards my home, I turn left. The needle of my speedometer is stable at fifty as I cruise, at all times staying five feet in front of the car behind me and five feet behind the car in front. The City is quiet as always. As the clock hits six, traffic begins to disperse. I can tell I am nearing the edge of the Commercial Sector, as the buildings start to diminish in size. I pass several diners, car dealerships, and small shops. I realize I have never been in this part of The City. I eventually reach the end of the Commercial Sector, which transitions into a Residential District, but a Residential District very different from the one I know. The houses here are small, many are run down or abandoned, and a thin layer of smog fills the air. The avenue on which I was travelling condenses into a two-lane road. People watch as I drive past, staring. The smog thickens as I drive and I come to the understanding that I am approaching the Industrial Zone. I have never been near the Industrial Zone; it is kept away from the other parts of The City, and is rarely mentioned other than for reports of productivity. I can see why, as even with my windows rolled up, my eyes begin to water. I keep driving. I infer that the low-density housing here is home to the workers of the factories that make up the Industrial Zone. I suddenly feel thankful for my monotonous occupation at Chalmers Co. This part of The City seems to give off an aura of sadness. I continue to drive, eventually crossing over into the Industrial Zone itself. I am now completely alone, not another vehicle is in sight. It is 7 o’ clock, and the sun is setting. The City’s street lights have not yet been activated, but the lack of traffic makes for a simple enough time driving. Factories line the street. I am surrounded by dirty, filthy industry. I see a particularly large building that seems to be emitting a sizable portion of the smog, all from six large pipes located on the center of the roof. Long, thick wires are attached to it. I have no idea what it is for, but I can only guess that it is vital to The City’s prosperity, or else such a pollutant would surely not be tolerated. I continue to drive, and the sun continues to set. Just as I begin to feel that Industrial Zone may never end, the structures stop abruptly. I lay off the gas pedal and roll to a stop. I am surrounded by endless grass on three sides and The City on the other. The smog, which had completely smothered me just moments ago, has now completely vanished. I attempt to open my car door to step out, but the door is jammed. I climb to the passenger side, only to discover that this door ceases to open as well. I start to panic, and an eerie sensation that I am being watched falls over me. I fight the sudden urge to return to my home, where life’s daily routine is not only safe, but seems curiously satisfying now. I refuse to give in, however, and climb back into the driver’s seat. I slam on the gas pedal. I watch the needle on my speedometer, as it approaches seventy, then eighty, then ninety. I eventually reach over one hundred miles per hour. I need to get away. I glance in my rearview mirror as The City grows smaller in the distance. As my distance from The City grows, as does the fear inside me. I have never been so afraid, and perhaps the worst part is not knowing why. It is 8 o’ clock now. My instincts tell me to continue driving, but I feel an outside force compelling me to go back. But I can’t… I can’t go back. I feel like I am thinking clearly for the first time in decades, yet I am more confused than ever. The emotions within me seem to be at war with one another, and I cannot tell which side I am on. The City in the background is now about the same size as the full moon in the sky. I push forward. It is 9 o’ clock. I can see nothing past what my headlights show me. I am terrified. The City is now a speck in the distance, so small that one may not notice it had he not known it was there. And as The City disappears entirely, I break free. The fear, the longing for home, and the confusion are gone. With a swift realization, I discover that I hate The City. I hate The City, and I hate the Mayor. I hate the Residential District and the Commercial Sector and the Industrial Zone and the Morning Announcements and the Afternoon and Evening Announcements and everything else in The City and I always have. I try saying it aloud. It feels even better to say than to think. I laugh out of the sheer pleasure of defiance. I look down at the speedometer, which has fallen to eighty. I pump the brakes and begin to drive more slowly. I close my eyes, only to reopen them a few moments later. The headlights of my vehicle light up nothing past twenty feet, then fifteen, then ten. With a horrible realization, I slam the breaks and screech to a halt. I open my car door and step out. I look down into the darkness. The road ends abruptly, as does the ground. Looking at the location of my vehicle, I realize that I came within three feet of falling for eternity. The world simply ends. I turn around, and I see the vague outline of a structure approximately thirty feet away. Curious, I step into my car and turn it around to cast light on the edifice. It reveals itself to be not a building, but a sign. It reads: “Welcome to SimCity.

He wondered aimlessly. He didn’t think. Thinking took too much effort and the thoughts it created were not worth venturing down quite yet. He just walked because that was all he could do. His phone was in his pocket and he endured the cold while he waited for it to ring. The breeze ran down the street and bit and tore until it bit into his skin. He was not walking to anywhere in particular or for any other reason than to stall. The streets were deserted and the park by the lake contained nothing but the geese lagging behind on their journey south. His mind trailed off. Where could she be? What could she be doing? When was the last time I saw? Does she even want to see me? Am I simply just wasting my time? No, no, no he thought, don’t let your mind wonder off. Thinking hurts too much. She cannot just be gone without a goodbye or a mere fare thee well. Nine p.m. he said. We will go to the movies, and then have dinner. It would be wonderful. Reality versus expectations- they are never the same. He approached the pond and walked down the hill till he was on the middle of it. He sat down and looked out across. It was calm except for the ripples caused by the wind. The silence was the best part. Silence was a commodity he longed for. He felt his phone in his pocket and looked at the time, ten-thirty. No missed messages, no missed calls, not anything. He put it away and stared at the light on the other side of the lake. He wrapped his hands around himself and stuck them under his arms to stay warm and waited for a call. Ten-forty-five. At ten-forty-five it finally arrives. The phone rings and he answers. Contempt, hate, rage, and longing coursed through him. He doesn’t speak immediately. Control is important, nothing good comes from impulse. “Hello my dear. Is it as I fear? Will I still see you here?” “No my love, I am coming now. I’m sorry, I am sorry I took so long. The people I was with just kept rambling on and on, like loons, but don’t be mad, I will be beside you soon.” A consolation time, being second, what else should one expect? Don’t expect anything and you will never be disappointed he always said. “Okay then. It was your time, and never mine, but yours to spend. I just thought it was on you that I could depend.” He let the cold slip in further. His ears went numb, then his cheeks, and then his toes. Finally he stood up and proceeded home. He opened the door and the warmth escaped out. The couch welcomed him, and hugged around him when he sat down. Eleven o’clock his phone said now. Better late than never he thought. Then twelve came around. Then one, and then finally his eyes fell shut and he gave up. He woke up with hands running through his hair. Cold hands. He looked up and saw her. The smile crept across their faces as the stared. “Hello my love,” he said looking above, “why have you taken so long?” “Because here dear, is not where I belong. You have known this for far too long. Yet I always must come along, to remind you. That I am always here. I am always there. A reminder to you that things only get colder and harder, but never darker” “But my love you must explain. Why am I in so much pain? Why must you always delay? I have love for you that cannot be swayed, but I would rather just end this masquerade. I would rather you just have always stayed.” And one day soon. That will happen for you. Though it may hurt, I promise you will just simply awake. With my hand in your hair and a smile in which we both partake. And I won’t be cold. I will be something you can actually hold. And be far more than Lenore or some forgotten lore. I will be yours.” And then she was gone. He felt his head. It was still cold. He checked his phone and saw no calls. No messages. Nothing at all. Nothing at all to ease his mind. So he lay there, just trying not to think .

“We are receiving word now that the shooter was in his Mid to Late Twenties, Had Glasses and Tattoos, liked Rock and Dubstep music…” Damon was already sick of hearing about it, even though this was the first time. “Fuck man, will this shit ever stop?”, he wondered as he made his way out of bed. It was a public bus in Reno this time. A 25 year old man who you would assume was going to college and enjoyed mocha frapps took a pistol out of his backpack at a stoplight and went to town. He murdered 15 people and took his own life. Damon made his way to the closet to pick out a suitable outfit for work. “I love you, baby.” his wife sleepily whispered while cuddling the blankets. ” I love you, baby girl” he replied. She noticed he wasn’t as cheerful this morning. “Is something wrong, sug?” she asked. “I’m just getting goddamn tired of hearing about these mass shootings..” He racked his brain looking for a way to express his frustration more clearly, but he did realize it was a bit early for a rant. “Come here baby” she whispered in a low tone. Damon shook his head and smiled a bit as he sat by her on the bed. As he sat she pulled him in close and kissed his neck, and then looked into his eyes. “You stop worrying about things you can’t control. Things like this are gonna happen all the time…” Hearing her say that made him uneasy. What a horrible truth to hear, especially so nonchalantly. “…Besides, you get distracted to easily as it is” she said with a mischievous smile. He shook his head and joked “Yea, especially with you around all the time” and got up. He got dressed and made his way out. “Have a good day, baby” she whispered. “Love you, baby girl” he said with a kiss to her cheek. And then he was gone. The commute to work was what he expected, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Details of the shooting came through the radio, and the media coverage took its usual course of exploitation. Talk of the victims and who they were, setting them up to be martyrs, and everything remotely under the sun blamed for what happened. Maybe he was just a nut, thought Damon. Aren’t people satisfied anymore? He pulled into the parking lot of the school he taught at. It was a lower income school with some of the rougher kids in the county. Still, from what he noticed of richer students at other high schools, at least these kids were down to earth, and realistic. Walking down the hallway he spotted Mr. Epstein, the gym teacher. Older man with a grey, bushy mustache he had a reputation to make off-color remarks and occasionally downright inappropriate things to female students. As Damon passed him he waved. “Hey Epstein.” “Hey Williams, bet you’re glad you didn’t take the bus!” he said with a laugh. Damon didn’t acknowledge the joke. People handle tragedy in different ways, but some methods are just plain fucked, he thought. As he entered the classroom, the class was abuzz with talk of the shooting, as he figured. “Yo, you hear how one of them was an old lady, man? Shiiiit, who does that, shootin up grandmas?” one of the students said.Damon cleared his throat loudly and silenced a good majority of the classroom. Tyrell, the student who was just remarking about the elderly woman, piped up “Damnnn, Williams, sounds like you need a lozenge or sum’in!” The classroom laughed. Damon continued, “Tyrell, when I walked in here, how did you refer to the victims of today’s shooting?” Tyrell stared blankly and answered back with, “Uh, I don’t remember dude” which elicited another laugh. Seeing as how he was a history teacher, Damon thought that he should maybe just go on with regularly scheduled syllabus. But with the way History repeats itself year after year, he figured now would be a good a time as any to speak on how he felt. “When I walked in here just now, I heard you refer to one of the victims as ‘one of them.’ Right?” The room was totally silent now. Tyrell shook his head , almost in a regretful fashion. “That’s what one of the main problems with our society today” he continued. “We have a knee-jerk reaction to make everything impersonal. And it’s not your guys’ fault, We adults messed up, you know what I mean. Our neighbors aren’t neighbors anymore. Those whose lives are taken to quickly are reduced to poster children used to promote someones viewpoint. And this needs to stop.” The classroom was fully engaged now, they had never seen this side of teacher before. “I won’t carry on about this much longer. In the next few days we will see the usual banter on gun violence and the effect of the media. I’m not saying I am a saint, when I was around your age I listened to NWA and Pulp Fiction is still one of my all time favorite movies. But when you walk around the hallways today, think about how violence has affected you through the years and see if you feel like you’ve had enough. Now, your assignment today is read Chapter 2-1 and 2-2. Also, today I would like you to read a section about the St. Valentines Massacre..” Damon grew up in the ghetto. He had seen violence. He had gotten into a few scraps himself when he was younger. But what could drive a person to enter a school with an assault rifle or a public bus with a 32. millimeter, he will never truly understand. I love this country, he thought, I do. But he couldn’t grasp what was happening anymore. How a society maintains being so violent would always be a mystery. Damon saw the flashing police lights directly behind him. Aww shit, he thought, pulling over on the side of the road. He sat there and watched two officers exit the car. He figured that they would obviously need to see his registration, so he reached for the glove box so he- The car lay deadly silent. Bullet holes were scattered along the back of the window, and two lay in Damon’s shoulder and one through his eye. The next few days, the news media would turn the situation into a matter of race regarding Damon’s ethnicity. There would be debate about deadly force and the police. Discussions would come up about teacher salaries due to the fact that he drove an older Subaru. In the end, Damon would wind up a face plastered on the news and in the papers to provide conversation during breakfast or at work about how “fucked up this country is.” And elsewhere, A golden retriever nursed new puppies. A young woman jumped up and down with tears in her eyes after being accepted to the school she wanted. A young man taught his little brother how to skateboard. And over at Damon’s house, his wife received news that she would be expecting her first child. And another american story was set to begin.

I am trying to be a writer, I would like opinions. Feel free to be as harsh or as flattering as you want, in my eyes its all constructive. It might be a bit hard to figure out, so I guess also comment on what you think its about. The lights were flickering on and off. He came into view three or four times. Large bursts of light erupting from a pitch black abyss. In the room, there were no sounds, no breaths, no heart beats. When the lights were on the black abyss turned into a room, and the room was all white with blisteringly powerful light spraying off everywhere. When the lights turned on, maybe a half a second, maybe three quarters, I was able to make out a figure. Large, dark and angry. Eyes completely yellow, staring me down. My eyes reflected in his, the reflection so bright, how could I possibly look away. I shoved my hands against my temples and squeezed, the man falling in and out of my sight. The light turned off, a wave of black falling over me, like a midnight black blanket being wrapped around my head on a bright day. I fell over slightly and felt nauseous. I tripped on my own feet and my head banged against the floor, or the wall, I’m not really sure which. At times like these I always ran to the door, kicking and screaming to let me out, to let me breathe, but I always heard the same words every time I banged the door, “anesthesia.” I would loose track of the door at that point. First it was on the left, then it was on the right. Rotating around me like the orbit of a moon sped up. They would always turn the lights on at the worst moment, right when I would close my eyes, right when I was going to get some rest finally. I was a child waiting for a Christmas that never came. Sometimes, during these fits of light, I would catch the faint glimmer of a shadow over me. The shadow of a demon like being with the horns of a devil and the knife of a butcher. Picking and pulling at my well being, the chords of thought being plucked right from under me. I was never able to move at these moments, never able to reach out my hand and grasp the ephemeral hand over me. The lights started to flicker again, in and out. If I was a bucket of sand, they would be emptying me gradually, and each grain of sand that would fall out would just disappear as it left the bucket, with each flicker of the light this would continue to happen. The bang and the light coming and going from those in front of me who were never actually in front of me. A worthless fight. How long has it been? A week? A month? I’d bang on the door when I could find it. I’d yell my name just to yell it, just to gain something from a lost experience, right up until that was lost too. And when I’d yell, I’d cry, because I was yelling my life, my upbringing, my experiences. After each yell, it would go, after each cry I’d forget. And on that final day, when there was nothing left to yell, I’d wake up. I would wake up lying down, people in white standing over me with light shining down and red tools lying next to me. Everything is in front of me, but I cant grasp it. Like a fisherman trying to grab the reflection of a fish going by with his bare hands. Except now, I am all empty.

I’m sitting in a bar that’s way too far from home. Smoking a cigarette at the counter and looking down at the space between my hands, elbows resting on the table and I’m hunched over. The bartender just walked by again. Should I even ask for another drink? It’s getting late anyways and this brandy can’t be that good for me. “Hit me again, Mickie.” The band’s playing some jazz with a tenor sax. I can hear them. Can I see them? I look over my left shoulder. There’s so much smoke in the room you can barely tell if they are black or white. I know it’s a tenor though. I know that sweet sound. So many bottles on a snazzy display in front of me. “Hey Mick, what do you think makes people come to a place like this on a Thursday?” “Well, I can’t say I haven’t thought about it. I should know really, since half of the people sitting up here at the counter are looking for some conversational relief. Venting, whatever the kids call it these days. Hey, want another?” “I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t, Mick.” He filled up my glass. How many drinks have I had? What’s the bill at? Don’t know, don’t really care I guess. I don’t even know what I’m doing or how this helps. It doesn’t, to tell you the truth. It’s raining outside I think. Though you wouldn’t know from inside this bar. Brown walls, only a few windows, and through the smoke I can’t see if there is anything out there. Real dim lighting in here, too. A fella just tripped and spilt a little of whatever he was drinking onto my lower pant leg and black wingtip shoes. I don’t know why I bother to even dress for going out anymore. Who am I even trying to impress? There’s no pretty women here. Not alone anyways. I look over my left shoulder again. There actually is a fine lady in a red dress sitting alone in a booth by the band, tapping ashes into a tray. Never mind, her company was just taking a leak in the bathroom. He’s got the same jacket and pants I have on. I look up at my hat on the counter. I can’t go home yet. Not now, anyways. I light another cigarette and look back down at the counter. Someone taps me on the right shoulder and takes a seat to the left of me. “Hey there” they say.

i had a cat. it was older than me, i think its name was pepper? we had a fold out couch. one christmas, he was asleep under it. we crushed pepper. on christmas. my parents got us a new one i dont even remember its name... we were backing out of the driveway mum screamed said stay in the car i remember seeing this kitten i was on my way to kindergarten. it had one eye.. i couldnt even comprehend what had happened. i left had nap time blissfuly unaware. when i got home we had a new kitten i cant even remember its name.. scroll forward a year my grandma comes over her dog was always angry. it strutted into the room and tore up our kitten. my parents tried to shield me from what happened but i remember. one of them we had for a long time Jack. that old indestructible bastard. nothing could phase him, he was a fucking pirate lost an eye to cancer, weeks later lost a foot. that paw Jack. hah.. years and years we also had Esmerelda. we always called her kitten but my sister always insisted we call her by that name. we never did. the saddest day is when something dies without a name. the whole time we had a dog. she was always there every time we yelled "out" shed patiently wait for us to let her back in. 15 years. shed been run over, i spent 2 days in her cage at the veterinarians, and she soldiered through. i told her everything, she listened. Peaches the best dog ive ever had the fortune of meeting. i couldnt even make it to the vets on her last day, i still feel like shit.

GANGNAM APOCALYPSE When she changed into her simpler, less flashy clothes I lost my mind. She looked simply amazing, more beautiful and more attractive than she I had ever seen her. She was wearing but a simple dark grey kurta on top of sleek, slender slacks protecting her sexy legs oh so tightly. It was then I realized why I was so crazy about her. It was then I realized that despite her being a less than average looking girl, why I couldn’t stop fantasizing about her, why I had abandoned all moral objections to my incestuous situation with her and why her sitting there quite simply and boldly was driving me nuts. I met her a long time ago. It was several years ago that we had met before we actually got to know each other. At this point of course I should make it clear to the reader and to myself that she was and remains my cousin, although a very distant cousin but still a cousin. Anyway I had once met her in such circumstances as cousins meet, i.e., visiting someone. But that first meeting is completely irrelevant, as is our next. We met again at a wedding. I was in my teens and she was a few years older to me. What was important about this meeting was that this was shortly after I had passed puberty, which means that a few months ago I would never had imagined talking to people I didn’t already know Regardless, I met her at the wedding and ended up spending upto twelve hours with her in a small temporary group. There were four of us: myself, my sister, her and her sister. Of course I considered them all sisters equal to my own sibling, but I couldn’t ignore the fact that I had practically never met them in my entire life and didn’t know a thing about them. Yes they were cousins but this was the first time I actually met them, and got to know them. It is important to note that the time we all spent together at the wedding I consider to be some sort of victory, because that was one of the first time I was actually socializing and talking to girls. The environment in which it happened was perfect, I didn’t think of her in anyway except as a sister, but she was still a girl and I had made friends with her. It was very much like a controlled simulation, which did help me a lot in the future I believe. But as I said before, this part doesn’t bear much relevance to the overall story. My story begins about five years ago, at yet another gigantic family function. The reason I made clear the circumstances in which we had met earlier and made our acquaintance, was to establish that I was already very comfortable with her. So this time I once again spent a large portion of the days of the event with her, but this time it was only us. We had a lot of time to talk to each other and get to know each other better, and what I didn’t realize was that I was indeed spending too much time exclusively with her and people had noticed. I remember how it happened exactly, the moments which I was made crazy about her. We were simply sitting in a large room full of people, with a comfortable silence between us and then I realized just how much I had become close to her. It was quite sudden that she became irresistible to me. I forced myself not to look into her eyes, because I knew that if I did I’d be lost forever. I made sure for the next couple of days not to look directly into her warm, peaceful, comforting eyes for I would fall in love with her. I also remember the journey back. I had to cut short my visit and ride home alone, and in the night I spent in the bus, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. It was pure agony, fighting myself so as to not think of her. I kept telling myself “Not Her! Not Her!” but I simply couldn’t stop thinking about her in ways I should never do. Sadly, and painfully, we didn’t really meet that way again. As fate would have it, she needed to come to visit my family every six months for some exam that she needed to give. For some strange reason she wasn’t clearing it. So every six months, for twelve hours, she visited me. And every six months, for twelve hours I had to chain my feelings up and act nice because this was after all my parents’ home and I couldn’t really do much. But despite my best efforts to control them, my mother knew that I had feelings for her. She once tricked me using this knowledge. She asked me if I wanted to help her select ear-rings for the Cousin of mine, and so I agreed to go with as casually as I possibly could. When of course we got to the jewelers, my mother wasn’t buying ear-rings for her, but her elder sister who was getting married. I didn’t say anything but from that moment on I knew I had to be very mindful of my mother. One small slip and she could surmise everything. The reason for her immeasurable power to do so, was that because she didn’t deduce, or find out that I was attracted to a girl, she simply assumed without doubt that I did. No matter what, no matter how, if the girl wasn’t a repulsive alien from outer space, she assumed that I was under the influence of her. Only in this case, she happened to be right. From that time on she constantly remind me that she knew I liked her, and luckily I don’t think she really had a problem with it. A cousin she was, but so incredibly distant, nobody cared how I saw her. Instead they simply assumed that I was attracted to her. I understand that this isn’t articulated as well as I’d hoped, but again I what I write is out of complete honesty and I will not justify my writing beyond this sentence. For when she is near there is a spell upon me, and I transform into a love induced monster of will, and I fight that transformation as fruitlessly as any werewolf upon the sight of its maiden the moon. Don’t they yearn for it as much as I yearn for her? At least she greets them once a fortnight, while I have to wait six months. Slowly, calmly over years I kept my feelings inside me. For a long time my closest friends did not know, but there came a time when I accepted that I knew far worse things about them, so I confided in them and they understood. I kept myself away from her as much as possible. To this day I do not have her phone number. I did once but I never called her. I was cursed to torment, alone in my pain. Each time the two weeks that follow after she leaves, I think of nothing else. I can’t think of anything else, and I don’t want to think of anything else. I cannot call her, tell her how I feel, or do anything for her. But still despite my best efforts to hide it, my mother’s certainty grew immensely, to a point where it could’ve been a problem. Once while eavesdropping on a conversation my mother was having, I heard the sentence, “Yes, they do get along pretty well!” I instantly knew who she was talking to and what she was talking about. I tried very hard to find where I had failed, where I made a mistake. But now I don’t think I ever did. Even though I couldn’t understand where I had gone wrong, I reinforced my defenses as much as I could. I tried to be even more careful. I talked to her for a total of thirty minutes, or not more than an hour, in a year and I felt I still needed to be more careful with her. I was always nervous and shaky whenever her name was mentioned. But I tried to hide it. To get through the nights spent dreaming about her, I tried to convince myself that I did not and could not love her. I told myself that I was merely lonely and was hooked upon the first girl that paid a little extra attention to me, I told myself she and I were very, insurmountably different (since we were in reality very different from each other), I told myself she doesn’t understand me and nor could I understand her, that she was stupid and ugly and came up with so many reasons not to think of her. But then when has that ever worked? While thinking of reasons not to like her, I was of course thinking of her hence continuing and fueling my addiction of her. Over the years, I had built defenses, plans and strategies to stop myself. I knew she was coming and I knew what to do. I laid as low as possible, I tried to appear as callous, uninterested and uncaring as I could but again, my resistances fell apart rather quickly and I made excuses to spend time with her and get close to her. But the time when my demeanor was finally a little more loose than usual, I found out that it was indeed not meant to be and that I really should stop thinking about her. We saw “Wall-E” a very beautiful love story about robots in the future. I had to convince her a lot to pull away from my mother, who she talked to incessantly while she was here much to the annoyance of my mother. We spent most of the time watching the movie, not speaking to each other much and I realized that while I do have feelings for her, they weren’t as strong as I made them out to be. But more than that, I realized another thing: Something that was a stake in my heart from the very beginning, and one of the best arguments to why I couldn’t be with her. She didn’t and couldn’t have feelings for me. She was not the kind to socialize much, but if she did want someone to be with, she indeed had a lot of choices but I wasn’t one of them, nor could I be. The movie ended and she left immediately, almost storming out as if a long chore was done. And as she left I turned to my computer and did whatever I usually do to pass the time. And since then, my heart had been at peace. That is until yesterday, when she returned. I sat in my bed reading a book, or at least trying to, because I was bottling up my excitement about meeting her again. I had planned my sleep cycle a day before, so that today I could wake up three hours from now to see her off. I knew it was fruitless and it had always been completely futile to hide myself, and so I didn’t. I asked her out for tea and we went together, just the two of us. We talked a little and she called her mother to say that she was out with me, just me; much to my dismay. So it was a good evening, that got better because her, my sister and I went out for a nice dinner without adult supervision or intrusion and it was good. It was nice, satisfying and I was simply happy to just look at her to my hearts content. When we came back she changed into a simple kurta, dark grey with some little design. For the first time, she looked “hot”. Conventionally “hot” and it drove me insane. I was shaking and shivering in my chair, catching glances of her from head to toe. Her soft, supple waist, her flowing, beautiful black hair of which just a small strand fell upon her sweet face. Her sexy, slender legs covered in black. It was a sight to behold and I realized why I liked her so much. In all my considerations, I never actually understood why I did like her. It wasn’t the looks, or her likes and interests or anything. It was all summed into the way she was sitting very comfortably in her kurta when I believe I saw the real her. Bold, beautiful, confident, yet with gentle hands completely comfortable and in control of herself and her environment. That is why I was mad about her. It was the power she had about herself. The respect and consideration she commanded simply by sitting there. At that point I knew. I knew I had to find some way to just tell her how amazing she looked and that it was driving me out of my mind. I waited for one hour for a small opportunity to just be alone with her, or at least be able to whisper to her. My sister was sitting beside her with the entire family gathered in the living room, so obviously I could not do anything, whatsoever. It was the slowest most agonizing hour in my recent memory. Of course, the excuse I did give to get her alone and away from the crowd came into play finally when the hour ended. And with her followed almost everyone else. We all gathered in my room and watched a video of a performance of “Gangnam Style” on a stage in front of countless thousands of people, perhaps more than a hundred thousand. We watched the very loud video, of so many people singing and dancing in tune to their favorite song without rehearsal, just spontaneously. The Mayans had predicted that the world was supposed to end by now. That the apocalypse would come and what not. Watching that video in that room, while the dancing horse man trampled upon my plans, while a massive, overwhelming crowd danced in tune with him, did feel quite apocalyptic. But not so much. I wrote this because I hadn’t written anything proper in a very long time. I couldn’t even articulate proper sentences in conversations. But writing this was cathartic, traditional even, reminding me of the times I used to post blogs about the strange things that once happened to me. The thing about those blogs was that they were the marker of the very end of the episodes they were about. For after I had written that blog, nothing had happened that could be added to it. And I believe this is one of those very same posts. This is the last time she will give the exam, and after this, both of us will be too old to be flirting about. She will probably be married soon, and I have no intention of stopping her. I regret that I never did find out how she really felt about me, or that I never explicitly told her my feelings. But she always reminded me that I was her younger brother, as if rejecting advances that I hadn’t actually made. And this happened often and it always scratched me. And I took those as ammunition in the debate against loving her. But at the end of this wall of text I can’t help but remember, long ago when the moment she arrived at my house, she came into my room, shutting the door softly, while I was sitting at my computer and whispered to ask me "So, do you have a girlfriend?" in her cute, perky manner. I said no and I forget what happened next and I do realize she was being friendly, but I still cherished that moment because that belonged to a time when she was quite excited to see me and had a certain happiness about her when she was with me, always having a big smile on face. Those moments were lost long ago, and recently she has never smiled at me quite as such as she did before. Whatever was the case, and whatever was the matter, I will be listening to Adele’s “SkyFall”, for it was stuck in my head the entire evening. And so the Fat Lady will sing, and it will be over. The end, I suppose.

When the sun came out, we hid. We did not fear the light; we feared the unexpected. In the dark it was unsafe to even breath. You walk down the road and are likely to get stabbed and searched by the hungry. The young, the old, the thugs, the respectable- we were all hungry, and whether you looked like you had anything on you or not you were going to be gutted sooner or later. This was our world now and though it may sound insane we adapted to it. Even learned how to enjoy life. Because it was so predicable. But daytime, brightness, that was a mystery. It was better to hide in sewers amongst the filth than go out in the brightness. I heard stories, never saw it for myself.... until Kara came. My baby. My sweet, sweet baby girl. Seventeen year old ragged bones make for a piss poor mother but there was no stopping her when she chose to come. For a few weeks after she was born the old man took care of us, but just like everyone else he had to watch out for himself so we were on our own soon enough. I could breastfeed her but only if I ate myself. I spent so much time trying to care for her I wasn't able to make ends meet in my usual way- the way that had brought me her. It was desperation that brought me to the brightness. Once Upon A Time... that's how all my mother's stories begun. Once Upon A Time, it was safe to go out into the light, when the real sun shone down so the soil was bountiful and the cities fresh. Once Upon A Time there was a gorgeous ball of fire in the sky that nourished us, something natural, not the man-made sky of bulbs that you know now. Once Upon A Time there were many governments, not just one, and they were here to protect us. Those were the more ludicrous stories, the one's I knew better than to believe. I grew up with the Global Democracy, with the Roof of Lights, with the stale air and rampant disease and inherent despair that made this place a home. In her dying breaths my mother begged me to have faith and I denied her. I should feel guilt; I do not. I only feel hunger. Above ground, the city was a rank place. I knew it only by night, and it was much different then. The streets never changed but those who inhabit it did. No police walked the night. Homes were locked and usually even had bars over the doors and windows. There was absolutely no light that you didn't create yourself; the sky was pitch black and the city did not provide streetlights. Makeshift garbage fires and lanterns were the norm, casting shadows that twisted and tricked. By day, I was to learn, things were very different. There was no filth in the streets, and the air was clean. Everything you saw was spotlessly clean and manicured. Yet the air was vile no matter where you went, as if it had been breathed in and out a thousand times. How it managed to supply us with oxygen was a miracle. The sky never changed. I was white, made up of an infinite amount of light bulbs and hung thousands of feet above us. Supposedly the Roof of Lights encase the entire orb of the earth, and I often wonder what held it up. Buildings were all gray cement, except the homes, which everyone knew were mostly for show. Those were nearly all identical versions of a square, stout building of brownish bricks and white wooden doors. A fifteen by ten rectangle of grass that never grew sat in front of each one and various vehicles stood in each driveway, though only very important people drove. By day the metals bars that covered the doors and windows at night were not to be seen. This was all very new to me. I emerged from a sewer grate in the early morning, when the police were just beginning to do patrols. Coming out any later would probably result in death- us from underground were not supposed to exist. The police were obviously not human folk, not like us underground. They had face of smooth, unblemished beige, all the same, like they had been specifically bred to deny race. Brown eyes. Strict features. Very little individuality. I'd never heard of one speaking. I'd never heard that they even bledd or breathed, for that matter. I followed the signs along the roads to take me to the right one. Gardner Street. There was a market there. I hadn't yet put thought into how I would pay. I just knew that everyone said you could get food on Gardner street. After two and a half hours of walking I began to wonder if Kara was okay, wrapped in my old sweater and hidden in a whole in the wall by the place we slept. That sounds like bad parenting. It's not. She was a thousand times safer there. No one had anything to gain from a baby. I arrived at the correct street and had to lean against a wall to contain my surprise. This was not a market. Not like the ones underground, at least. There were no stalls, no sellers, no rats cooking, no rotting fruit in moldy baskets. It was a gray cement building like the others but with big planes of glass making up the front to reveal the inside. Aisles and aisles of shelving filled with colorful cans, bags, and baskets... fresh fruit, most unfamiliar to me, bread the was not burnt and cut into even slices, and meat! It was red and fresh and clean and I'd bet money that I didn't have that it wasn't from rats. Unbelievable. I walked through the doors and instantly knew I didn't belong there. I didn't have Euro's. I smelled like the underground. If I tried to steal, I'd be executed, and my Kara would starve to death alone in a hole in the wall. Yet I couldn't leave. I wandered around the big building, taking in the delectable smells, trying to avoid the gaze of the clean workers in their uniforms. There wasn't anyone else in the place besides myself that didn't work there. Or so I thought, until I found myself in an aisle made up of closed closets made of glass that emitted a terrible cold. The boxes and bags inside had pictures of food inside and were obviously frozen. He was tall. He was handsome. He had skin of smooth beige, but crystal blue eyes and a mole on his left cheek. He wore no uniform. The second he saw me, a sharp, wolfish grin cracked open his face and he strode over to me as if he owned the world. “Your type doesn't belong here. Your type doesn't exist. So what, pray tell, are you doing here?” Panic froze me to the spot. I knew in that moment I was going to die. But instead of pulling out the electronic needle all police carried, he threw back his head and laughed. It was a deep, rich laugh that startled me even more. Officers did not laugh! “I'm just joking with ya, Tike. I know what you're doing. In all my twenty five years I don't think I've sen one of you with the balls for it though.” He looked me over closely, as if evaluating me for strengths and weaknesses that were under my skin. He nodded. “Aye, I can use ya. Nicely. Come on, we'll get food. Don't be scared, I've got money, I'm paying. Are you scrounging for just yourself?” It took a few moments for me to realize he was offering to help me, and a few longer to unfreeze myself. This was absolutely wrong. He said he could “use” me. I wasn't no fresh hen; I'd been “used” many times over, knew what it entailed, knew how to handle it and even do it right to earn a morsel. Yet I didn't think he meant the same thing. It's not like I had long to rationalize. My situation was crazy and I had no choice. He cocked and eyebrow and I nodded. I could only hope he meant to use what was under my skirt. “So you're only getting what for yourself?” He asked like he knew the situation was otherwise. It didn't occur to me to lie. “N-no. I have a baby. Two months. Feed her myself though” I blushed and was revlted by myself. He had not needed to know that. “I thought so. Something had to spur you out the hole. Besides, breasts like those rarely come naturally” He grinned again and walked off as if I was expected to follow. My cheeks burned fiery red but I did. Where would this take me? He led me down aisle and occasionally handed me something to carry, stopping once to get me a basket to accommodate the load. I was especially surprised when he handed me a package with a picture of a baby on it; diapers. Finally we came back to the front of the store and laid our loot out in front of an employee with an odd machine. She fiddled with it for a minute before telling my new friend his total. “Three thousand, one-hundred seventy five.” I could have swooned. I thought for sure he'd put it all back and tell me I was on my own, but instead he took out a black card with a three gold bands around it and swiped it through the machine. His calm demeanor seem the frighten the girl, but she kept a calm face. Her blonde hair and pale skin soothed me; she was one of us, the humans, even if she did live in a different world. Outside the building he took the bags from me. “You’ll get these, and a warm place to sleep tonight, on conditions. You're going to crawl back into the sewers, get your baby, and bring her here. You will both be staying with me for an indefinite amount of time. If you do not comply you'll likely both starve. Understood?” I only nodded yes. By now the whole situation felt like a dream. I'd do whatever this angel said, until it all came crashing down and I died in the fire. It was no more dangerous than my life would be otherwise. “Good. How long will it take you to get back here?” This made me pause. “A few hours, but... I can't go in and out of the sewers in broad day. I'll be euthanize! And to take my baby above ground? Look, sir, I know you don't know nothing about-” Suddenly he was very close to my face. “I know much more than you. You know nothing. There is a sewer grate five feet from here. I know that's how you people go up and down and I know someone your age has the underground fair memorized. You'll use that entrance. You'll bring her here. I'll wait no more than four hours, that's when business is off and the streets flood with more than police. You'll be safe. Go now.” I had no choice but to obey. What would happen to me now? Had I endangered my baby? Of course I had. She deserved a better mother.

My name is Jake Gillmore. Up until that devastating day that ruined my life, it was just ordinary. I worked for a frieghter company called Lightspeed. They ship anything, from produce to livestock, from planet to planet. I was one of those stiff's who worked in the loading dock, drivin' a hoverlift; loadin' the pallet's and other cargo into the transport ship's. Not my job of choice, but it paid the bill's. The only ray's of sunshine in my life were my Wife and our Son... Those are good memories. My wife Lana, a five foot seven, one hundred and five pound knockout. Her hair's long and flowin' red, eye's as blue as ice and her lip's are beautifully full and alive. She was my one true love. Then my son, John was born and suddenly I had two great loves in my life. The last time I saw him he was eleven. Like me, he was not an athlete, but a thinker. A good strong jaw, and developing those ruggedly good look's like his old man. He'll have to beat the girl's off with a stick. Hopefully he'll take my advice and wait till he's grown up and spent some time for himself travelin' and explorin' before he start's the dating game. Listen to me. I'm dronin' on and on, sorry. I like to revel in the good memories as much as I can, but if you'll stick around I'm sure my story will entertain you. What was the tragic twist of fate that ruined my life? It was a year ago, as far as I can tell. One day, down on the loadin' dock, I was finishin' up loadin' a ship with produce. Much to my surprise Lana and John stopped by for a surprise visit. Out of the shadow's of another ship, a Terian stowaway emerge's and hold's my wife up at gun point in full view of me. Big mistake! Wavin' that gun at my family. Terians aren't the brightess bunch in the galaxy. Ugly, worty creatures that look like a frog and fish combined into humanoid form. Three finger's including the thumb, and webbed feet. Every time I think of them I see that one, and I'd gladly kill him again, to protect my family. That's right. I killed him. When I saw him and his gun, my vision of the world turned to red, and the next thing I know I come back to myself; a lifeless Terian gripped firmly by the throat in my hand's. A bullet wound in my arm, and a life shattered. The case was open and shut in no time. My sentence a lifetime banishment to the horrible planet known as Torment. Torment... That's a fitting name for this place. When it's day time the temperature reaches the hundreds, and even though it's constantly bright, there's no visible sun ever! The light permeates everywhere. There's no escaping it. It penetrates even into the caves and through the depth's of the local flora. It's as bright as the sun in all directions. No shadows are cast and no shade is made. Until night, escape from the light is impossible. Then the night is the same extreme. No visible moon or starlight. Don't ask me how, it just work's that way here. Even with a flashlight you barely can see what's directly in front of you, up to a foot. The temperature drop's to the negative's and a fire barely bring's comfort what with casting any light and warmth with in a one foot radius. The planet is sandy, yet abundent with plant and animal life. The tree's grow thin at the bottom and get thicker at the top. The bushes constantly shift and move and all the animal's are vicious and blind. I don't mean that they can't see due to poor eye's. I mean that they have no eye's at all. What they lack in sight they make up for in hearing, though. The only thing that's helped me to stay sane, is my faith in Jesus and the Lord. They give me the strength to carry on. In a place like Torment, strength is what one need's. Another blistering day on torment. Today, like any other day I started by leaving my camp, and going to the water hole. The water is red, bubbling and has a hint of vanilla. Oddly the water is as cold as ice, even though it bubbles. Now if I only cared for vanilla, yuck. The other day I spotted a Leeug. That's a creature about the size of a lion, that look's like a leech in color, smoothness and mouth, but it crawl's like a slug. Even worse it has four tentacle arm's with claw's on each end. It was disturbingly close yesterday, so I'm obviously a little on edge today. It's a little suspicious to me that I even spotted it, since they have the ability to perfectly blend in with their surroundings. Why would it be out in the open? Now that I think about it I wonder why, on a planet inhabited with eyeless creatures, would a species be able to blend in with it's surrounding's? Hopefully I never find out. Anyway I went for a swim and let down my guard as I began to relax. Idiot. When I came out of the water I caught a glimmer of a silhouette, near my clothes. Since I'm a convict I don't have the luxury of a gun. The wood on this planet is fragile so I can't fashion a weapon out of it. So I was left with nothing else but my own two hand's for defense. I rushed the creature (a Leeug it turned out to be) and in it's shocked state I connected with a right. Then a left. It tried to bite my hand, but I dodged in time. Unfortunately my dodge positioned me for the worst. Just as I caught my balance, it happened. It's claw's sank into the orbit's of my skull, and with one quick jerk my eye's came out amidst the sounds of the ripping flesh and muscle. I don't have to worry about the light anymore. I now know that the Leeug has a numbing poison on it's claw's, meant to help it disable it's prey. It was keeping me from feeling my torn out eye's, and if I'd have been sliced any more it would have disabled me completely. In the absence of pain my body surged out adrenaline and I used it to wrestle one of the Leeug's claws into my hand, and stab it to death with it's own weapon. In my stabbing I ripped the claw free from the creature, and kept going until I had it underneath me, and until I could feel the solid thump of stabbing terrain beneath it. After my victory I crawled towards the sound of the bubbling water, and washed the gore off of me, and tended to disinfecting my eye's. I turned my shirt into a bandage and wrapped my eye's up to help stop the bleeding. Feeling slightly dizzy I placed the Leeug claw in my rear pocket, and stumbbled towards my camp. As best as I could figure. After an hour I began to worry. I had walked from the water hole to my camp at night many times. Half of the time I did it without a flash light, and it didn't take this long. Maybe I went the wrong direction, since I was dizzy from the blood loss. Just as I started to panic, I came to a tree and found the arrow I carved into it to help me along my path at night. I also numbered them, and this one was number three. I was close! Then I heard it. Several grunt's in different directions. The Leeug's were upon me. I guess they travel in pack's and the one I killed was just the tip of the iceberg. I drew the claw from my pocket and began slashing in the air wildly in all directions. I knew that my effort's were in vain. I was no doubt doomed! My name is Lana Gillmore. My husband Jake saved me and our son John over a year ago from a Terian mugger. In the confusion of the fight the mugger shot himself, and my poor husband collapsed. unable to grasp what had happened, his mind shut his body down and threw him into a state of mental torment. Even now, viewing him through the window of his room at the Serene Winds Insane Asylum, he lay on his side staring into oblivion, muttering to himself in unintelligible whispers. He wear's a straight-jacket and requires constant care. Maybe somday he'll come to term's with what happened. Maybe someday. The End.

What really happened: A while ago I met a girl through some friends. This girl and I hit it off pretty well, and had sex. I was young and with little to no experience, needless to say our sexual encounters were short and awkward. The very first time we try to get intimate I had a bit of an unforeseen pre-explosion. In order to avoid any further awkwardness, I quickly got up and said I had seen wolves off in the distance. (We were in some park that is known for wild animals going about.) She got up scared and we left the place. This has been the root of a lot of inside jokes among my friends, so I finally decided to set the record straight with this next story. **My first sexual encounter, as I remember it.** There we were, young, naive, horny boys just making their way into adulthood, getting our last few shenanigans out of the way. In this particular and enchanting night we had invited our new friend Natalie and her dyke cousin to tag along. The mission for the night was to get drunk, as always, but this night had different plans for me. I could tell from the moment we picked up the girls there was a sexual aura that filled the car. Everyone glistened from their light perspiration, I knew the source of the sexual tension originated in my pants and was looking for a way to the back seat where Natalia's nether regions were moist. Don't ask me how but I could tell, and if we drenched those undergarments at the time they would have spelled out my name in cursive. We kept the chat light, but the stares through my rear view were consistently hard. We arrived at our destination, everyone sweating at this point, we can choose to blame the car heater but I like to blame the sexual angst. "How are we suppose to get in there, there's a gate?!" an annoying dykish voice resonated from the back seat. The boys looked at her but no one knew how to approach this strange creature. I took initiative and said, "Listen, 'Natalie's dyke cousin' is it?" she tried responding, "Umm.." but before she started saying dykish none sense I stopped her, "We have two twelve packs and four thirsty boys. Now I know you're dissapointed none of us have long hair and a vagina so now why don't you make the best of it and drink so you can pass out." She said nothing, I had earned her lesbian respect. We unloaded the car, drank our way over the gate into a closed private golf course. If that didn't scream badasses maybe the lesbian's wet boxer briefs might, too bad I didn't check 'em. Once at our destination we began our nightly ritual. The booze made its way into all of us, our spirits were lifted. It was a glorious gathering. As the consumption of drinks increased our inhibitions decreased. The boys and the dyke had conveniently ran off into the woods leaving Natalie and I behind. I slowly made my way over to my prey, "Should we go with the guys?" She broke the silence. I softly placed my pinky on her lips and replied, "Shh, you want this" I squeezed my crotch gently. She was baffled. As any good woman would have it she initially refused and pushed me away. "What are you doing?!" I stopped unbuckling my pants and instead reached for her hands. "Don't fight it, we both want the same thing. I'm just trying to take a shortcut." She blushed. "Now bring it home Ricky." I thought to myself. I leaned over for a kiss, but right before our lips touched she turned. "You are just... Ohh why can't I resist you?" She struggled to convey her feelings. I gave her my signature smirk, smile and wink. I was a little buzzed so it was more of a blink, but it worked anyway. She jumped on me, "Fuck it!" she dragged me to a dark area behind some small shed. This is where things got a little interesting. We engaged in some heavy petting, really heavy petting. She tore off my shirt, I tore off my pants. This sexual connection had been building up the whole night. The right amount of beer made us both horny as the devil. We got the ball rolling and I began the dirty deed, she experienced the full wrath that is my prowess in the art of fucking. She literally squirmed in joy, I could hear her mumble out 'God' to which I would respond to with an "I know, right. hmph, hmph" This all went on for what seemed like forever, but when I checked my watch it had only been less than a minute. Crazy I know. Well, it could have been this moment of beautiful coitus, the combination of her yells, my manly grunts, and the alignment of the planets but this mixture hit the right notes to summon a pack of wolves. A fucking wolf pack was summoned through fucking. I don't know about any of you guys, but I was taught my fair share of chivalry at home, so I did what any faithful knight of the round table would and warned my fair maiden of these wolves that were making their way towards us. I quickly stopped, she insisted to continue. I could tell she thought about it for a second. "Great sex with a great man, which would end up in vicious death by wolves. Seems worth it." But I pushed her off and said, "Wolves bitch! Didn't you hear?!" We gathered up our clothing and made our way to the car, where I phoned the boys to meet me. Those two minutes of heaven for her made her crave me even more, which lead to more sleazy encounters in the future.

There i was, it was an early day for me, unusually early considering my sleep problems, yet there i was at the internet cafe , again. I had logged on already when an older, much older lady walked in to use their phones for a long distance call, she was asking the attendant something about rates, but the attendant didnt speak good engish, so i helped her out. The old lady attempted to make a phone call and then came out of the booth, and glanced over the titles of my emails while standing behind me, she saw something astrology had sent me, and she immediately asked me if i was into that, and i said , well im not sure what i said, but then she asked me my name, date of birth, sign etc, all the usual details. Then she looked up in the air above me and to my side, pointing with her finger for what seemed to be like for her use, cause i sure as hell didnt see anything nor did i know what she was doing.She started telling me about her life, and describing it before and after she had left and arrived in this country, and then she said it, those words that i had only heard one other person say in my entire life, she told me before she use to come here she use to stand/sit in her country looking in the direction of america, and say to herself, "thats where im going". She was Russian I was a bit taken aback by that, i wasnt sure wether to divulge that information to her or not, im not sure wether i eventually did or not, because after, i asked her about her drawing in the air, and she started mentioning planets, and transits and that sort of thing...and then she told me i was going to live a long time, not to worry that i would live a long time, she even had an approximate age, she said that i would live to be anywhere between 103 years old and 105 years old, i honestly didnt care. Fast forward a couple of weeks , and there i was talking to one of my favorite people in the neighborhood, irish jimmy, by the corner store, poor jimmy was older and had problems with drinking and drugs and other types, but he wasnt a trouble maker, and he never judged me, nor did he ever know what was going on with me , unlike everyone else in the neighborhood, those nosey gossiping fake fucks. it was a nice day, the sun was out, i was sitting on a milk crate with my back to the store/wall, and jimmy was making me laugh, not a bad day at all, a little while had passed by and jimmy was still going on with jokes and how he used to live it up in the old days, when he was much younger, i could tell he was catching a nice buzz from the beer i bought him, not his first beer of the day, i dont like drunks, as the matter of fact i hate them, but i didnt mind jimmy. Jimmy and i spoke of longevity at this point in our ramblings..living, dying , old age and the such...almost exactly at the same time that Jimmy was about to start a sentence i noticed the minivan of the russians or croatians or whatever pulling up to the light, when jimmy said: "you know how i know i'm going to live a long time? because i'm meant to suffer", and then the light turned green and those russians made the turn, as they turned by us, i noticed an old lady in the back seat , older than usual, i dont think i had seen her before,. A few thoughts ran thru my head...the old russian lady at the internet cafe , whom i happen to mention to jimmy during our old age and death ramblings , which is why he replied what he replied, the fact that the old russian lady that had nothing to do with these russians and the old lady in the back seat i had never seen before, the fact that jimmy didnt know any of these people, the timing of it all, and lastly what my therapist and plenty of people had told me before about a "drunk man's words" or something of the sort which i cant remember because i dont deal with drunks as i have previously written. I never saw the old lady from the back of the minivan again, nor did i ever see the old lady at the internet cafe ever again, just saw them that one time each, and i spent alot of time at the internet cafe both before and after... and then there was jimmy from around the corner, him i saw all the time, but not after that time, not after what he told me that time, I never saw him again.

I remember this story, I remember it well. It had a devilish intention, To stay in mind to only dwell. It happened so fast, It happened in vain. It happened at night, In a vast land we call the plains. When the sun was almost done, And forming on the horizon a small crest. A farmer came out to sit on his porch, After a long day of work to take his rest. When his wife came out, And kissed him on the cheek. She said to him you work to hard, Maybe you should rest for a day or week. You know I can’t said the farmer, We have to worry about food. And all bills we have to pay, Do you want to live in a hood? You no I don’t, Said the woman in such an attitude. That made the farmer thinks, Why was she talking this rude? But the farmer thought nothing of it, And arose to go to bed. He walked up the stairs, And laid down to rest his weary head. In the middle of the night, Arose such a clatter. That the farmer rose, To see what was the matter. He rushed to his closet, And through open the door. To grab his gun his father gave him, Who told him it was useful for ever more. He went down the stairs, In a manner so gentle. That made the man think could this be his wife leaving? Why he was thinking this, she could never leave him, was he mental? Why did he think this? He knew he could not be. If he thought this it could not be true, Not one thing is wrong with me. When he arrived down the stairs, He saw into the room. But saw nothing but the furniture, And some glass beside a broom. He starts for the kitchen, Since the lights were still going along. He turned the corner, And saw something was wrong. His wife was in there, A man had his arms around her shoulders rim. How could she do this he thought? So a fury of anger rose within him. He dashes in brandishing the gun, And yells at her I kill you and this man if I can. So he pulled the trigger, But nothing came out and killed man. Then everything happened in a fury, The farmer was on the ground after he fell. The unknown man was now on top of him, And the farmers head was ringing like a bell. The farmer fell asleep then, Not knowing where he was. He awoke with his hands tied in a dark cold room, With a lot of commotion coming from the room above that came like a buzz. He realized he was in his basement, And could no longer move his arms in any motion. So he tried to create a noise to be heard, But could not because of the upstairs commotion. With that man upstairs with his wife, And he down here with his hands behind his back. That man was messing around with his wife, And all he wanted to do is grab the axes and hack. His ties came loose, His hands were free. He got up and grabbed the axe, He ran to the door and yelled out you are only me. He slashed down the axe, It went down in a whir. The man now led dead on the cold floor, So now the farmer started for her. She exclaimed out to him, That was your son you just hurt, you are acting crazy. We put you down there to keep you come till we could surprise you in the mor… She went down like the man before her and the rest is a little hazy. When the farmer finally came back to reality, He was in a strange room. He stood before a man in black, Who seemed to be in a gloom? He said to the farmer in a booming voice, For what you have committed is so vile I can not think of a punishment to give. So I give you live in prison, You will never be a free man as long as you live. The farmer is now in a strange small room, A room he could no longer leave as he may. He said in a sorrowful voice how can I atone myself, He heard voice behind him say, I can think of a way.

I had to do it. Someone had to do it. I keep telling myself that. I should introduce myself. I am former General Jack Kerrington, Former Joint Chief Of Staff of the U.S. Armed Forces. Officially I am now global terrorist #1 and have been for the last 6 months. It's all a lie. But it's all over now. By 2047 the world was already beginning to crumble. The Pentagon Knew it, the Russians knew it, the Chinese, everyone who's anyone. NATO, the U.N., all of those poor sad motherfuckers. Someone has to take the blame. I volunteered. God I need a drink. Two weeks from now I am to be apprehended and publicly executed for my crimes. Someone has to take responsibility for this, might as well be me. I've already got so much blood on my hands, what's another couple of billion? They were all going to die anyways. Right? Average global temperature is over 4.6 degrees higher than it was in 2000. The year I was born. The new Millennium. You know I've got a video of Time Square in NY right as the ball dropped. I've been watching it a lot lately. **10** You know that day, around the world, there were no major incidences of conflict or war? Quite possibly for the first time in history. The early stages are characterized by influenza-like symptoms: general malaise, fever with chills, arthralgia and myalgia, and chest pain. **9** People look so happy, so hopeful. The Internet had practically just been invented as far as the average person was concerned. Nausea is accompanied by abdominal pain, anorexia, diarrhea, and vomiting. Respiratory tract involvement is characterized by pharyngitis with sore throat, cough, dyspnea, and hiccups. **8** Now, all the net has carried the last few years is news of another war, another famine. Another city under martial law. The central nervous system is affected as judged by the development of severe headaches, agitation, confusion, fatigue, depression, seizures, and sometimes coma. **7** Last decade, India and Pakistan half wiped each other off the map. We thought maybe that might be the end of this. The whole world blinked. Another day of world peace, weeks in fact, then months. Cutaneous presentation may include: maculopapular rash, petechiae, purpura, ecchymoses, and hematomas (especially around needle injection sites). **6** But you can't exactly ask people to starve can you? You can't ask them to stop filling up their car, to stop making things. Certainly not weapons. Everyone needs weapons now. Development of hemorrhagic symptoms is generally indicative of a negative prognosis. However, contrary to popular belief, hemorrhage does not lead to hypovolemia and is not the cause of death (total blood loss is low except during labor). **5** We all agreed this was the only solution. I wonder how many heads of state will commit suicide in the coming months. Me? I'm a free man. I already know my fate. Instead, death occurs due to multiple organ dysfunction syndrome (MODS) due to fluid redistribution, hypotension, disseminated intravascular coagulation, and focal tissue necroses. **4** Water began to run out first, even before Iowa became a desert. We did everything right you know? Got off coal, got off oil, solar panels everywhere. Wind farms. All that pointless shit. The mean incubation period, best calculated currently for EVD outbreaks due to EBOV infection, is 12.7 days (standard deviation = 4.3 days), but can be as long as 25 days. **3** So it came down to this: No one was going to stop first. Before India...9.8 billion people. 9.8 billion mouths to feed. Still 7.6 billion left. Even after the population decline of the last decade. ...has been confirmed to be transmitted through body fluids. Transmission through oral exposure and through conjunctiva exposure is likely and has been confirmed in non-human primates. **2** **Prognosis:** Average global temperature exceeds 6.5 Degree's Celsius within 3 decades. The Continental U.S., Europe, China, Russia. Mostly desert. Mortality rate within 6 decades: 95%. Within a century: 99.9%. Filoviruses are not naturally transmitted by aerosol. They are, however, highly infectious as breathable 0.8–1.2 micrometre droplets in laboratory conditions; because of this potential route of infection, these viruses have been classified as Category A biological weapons. **1.** We made it better. Much better. **Prognosis:** 70% global mortality rate, mean time to this number: 6 months. **Prognosis:** Percent chance of survival of the remaining 30%: 54%. Mean time to failure: 3 decades. Happy New Year.

The Girl There is a pulse to everything in life; a steady rhythm that resonates through this world, setting a pace for the mad race to nowhere we all seem to be competing in. Whether it is the catchy beat of a song stuck in our head as we bike to class, the violent rumbling of a towering thunderstorm, or the pounding heartbeats of two lovers beating in unison at the start of a sleepless night, every moment in life has a distinct cadence that seems at times to be the only thing pushing time forward. It can inspire euphoria or strike fear in our hearts, but with no regard for anyone else it presents itself and begs for our attention. It was the chaotic ringing of my alarm clock and subsequent pounding in my head that woke me up this morning. Like a bat out of hell the shrieking of that damned machine cut through the peaceful realm of my dream, dragging me into reality from some beautiful fantasy forever lost to the deep crevices of my subconscious. Sometimes I feel as though the hardest thing in life is dragging my ass out of bed after a long night. My dorm room is small and my roommate is either miraculously still sleeping or trying to salvage his own fantasy from the rude awakening of my alarm clock as I fumble to turn the damn thing off. Contrary to what most people believe, there is no such thing as silence. In the absence of my alarm, silence does not settle on us but rather the subtle vibrations of a hundred other students quietly preparing for the morning class we never should have signed up for. The scraping of my toothbrush, the hum of the AC kicking in, the roar of water rushing out of the shower head to meet me head on; one noise leading to another to compose the jumbled melody that echoes through the dorm hall and out into the crowded streets where it joins a symphony of cars, bikes, morning joggers, and disgruntled youth on their way to class. Soon I was a part of that symphony, playing my own part as I crawled to class. I put my headphones in to drown out the cacophony around me with something a little more familiar. I pressed the shuffle button and the song reminds me of a girl. My heart beat speeds up and joins the music as a wave of emotions rolls over me. Just as the different sounds of my morning routine had given way to one another so did my emotions. Joy at first, that she was coming in town to see me. Then doubt, that she would still feel the same as she did when we last spoke. Fear, that I wasn’t good enough. Anger, that I had once done wrong by her, putting me in such a delicate and unsure situation. Hope, that maybe we were still recoverable. It had been almost two years since I messed up, and here she was driving 6 hours just to see me. The fluctuations of my emotions settled into a steady drone of uncertainty as I crossed the street. The blaring of a car horn interrupts my favorite part of the song and I flick off the driver who was apparently so inconvenienced by a 5mph decrease in speed that he needed to let the whole block know. Asshole. The sun is warm on my back but a cool breeze pushing against me sends shivers down my spine. The thud of each footstep sends unwanted vibrations through my sore legs, and a stronger gust of wind presses against me. I imagine that with a mind of its own the wind was begging me to turn around. “Sorry,” I think, “my math professor probably won’t accept “the wind told me not to come” as an excuse for missing the quiz today.” I hate this class. While it may be easy, it’s also all the way across campus and at 9 in the morning. I miss summer with no responsibilities: when I could stay up late and look for trouble without a care in the world. We got in a big fight this summer; me and the girl did. It had been the first time we had spoken in over a year, and we were both drunk. She told me I didn’t deserve her. The worst part was that she was right. We didn’t talk again for a long while after that. Then out of the blue, about 2 months ago, she texted me. Somehow the conversation never ended. We talked everyday, and while it was strange at first, we slowly evolved, or perhaps regressed, to a level of comfort neither of us had known for years. It was great. Is great. Nine impressive booms brought me back to the present as the clock towers time reverberated across campus. I picked up my own pace knowing I hade 10 minutes to get there, my footsteps matching the beat of Mr. Kanye West’s music. I almost tripped stepping off the curb to cross the final street, my math building directly ahead. Embarrassed I glare at the chubby kid passing on my right who had let out a short laugh at my expense. Another car horn from my left requests a vulgar reply but my world is spinning before I have the chance to accommodate it. All I see is the blue sky; it really is a nice day. Something hurts, but I don’t know what. My head feels wet, and somebody is kneeling over me yelling something. I want to ask her to talk slower but my voice escapes me. I remember six years ago when I first met her, the girl that is. A teacher kicked me out of my reading class because I would finish my work too fast and pester the other kids. I was placed into an advanced program for students who “though outside the box” as they said. I didn’t really care at the time, I wasn’t the most popular kid and another class just meant another group of assholes who wanted to prove they were better than me. This class was no exception. Some guy spent most of class pretending to yawn as he flexed for the whole class, and girls just loved it. But she was in there. She liked him, but that was to be expected. He was confident and athletic, me: not really either. I hear a siren coming, and I want to tell them that it really is unnecessary; I’m fine. It’s Valentines Day and I’m anxiously sitting in second period. I had bought her flowers the day before. Two roses to be delivered sometime this period. I can hardly contain myself. My best friend runs into my class laughing hysterically. He says I spelt her name wrong on the card, first and last. I can’t believe it. I’m so embarrassed. That familiar racing of my heart, the loud anxious beating that seems to have been ever present in my youth, sends blood rushing to my cheeks. Somebody is pressing on my chest, and blowing into my mouth. I think about asking the paramedic if he plans on buying me dinner after, but that would probably be awkward. The tempo of his hands weighing into my chest reminds me of my own heartbeat, which strangely is suddenly so much quieter. It’s been a month since I butchered my Valentines Day plans, and I pass the girl and her new boyfriend walking down the hall. I decide to take the long way to class from now on, and I’m swallowed by a sea of noisy students performing a piece unique to the depravity of middle school. The paramedic’s head is eclipsing the sun behind him, and I realize for the first time this morning just how cold it is. I feel the cool breeze flowing over me. Sandwiched between the cold ground and the paramedic, I remember the gust of wind that had asked me to turn back. I wish I had listened. It’s 3 years ago. I’m a sophomore and a little more mature than the awkward preteen who barely survived middle school. Through some bad experiences with girls I’d become a little jaded. The disappearance of the ignorant nice guy persona ironically gave way to a more confident attitude that some described as me being, well, an asshole. I walked through the door of my Spanish class and my eyes immediately fell on her. The girl, who sat right next to me, was dating some other kid in the class, but that didn’t stop me from trying to occupy all her attention right in front of him. She was temporarily out of reach, but I was making an impression. As the teacher’s instructions began to fill the room with the unfamiliar tone of a foreign language, I glance over at her, she at me, and I wink. The paramedic stops performing CPR. His tireless effort seems to have finally found success. But the sad expression on his face and the stillness of my chest forces me to realize the alternative. It’s October 10, 2009, a little over two years ago. Or maybe it’s the 11th, I’ve been drinking and time loses meaning on nights like these. I pull my shirt over my head, my pants long gone. The girl pulls me on top of her, and we kiss. Four long years brought me to her, and there is nothing in my world except the pounding of her heart against my chest, the rhythm of our tongues, and the room spinning around me. But before we could proceed a thundering knock interrupts our perfect moment. Somebody calls up that my dad is drunk and at the front door. I realize that this might not end the way I’d hoped. Everything seems distant, surreal. I want to look around me but I cant. I want to get up and run back to my dorm but I cant. I’m stuck on the ground surrounded by the pulsating whaling of police sirens that for once in my life is comforting. It’s December 28, 2009, and I’m carrying flowers towards her front door. It’s her birthday, and I hear the gentle hum of Christmas music from the other side of the door. She answers the door in a bra and Santa skirt, her perfect body greeting me in a fashion I could never have fantasized. She leads me up the stairs as our footsteps echo through the empty house, and I am truly happy. The ever-present pulse that prods life along doesn’t miss a beat, and I can feel it leaving me. All the beautiful sounds of the city are slowing down, and the cries of people around me have all but faded away, but I can’t be mad that the rhythm is leaving me. It has a job to do and I wouldn’t deny the rest of the earth its soothing presence. It’s April 12, 2010, a year and a half ago. She is crying. I’m crying. Were standing in the parking lot at sprouts. I’m begging for a second chance, and she doesn’t know what to do. She can’t trust me she says. She doesn’t understand why or how I could do this to her. I don’t either. She drives away, and I’m left standing in the punishing cold, unwilling to admit this is real. I close my wet eyes, and the roar of the wind envelopes my senses. I feel like I’m sinking into myself. A darkness on all sides begins to encroach on my vision, and a silence settles on me for the first time. There is no pain, except regret. The girl. I wont be able to see the girl tonight.

Stone To Antichthon Colors explode into a whirling vortex of disorientation. Flash after flash speeding up until it becomes a dull pulsating grey light flooding the pin sized black pits of Stones eyes. Stone was use to danger, but this situation transcended danger and stumbled into existential chaos. Stone’s mind, too terrified to even consider his present situation, began to drift away…drift to thoughts of war, thoughts of bloodshed, thoughts of fire and destruction… it was his happy place. He remembered the Battle of Omniopticon, where he single handedly took on an entire planet of pissed off Cyclopes’ with only his hands and a pointy stick. He remembered his epic battle with Jupitino Galaxion, this universe’s space maggot Emperor. The melee took place in the cold vacuum of space where, with a single gulp of air and only the suit in which he was born, he leapt from his space craft and fought Jupitino bare fisted and bare assed. He remembered the challenge put forth to him by ‘Doc’, the Earth’s most genius and crazed xenotech scientist. “Stone,” Doc said, “if you can get me the three space relics of Tartartartarus I can craft you a weapon of unimaginable force and creation.” “Will there be danger?” Stone asked while chawing on a gumdrop, his favorite substitute for sex and/or violence. “Like you have never even contemplated.” “Where do I start?” This began one of the most harrowing and terrifying journeys any man has ever faced. A tale of crushing force meets blinding might. The story that made Stone the legend his is today. A story that traversed the known universe and a few unknown ones. But this is not that tale. This is just a memory of that tale inside of the story about how Stone went from hero to pariah by being the most brave human to ever live. This is the story of how Stone brought the plague back to Earth and caused the mess that defined Stone, not as a hero of legend, but as harbinger of our Earth’s destruction. Stone’s mind wandered back to his space vessel which was shaking so violently that the interior became a blur of white, but that’s what it was supposed to do. Stone’s entire body shook to the point where he felt as if every atom in his body was trying to divorce itself from it’s neighbor, but that was what they were supposed to do. Stone’s mind began to wander away again to his last meeting with the president. Stone didn’t like the president, but he also didn’t dislike him. Stone didn’t really like or dislike much of anything because he rarely considered anything except for how to fulfill his visceral urges. This was Stone’s way. It’s not that Stone was compassionless or incapable of empathy, it’s just that when you’re of an almost demi-god status it’s hard to relate to the common man, and the president was definitely a common man. The president was an older fat man with Droopy Dog jowls and a horseshoe of white hair around his head. He wore thick black glasses that made his eyes look like they were about 5 feet further away than the rest of his face. He usually wore white suits that fit impeccably and he almost always had a cigarette in his mouth, unless he was on TV…then it was a stubby cigar. Like most other humans, the president was full of fear and ignorance. Like most other humans the president had believed that he was important, then he convinced the rest of the world to believe that he was important and this affirmed his belief that he was important. This was the major difference between Stone and the president; where the president based his beliefs and feelings on the beliefs and feelings of his peers, Stone has no peers to base his beliefs and feelings on and even if he did he wouldn’t give a shit what they believed or felt. This is why the president hated Stone. “Stone,” said the president with a mouth full of cigarette smoke, “the Earth is fucked and you’re the only man that rip the cock out of it.” He choked on his last word and began a coughing fit that ended in an oyster of brown jelly hurling itself from his mouth to the center of the great seal of the United States of Earth which adorned the floor of SMS #23, the president’s favorite secret meeting spot. Stone was staring at the brown, shiny, jiggling lump of lung that the president had ejected onto the floor. He thought about how the president was very much like the loogie; small, weak, and poisonous. Stone was half listening when he replied, “I prefer fucking to unfucking, but a job’s a job. What’s the skinny?” Stone’s mind faded back again to his spacecraft. The vibrations had ceased, but that’s what they were supposed to do. Stone began to panic. “Why isn’t this iPod lookin’-ass ship vibrating anymore? Has Doc’s device shut down? Doc, you funky ass turd… this ship is about to hit the sun at 10,000 miles per minute and Iccarus the hell out of itself...damn.” His knuckles whitened against the white leather armrests of the captain’s chair he was strapped into. Everything in the vessel was calm except for Stone. He decided to look out the porthole in an attempt to calm himself down. Stone was always fascinated with the cosmos and would spend many nights, after single-handedly destroying a city and ravishing the sexy inhabitants, laying alone looking out at the stars and planets with a clear mind and calm body. This is what Stone was hoping a peek out the porthole would do for him now. What he saw was at first terrifying, and then soothing. The stars and planets were all streaks and blurs and circles. “Doc’s device has leaked out into the universe. A universal sub-atomic disintegration of weak nuclear force! Crap!” Stone took a deep breath, held it, and then he remembered what Doc had told him as he prepared for what would be his second to last adventure ever. “Differentiational Vibrofrequential Degravitizing Atomomicon, or DVDA, is going to be known as the greatest invention ever created. You remember your little trip to Tartartartarus?” said Doc as he and Stone sat in the foreign dignitary’s lounge aboard Space Station Station, named for the not so great General James “Space” Station. General Station had an illustrious military career without ever engaging in combat more dangerous than a rec hall ping pong match. He appears much later in this story so we’ll just move on. “You mean the 10 years I spent genociding planets full of horrible little soft creatures looking for those damned relics? Yeah, I remember. The year I came back I fathered practically an entire generation. “ “Ok stud, well, are you familiar with dark matter?” Doc asked with a bet you don’t kind of look in his eyes. “You mean the crap I kept running into while crossing the known universe? You can’t see that stuff, even with your headlights on!” Stone replied while slowly flipping a green gumdrop in and out of his mouth with his tongue. “Yes yes, very annoying stuff…well, were you aware that there is also such a thing as light matter? A matter that is solid light. Solid energy.” “Is that what you had me on the road for 10 years to get? Some crappy old light bulbs?” Stone spit out the gumdrop so fast it cinged a few of Doc’s white hairs black and hit a fly so hard it’s atoms fused with the gumdrop and created a new molecule, Flumdropnium, the most powerful molecule in the known mulitverse. The Flumdropnium sat on the floor for 4 days before Carl, 21 year old super-science janitor, swept it up and hauled it to the trash. It will be 38,000 years before any sentient creature will come into contact with it. Be patient, 38,000 years goes by pretty quick when you’re reading. “No, in fact what you went to get is the rarest of rare elements… Chiaroscuro Matter. Possessing the power of both light and dark matter, chiaroscuro matter is the fuel for the DVDA. It’s the only thing powerful enough to control the vibrational frequencies of any and every atom within it’s field. It can match resonance with any other atoms so perfectly that it allows whatever is within it’s field to pass through matter frictionlessly. “ The last word Doc said echoed in Stones head as his mind crawled back to the ship, ‘frictionlessly’ back to the white leather captains chair, ‘frictionlessly’ back to the small porthole Stone was looking out, ‘frictionlessly’ back to the violent shaking and spinning of the stars in his eyes…and then he exhaled. “Holy crap…it worked.” Stone let his titan’s grip of the armrests go and threw his hands out in front of himself letting his elbows give a loud * CRACK * before pulling up his vid screen. On the screen was one green word in the center of a sea of black pixels. READY? Stone watched the cursor below the word flash in a hypnotically metered fashion. He began to sing the tune “Duke of Earl” in time with the cursor flashes which were incredibly slow and so the version of the song that began to infect his mind sounded more like a death march than doo-wop. Boots with trousers tucked in, trousers with shirts tucked in, shirts with soldiers tucked in, soldiers with jaws tucked in, jaws with teeth tucked in, teeth slowly chattering to the dull beat of the ‘Duke of Earl’ death march as the President addresses the known universe via mega-satellite. There were rows of teeth in rows of soldiers in rows of platoons in rows of armies in rows of nations in rows of planets in rows of galaxies all watching, all waiting, all fearing things they know they don’t know and wish they never had. “My fellow Universicans,” the President began his speech as he began all speeches. He liked to exude an air of familiarity with the common man while still asserting his egocentric dominance over the inhabitants of the known universe. “We are at a turning point in history. A point where we must decide if we are going to roll over and take it like my… ahem… ’a’ cheap hooker, or if we will stand up and face what’s coming head on." The President stared at his vid-prompter as the words, 'Hold for applause', flashed bright white through his thick glasses lenses, onto his tobacco stained corneas, through his optic lenses, flipped upside-down onto his corneas, relayed back to his angry and self-conscious brain only to be flipped back right-side-up. There it was, large as the universe, and he couldn't help focusing on the word, 'Hold'. Hold on, hold tight, hold yer horses. Horses with long flowing manes and robust bosoms like a German bar maiden. Horses running across a beach, wind blowing their hair, heaving breasts swaying in slow motion like his great grandmother President's angel food Jello mold. Ahh grammie. Then he continued. "About a month ago our scientists began receiving untranslatable messages from what appears to be the heart of the Sun. After gathering the world’s top scientists, linguists, and xenologists, we have a pretty good idea that these messages are declarations of war. We will not sit idle by and allow some cretins from the Sun to come down to our sandbox and take all our toys! If these Sunners want a war we are going to bring it to them. We are at war with the UNKNOWN and we have just the guy to kick the UNKNOWN’s ass! We are sending Stone to the heart of the Sun.

As the Gate closed behind her, Oromis scream out, “No, Not Again, don’t leave me, please not again.” He slowly turned as he heard the sadistic chuckle of the Devour. “oh hero, it looks as if your done, broken, you have nothing left.” Oromis closed his eyes and through clecnhed teeth said, “ you’re a monster, you take everything, and gourge yourself on the pain and suffering that follows. You took everything from me. My Friends, MY FAMILY, EVEN MY HOME. YOU ARE NOTHING BUT A DISEASED FILTH! And now you took the only thing from me that I lived for, I am going to kill you.” Then maniacally the Devour said, “you can try human.” Oromis lunged at the Devour and transformed in the air, slamming into his chest and knocking the Devour backwards. “You foolish boy,” screamed the Devour, “ You will die for this!” The Devour knocked Oromis over with ease and picked up his blackened sword. “I will kill you boy.” Angered Oromis stood up and summoned Archfane still fresh with the blood of Lighthunter. Oromis struck fast, but the Devour parried every move Oromis made. Finally Devour struck Oromis in his side, and Oromis’ vision blurred. With the last once of effort he had oromis stabbed Archfane through The Devours heart. Stumbling backwards oromis watched as The Devour pulled Archfane from his chest and through it onto the ground. Laughing the Devour said, “You stupid, foolish boy, you can not kill me and now I am goi….” His sentence was struck short as the black shining ebony blade of Lighthunter cut through the Devour. “I learned something father. I do not have to serve you, I am my own person,” as the words escaped Lighthunters mouth you could see the draining of the Devour’s life. “Why my boy, why did you do this.” “Because eyou are a monster, who murders and kills for fun.” “You betrayed me son,” and with that the Devour dropped dead. Oromis crawled over to were Lighthunter layed dieing. “Thank you Oromis,” said Lighthunter as he layed dieing, “you showed me a better way… Thank you.” “Thank you, Lighthunter, for your sacrifice,” and Lighthunter passed. With Shaking steps Oromis approached the Gate. “Let me through, please let me see her, be with her… Let me please stay with her.” “You do not know what your asking for, or the price in which that would cost.” “Then I give you everything, my heritage, my abilities, my powers, make me human if you need to, just please let me be with her. “You would give up all this? Everything you worked for? You culd be a hero in this universe.” “I do not wish to be a hero, I only want her, just let me through.” “Then I accept your price, you will live a happy, normal life, no powers, nothing, except a normal life with her.” And with a flash Truth was gone.

For my fear of copyright laws and so forth I only have here a few paragraphs of a fantasy epic I plan on and have already begun writing. The main problem with these things is they take forever, and I would really appreciate some reassurance that people might actually be interested. Thanks. Nark had never been more exultant. The air reeked of blood, sweat and the blistering cold of the great eastern mountains of Norskabba. The half-light of dusk cast an eerie glow off the thick rock hard snow. This Nark regarded with intense interest; he had always found it fascinating how the entire world would change in nature so incredibly drastically in a matter of hours. Earlier a heavy blizzard had suffocated them, but now the battle worn fellowship stood in a world completely frozen. They had fought under a blanket of ice cold blades, each of which had stung with such mind numbing pain Nark felt sure that by the end of the slaughter he would be riddled with scars. Indeed, the young adolescent warrior was covered head to toe in frozen blood, though none of it was his own. The ice had done no more than the swords, and even when three burly pale men had targeted him at once he had not flinched. These men were armed and armored with steel, iron and bronze, but their glorious trinkets cost them their speed, and though the metal was impenetrable it provided no comfort from the cold, and for this the men became lumbering bulks of roars and self pity. The ice stung their eyes, their discomfort in this strange new frozen wasteland stung their hearts, and Nark’s narwhal tusk dirk stung their exposed throats. His three opponents had fallen as one, and as their life’s blood ebbed from them, wept as one. Nark sank into his furs and his thoughts while around him his companions did the same. There were ten of them now. Earlier there had been twelve; but Zrej and Barlask had been given the appropriate rites and burnt. They had died bravely and honorably, and even when Barlask had been found, his stomach torn open and a thousand writhing black snakes pouring out, neither had begged nor cried nor wept. Nark approved, and cut off a lock of hair for each of them with the others during the rites. Throughout this, and the battle, no one had spoken. There was no need, and sound carried on the ice plains. That was how they had found the enemy. There had been a hundred of them- perhaps two hundred- clattering their way down a river bed between two ridges. For whatever reason they had thought the roar of the blizzard would muffle any sound they might make, and so had made it their mission to complain their way through the wet and cold. The Norsk warriors had fallen on them in silence. The blizzard was their ally, and the cold all the armor they had required. They had spared no survivors.

Sorry in advance, my new year's resolution was to try my hand at writing at least once a week, so this is my sloppy first attempt at a pointless short story. Bear with me, it really is pretty short. I looked down and saw the little pock marks on the long bruises I called arms, and rolled down my sleeves. There was a whistling sound in my head driving me bad shit mad. ... So he looked at me with his sad face, with his petty remorse and his puppy dog eyes. “I have to do this, and I’m offering you a place in my committee because I want you to be here with me, making more money than you already do and hopefully living a better life.” I was fuming but something was gnawing at me in the back of my head. What if he was saying this kindly, not sarcastically? It took me a second to register that he wasn’t faking any emotions. I realized that the entire life I had known him he was a real, authentic individual. I guess the past several years had taken its toll on me, and I may have become slightly cynical. I looked up and into his eyes and saw no dark spots of mal-intent. He was a businessman, yes, and a wealthy and calculated one at that. But he had a core, sensible and clean, that he had always held within him since before he was picking my sorry ass off the floor after fights in junior high. He legitimately cared for me, but as I usually did, I dug deeper. I thought about his goals. He had a family, and however poorly he treated his kids, the real kindness you can find in a man isn’t reflected by how often he treats his children, but simply how he treats them. Molding them to have traits for success isn’t a poor thing of him to do at all, and when he was kind and loving to them it was golden with no itemistic parts. He never treated them to ice cream or toys as rewards, they had birthdays and christmas, but even then maybe a surprise toy wasn’t the worst thing in the world for them. It was more the principle that a reward system was right for his kids, he would rather them be content with what they had. It was important to him, contentedness, the rich, bussiness-expanding, effluent douchebag. He just gave them his holy words and that was more than enough to have them happy for that day and give them a lingering dad-high for the rest of the week. But in the end, he valued his family over me. He knew that in the end, he would have to do something about me, and bringing me in was the best he could do. No, he just wanted to do it, the difference being that I could tell he wanted this all along, for me to with him. I selfishly said no. I told him I had more important things to do than to be in his heartless rich-boy 401k club and told him my family relied on me and it was all lies, every word. I wanted to tear up and give him the hug I had held in since junior high, but my head was somewhere else. It was as if somebody else had taken over my body and was headstrong, pessimistic, and a complete and utter liar. I told him to fuck off, and I told him to kill himself. I wanted to be dead. My family hated me and I was going down the rabbit hole. I was going to be homeless in a week and a day if by tomorrow he decided to go through with his plan. I walked up, sarcastically thanked him, feinted him a handshake and then punched him in his jaw. As hard as I possibly could. Who did he think he was? Toying with my emotions as he did. He took another blow to the face. Somebody other than me was doing it, I swear. I was next to the man doing it, looking at HIM over his shoulder, but he was getting bloodier and bloodier. I got up and saw blood on my knuckles. That’s weird, I thought. There was no blood from my first hit on him. His lip split on the third blow. I shrugged, confused, and left the room. I could hear him crying. Maybe it was me. My world was bending, swirling into a hole, and I wasn’t even fighting the current dragging me into it. I laughed and fell into the rabbit hole, cursing love and intentions, where they could never hurt me again. I looked up, saw the sky and broken glass, which was falling, increasing in velocity, but never passing me.

"I'm sorry, Gary." The last words I remember saying. We were sitting at a table outside a cafe, just having a good conversation, but a part of me just felt like some just wasn't right. I couldn't do this anymore. I remember seeing his displeasure as I turned away to leave. He looked so heartbroken, so vulnerable. His face tensed at the shock of it all. It was killing me inside. Gary's a great guy, but this was for the best. That's the last thing I remember before everything got dark. My head hurts. I'm getting a stabbing pain in my head. "Wake up." A voice. A foggy, drowned out voice. "Wake up. We're going to be late." It's cold. I feel... weak. "C'mon wake up already. Boss'll be pissed if we're late again." My eyes were openned. It was Gary. He's smiling. He's looking down at me with a gentle stare and a relaxed grin. He looks... happy. But where am I? A single bulb hanging from the stain covered ceiling, dimly lights the bleak room. The walls decorated with wallpaper with little ducks on them. Parts of it are peeling though, and some of the molding seems to be falling apart. I don't remember being here before. *"Where are we?"* I said. "Ah there you go. About time you woke up. Now we need to get you dressed and well fed or you're going to be cranky all day and complain about how Greg won't shut up about his stupid four year old daughter." Did Gary not hear me? *"Gary, what are we doing here?"* I tried again. Something's wrong. Nothing came out. "I know Greg's an ass, but you can't say that about his daughter. And I'm pretty sure that's illegal in some states." Gary opens a drawer from a nearby dresser. He picks out a blue and white plaid dress shirt. It's got a stain on the sleeve. Possibly from spilt coffee. He should clean that. "Here we go. Your favorite shirt." I lost that shirt weeks ago. Why does Gary have it? *"Why do you have my shirt?"* I can't move. Why can't I move? Something is definitely wrong. "Now put this on and let's get going." I CAN'T MOVE! Gary sighs... "Do I have to help you again? Geez, what would you do without me?" He sits me up. There's cardboard under me. My feet look pale. My body feels... heavy. "Oh please. You didn't have to say that." He lifts up my arm and slides it through the sleeve of the dirty shirt. "I know you appreciate me." This isn't right. I don't understand any of this. I can't move. My head hurts. WHERE AM I? "There. Now you look good as new." Gary says as he's finished buttoning up the shirt. "See for yourself." Gary turns my head towards a mirror on the other side of the dingy room. I'm dead. There's a hole in my head. Blood wiped off my pale, blue face, but some of it still there. I'm decrepid. My head falls over as Gary positions me over his shoulder. "Oh no, don't feel bad. You look great!" He lifts my head up again. "Why thank you. I really do think we make a great pair. Now let's get going." He's been playing with me.

I know I had come across true love once, and I know it because the feeling still burns in my bones. I met him at the age of 4, his name was Elijah. Never in a million years would I have thought that I would see him fade into colorless dust, brushing away to coat the earth and never be found, leaving his family like a shipwreck in a never-ending tide. Elijah, oh how much I could have done for you, how much I could have done to save you. But in my seven year old shoes, I stood paralyzed as menacing arms gripped mine, with a scolding voice that replayed over and over in my head. One day, we were going to stare deep into each-others eyes, telling ourselves it was where we wanted to be for the rest of our lives. We were going to run in our adult shoes, playing tag, until our legs didn't work anymore. That was our true fate, not this. Nothing would have burnt us to the ground. But now I live with a demon always sitting on my shoulder. He likes to laugh at me for what I've done, reminding me of the horrors over again, just as soon as I try to move on. He binds me with chains of silence, he binds me with a closed mind. He draws the man who burnt my clothes, the man who burnt your life. Elijah, I could have saved you. Elijah... One day, I hope you will forgive me. But do you remember our last day together, Elijah? The one where we walked home from school through fields of gold, spinning the earth beneath our feet? Do you remember the sun and how it melted the clouds beneath it, revealing the freckles on our faces? Our hands intertwined unconsciously, as our tiny hearts beat like racing drums. We ran until our laughter knocked us down, and stayed until the sky was coated with marmalade. If only we could have frozen the moment and never moved on. If only we could have both stayed in our seven year old bodies. If only I had never been given the opportunity to grow up alone. I wish our hands stayed intertwined the whole way through. I wish we closed our eyes, and imagined the sun was melting us into the fields of gold. I wish my little legs didn't learn to escape. I wish it was me instead of you, so that you could have run home to your family, letting them know everything was okay. And in this moment, I wish the fires that covered you could dry my tears. I searched for you in the eyes of the sun, in the dancing wheat that feathered my eyes, in the butterfly wings that flapped my hair gently behind my ears. I searched for you in the cotton tails of the milk weeds, parting from their buds, to say hello as soon as they said goodbye, soon brushing through familiar cornstalks, to reveal your marble face. Oh Elijah, how I wait for the day your smile will bring the field back to life, but all I see are charcoal dusted, broken stalks, with a demon dancing on top of a mountain of ember lit ashes, acting as if nothing were wrong, as if this place were a sanctuary of good dreams, where kids like us could play all day and all night long and never be taken away. Elijah, I can't look at those milk weeds anymore, because they always say hello, and I never got to say good-bye. The heat of Summer always reminded me of the comfort of my mother, but now, it greets me like the trees of Winter. Somehow I still stay horrendously captivated in Summer's reign, climbing through Peter as you once did, with trembling soles that found it hard to grip his bark, hoping to keep balance long enough to pick a peach that matched the colors of the run down sky. Remember when you would take a big bite, back cradled against Peter's torso, trying to caress the crescent moon into the empty space? I guess the real question is, how could you ever forget it? You were my summer, Elijah, and now it's nothing but a bittersweet memory with an ending that left me with a dark, hollow core that can't be sealed with even the purest words of sympathy or remorse. … It's a nightmare that makes it hard to live. A nightmare that I can't seem to forget.

Declaration of Peace Mother told that it had been almost seventy years since peace had been declared by the Leaders. The Anniversary was scheduled for the next week and the country prepared in committed silence. Candles sparked to life in windows, streamers hung low over the streets, and the men began to pin their regulation Doves to their marching uniforms. Dad had begun to practice marching with the rest of the men for the annual Reenactment. Mother wouldn’t let him where his Dove in the house though, even if it was regulation. Mother moved absentmindedly when the Reenactments approached, she seemed distracted and her eyes turned red. She would mumble things to herself while moving about the house like “The men always come back alright” or “It’s An Honor when they stay.” Most of the women used the same phrases to console each other while the men were gone; seemed like Mother was practicing. For most though the excitement became palpable the closer the Reenactment drew; it was everywhere we went. The Colours of the year flew in the streets: a regal purple, gold, and white. The newspapers carried the Colours high and low, paperboys screamed out the bulletin. Houses prepped and dressed to look the part and popular fashion followed to compliment. Patriotism rose in the Secondary Schools as it did that time of the year; they bragged about the bonds they would purchase for the celebration. After the schools let out, factories like Dad’s lit up and the Colours were cut into fabric for the uniforms. The men’s Class A emulated power: Purple suit with gold twine and white rank, the men looked kingly that year. The marching improved daily and I with my young peers helped distribute plastic flowers to the men as they began to leave. The synthetic colours sparkled in the sunlight as the men accepted them and kept strutting. The night Dad left, he stooped to hug me and say good bye. His eyes crinkled like he was laughing as he assured me that he would come back soon enough; it was only a quick Reenactment. The purple of his collar shadowed his face; he seemed resigned under his thin happiness. Standing he turned to Mother, and opened his hand for her; she gingerly took his Dove and embraced him. “I have to go.” He said. Mother released and he was gone. The gold trim on his coat shimmered in the moon as he fell into formation. “It was An Honor,” Mother said, her moonlit cheek dry in the wind.

I look into her eyes. I see the girl I once loved, but now she is a cold, heartless monster. Where in our own world, our made up world. I see our house, its slowly fading away. I lay on our couch crying from the pain she give me. I watch her as she packs up her bags and leave. Our children run over to me crying asking, "Where's mommy going?", "Why is she leaving?" I answer them with, “She no longer loves us kids.” They run to her asking her to stay but she shakes her head ‘no’ and begins to leave. That’s when it happens. The world that I and she made begins to fade away I see the walls disappearing. I hold my children in my arms saying, “Please not Sebastian and Estella. Anything but my children.” I hold them as tight to me as I say, “It’s going to be all right, don’t worry daddy is going to fix this.” I begin to cry even more knowing there’s nothing I can do to stop this. Our world is nearly gone all that’s left is the house, already half of the house is gone, the area around us is starting to fade. I kiss my children as they begin to fade, the whole time I’m staring into her eyes, she only sheds a tear as our children disappear. When I no longer feel them I feel another wave of tears wash over me as I get up in a rage yelling, “You heartless bastard how could you? Our kids are gone because of you!! All because it became to challenging for you??” I back away, lying down in pain tracing circles in the ground. I’m just there in the darkness and pain. She then dries up her tear and leaves threw the door as I hold the only remaining evidence of what I use to have. The photo is the best one of my no longer family. I cry deeply tracing the images of my family. Sebastian is the first to start fading; I start to cry even more as I lose memory of him, my only son. Next is my baby girl Estella, another wave of tears as the memory of her is gone from my mind. Then is the girl I had let in, my wife. I don’t recall the feelings as she began to fade all I could remember was when she was mine. The photo now contains just me I cry as I try to remember my family but can’t. I scream out in pain and agony, “YOU HEARTLESS MONSTER!!!!!” I then fall back down and lay there as I try to remember my family, all I can recall is the feelings I thought I had for…..her. The door she left in disappears as well. I just lay there, a shell of the man I once was.

Along the roadside in a dusty, barren countryside, there lived an old woman who never spoke to anyone. In fact, nobody even knew her name. She never left her house, and few ever even claimed to have seen her at all, lest knew what she looked like. She ate only the food she grew in her garden, although no one ever seemed to see her actually gardening. It would just be barren and then repopulated with fruits, vegetables, and grains. It is safe to say that many people in the nearby town of Misgave thought the woman to be pretty odd indeed. The oldest residents of the town of Misgave even tell stories of when they were young, recounting their knowledge of the odd woman who lived in the house by the dusty roadside. Many thought this to be impossible, as the old townsfolk were very old themselves, and how old would this make the woman? Most likely it was an old wive's tale passed on generation to generation, but the old townsfolk insisted that their stories were true. And especially older gentleman by the name of Took Adams even claimed he met with the old woman when he was a boy, about 9 or 10 years old, and that she invited him in for lunch one day since he found himself wandering the old dusty overgrown road by the woman's house by himself, no doubt daydreaming about cowboys, or being a famous gunslinger himself. Took Adams tells of the woman being cheerful in nature, with an odd mysticism about her, and that her hair smelled faintly of old sage and basil. Once during their lunch, he asserts, she offered him some sweet candy that she said she made from the ingredients of her garden. Took claims it was the sweetest and most delicious candy he'd ever tasted, but at some point during their lunch, the old woman became angry with him, and showed a side of herself that he hadn't expected. He later told of seeing a sort of fire in her eye, and teeth bared, stained a putrid green. Took said the woman quickly regained her composure, and delightfully sent him on his way and told him that perhaps he shouldn't wander this far down the road again. This story has no doubt been embellished over the years, most so by old Took himself, perhaps to make himself more exciting or interesting, as he desired the company of people more in their youth, so as to feel younger himself, as older people tend to do. "She must be close to 110 years old by now!" Took would exclaim to anyone that would listen. In the barren countryside, along that dusty roadside, more dust than usual was spitting and clouding up. A car was zooming past the old woman's house. "Be careful Aaron! This road isn't exactly the autobahn as you've probably noticed. Slow down man!" Riley Trainer was very protective of his new car, and allowing his younger brother Aaron to drive his new Chevy Volt even a couple miles during their cross country road trip was nerve racking to him. The fact that Aaron was thoroughly testing the shocks in the Volt on a country road was most displeasing to him. "Alright alright, sorry, I'll let you get back to your precious driver's seat", but just as he finished his placating to Riley, a loud *SNAP* emitted from under the car, and a *POP* and *SCRAAAAPE* came from under the hood. The car rolled to a stop about a hundred yards from an old looking house down the road. "Shit, man! If you screwed up my car I'm going to kill you! Get out, let's check it out." Riley jumped out of the car and began inspecting the damage. Aaron sheepishly opened the driver side door and put his hands in his pockets, sauntering over to his brother who was on his hands and knees examining the underside of the car. "I'm sorry Riley, I wasn't going that fast, I was even slowing down when it happened." "It's alright, it's alright, let's just see if we can get it started again and drive it to the nearest town." Riley sounded exasperated, or possibly relieved that his younger brother was no longer driving the car, albeit at the expense of his newly acquired vehicle. "Hey, Riles, why don't we just walk to that house and call a tow truck or something from there?" Both boys turned their gaze to the distant house on the side of the dusty road. It puffed out a calming cloud of white smoke from the chimney and the two brothers exchanged satisfied glances. "At least someone's home", Riley stated simply. They began walking to the odd looking house when all of a sudden a light burst on from the inside of the dwelling.

I miss the ducks. Ducks aren’t really something that you think you would miss. They quack, they flutter, they seem to sleep with their necks at a hundred and eighty degrees, they swim around all day and always move around in a loud quacking herd. Like I said, not the sort of creatures that you would actively notice but now that they’re gone, I do miss them. As it turned out, ducks were a lot smarter than they appeared to be. I remember the day when they let their intelligence be known to us humans. It was a pretty average, sunny April day, and I am certain that there were many old men all around the world, sitting by lakes and ponds with a loaf of bread, that would have got the shock of their entire lives (or shock to end their lives). All of a sudden, apparently, they just started talking to anything around them, other birds, dogs, trees and humans. It took longer than you would expect for them to realise that the humans were the ones that could respond back. I somehow don’t think that this was the fault of the ducks. All this I read in the newspapers, I didn’t really live near any lakes or ponds, so my contact with the birds was fairly limited. I still remember the headline that I read and was highly amused and shocked by: Ducks Self Aware – Happy in Water. The article, obviously very attention grabbing, had the perfect combination of shock, amusement and wonder. The article went on to describe what I have just described; that the ducks suddenly began communicating. The most interesting part of the article, after the premise, was exactly what the ducks were communicating to us; they were so amazingly happy in water! Early communications with the ducks were apparently completely based around water. Not from a lack of wishing from us humans to talk about complex problems such as life, philosophy, the best kinds of bread, but because water seemed to be the only thing the ducks were either willing or capable of talking about. As the headline suggested, they were completely happy in water. Being an intelligent, rational, and completely arrogant human being, I decided that it was worth a shot to go talk to the ducks. I thought it would be the experience of a lifetime to go and talk to the ducks, and if I could get them to talk about things other than water then I would be hailed as some kind of intellectual genius. I got in my car and started to drive. It only then occurred to me that I wasn’t entirely sure where to find ducks. I pulled over, thought about it, and then headed to the nearest lake. As I approached the lake I saw a parade of hundreds of cars and pedestrians, some wearing duck masks, blocking the way. Obviously they all had the same idea as me, so I decided to turn around, go home, and try again another day. I decided to not even attempt to go back down to the Lake for a couple of weeks, knowing that the fancy of humans is intense but short lived, but from everything I had read and heard from my friends, water was still the main topic of conversation. Still, being the curious human being I was (and still am) I finally decided to go three and a half weeks after the newspaper article was published. I went to the same lake as before, only this time it was no fuller of people and cars than it would be on any regular sunny Thursday afternoon. I had no trouble finding a parking spot. I left my car, with a loaf of bread in hand, and headed for the edge of the lake. I had trouble spotting the birds, but I eventually saw a group of them paddling away on the far side of the lake. I sat and watched them for a little while, and when I was sure they weren’t moving from that spot I decided to walk over to them. As I approached where they were swimming, I head a strange voice that had an almost robotic quality to it, “What you care for some water?” Needless to say, I was surprised to see that it was a duck speaking to me, not because it was a shock, but because it was just strange to hear for the first time. “No, thank you, I have my own.” “Is it fresh?” The duck asked me in an automatic manner. “Yeah, I think so. From the tap.” I responded warmly. “Would you like some bread?” “Is it made from fresh water?” The duck inquired. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so.” “No, I do not want some bread.” And at that, the duck waddled away. I decided to continue walking towards the rest of the ducks, extending what was the strangest experience of my life up to that point. I talked to a few different ducks from the group, and the first thing I noticed was how amazingly obsessed all the ducks were with water. So many aspects of water I had never, ever even given the slightest thought to, these ducks were experts on. Of course, there was the basic sort of stuff. Temperature, quality, depth, etc, they knew about and I could keep up with them in the conversation. But they also talked about crazy amounts of details that I could not even recall here and still don’t understand to this day. Once I had got over the initial shock of just how invested they were in talking about water (the newspapers had not done them justice), I started to notice that these ducks really were intelligent. Not even just intelligent, they were incredibly self aware. Each and every duck had different preferences for water (some did have some bread, not minding that the water wasn’t pure) from both a personal point of view, but also what was best for the group. They knew what type of water was the best to drink in summer, where that water is, and how often they should drink and how often they should swim. Each duck had different opinions on how rough and disturbed the water they swim in is. They had opinions on how many fish swimming around them was the right number of fish. For a society with the only collective interest being water, there was a remarkable variation on what was discussed. It was truly a breathtaking experience. After many hours of chatting, I decided to go home. It was only on the drive back that I realised that I had forgotten to try to change the subject to something else. But, at the time, it didn’t matter because I had an inkling I would be back there again, and I was. I went back to the lake, and other lakes (once the ducks at the close lake had got sick of me) once every two or three weeks for the few months after my initial encounter. I found their ramblings rather amusing and it was a nice release from the drudgery of my non-water based existence. I had become rather fond of ducks in general, and found the personalities between different dovers very interesting as well as the individual ducks in each dover. All in all, it was a fun existence. I started to learn a lot more about water, and (to something I was oblivious of before) I started to learn the names of the different breeds of ducks. Interestingly enough, duck’s eggs became illegal and as a result they flourished on the black market. But that’s beside the point. What started to happen a few months later was truly the most sickening thing I have ever heard happen, full of that awful human combination of worry, stupidity and ignorance. In regards to the ducks people started putting two and two together and equalling five. Various groups- religious, worried parents, politicians in search of votes- started to notice that ducks talked about water in very much the same way that drug addicts talk about their drugs, and act in a similar manner to water as drug addicts act towards getting their next fix. It was ludicrous to say the least, and you, my dear readers, might think that surely we, as rational people, could be much smarter than that. And generally, we were. The people that started to make this ruckus were mocked and ridiculed and generally thought stupid, especially to the average internet user. It was viewed as a joke, especially by me, and as a result no action was taken. Sadly, stupidity breeds ignorance. I am not sure of the exact details, but I think one of the politicians or zealots or worried mothers found a way to commission a study on the behaviour of ducks when they were removed from water. The results, although predictable to the point of a fault, caused an outrage. Almost overnight there were news stories and gossip about how ducks were horribly addicted to water. They were obsessed with it in conversation and it governed their being, and when they were removed from it they became agitated, then angry, violent, and finally when having no access to it for a period of time they eventually died. Public opinion against my new friends rapidly turned after that. People started avoiding ducks, condemning them at every point in polite conversation, and actively seeking to keep children away from them should they become easily swayed by the influence of drugs and alcohol. Those of us who still had common sense were either marginalised or just completely gave up on our beliefs. After people stopped defending the ducks, the round ups happened. Some person in some part of the world in charge of some governmental department decided that it would be best if ducks were rounded up in a simultaneous attempt to help them and remove their ‘negative’ impact on society. I remember reading the papers, thinking how stupid it was and I wept for that country. Before I knew it, unfortunately, other countries followed suit. Before I knew what had happened, ducks had been rounded up in every country, taken for “social behaviour workshops” and, I assume, inevitably died. Shortly after that, the world (in true fashion) realised what a horrible mistake they had mine and were remorseful. People issued apologies, others were arrested, and many high profile people made big long speeches about how we were wrong to so hastily condemn the ducks, despite having said nothing when it was happening. A few weeks later though, people just seemed to forget. Out of complete ignorance we had killed off a rather large portion of a very intelligent species. Some ducks still exist in duck sanctuaries and in the occasional lake, but for the most part, they were never to be seen again. Those that chose to remain silent were obviously being smart enough to know that human beings are fucking crazy. Not much seemed to happen after that in terms of my old fowl friends. Duck eggs are still a black market delicacy. Bread sales seemed to drop ever so slightly, and the death rate of lonely old men seemed to increase slightly. The only thing that’s really changed (apart from my peaceful conversations regarding water) is that now the line “Do you remember the ducks?” has entered popular usage as a conversation starter.

Death. It was all around me. Down the corridors in the rooms. The smell lingered like a black, hazy cloud above my head. The corridors were sickly white from the lights watching above, hurting my eyes as if somehow malicious and malevolent. Cautiously, I walked down the corridor; the sound of my heels clicking against the floor, echoing in my mind like the beats of people’s hearts around me. I leap. At least a foot or two in my mind, though it may have just been two inches. My heart skips, delaying my breath, and when it does come, it is in gasps and pants. A bloodcurdling scream had just emanated from one of the many cold, clinical walls, echoing down the corridor. I sigh, “Just another day at the offices I suppose”. I’m a nurse at the local hospital in the intensive care unit. Just an average person, there’s nothing different about me. At least, this is what I lead people to believe. I have a secret to hide, that nobody knows. The hospital is the safest place for me to hide. Nobody ever thinks it’s me. I mean, I’m a doctor - why would you suspect someone like me? You see, if I told you my secret right now, you would go cold. Your blood would freeze. You’d try your best to escape the crazy person that just told you this horrible, crazy thing. That’s what happened to last person I told. My own mother, terrified, started screaming and shouting at me, telling me I’m a monster and that she never wants to see me again. Reluctantly I left, feeling rejected and downtrodden. I’m no stranger to rejection; I’ve always been cast out of groups, always been ignored. That is, until I met him. As I continued my journey down the corridor, I heard another scream; the same freezing sensation goes running down my spine exactly like before, reaching into my heart, replacing my blood with ice, pulling my air out of my body. I sigh, and after pausing for a precious moment, press onwards with my duty. I walked into the rooms around me, checking on the patients - but I have a specific patient on my mind. Calmly, I stroll out of the penultimate room, down to the last room at the end of the corridor. Drawn to it I quicken my pace, desperation setting in like the jaws of a vice, holding me in its grip. Something about it tempts me, there is something just so unusually tantalizing about it. I am the moth, and this is my flame. Carefully, I placed my hand upon the doorknob and paused for a moment, reflecting briefly on the events that had led to this moment. I smile to myself. “Time to go,” I whisper, and turn the doorknob, slowly and deliberately, quiet as a cat would tread down this hall. I push slightly on the door. It obeys, and opens without a sound, revealing its secrets. There he lay, helpless, the pain creeping up on his face, contorting his usual handsome features into something completely different. He now was a catalyst of pain and anguish. His cheery demeanor had been replaced with a forlorn, defeated expression that I could feel myself mimicking from just looking at him. It killed me to see him that way - something I’d never felt for anyone before it had all happened. The pale skin on his chest gently rose with his every breath. His bed ridden hair spread messily over his pillow like waves of some brown ocean, once luxurious now resembled rotten straw. Those mesmerizing ocean blue eyes that always kept me hypnotised in my place now repelled me, even though they weren’t open. Under his paper white skin, I could see his blood pumping faintly through his veins. I breathe in, taking in his scent. The smell intoxicates my mind, making my head spin around and around, my world suddenly becoming very cloudy. My every thought spiraling out of control, but all centering on him. His scent. His blood. Snapping out of my trance, I then realised how close I was to his neck. I pull back, ashamedly and race out of the room, making sure to leave no trace of my foul presence. This turn of events had been recurring without relent for weeks now, ever since he was first admitted into this place. Ever since the start, something about him had hypnotised my every sense. Try as I may to avoid his room - even the very corridor it was situated in - it still seemed to end in the same horrible fashion. My face only inches from his neck. This story isn’t unique though - this same tragic turn of events has happened to me once before, a long time ago. I used to work night shifts at another hospital before this one; and just like this very moment I was checking on patients to see if everything was ok. There was one patient who stood out to me in a big way. His name was Gustav Wood. He was vastly different to all the others, and just like the current object of my desires, some unidentifiable thing about him stood out. Maybe it was his velvety smooth skin, how magically pale it was or the way his voice sounded, like a glass full of warm, creamy chocolate. I didn’t know what it was, but something about him intrigued me, and I had to find out what it was even if it killed me. Gustav and I bonded quickly and graciously over the months of his stay at the hospital. We talked enthusiastically whenever I was treating him and checking in on him, and I found out a lot of things about him. He was a solider and got injured badly in the war. I nursed him from almost certain death - when he first came in I honestly thought he wasn’t going to make it and he was all I could think about throughout all my waking (and sleeping) hours. One miserable night, when the rain was pouring angrily down, with the fog hanging thickly in the night sky, I went to check on Gustav. I walked into his room, quietly, so as not to wake him if he indeed was asleep. He turned around as briskly as I had entered and looked at me, but something about him seemed to be different. Something seemed wrong. I ignored that thought in the back of my head, continuing to get closer to him. Gingerly, I stood beside his bed. Gustav gazed up at me with that strange look in his eyes, the same one I have been seeing for a few nights now. This look made me feel uneasy. This look was wrong. But before I could speak to him, or even open my mouth to try to speak, I noticed his eyes had taken an unusual form, and a devilish grin was forming on his lips. It all just happened so fast. He grabbed me at the back of my head fiercely, and threw it back with enormous strength - strength I would never have expected from a recovering war casualty. My eyes opened wide, my mouth wider, and as I was just about to scream, he sank his teeth deep into my neck. My festering scream then released itself from my lungs, as he drained the life from my body. And as suddenly as he had started, he stopped, dropping my limp body on the bed and vanishing through the window into the darkness of the night. I laid there, withering in pain on the blood splattered sheets, the pain unreal like my body was being incinerated by the forces of Hell itself. Finally, the pain subsided and I woke up. A week had passed, and I was laid in the same place I was viciously attacked by Gustav. And I couldn’t place it, but something was very different about me. Something had changed in me; whether Gustav had provoked this change or it had happened itself I didn’t know. But I know now. Tonight wasn’t any different to the other nights earlier in the week. I was doing the night shift again, checking in on each patient meticulously like every other night at the hospital. Once again, I had arrived at the end of the corridor. I had arrived near him. Cautiously, I opened the door, careful not to make a sound, then swiftly, gracefully entered - shutting it behind me. Then silently, coolly, walked towards him. He was sound asleep. “Not for long,” I think, “Tonight’s the nights when my plan comes into action.” Cunningly, I put my face near his neck, his blood tantalisingly pulsating under his skin. Out of nowhere there was a noise outside the room. I stopped dead in my tracks and listen. Silence. Slowly, I opened my mouth, moved carefully over to his neck and sank my teeth in deep. He woke up immediately of course - much to my dismay - and screamed out in pain. I quickly clamp my hand over his mouth to muffle his irritating screams. The taste of blood in the back of my mouth was amazing, like nothing I had ever tasted before. I don’t know how long I was there, but eventually I stopped, dropping his limp body to the bed. I gazed down to my blood splattered shirt, to his lifeless, limp body and smile to myself. “Wow,” I sigh to myself, reveling in delight when all of a sudden a loud bang sounds outside; I get up from the bed immediately and jump through the window into the darkness, taking with me my conflicting feelings of ecstasy, guilt, but most of all – satiety.

DeDowell lit a cigarette and put it up to his lips. He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with tar and other black things. DeDowell heard somewhere that smoking can kill you. That's when he picked up the habit. This is what it is to have a friend. DeDowell had one hand on his cigarette and one hand on his gun. The hand holding the gun was raised to his own head, working hard at an itch that he had behind his left ear. This is what it is to have a dry scalp. In front of DeDowell there are three men. Tom Brochart, a wealthy banker who has been cheating on his wife for the past three years, eight months, and seventeen days. Phil O'May, a slob by all means of the word, hadn't been in work for over two years. And Harold Kempner. Harold Kempner was a homo nympho. Personally, I have nothing against homos or nymphos, but that is what DeDowell labeled his sin as. Greed, sloth and lust. Three of the seven sins sitting in front of us, stripped down to their boxers, briefs, and pink frilled underwear, respectively. Three sets of warm legs that stunk of ammonia. This is what it is to piss your pants. DeDowell was still itching his head with an almost unnecessary level of aggression when Tom spoke. "What is it you want, huh? Is it money? I have money. More than you could spend! Let me go home to my family and I swear, you will have all the mon-" Tom Brochart went limp. His torso slumped to the front, twisted to the left, then fell flat with his hands still tied behind his back with the industrial strength rope that DeDowell gets from the outdoor supply shop. Harold Kempner starts to sob. This is what it is to be shot in the head with a .44 revolver. You would be surprised how fast someone dies when they are shot with a .44. Harold Kempner keeps crying and Phil O'May looked wide eyed at the now corps of Tom Brochart. His eyes fixed on the exit hole, which due to the fragmentation of the hollow point bullet that was sent rocketing through it faster than the speed of sound, is much bigger than the entrance. DeDowell takes another puff of his cigarette. "That's it" he says. "We only needed one. Just one shit stain cleaned from the comforter of humanity." He blows the smoke out of his nose. "You two get the fuck out of here." DeDowell tosses the cigarette on the floor and steps on it. Harold Kempner and Phil O'May don't budge. Not a muscle. "Didn't you hear me? I said get the fuck out of here! Leave! Before I change my mind!" Neither of them move. "Fine" DeDowell says "fine" he sits down on the floor. "I'll sit right here until one of you gets up and walks away." After some time, it is Harold Kempner that gets up and starts running. A shame, really. I have nothing against homo nymphos. About nine yards later and Harold has a hole the size of a golf ball in his back and one about the size of a softball in his chest. This is what it is to be lied to. DeDowell tosses the gun in front of Phil and we walk away. The gun is for Phil to do himself in if he wants. But not us. We spared him. Showed him mercy. As we walk, both of us secretly hope that he picks up the gun and shots us. Both of us, dead. That way we don't have to buy more cigarettes on the way home. This is what it is to be enlightened.

The streetlights cast a forlorn light over the man, trudging slowly through the alleyway. His well-tailored suit, pristine shoes and immaculately coiffured hair gave the impression of success. The buildings on either side of the road loomed over him, their iron-shuttered shopfronts grinning at the man as he strode ever onward. His colleagues called him arrogant, his CV talked of a “driven and determined personality”. He was Lucius Green, millionaire banker, tax avoider, and owner of the 3rd largest collection of Lamborghinis in the world. He didn’t like this part of town, he thought, as he zipped up his designer coat and looked warily over his shoulder. “Save yourself!, for the day of the brother is almost upon us!” A crazed and bedraggled old man shuffled up to Lucius, his eyes darting around inside his head like ants in a Petri dish. He was wearing nothing more than rags. “Pardon?” Lucius answered, maintaining politeness while trying hard not to spit in the old fool’s face. He didn’t have time for this. “The alignment has begun! Those in rags shall be saved, kings shall be overthrown! The riches of nations will turn to ruin! There will be no greater day than the day of the brother!” The man began to shriek, flecks of phlegm hitting Lucius’ priceless clothing. “heed my words!” he screamed. Spooked, the banker began to run. He hailed a taxi and was back in the leafy womb of Knightsbridge, or “civilization” as he called it, in no time. Lucius woke up and lazily pawed through his smartphone’s news app. It was the usual mix of tragedy in the Middle East and governmental incompetence at home. But something caught his eye. “Reports are surfacing that the King of Tonga, Tupou VI, has been deposed and killed at his extravagant palace by a mob of dissidents. Their motive remains unknown.” *Kings shall be overthrown…* A coincidence, surely. Lucius put down his phone and rolled out of bed. Another long day of making millions in the City awaited him, and all of it would go straight to his offshore account in… “Tonga…” he said aloud. *The riches of nations will turn to ruin…* Another coincidence, surely. Lucius strolled through the marble and glass hallways of his building, and was at his desk in seconds. He checked his email, informing him of his ever-larger bank balance. Life was good. Until the phone rang. “Mr Green, I am calling from Brother Capital. It seems that due to the unforeseen circumstances in Tonga, your account has been frozen, and therefore you will not be able to use any of your assets” The man down the line had a grey, monotonous voice. He was not someone to start an argument with. Lucius slowly put down the phone. *The riches of nations will turn to ruin….* Did the old man have a point? Brother Capital… “Don’t be such a bloody fool!” Lucius barked at himself. Today was one of those days better spent on the deck of your yacht. He was just unlucky that his account got frozen because of some political unrest in some unfathomably hot corner of the world… was he? He shook his head and turned on Bloomberg. The colour red hit him first. Red arrows, pointing down, all across the bottom of the screen. His eyes widened in disbelief. The news anchor was frantic, trying to keep up with collapsing stocks across the world. NASDAQ, FTSE, DAX… all plummeting. A single bead of sweat rolled down Lucius’ face. This was terminal. He had £60 million invested across the world, he was never going to get it all back… Was there a way out? *Those in rags shall be saved…* *The riches of nations will turn to ruin…* “He was right!” “He was right!” Lucius sprinted out of the room, knocking two interns out of the way with frantic force. He spilled out of the building and onto the road, still screaming at the top of his lungs. He tore at his Ralph Lauren shirt and proclaimed to the sky: “Save yourself! For the day of the brother is upon us!” He was at once accosted by an angry taxi driver. “You don’t understand! You’ll never understand!, It’s all over! The day is upon us!” The ragged banker turned, and sprinted down an alleyway. Daily Telegraph -6/4/13 **Stock Glitch Terrifies World** A glitch in the international stock exchange system terrified the world’s bankers, and left many people believing they were destitute, it has emerged. The glitch, which lasted for two hours yesterday afternoon, saw stocks fall by 40% worldwide. The glitch is believed to be connected to various ‘hacktivist’ groups across the Internet. The IMF has assured the world that no money has been lost, and the current status of the world economy is one of “normality”. The Times – 9/4/13 **Still No Sign Of Missing Banker** THE missing banker, Lucius Green, has still not been found. Green went missing from the offices of RF Bank, in the City, during the technological meltdown that occurred on the 3rd of this month. Green is described as being approximately 180cm tall, with dark brown hair. His family has appealed for any information regarding his whereabouts. Ealing Gazette – 17/9/13 **Mysterious “Brother” Graffiti Blights Local Community** POLICE are appealing for information regarding the wave of vandalism that has occurred across the borough. The graffiti, which has been daubed on shop fronts and walls, speaks of “The day of the brother” and “the riches of nations will be lost”. Such vandalism carries a heavy sentence, and the Gazette wishes the Metropolitan Police the best of luck in catching the perpetrator.

Greetings gentle Ingress citizens of Parth. It is I, **clubcris**, your generous and benevolent dictator. I care not whether you have chosen the dedicated and proud force for all that is right (*enlightened*) or the petty and whiny mob of ungrateful peasantry (*resistance*). All I care is that you know who I am, and respect the awesome might that is reflected by my rank. You might already know my impressively determined sidekick, **pubic**, a man for whom time, fuel and mobile battery life knows no bounds. I speak to you all today, not to tell you how to play your part in the great scheme I have envisioned for you all, but to simply limit your options to just a few and chortle as you flail about like ants below me. As you probably know, my darling wife **ToothGap** is an insider in the petty brigade that is the resistance, so I am truly omniscient in this great life and death struggle that is Ingress. I feel I should explain my recent actions, as I don't believe many of you, of either faction, have any real idea as to how brilliant and inspired my plans and schemes are. It's not that I believe that I'm better or smarter or more impressive in the bedroom than you, it's just that I don't feel like you're paying enough attention to me. Clearly, I deserve it. Have you seen my rank lately? Excuse me for a moment, won't you, while I take a quick quaff to clear my throat. I do enjoy a good dram of brandy. I'd tell you what it is and where it was lovingly crafted, but I'm sure you'd rather swill your common beers and box wines instead. Ahhh, that's better. Now, pay attention. My latest scheme is to help make the landscape of this "game" of ours a better place for everyone, by leveraging my incredible stature within the game environment to enforce my own genius ideas and infallible values. Please, before the whinging and whining starts, don't feel as though this is a way to simply limit *your* growth within the game to preserve my *own* advantages. I'm just a simple player like you. I'm just trying to keep the filthy unorganised rabble that is the resistance at bay and provide a happy and joyous space under my control for all to grow equally ~~slowly~~ and carefully in. This isn't just about you, it's about the big picture. Think of it my way of helping you by learning from my experience. If not for my unimaginable mental strength and fortitude I could have leveled up far too quickly and hurt myself! Luckily for me, I'm fully capable of managing the challenges of levelling up early and mostly unimpeded and I was fine, but I can see the pitfalls waiting for all of you lesser mortals! Think of this lovingly crafted play area of my own brilliant design and devious doing as an nurturing environment where I can look over all of you to keep you safe and well. Like any petulant child, you might despise me now, but in the coming years, you'll come to realise that I was only looking out for you and your best interests. I certainly wasn't trying to bore you into leaving the game before you came close to the giddy heights that I have risen to! Now, as sad as it may be, I have other *very* important things to attend to and I have to wrap this important address up. Don't forget to leave all of your personal details in the chat for me to check and record. It's for your own good that I know everything about you and keep an eye on you. Also, feel free to comment on your daily activities and plans so that I can have my faithful sidekick **pubic** assist you in growing as a player. And again, this isn't so much about limiting your growth, but helping you level up in a safe and progressive manner. We certainly don't want to maximise our own growth at your expense! Play well and play safe; play exactly how I tell you to play! Yours graciously, **clubcris** P.S. I almost forgot. My lovely wife **ToothGap** requests that you all be nicer to each other, and try to remember the statistics.

John had always wondered what happened behind the mirror. How did a reflection follow your actions so perfectly? Were they really reflections, or were they people stuck behind the mirror? And most of all… What did they do when nobody was looking? And so it came about that he tried to beat the mirror. Experimenting with the massive slab of glass opposite his bed… Moving quickly, and slowly, and subtly… even blocking his image with furniture, and popping up completely randomly… But none of it worked. The mirror always knew what he was doing, and when. One day, he just gave up. He closed his eyes and leant back until he was lying flat on the bed. Maybe it was impossible to beat the mirror. Maybe the people were just reflected light. Maybe- Something jerked him out of his musings. He sat bolt upright and opened his eyes. There was his reflection, in the mirror. There was everything, as it should be. What was wrong? What was- And then he saw it. He, of course, was sitting upright, every muscle tensed. His reflection was reclining, leaning back. In slow motion, he saw the realisation on the reflection’s face, and then it tried to subtly shift into John’s position. He moved quickly – he stood up like a flash, and the reflection was slow. He darted out to the side, and it was just half a second behind. He ran out of the room for a reason he didn’t quite understand even at the time, and it didn’t try to copy him, but stood and watched. When he came back, all was normal. The reflection copied him as vigilantly as ever, and he wasn’t in the mood to try tricking it again. Besides, he thought it might be wise to that a second time. But that night, as he was sleeping, he suddenly awoke, and he instantly knew that it was the mirror. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘You can come out.’ Little did he know that he had broken a curse. A curse placed oh so long ago to keep the reflections in check. To lock them in mirrors forevermore. By the time John heard footsteps, the reflection’s eyes were glowing with a light that was black, and its fingers were pointed claws. By the time he knew anything was happening, fingers were wrapped around his neck in an iron grip, and soon he was dead. One is enough. Because one demon that escapes into the physical world can masquerade as a person. And then, they can convince people to let their reflections out. And a final thought.

When I was eleven years old, my mom took me to England and France on a journey that gave way to a longstanding passion for adventures abroad. Fifteen years later, at the age of twenty-six, I can’t imagine a life not enriched by travel and the perspective it has given me. Since my first big trip, I’ve lived in three uniquely different countries, studying, working, and immersing myself in cultures completely unlike my own. These experiences became an indelible part of my being, coloring my personality and outlook in ways I never envisioned. I learned what I stand for, who my true friends are, and most importantly, where my home is. Upon returning, I met a rather unexpected challenge. The poor economy and job market notwithstanding, it has been difficult to find an employer that sees value in my work abroad. The number of stints I’ve taken on in various countries and the jobs between these stints have left my résumé cluttered in the eyes of employers. To me it looks great, but to them, not so much. Perhaps I am naive for expecting employers to understand or share my values on travel. I did, after all, make a conscious decision to defer a traditional career path. “How do we know you’re not going to leave after a year?” “Given your experience, why do you want to work here out of all places?” These are questions I’ve been prodded with frequently during job interviews. I’ve been called underqualified and overqualified, even for a single position. Herein lies the conundrum: intellectual growth is not the same as career growth. Its value is not nearly as concrete or demonstrable as a set amount of time spent in one specific field. It’s this lack of concreteness that makes employers perhaps needlessly wary. They often look at only one piece of a very complex equation, much like how universities base their admission decisions mostly on grade point averages and SAT scores. Let’s try to be a little bit more personal. Many friends of mine settled into more traditional careers after college and tell me they wish they could spend some time abroad. And sometimes I wish I had gone their route, but then I remind myself of all that I’ve gained on my own path. To be cliché, the grass really is greener on the other side. Eventually, I found work that really draws from my experiences. Soon, I will begin yet another adventure in my life, this time a few miles closer to home.

An autumn tapestry lies before me. I approach this landscape of fading greens, subtle reds, and overbearing yellows. The ground squelches as my boots break the surface of the mud; it's still very much in the transition of solidifying after the late summer rain. The wind twists around the semi-dormant maples and stretches like elastic as it weaves through the dense wall of ash trees. What's left of the breeze binds itself around me and holds on. Rays of glistening sunlight peek through the cloak of powdery overcast. There's no happy medium of temperature; heat exists in the light, goosebumps in the shade. My path, pitted and trampled from years of use, follows along edge of a strong string of intersecting pines. At a point where the pines meet the path, an opening is made. The path continues past the aperture into a wide pasturage littered with goldenrod and burdock. The breeze picks up the goldenrod pollen and sends it dancing, twirling, twisting, and then off into the world. The path continues along, winding and weaving through the sea of soon-to-be hay, until it finally stops near a pile of long-dead logs. The logs were cut a few years back by my grandfather, but that’s as much as I know about them. I was back here last week, so the wood splitter is still here, but I didn't get much done. I have a problem with paying attention to what I'm doing. I'd like to say that it's nature's fault for being so damn beautiful, but I don't feel that way. I would just rather be somewhere else, although, I do like staring vacantly at the sky. Ever changing clouds distract me as they perform their celestial puppet shows. Above me, a quick nimbus fox jumps over the mammatus of the lazy dog. As the wind blows, the clouds dance and move; their movements close to identical, yet not. The more they’re pushed and pulled by the winds above, the more they morph. The quick fox changes to an anamorphic slug, slowly streaking across the sky. A nearby branch begins to shake, I give it no notice at first, but as the trembling continues, my attention is drawn. The rustling persists until a dry, crispy, brown leaf falls from branch, revealing a bluejay. The bird’s crested head tilts as it stares at me; we both stand motionless, staring at each other and waiting for the other’s reaction. His beaded eyes begin to widen and narrow and his talons wrap around the thin maple branch. A sudden flap of his sky blue wings sends the garrulous bird flying into the cold air and beyond. I turn back to my chore. The wood’s already cut into identical logs, although they still need to be split. I look down at the several colorful shades of brown and gray. Each strain has different qualities. Ash is easy to carry to the splitter, but maple is heavy and takes multiple attempts to lift. I tire pretty quickly the more wood I split. The warm air expelled from my lungs permeates the cold, creating a mass of haze that fogs my glasses. The wood screeches and cries as it’s forcibly divided, fiber by fiber, until it relents and splits apart. Some wood cries differently, their fibers held together tighter than others. The splitter snaps them regardless, only pausing momentarily while I provide it with more. Each piece is harder than the last. My muscles stretch with each lift, leaving them exhausted and drained. The sun position, directly above me, tells me it’s time for a well deserved break. I sit my weary body on top a fallen poplar, and unpack the lunch I carried. A small bunch of magnolia warblers fly by, their bumble bee-like bellies bouncing along the wind currents. Their melodies, comparable to a Mozartian piece, flutter down from the heavenly scene of altocumulus overcast. Ruby-throated hummingbirds weave their way in between the flying group of warblers, their wings flittering at magnificent speeds. I look in awe while chewing my slightly stale tuna fish sandwich. The moment the birds make their way behind the tall pines, and out of my sight, I finish it and walk back. The rather large pile of logs that once lay next to the splitter is gone and in its place are small remnants. The final cry of cracking wood echoes through the dense forest, proceeded by the near silent sound of sighing. Leaving the finished job behind, I make my way back. The path once again takes me through the gap of pines, the squelching sod, and the weaving winds. The rays that once cut through the clouds, now tries to make its way past the trees as its source begins to set. As the sun’s stream of shine loosens its grip on the land, the temperature drops. The once-subtle amount of fog left by my breath looks like smoke. I childishly hold my fingers up to my mouth and blow the smoke left in my lungs from my imaginary cigarette. I give a momentary glance back at where I’ve been. The walls of autumn-colored trees, the boot tracks in the mud, and the pile of perfectly split wood are all behind me. The path suddenly ends as I turn around and a door lies before me. I take one last deep breath of the chilled outdoor air, before heading inside, where a mug of hot cocoa waits for me.

Before I share this story I must let you know I am in a dark place in my life. My fiancee broke off the engagement New Years Day. I am working on things day by day and I am getting the treatment to help me with it. So do not be worried for the most part. I never really wrote growing up but I feel like this is going to be good for me till I get better. Thank you for reading, and this is a **ROUGH DRAFT** and written on Notepad because that's all I have right now. "My Day called Regrets" The year is 2013, and I have made bad deciesions in my past and it is time to get everything straightened out. It is a cold winters day, and I fight to open my eyes to the sunlight because it is another day of feeling the way I always do. The windows do not hold the cold out and it blows in under my blanket and lets me know I feel still. I let out a Sigh... and I wish things were different... but they aren't. I hurt people and destroyed futures. These things go through my mind every other thought durning my time of being awake. When I fall to sleep I am awoken by a racing heart beat and fear of not knowing how to fix things I thought I could. As I wonder why I still get up, I make my way to the hoodie laying next to me. It is thick and is the only thing showing warmth to me in this time of cold. My day is filled with pain and trying to not tear up at every though of my past. I get ready for work like everyone else. I am listening to music where the screaming is ecspressing my inner voice and hurt from ex-girlfriends and past lovers who are now a distant memory of the singers past life. I feel his pain and wish everything was better. I gather my things and head off to my third shift factory job and get ready for another slow night of work knowing the only things my mind will be thinking of are the things I wish it didn't. I put on a show for my co-workers, smiling... laughing... but the few people who know my pain know I am crying inside. I turn away more often then normal to wipe away the few forceful tears that leave my eyes. With everything going on I pretend to chuckle at the poorly told joke told to mee to try and cheer me up. It does not work and I just look away and get back to my work. Trying to focus on the job at hand and keeping as busy as I can to repress the ideas and memories. The night rolls on and everything at work is moving at a slugish pace and I have done all I can to keep busy, so I stand. I stand and just look out into nothingness, thinking, feeling pain I wish I have never felt. The time is 5am and it is almost time to get done with work. The thought of sleep seems so good, but the dreams to come will keep me up. I shuffle to my locker looking at only where I need to walk not paying attention to the things around me, people, and machines. I kick off my boots knowing that the day is done and I can try and relax. Relaxation is just a distant memory I have not felt in a long time. It hurts. Everytihng hurts. I hate my job and the place I live. But I can not just leave and walk away. My gloves and heavy jacket help me get past the cold winter morning as I walk to my car. The worst part of going home is knowing the heat from my ex lover is no longer there, and it is filled with the cold and emptieness of my bed. I try to keep warm by holding a pillow as close as possible. It does not help and only makes me feel worse. I hate this. But I need to work on myself before I can even think about looking for someone to try and feel happy with. It will contiune to be cold. I lay cold and alone waiting for my eyes to get heavy. The sand man must be stuck in traffic because my eyes will not get tierd and my pain will not subside. The tears help pull me towards sleep and I know it is another day that I will try to forget. This is just my day called regrets, and I am gone to wake again and repeat it.

Our eyes lock from across the bar. It’s tattered, run-down, out of sorts; a plethora of synonyms running rampant throughout a bar that's memories are a rollercoaster of emotion...she lights a cigarette, and the soft glow from her lighter sets aflame her red lipstick. She shuts it with a faint clap and the smoke lingers around her, tiredly, softly. The bartender approaches her, his drink-soaked rag painting spirals of soft mahogany and liquor. He asks with gentle kindness if she’d like a refill, and, without skipping a beat, her fingers tap the glass in acknowledgement. I watch the slow, steady pour of gold flow from the bottle as he tips it into her glass. It tidal waves momentarily and crashes amongst itself and she whispers a thank you, her gaze never leaving mine. Fighting the urge to get up and approach this situation we’ve gotten ourselves into, I disengage our stare momentarily to take in my surroundings. New-comers and men whom are infinitely secured to barstools alike are strewn across this tavern. The hum of conversation floats around as, every once in a short while, the door opens and let’s a barely audible inhalation of air and the dispersed patter of rain flicking pavement outside coat our world of lost hopes, dreams and love. And then I get up. I walk towards her, calm and cool, as my heart inside plays a mixed melody of heavy drumming and de-escalating jazz. Time slows as I get my first full glimpse of the ravishing woman I’ve been ever falling for in the last hour. Her slender legs crawl upwards toward an almost too short skirt of deafeningly black silk. This silk ripples upward and explodes into hips, stomach and chest that would give the word immaculate a respectable run for its money. My greeting comes out in silence; it’s as if I’m watching everything fold out from above, an audience member cheering on his favourite fighter. I lead with a heavy blow to the heart as I lean in; close enough for her to smell the wet and whiskey emanating from a long night of wandering from bar to bar in the drizzle that hasn’t seemed to let up in recent memory. I watch myself ask her name, and the sound is turned up just long enough for me to hear her whisper back: Maxine. And a faint smile spreads across her lips as if she had been waiting to tell me that her entire life. As if the rain had lead my feet from a tiresome day at work, lifting me on invisible strings like a marionette throughout the night to this very bar, to that very seat, and shuffled them in dim-light and soft music across the floor to stand in front of her, to lean into her, to whisper to her, all for me to know the name of Maxine. A woman of explosive subtleness, impeccable taste in single-malt scotch, and, as I lock eyes with hers for the second time tonight, the soul of an angel. She takes another long drag of smoke as we circle around the ring of attraction. She takes a swing back and feels the lapel of my trench coat. She comments on how very wet I seem to be. The hairs on my neck pulsate. She finishes her drink, the ice cut in half from having slightly watered down several drinks. I quickly raise two fingers in the air, not knowing if the bartender would see or not; truth be told, in that very moment I could not have been positive if gravity was even still anchoring us to earth. She catches me by surprise, my heartbeat tumbling, and pushes down my wrist, negating the drinks I had or had not ordered. And she grabs my hand. And she stands. And she leads me towards the back of the bar. And I could hear my veins digesting whiskey, my heart digesting emotions, and, once in that very short trip to the back, the doors of the bar swung open, the room inhaled, and I could hear the now heavy sheets of rain washing away the streetlight outside.

She calls him over, “Its been a long time, why don’t you come over for a chat?” An offer he cannot refuse, already into her, he accepts the invitation. As soon as he arrives she is already opening the door, he is shocked and impressed by her, is it eagerness? She got straight to it. “Oh my god I have found the greatest of all secrets to life. Have you met Jesus Christ?” He thought to himself, she has become a nut job, time to get out, but he likes her so he lets her continue. “While meeting Jesus I used the internet as one of the tools for my study, and after all my research I have found his meaning.” He was confused and wanted to leave. He gets up and starts walking toward the door, and she stops him mid way. “The internet told me that his coming required sacrifice, on this day, myself, and many others on the internet will take a mate in mass expiation. I will complete my task” She goes for him with a quick stab, right in the stomach, she then goes for herself. It’s the fear that killed them.

Everything was shutting down. The orange glow of the candles and torches flickered and faded. She noticed this. Eric, she called, as I descended into blackness. Eric, she warned, as footsteps approached. I could no longer heed her. I felt overwhelmingly intoxicated, unable to stand, unable to willfully coordinate useful movement. Her final call was half my name and half violence. Our pursuers had reached us, hushing her with a blow to the windpipe and dragging her away. As I drew in dusty, labored breath and began weeping, pleading with them, they attacked me as well. My ribs, neck and head received a flurry of strikes and a sharp shock to the back told me I had been stabbed. A new taste graced my tongue and spilled to the floor. I sputtered and my breathing seized. The candle's glow sharpened with a new scream. The last offering from the poor girl. It echoed off cold walls, in my head, my wound, and invaded my blood. Our assailants had left their dagger in me. I painfully stretched and writhed, grasping the blade and freeing it from between my ribs. It was ancient, inscribed with a language unknown to myself on a shining, yet darker than gunmetal blade. I attempted to stand. Control was coming back, but rising without leaning into the walls would have been impossible. I held the blade tightly and resolved to follow her last cry down the corridor. I shuffled weakly forward, feeling the grit and blood combine with fearful sweat on the dagger's handle. I stumbled through darkness and wondered how far in the ground we - I - was. I couldn't even hear the subways rumble past anymore. The bustle of the thriving city above was mute, seemingly as terrified as I was in the dark. I descended more steps, expecting the flames of hell to greet my soles. She was forcibly laid on an altar. They did not attempt to bind her. They simply held her, in the interest of time, and completed their sacrament. A pyre's flames began to consume what remained and unleashed an awful stench to go with the ghastly sight. The followers awaited my arrival and tended the flame. I couldn't pay her any mind. They watched as I staggered into the light. They were not surprised. I was expected. The only words offered were, "It is done," barely audible over the roar of the flame. They offered no fight. It seemed as if they had offered themselves as sacrifices in return for the girl. There was no resistance as the blade I now held sunk deep into their hearts. I worked quickly, invigorated by this new feeling, the pleasure of murderous revenge. Yet, as they lay writhing on the floor, choking on their final breaths, I felt unsatisfied. And then, panicked. What had I done? I hadn't known these people, and I hadn't known why they had brought the girl and I down there. I hadn't even known the girl whom I took revenge for. But she had known me, somehow. Fearing repercussion, I felt the need to cover my tracks. The crackling fire, blazing high to the ceiling, offered me a solution. I slowly, laboriously dragged each corpse, and some, soon-to-be corpses, toward the fire, singeing myself as I pushed them into the heat. In my excitement I forgot about my wound. Something, adrenaline, perhaps? Something covered the pain, despite the massive rush of blood seeping out. With my shirt I attempted to stop it and turned to face the stairs. I began the long journey skyward, accompanied by my footsteps and new memories only. After what seemed to be hours, I arrived where we began our captive decent. I pushed hard on the metal grate overhead, noticing I had finally stopped leaking blood. Maybe I had run out, I weakly joked to myself. The grate swung open, crashing hard. The sound of the city greeted my ears again, and artificial light, fluorescent, neon, lit the alleyway like daylight. I struggled to lift and close the grate with another slam. I began walking quickly, paranoid for witnesses. I still bore the blade thoughtlessly. "You look dead," commented a homeless man, crumpled against the wall, arms protecting his drink. I could hardly speak, and became more worried, looking for more viewers. I limped to my apartment as fast as my legs would allow. I felt like I had conquered easier mountains. The last bit of stairs leading to my apartment tested me more than anything else that day. Several times I collapsed weakly, desiring nothing but rest. Luckily, the common areas of my building were vacant. I wondered how late it at night it had become, how long our ordeal lasted. I shuffled the last few steps to the door, unlocked it, entered and slammed it shut quickly, locking every available lock. I crawled through the kitchen, to the bathroom, leaning on the sink. I turned it on, drinking messily from a cupped hand, before searching for gauze. Too tired to care, I stuffed it in any wound I could muster, and burned the last of my energy crawling to the bed. I slammed face down on my pillow and closed my eyes, instantly asleep. I found no relief from the terror of yesterday in my unconscious. Events played and replayed, reliving the attack, the pain of the stab, the fear as the girl was dragged away forever. I felt once again the warm fire, the cold stares of my victims. They seemed to stare at me even in death, and beyond the flames' consumption. I saw myself again, from a different point of view, as I stumbled wildly from the alley to my apartment, more ragged and animalistic than I remembered. Like a madman, I saw myself entering the apartment, drinking, bandaging myself, and crashing into my bed. I saw myself lay there for what seemed like hours, even recognizing the light of the sun begin to creep into the windows. I see myself become startled as the sunlight revealed a viewer, seated neatly on an old folding chair. I "inspect" closely. In disbelief, I conclude it is the girl.

A strange man comes to collect the sick child from the garden of tiny statues. Together, the pair enter the building in the garden. Inside, a woman is alone save for the two newcomers. She drops a quarter into a tin box on the wall. The sound of the coin hitting the metal echoes through the cavernous stone room as she lights one of a row of little white candles. The two who enter the building make no sound, save for the child's muffled cough and sniffles. The child wants to go to the woman, but the man holds the child's shoulder. The child looks up at the man, who places a finger on his lips, shushing. The child understands, and nods before quietly walking over. The woman is crying. The child kneels next to her on the little padded bench in front of the candles. After a time, the woman gets up and leaves the room. The child goes back to the man, takes his hand, and the two go outside again. They watch from the door of the building as the woman goes up to one of the little statues in the yard. She stands there, and the child leads the man over. As they approach, the woman leaves. The child cries out, waving to the woman. The man shushes him, but not before the woman turns around. The man braces as though preparing for something terrible, but nothing happens. The woman looks back at where they stand, blankly. The child runs forward a few steps and waves to the woman. She continues looking-- looking, but without seeing-- for a brief moment, then turns again and leaves. Once the woman is gone, the child returns to the man's side. The strange pair looks down at the statue of an angel embracing a tablet. On the tablet is an inscription. The child cannot read it, and asks what it says. The man reads it. The child is confused. Why would someone write that on a statue? "Sometimes people write things on stones when they want to remember them for a long time." The child doesn't have a response. They look at the statue for a bit. "You're not coughing anymore," the man notes. "Huh?" "Your cough is gone." The man says to the child. "Are you feeling better now?" The child pauses, and realizes the man is correct. He is pleasantly surprised. "Yes." The child smiles. The man returns the smile. "Yes, I am, actually. Does this mean I can go back?" The child points back the way the woman went. The man's smile turns sad. "No one can go back. But what it means is that you can go on." The child frowns. "Do I have to? I mean, would you?" "I would." The man doesn't hesitate a moment. "Why don't you?" "I can't." "Oh." The child puzzles a moment. "Is it because you aren't better yet?" The man smiles again. "Something like that." The child thinks a moment more. "I think I want to go. Are you sure you can't come?" "Sorry, not today." "Well, I hope you get better soon!" "Thank you," said Death to the now-empty graveyard.

I took another breath. The electronic display read zero. I looked at the display not believing what it claimed. I looked outside the dome. The red clouds blanketed the sky covering the sun and the desert soil. I looked back inside, wondering how people lived fifty years ago at the turn of the millennium. The phone which hung on the wall started to ring. I had never heard it ring before so I stared subconsciously before I remembered that I had to answer it. I walked over to the handset. The light blinked as the receiver stopped ringing. The door flung open and two cops burst through the door. ‘Mr Collins?’ I looked at the guard. ‘Who’s asking?’ I replied. The guards walked over, hooked me in both arms and dragged me down the hall after slamming the door while muttering something into his radio. I looked the opposite way I was travelling as I skidded along. It was an odd sensation knowing that my life would end. The cold argon lights illuminated the room giving off a cold chill. I wondered who had invented them. The ability to turn heat into light whilst cooling the surrounding area had saved millions of lives, allowing a colony to keep cool without a power source. We rounded several corners before we stopped. The guards dropped me to the ground and walked back the way I had come, closing two big doors behind them. I saw the gears and mechanisms on the door rotate and grind and I realised there was no way I was going back that way. I stood up and brushed myself off. I had not collected a speck of dust because of the cleanliness of the corridor, but I still proceeded to nonetheless. I turned around to find a desk with a shorter man sitting in a black chair obviously too big for him. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’ He asked me. ‘Not really.’ I responded knowing full well why I was there. ‘Mr John Collins, born January 19th 2024, which makes you 32 as of 53 days ago, you were a model student, scoring an average score of a B+. We have no behavioural issues on record but a warning was issued in regards to a threat made to a colleague. You are an automotive service technician and you have no known offspring.’ He looked up and glared at me, waiting for a response. ‘Correct’ I responded. ‘On behalf of CiteRT, we are terminating your life on the grounds that you have expired your oxygen and water allowance without giving back to the community,’ I looked at his emotionless face. There was only the harsh truth of what lay beyond. ‘We are however offering you the opportunity to attempt to survive outside.’ I looked outside the window behind him. I looked off into the distance, beyond the cloudless, blue skies. Beyond the dirt mounds I could see nothing. ‘I accept.’ I don’t know why I did; it was just prolonging my agony. He stood up and handed me a backpack. ‘I’m sorry.’ He said. ‘Good luck.’ I saw the glint of a tear forming in my eye. He ushered me towards an elevator where I went further down than I ever had before. The elevator pinged as the doors opened and thousands of years of global warming hit my face in one blast. I fell to one knee and opened my backpack to find a bottle of water and a gun. I put the gun to my head, and heard a gunshot behind me.

Another short story that I just wrote. It is still a **rough draft** ,still also in Notepad please help me get things looking better please. I might want to put these together someday for her. If she ever wanted them. High hopes I know... This sucks guys and gals. I am just writing off my heart and mind so it wont be perfect. I think I might put a sub reddit up for them if people enjoy them enough. Or maybe just for myself. Here you go: "The Loneliness of an Open Room" I sit still and listen sometimes to everything around me. Thoughts shut out, cold feelings all around me. The room used to be warm, loving, welcoming. Not anymore, things just sit and feel cold. The love has gone, the anger radiates. It knows the pain I feel and just lives off it. I wish things could be different, but they can not be. It hurts. Some mornings I used to make breakfast for two, hash browns, two eggs each, two pieces of toast each and a nice glass of craneberry juice with half water. She did not like it strong. So I would get everything ready for us to relax together on the couch producing warmth from the love we shared. But now I sit in the dark. Just trying to get the room to speak, but it does not speak to me knowing I am at fault and punishing me for the things I have done. I would just watch her watching the tv. She would look at me and ask, what? But I never had a response because I would get lost just looking into the eyes of the love I lost. I still do not know what I was thinking while I looked into her eyes, our future? Where we might live someday? Maybe it was if our future child together might look as beatuiful as her? I do not know now. Now I look and I see nothing but dark. It hurts. Evenings would come and she would come home from work and I would be like a dog, sitting and waiting for her arrival. Sometimes we would make dinner together before I had to go to work sharing the kitchen, me getting in the way because I wanted to try and help. Being told to go get a show ready to watch. I knew she loved me. I knew I had everything. I would have something on that we both would like to watch ready as she brought something she put together in for us to eat. I just wanted her to sit and relax so I would offer to get drinks, napkins, seconds. But she would just want me to sit with her as well. So I did. I was happy, we were happy. But why am I the way I am... I still do not know and I need to find out so I can try and get things back. It hurts. Now I get home from work and I just go to sleep so I do not have to think about breakfast without her in the open room that use to be filled. Walking right be it not looking into the dark. By the time I wake it has been eight or nine hours and I have to get something together for lunch. We never really has lunch together so it does not really hurt to do it myself. Something small and easy to make, a small sandwich maybe or just crackers and cheese, while I just sit in silence, looking at the floor. Alone. That will be my meal till midnight at work, just thinking most of the night on how I need to change. I do not want to eat lunch at work but I know if I do not I will get tired faster. So I force down the food just thinking of her. Thinking if she is still on her phone on Facebook just re-reading comments she has already seen. But most of all I think of her safe and asleep. I wish I could be with her in slumber, but I can not be. It hurts. The room is every room in the house. It is the loneliness of an open room that makes me not want to be here anymore. Things need to change and be better so I can feel the warmth of her touch and the beauty of her eyes. Edit: co-worker said I need to fix a lot. So pardon my poor grammar.

I struck her to onto velvet carpet of our living room with a small handgun clenched tightly in my hand, my index finger over the trigger, teeth grinding and sweat whitening y face in the incandescent glow of a tall lamp that sat silently, only lighting up the velvet walls decorated with faces of happier times within plastic walls. When she fell she shattered a small flower pot, the soil and flower strewn beside her, brown and white spill that what would be considered as decor. *"Don't! Why are you doing this- It wasn't my intent!"* she wailed on the floor with a hand raised to the muzzle as if it would stop a bullet. **Do it! She hates you, she wants you dead like the others; the men before her meant nothing, and neither do you!** A burly voiced cried in my head, a voice that was not of my own logic. It speaks to me in evil tongues and for a while I listened. I listened very well. **Kill her, you have all the bullets in the world, KILL HER** I was going to do it. **KILL HER! NOW** indefinitely. **KILL, FIRE THE BULLETS; NOW!** I fried one shot. It screamed through the home before silence came down upon the household. With the one shot, someone had died, and only one person would leave when the police and paramedics showed up later that evening. In the house would lay one body. But with two souls. I killed it. I promised myself I would kill it, and by God i knew I would do it. My wife thought I had gone insane, and told the police i felt guilty so i shot myself. No. I had the moment to end its life while it thought it controlled me. No, I'm the master. And now it is dead, silenced by me; silenced me. Perhaps it thinks that it won the war, now that both of us are silenced forever. But no. That will never be true. I love you Elise, thought it took me away. But always remember a time when it was me and you; just Me and Her. *Return to your hell devil, for the power of God has given me life again.

The following short story is from a fight my friends and I had, where one of my friends took over the fight and kicked some serious ass. Some things were added for entertainment purposes but the story is pretty much all there. **Fight at the taco truck, as I remember it.** It was the beginning of winter. Testosterone ran high, beards were long. Common folk refer to this phenomenon as 'no shave November' I call it a regular Wednesday. It was a large group of us this particular night. Mauri, Mikey, Eric, 'Other' Mikey, voluptuous Rosie, and of course yours truly. We started the night on the slums of Sunset. A dirty one block radius crawling with the worst type of people besides hipsters, more hipsters. If it wasn't for the Wednesday's specials and surplus of sluts, this place would be nothing less than an arcade fire concert screening Wes Anderson films. We loaded up on the cheap booze, and stuck around for the slutty ambiance. As our uneventful night came to an end we decided to meet at Gus' infamous taco truck. We rode in two separate cars, or as the urban kids say 'we was rolling deep' Mauri, Eric and Mikey took the quick route and stopped at our local liquor for a twelve pack of our favorite brand. I ended up driving 'other Mike's' car because to be honest the kid couldn't handle his liquor. This also gave me a chance to gauge the possibility of sex with Rosie. Sex seemed pretty probable, but then again it always does. I would catch her staring at me while I drove. I couldn't tell if she was admiring my ability to drink out of my flask while keeping an eye on the road or my disregard for danger, all I knew is that she was amazed and probably aroused. I decided to take the scenic route. Call it a hunch, or perhaps supernatural abilities, but as soon as I pulled into the parking lot I could sense trouble. I quickly and skillfuly parked the small jalopy and leaped out. "Where are you going!" Rosie yelled. I didn't have time to answer, shit was going down and I was going to help it. I ran towards the kerfuffle around Mikey's car and made it there just in time to see a tall, skinny, awkward looking man taking a swing at my good friend Mauri. I didn't need an explanation or reason to start handing out cans, that was plenty. I dove into the group of people fist first until I reached that tall awkward face. His acne infested skin felt soft against my rugged knuckles. It was a little too late to realize 'Awkward Skinny' had friends. Things went dark for a bit after this. As I came to my senses, I glimpsed around to assess the situation. Things weren't looking good, but they weren't looking bad either. Eric landed some quick jabs that sounded like double bass pedals from a metal band, he had chosen his guy and he was going to take him out. Phony Mike was being gay in the car comforting Rosie. Mauri stood quietly studying the scene and Mikey was walking over to assist me when some random Joe appeared out of nowhere with a handful of fists for both of us. Now this 'Random Joe' did not know Mauri. He did not know that Mauri had been pretty peaceful this whole time, watching these events unfold. He did not know the rage that hid behind him. He did not know that Mauri is a cool guy, a regular mother fucking Teresa but if you fuck with his friends... well then he will fuck you up. Mauri's shirt came off and his drunken stance became firm. With his fist up in the air he went around taking names and handing out prizes. 'Random Joe' and 'Awkward Skinny' turned their attention to the one taking out their friends and surrounded him. Rosie and 'Imposter Mike' came out to try to instill some peaceful sense into us. I watched helplessly as Mauri was surrounded by seven guys and a midget. (You know gangs mean bussiness when the 'gang midget' is called out for a fight.) To my surprise, Mauri's confidence looked to be intact, he looked over at me and gave me his 'ok' wink. I nodded back. I understood. 'Random Joe' jumped on top of 'Gang Midget' and began swinging his arms. Gang midget struggled to keep his balance but managed to charge towards Mauri. As Mauri mouthed out "What the fuck?!' he took a quick dive to dodge this 'one and a half man turbine'. The midget couldn't control his direction and ran right into a wall. 'Awkward skinny' bursted out in a maniacal laugh and pointed at Mauri, his five remaning henchmen rushed Mauri on the floor. They covered him entirely with punches and grunts, if I didn't know any better, it looked like a japanese gangbang without pixels. I looked at Eric and Mikey and we all nodded in agreement, we had to get in. But just as we decided to join the fun, Mauri burst from within sending all five of them to the floor. Shirtless Mauri stood up and pointed at 'Awkward skinny' "You!" He began, "You wanted a fucking beer, we gave you a fucking beer!" The fab five quickly recovered and tried their luck again. Awkward skinny kept laughing. Something was clearly wrong with him. The five fucks took their swings and kicks, but these were no match for Mauri's quick turns and ducks. He was salsa dancing around the punches, it was a beautiful sight. Eventually, they stopped their futile attempts to touch Mauri. "Is that all you got?!" Mauri teased. The winded five farts had nothing. It was Mauri's turn. To say he knocked them out fast is an understatement. He walked through them making them taste his friendship fury. He made his way towards that tall awkward skinny fuckhead that had started it all. It was pretty clear this was Mauri's fight, but before he started unloading, Awkward skinny crumbled down to his knees and begged for mercy. Not even Ghandi would have listened to that prick, but Mauri swallowed what was left of his pride and turned away. The crowd that had gathered cheered and chanted his name. He walked taller than before and began making his way back to the car. Just then, 'Awkward skinny' pulled out a full bottle of newcastle and pitched it towards an unaware Mauri. We all looked in shock,and questioned "How the fuck does someone hide a full bottle through an entire fight?!" but we quickly realized he hadn't participated for most of it. We tried to yell out to mauri but our expressions warned him faster and he majestically turned around to quickly catch the bottle. He promptly opened it up and chugged it like a legend in the making. Alex, who had not been part of this whole night, just happened to be getting himself some tacos, he witnessed this last unjustice and ran towards awkward skinny to launch his frail ass towards a car. "No one throws out a full Newcastle" Alex sighed. Mauri and Alex joined us back by the car to finish our brew. I could tell Rosie had lost all interest in me and was going to spend the night with Mauri but I wasn't even mad, because after that fight, he deserved a good fucking.

I wrote this when I was bored one day. Feel free to critique and give your opinion! Thanks! :) How could I have come so close, only to let it go? I could’ve saved him. All I have to do was reach out my hand, and this all could have been avoided. But I hesitated. If only I could turn back the clock, and relive that moment. Be there for my friend. It is my fault that Brian is dead, and I will never forgive myself for that. The one time he needed me, I wasn’t there. The look in his eyes as he fell is one I will never forget. A look of sadness, despair, disappointment that his trusted friend had allowed him to die in vain. Why can’t I do it all over again? Grab him the instant he slipped? I’m sorry, Brian.

What I feel right now is inharmonious. The whole reason I came to these groups in the first place is to feel included, and now dead people don't even want me. The advertisement for the support group held at the local church stated that the support group was for the "terminally ill." How was I supposed to know that suicide didn't fall under that category? Besides, I had a few colds in my life. I was no stranger to the stomach flu. Who cares if I stretched the word "terminal" out to include myself? I need as much help as any of them. You see when you're in a room full of people who would do anything for a couple of extra years of life, they don't take too kindly to those who are willing to throw them all away over a broken heart, and a gallon of bleach. But I can't help it! I'm as helpless as the rest of them. It's as if they think I asked for an inflamed case of depression paired with an overwhelmingly low self-esteem. Still, when it's my turn to speak the room is furnished with exaggerated sighs, and rolling eyes. More and more it seems like the only time I feel alone is when I'm surrounded by people. If it were just about them I wouldn't be here. In fact if it were anyone else, but her, I wouldn't be here. As luck would have it I happen to be kind of in love with Jenna Lane. And the truth is I haven't spoken to her yet, but when you're as emotionally unstable as me feelings like love come pretty easily. Even if I wasn't suffering from any mental anguish, I would still love her. How could I not? Here she is suffering from brain cancer and still finds time to make a fresh batch of cookies for everyone each week. Her smile makes me smile. Her laugh makes me laugh. She's not the prettiest girl I've seen in my life, but there is something about her that is so endlessly beautiful in the most refined sense of the word. She's the Mona Lisa, not exactly divine, but still a masterpiece. I had it bad for this girl, and tonight would be the night that she would find out. I just didn't know how to bring it up. Do I tell her point blank? Stand on a table in the center of the room, and proclaim my love for this girl I have yet to meet? Ride in on a white horse, whisk her away, and ride into the sunset together? And just as my imagination started to get carried away the opportunity presented itself. Martha Goldstein was in the middle of detailing her struggle in the late stages of ASL, when Jenna was started dosing off. Her head slowly lowered, her eyelids began to shut, and by the time it came to Benjamin Bloom and his battle with Huntington's disease Jenna Lane had fallen asleep on my shoulder. And what I feel right now is elated. By the time the group is over my shirt is soaked in saliva. People stand up to put away their chairs and grab a cup of coffee, while I stay seated with Jenna content with being her pillow. After she had woken up she apologized profusely for the falling asleep on me, and apologized even more when she saw the lake that she had created on my shoulder. I accepted every apology she gave me, and asked if I could walk her to her car. As we walked she told me about what school she had gone to, and how she had to take some time off after she got sick. She told me about her parents, and her little brother at home, and to be honest I didn't retain much of anything she said. I was too overjoyed that I, the suicidal self-loathing guy that not even people on the verge of death liked, had the opportunity to walk Jenna to her car. When we reached her vehicle I was disappointed by how short the walk was. We exchanged awkward goodbyes, and as I went for a hug she extended her hand. Jenna had stepped into her car, and slipped the key into the ignition before I had obtained enough courage to ask for her number. The words fell clumsily from my mouth but she didn't seem to notice. Instead she just smiled, fetched a piece of paper and pen from her purse, and wrote down seven of the world's most valuable numbers on the paper before handing it to me. This is how I met Jenna Lane. I know in theory you are supposed to wait a couple days before calling a girl, but with Jenna I had to contain myself from entering her number the minute I walked through the door. I believe I had made it approximately one day, ten hours, and forty-seven minutes before I finally caved. Before I called her I spent at least twenty minutes planning out what I was going to say, but the second she answered the phone my training departed from me. The sound of her voice escaping through the confines of my cell phone was simply euphoric. I fumbled my way through a couple minutes of aimless small talk, when Jenna finally stopped me. "Did you call me to ask me out?" she asks. And I recover just enough of myself to reply with a feeble "yes." "Well I would love to go on a date with you," she would say followed with something along the lines of, "that is of course if you're okay with dating a girl with an expiration date." And what I feel right now is lucky. I take Jenna to play mini golf, because that's what everyone who feels like a movie and dinner are too cliché does. I start to win, but decide to let her beat me because I want so badly for her to be happy with me. I buy ice cream afterwards, and when I dropped my cone face down on my lap she pretends not to notice, and offers to share hers. As I drive her home there is no room for silence. My car is filled with laughter and conversation the entire ride. I pulled up to her house, and walked her to her doorstep. We exchange awkward goodbyes, and as I extend my hand she goes in for a hug. She asks me when she can expect to see me next, and I say in the most confident voice I can muster, "How about next week?" She says she'd love that. I say I would too. She kisses me on the cheek before entering her house. Over the next couple of months I see Jenna Lane more and more. And over the next couple of months life doesn't seem so bad. It didn't matter what we did. We could watch paint dry for all I cared, but whenever I am with Jenna life just makes sense, the way I would imagine life to feel for people without suicidal tendencies, or brain cancer. It was a Tuesday when she told me to come over to her house. We had plans for a date Thursday night, but she called me out of the blue and requested that I come over. "I want you to have sex with me," she tells me. And being the smooth talking man I am I responded with a delayed "What?" "Sexual intercourse. You know what that is, yeah? Do you remember that expiration date we talked about? I don't know when it's coming, but it's coming soon. I just want to have sex. Is that so much to ask for?" She says comically. And the sad thing was it was true. She was dying. The light in her eyes had dimmed, her hair was slowly falling out, and her body had grown constantly smaller and smaller. In a perfect world I would have liked to wait. Planned it out, and done something romantic that may or may not have involved candles and rose petals, and maybe some fireworks, but who was I do deny a girl her dying wish? We fuck. At least that's what it feels like. Nothing more nothing less. I pray that she's a virgin, and wonder if she loves me or if this is just for sport. Because the truth is I'm kind of madly in love with her. What I want her to do is make a mistake, because perfection comes so naturally to her. I want her to be flawed. I want her to be vulnerable. I want her love me the way I love her, even though I know she can't. There are empty spaces in everyone's lives. I'd like to think that we try the best we can to make sure those places are filled. But no matter hard you try there are going to be those moments that leave you feeling empty. There's that pretty girl at the coffee shop that you wanted to talk to, but didn't. That trip you've always wanted to take, but never booked the flight. The paths of our lives are paved with missed opportunities, and hearts that we never had the chance to break. Jenna understood this. She had accepted her fate. She knew that soon she would be nothing more than a corpse rotting in the ground. She had no time for love, or petty crushes. What she needed was a friend. Someone to share these experiences with. She wasn't heartless. Jenna was just trying to make sure she didn't miss anything, before she was gone. And what I feel right now is cheated. Because all of this is an illusion. The walk to the car, the date, the sex all of these the fabric of my imagination. Everything but the saliva. The saliva drips through my shirt, and I can't help but wonder if it's a side effect of brain cancer. Hyper active salivation glands. As soon as Kathy Green wraps up her anecdote about her fight against AIDS Jenna is awoken. Still she profusely apologizes, and I still accept her apologies. She offers to pay me for a new shirt, but I tell her it's an old shirt. That I don't care about it anyways. After everything is taken down I help Jenna carry the platter in which she brought cookies on to her car, and the conversation stays light and general. The weather has been nice. School is fine. As she's packing the platter and leftover cookies into her trunk, I ask her what she's doing that night, if maybe she would like to go see a movie with me. "My boyfriend and I are actually going to play mini-golf tonight," is what she tells me. "Maybe some other time." "Sure, maybe next time," I say closing the trunk of her car for her. And what I feel right now is broken. We exchange awkward goodbyes. As I extend my hand she extends hers, and as we're standing there in the parking lot shaking hands she asks me what my name is.

I wrote this for my English 12 class, feedback/suggestions would be great. :) *Red* The morning light shines through my window, hitting my face, bringing me back into consciousness. I throw off my duvet, and note the absence of my cat from the bed. I need to let him outside, he tends to get stir crazy. I have my fuzzy robe on within a minute, and after making my bed, I head towards the bathroom. 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's the twins' room. The door was wide open, but my cat wasn't inside. A bunk bed is 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 bedside table. I pick up the worn, stuffed rabbit from the carpet, feeling the threads - they barely holding it 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 much anyway, toys seem like a waste of time; but I put the rabbit in the big pocket on the front of my robe. 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 have always liked being pale; it makes me feel like a ghost. Like I can be invisible. I softly close the door behind me as I exit the room, making my way to the next one. I really need to find my cat. My eldest brother's room is even more messy than the twins'. Clothes and books and magazines and pens and CDs and game controllers and posters everywhere. They covered the now barely visible laminate, futon bed, and red walls - like a collage of my brother and everything he is. The CDs he had bought at a yard sale last weekend lay piled beside the bed. I pick up one of them, the edge of the case was cracked, but the album art was pretty. Abstract and complex. A picture had been thrown to the ground, ripped in two. My brother 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? His face looks happy in the photo. I always wonder what people are really thinking in photographs. Are they really happy? Or are they faking it? 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; maybe the cat is hiding in there. My mother tries to keep it orderly, the effort is 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 of my parents work nine to five jobs and have 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 for in the morning. My mother's jewelry lay scattered on her vanity, her beautiful white gold bracelet with little diamonds embedded was right on the edge. She has always told me I could have it someday. I hope that day is soon. I enter the hall and slowly close the door to the room, to avoid that irritating creaking sound it makes sometimes. I wonder if the cat has gone back to my room. As I enter, 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; I should go join my family downstairs. I hang a sharp right outside my door and descend down the staircase, towards the kitchen. I ignore the sticky wetness under my feet as I put some bread in the toaster. The cat was sitting on the counter, looking at me. Almost glaring. How long has he been down here? I wonder why he didn't sleep in my room last night. I cast open the window over the sink, so he can go outside. I stare out at the cloudy sky through the now open window; 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, away from the counter and towards my family. Red smears the walls, the cupboards, the counters, the floors. And the five bodies on the floor. Their unseeing 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 walks into the kitchen; I forgot she was coming by to pick up her casserole dish. Maybe she can help me clean up; this is quite a mess. I sit down in the crimson and run my fingers through it as she sobs into the telephone, summoning emergency services. I don't see what the emergency is - there's no saving those who are gone.

I am mostly mad. It has always been like this, usually starting as a slight knot in my gut, then a spreading irritation, till it fills my whole body with red flame and I explode. My family and friends are used to this and don’t seem to mind my frequent anger outbursts, but when I meet new people I like to warn them: “Hi, I’m Andy Wokswizme, and I am mostly mad” – that way there are no surprises later on and new relationships in general have worked out well. So imagine my consternation and outrage when I introduced myself thus at Heathrow passport control, and instead of letting me enter the UK and take a well deserved rest at the Holiday Inn, the British immigration officer looked at me queerly and pressed a red button calling men in white coats to take me away to a padded cell. Its quite a nice padded cell, actually, and I love how the nearly 30256 squares interlock so neatly, forming pretty patterns that help me to sleep, that is when the voices let me. I like the voices, and I think the like me, probably because I was careful to tell them up front that I am mostly mad.

He entered the room, shivering. His hands were like rattlesnakes in his pockets, and he felt cold sweat dripping down his head. He knew that now was his time to commit the act. He felt the air scurry across him as he stood in the cold, lonely classroom. Only him and one other occupant shared the room. He could see the other person, but they couldn't see him. He was an eagle, ready to destroy his pray. With a heaving motion, he sat on top of the banister that gave him that extra altitude to have a birds eye view on his victim. He pulled his trousers down, and pushed with power beyond what he thought was humanly possible. Faeces came tumbling out of his anus, breaking the silence like a gunshot in a desert. The mess was incredible! Brown particles covered the room, or more importantly, his victim. He ran out of the room, his buttocks slipping with that foul excrement all across his cheeks. He jumped out the window, and gave one mighty tug on his parachute cord. He was Free. He was The Shitter.

It was an eerie autumn night. She sat in the house alone, she always did, she had no friends left in this world. As she listened to the wind howl and a branch scratching an upstairs window she was sure tonight would finally be the night, her last ever night in this oversized old lonely house. She was being hunted and knew once caught it would be the end of her. How could this not be the night? She thought to herself. In truth it was just a bad feeling she had because of the eeriness of the night, the sounds and shadows from outside. She woke. It was 09:02. She made it through the night she realised with great relief. The relief was short lived. Now she was confused, soon she would be angry. She remembered back to last night, she could recall it being about 5am, she must have drifted off then. She had spent the night watching come dine with me. She could remember watching the first three episodes but not the fourth. That means she missed the results. If I didn’t see the results, what was the point in watching the first three episodes she thought to herself raging? She threw a spoon at a window, luckily neither were hurt. She had to leave this place, they will look here soon she knew. She had no mode of transport, her only option was to hitchhike. This was the countryside, cars were few and far between and the people driving them were likely dangerous. The countryside seemed to bring out the worst in people. The isolation, the questionable gene pool, farming; all ingredients that often produced monstrous results, murderous people at worst. Animal fuckers at best. And hitchhiking was never safe for a young attractive female travelling on her own. Fortunately she was ugly, and middle aged. She may have been younger, her age didn’t matter anyhow. It was her ugly face that may save her. Still she was a woman and travelling alone, so the danger was there. 30 minutes had now passed and she still stood with thumb out. Not one car had passed yet. All she could think about was Dave. She hated Dave. She really hoped Dave didn’t win. Dave was one of the contestants on last nights come dine with me and she hated him, he had stupid plates. “Fucking cunt,” she shouted. It was unrelated to Dave and his stupid plates, she has Tourette’s syndrome. She was so deep in thought trying to work out who may have won come dine with me that she nearly didn’t notice the car stop. It was a pick up truck, and in truth had seen better days. So had the driver. A lone male, in his 50s, thin wiry hair, crooked yellow teeth, covered in boils, and breath that could kill. “Where you headed lady? He asked. “I need to go to Dukenbury, its about 22 miles from here. Please take me as close as you can”. Dukenbury was remote, it was unlikely he would be passing through to drop her off but anywhere close would be better than here. “As ‘appens, that is where I’m headed lady, I can take you all the way”. Perhaps she should have realised something wasn’t right at this point, but she didn’t. She knew the way to Dukenbury and she knew they had just gone past a right turning that they should have taken. That’s when she knew something was wrong. It was the drivers sat nav, must have been an old one without the new routes programmed in. She was gutted; she knew it would add at least 3 minutes to the journey. They arrived at Dukenbury safe. But 3 minutes later than she would have hoped. She knew she couldn’t avoid her hunters forever, the hunted will get caught. But if she could just do this one last thing in Dukenbury it wouldn’t matter. She wouldn’t mind being caught then. It would mean the end of her life, but she would have achieved all that wished to anyway. First though she was tired and needed to rest for the task at hand. She checked into a bed and breakfast. It was 15:06 when she put her head down on the pillow. As she woke up she realised that she hadn’t been asleep, it then dawned on her that she hadn’t woke up. It was still 15:06 because literally nothing has happened; she just sketched out a little is all. As she woke up she chuckled as she remembered earlier when she thought she had woken up but hadn’t even been asleep. She could be stupid some times she thought to herself, although not as stupid as Dave’s plates. That pleased her. The cafe was only a two-minute walk from the bed and breakfast. Her daughter should be there, she worked there. If she could just find her daughter everything would be OK. As she approached the café however she realised she was being followed. “No not now” she thought, “I’m nearly done, you can’t take me yet”. She burst into a run, so did the pursuer. She ran into the café, the chaser was only a meter behind her now. But there she was, she could see her daughter. “All I have to do is avoid capture for another second” she thought as she sprinted towards her daughter. Her daughter was facing the other way so the woman called out, her daughter turned around, A split second later the woman drove a 7 inch carving knife through her throat. It was brutal. The woman had been caught now but it didn’t matter, she had done it. She had murdered 10 people. She had always wanted to murder 10 people and finishing with her daughter made it perfect.

Got bored, so I decided to write a short story. I really hope these lines don't look stupid. Let me know what you think. The Diary Day 30 I started to put up a radio transmission to see if anyone will pick it up but it's not looking good. Its also been thirty days since we last spoke. I had forgot what it's like to be alone. Not sure why I'm writing this but it feels like it helps me get through it all. I hope to see you again. (radio transmission) (If you can hear this and you need help leave a sign in the middle of grand street, after that go to the library and wait. If I don't contact you within two days then leave, I shouldn't have to tell you what happened or whats going to happen to me if I don't get in contact with you.) Day 43 Its been thirteen days since I last wrote in this thing. I thought I was going to have some meat three days ago but it was taken by a pack of dogs. Still nothing from the radio transmission I put up, I fear that it doesn't travel very far. Going to look for a way to boost the signal. I wish you were still here, you would know what to do. Day 44 I was checking to see if someone got the message and there it was. In the middle of the road just like I had asked in the transmission. I'm getting ready to go to the library now. Day 45 Why, why did I say the library? I could have said anything else. That same day I went to the library and started to check around and couldn't find them on the first floor so I went downstairs looked around for a bit. Seen a room with a some what closed door, I went to check it out and I found them, it was an entire family. They looked like they were killed but not by thee infected, then I notice something moving around. I got my gun ready, I didn't know what was about to come out but I thought It was going to be me or it. After a few minutes of silence I started to back away slowly. I was almost out of the room when he came out of hiding, it was a kid! the horror in the boys eyes was so much it sent chills down my back. He started to run towards me and I put my gun in his face yelling "Get back!" he looked at me and just started to cry. I wanted to help him but I couldn't tell if he was infected or not. I was about to ask him if he was bitten but he yelled "Mom!" I knew she was behind me! I gripped my gun and turned around, She stood there for a minute as if she was fighting it, but she was fighting it! she held on long enough to say "kill me". So I took aim and fired, the boy screamed "Why did you do that!" I told him "you're old enough to know what she was about to become!" he just stood there with tears flowing down his face. I said to him "You can come with me or you can stay here? It's your decision." I started to leave the library and he followed. Day 55 The boy has been depressed since the library. I bring him food and water, I try to get him to talk but after what I did I don't blame him for not speaking to me. But I tell him every time I go out to scavenge for food "If I don't come back you will have to do this on your own." he just looks at me as if he wants to die. Day 57 I come back from scavenging and I see the boy outside just looking at the sun. I think this is improvement. I say "hello" but he just goes back inside. Day 70 The boy seems to have finally moved on from what happened at the library. We talk every now and then, he told me about how they got here and where they came from. He said they were from Stillwater but they had to leave because it was over run with thee infected and he said the way here was not as straight forward as his parents thought it would have been. He said they had to go through Marland for some reason. Day 80 The boy came up to me today and said it was his birthday, I laughed and told him I will try and find him something. I asked him how old he was, he told me he was thirteen today and that he wanted to give his family a proper burial. I told him it would be difficult but, we can try. When I went out to find food I also found a Rubik's Cube for the boy to toy around with, not the finest thing but I think he will like. When I got back I told him that he would have to help carry the bodies he seemed fine with it. We found a place to bury them, it was near a bridge, he said this is where they spent there last night together, he said they were so excited to hear the transmission that they joked about how much they were going to eat and how this this could be the salvation they were looking for. After we buried them no words were said. When we got back to the old church I gave him the cube and asked him his name he said "You have been taking care of me for what seems like over a month and you're just now asking my name! It's Adam, you?". We laughed for what seemed like ten minutes straight. Then he asked for my name again but it's been so long since I even thought about my name that I had forgot it. I told him "I don't know.", he said "How do you forget your name?" I said "I don't know." Day 92 I started to show Adam where I scavenge and where I hunt and what I use to hunt, he asked why I didn't just use my gun. I told him it was to loud and thee infected would hear. Day 101 We seen a plane today, Adam said it was like a glorious sign from god and then asked me what we should do. I said "There was no indication that they were going to land anywhere near here." and that we should go about our day. on our way back to the church we see a sign in the middle of the road and for some reason Adam start to cry. I take a closer look at the sign, it was the one his family used. I told him it's okay and to go back to the church, with tears flowing down his face he said "okay". I went to the library and looked around and found three men and two women, I asked if they had been bitten, they said no and that they were starving but, they didn't look like they were starving. I went ahead and gave them some food and water,they said they were from Kansas and that they found a plane and that it took them three months to fix it up. Against my better judgement I brought them back to the church, they introduced themselves as Jake, Tom, Jack, Daisy, and Jessica. It seemed that Jack was the one in charge. But I don't know. Day 103 I was woken up by Adam screams, I got my gun and went to the screams, I see Jake and Tom trying to take Adam, Jake only sees me for a moment before I shoot. Tom looked at me and let go of Adam. Adam says "They have almost all of the food and water!" I take aim at Tom and say "Where did they go! Five, four, three, two, one!" he screams "Okay, Okay I'll tell you! They went back to the library, and we were going to take the kid because we thought you wouldn't be able to take care of him for much longer!" I told him "They should have chosen some place else to hide." and I pull the trigger. I told Adam to stay at the church and if I didn't come back that he should get as much food and water as he can carry and go. It was a full moon that night, when I got near the post office, I decided to climb to the top to get a better look, I look through my scope and see Daisy by the south entrance, I decided to shoot her leg but it looked like it went straight through and hit her other leg. Just as I thought, someone came out to help her, it was Jessica, I take her out with one shot and finish off Daisy. I waited for ten minutes but, Jack didn't come out. So I had to move in. I got into the library and start to look for him as fast as I can, I was going about it sloppy as well, the reason being that thee infected were coming. I went downstairs to check and he was in the same room as Adams family was, he look at me with fear in his eyes and said "Why did you kill Daisy! She was pregnant!" and I realized that it was not fear in his eyes, it was sadness, and I demanded to know where the food and water was. He showed me and I showed no mercy and shot him dead. Day 105 I have taken down the radio transmission, the library has been over run with the infected. I also have been thinking about my humanity and whats happening to it. I felt almost nothing when I killed them. On another note, Ponca City seems to be getting more and more Dangerous by the day. I fear we will not be able to stay here much longer. Day 117 While me and Adam were out scavenging we heard a radio go off, and it spoke of a haven in California. (radio transmission) (We just found out how to boost the signal! To anyone who can hear this, it's safe in California, San Francisco to be exact! When you get here we are in The Golden Gate park! We have not seen the infected for months!) To be continued........

His nights were full of the tossings and turnings you’d expect from a grave, but less life. You can hear his agonies from the other room, but no neighbor thinks much of it. Regret can kill a man, but poor choices can make him immortal. That’s what keeps him up, his choices in life. Every night, those that share his walls hear the same woe’s spilling through the tattered dry wall, “WHY ME?” “HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?” but they never hear the answers. It’s difficult to gauge the value of a life when the person doesn’t value their own, but we insist that it is mandatory that we move on. Death is inevitable, we all know this. Death comes quick, swift, and overwhelmingly so, but we must press on. We don’t know why we do, or how, but all we know is that the only buttons on life we can press are “start” and “stop”, we only control the one though.

It was like a fairytale love-story. One could also say, and this was often described as a reason of their happiness, that they sold their souls to the Devil himself for life-long fortune. They met at charity ball and months after their love was signed with the act of marriage. He worked at university as professor of arts and was an exquisite painter. Soon after marriage they announced her pregnancy and their lives and lives others around them were shining bright from happiness. The day of labour has written itself as the darkest day of their lives, for she gave birth to a dead child. For quite some time they withdrew from society and kept their lives for themselves. When they were nearing third year of marriage they finally started to look as a happy couple like before. Words were told, that at their house, there is a wall of pure happiness, the masterpiece of their lives, painted on wall in living room. And as she never touched brush, nor the pallet before, it was a pure miracle that her skills were comparable of that of her husband. They worked day and night, like possessed and this work of art had soon become meaning of their lives. Only few closest friends were acknowledged of pure beauty that was being made there and they spoke of highest flatteries about it. Shortly before it could be finished she became ill. Her health subsided faster and faster, no doctor was able to help her. He went almost mad, physically attacking every doctor whose cure failed. After few weeks she asked of him, if they can continue on their work, for she sensed that her end is nearing. She wanted to spend her last moments with him doing what they loved most. And they continued and the day of her death is the same as the day of final stroke of brush on their wall. He was shattered by loss, and closed himself from others. There are only few photos of their masterpiece from time shortly after her death and those are held under lock by authorities of law and also of art. Only his close friend since childhood, who was held for questioning for quite long time after events which are described in this story, was able to directly observe what happened after her death to his friend. As many before and after him, he turned to alcohol to drown his sorrows and to forget. Then, during one particular tantrum, he went to storeroom, which held all artistic tools and gears, and got himself bucket full of black paint. He then proceeded to the wall and took long looks at it with bottle of booze in one hand, bucket of black paint in the other and tears in his eyes. He then spilled the whole bucket on the wall, took yet another one and another one, and there is said, that almost a dozen of large buckets filled with black paint were spilled and used to cover arguably the most beautiful thing human hands has ever made. Next morning his friend came to visit him, to lend comforting hand and to try to help him recover from loss and pain. He found his friend, lying in living room, deep in slumber, covered with black stains. When he turned around, he gazed upon wall of pure blackness, where once were the wall of happiness. Interestingly, when he visited him week after week, he always found him lying on the ground, covered in black paint, almost unconscious from alcohol and new layer of fresh black paint was added to the wall. This started to really rise his concerns about his friend so he tried talking to him about this matter. He explained to him, that everytime he covers wall in all of it’s entirety with black paint, soon after that, the paint somehow dissipates and reveals painting underneath it. He told him, that everytime this happens, he feels as if his very soul was being shattered to small pieces. So he covers painting with black paint so his pain is more bearable. Few weeks after continuous repetition of this ritual, his friend found him lying on the ground, back to top, head drowned in bucket of black paint, his body facing the wall painting. His friend then saw what was making him so anxious. The black colour was receded mostly from centre, around the edges it became more reddish and gave painting looks as if their mutual project was being swallowed by infernal flames. Soon after police came to secure the area, they took many photos and couldn’t believe their eyes. For after they conducted experiment of following procedure. They put on a static tripod high quality camera, which took photos of the same wall every hour. Then they put resulting photos of whole week one by one as it is done in animation. Then, the most interesting thing was to be observed. Black paint really dissipated from center to outer edges, and formed more red hue, with orange and yellow parts, which altogether created effect of moving flames, for during time these splatters slowly moved across the whole wall. What caused this effect is still mystery and there is no doubt someone will break it someday, but for now this leaves interesting questions unanswered.

John liked to dance. The beat, the sweat, the daze, he liked dancing. John liked the intimacy of the dance floor. The DJ was mixing some cool tracks, and John had just ordered his typical gin & tonic. It was an acquired taste, his friends never stole a sip. That’s the night when he first saw her. You wouldn't believe it, but for John it seemed as if time had stopped. It was her green eyes that he first locked on to. Piercing green, greener than the backside of a 20. Frozen in a moment of everlasting bliss. John would break every single law of physics to have time stand still for him. Emily was statuesque. Her long, brown hair fell over her shoulder like leaves that have felt winter’s touch. He felt flushed with heat. Yet, her smile calmed the tension building in his body. He was never much of a playboy, but John couldn't let this opportunity slip.

"We were definitely playing with them." She says this to herself, or to me. I'm looking at the empty cage, all my enthusiasm for the search gone. "Definitely." She says again. Sighs and puts her head in her hands. "My hands even smell like gerbil." Her voice comes out muffled from between her fingers. The cage is made of plastic. The top half clear, the bottom part hot pink. It is, or was, the home of Lisbeth - one of the more recent additions. It was my turn to pick a name so I went with a character from the book I was reading at the time. Claire looks pained which surprises me. Lisbeth was her least favourite from the last litter, not that she'd admit that. Then I notice the empty pill packet in her hand. "We're out?" "We're out." I thought so anyway, we've probably been out for a while. I have the beginnings of a headache which will only get worse, and my body feels exhausted although my mind is still whirring. Perdidazine is our drug of choice at the moment. Cheap blue and off-white capsules that can be ordered online with no hassle. A stimulant - it took us a while to decide - with some hallucinogenic properties. The unpleasant effects: skull-splitting headaches accompanied by a whirring noise that comes from inside your head. I usually picture a chainsaw slicing into my brain during this. Claire sometimes gets heart palpitations. Short term memory loss too; which isn't unpleasant in itself but makes life a bit more complicated and disorganised. The positives include time speeding up and these long, summer days with too much heat and too much boredom skipping by. Euphoria, which is always nice, and confidence. If we were ever inclined to leave the house while high, we'd be social chameleons, knowing just what to be and when to be it. Claire's face is haunted now, and that's fuck all to do with our gerbils or lack of. I know I should be more concerned at how panicky she gets when we run out, but I'm too bored. Bored of looking for Lisbeth, bored of this headache, bored of Claire's complaining even before she's started. I need to be in my room for a while. I spent most of the next day watching my ceiling from my bed, my duvet pulled over my shoulders. I lie down, roll onto my side and watch my fish swim about for a while. I have two, just standard goldfish. I don't really care about them but whenever they die I replace them and keep the names. I feed them and change their water regularly, but every few months they die anyway. I go back to watching the ceiling. The palm on my right hand is scratched, which I probably did in my sleep. It hurts. It's annoying. Claire comes in for a while and talks at me. Asks me if I ordered more perd. I tell her to fuck off. She watches the fish for a while with me, or just stares at my wall through the tank, I don't know which. Eventually she goes away. She wakes me up at seven in the morning. Her eyes are puffy from crying, which knocks me wide awake. I'm starting to worry she's getting really dependent on this new stuff. But it's Lisbeth she's upset about. I help her look again for almost two hours, mostly in the study: behind the computer, the bookshelf, we look in the garden too although we're certain we never left the back door open. We give up the search. Probably for good this time. After dumping more food in all the occupied cages we watch daytime television until I fall asleep on the sofa. Sometime after waking up again I feel like writing in my diary which I haven't done for at least a month. It's in the middle of my bookcase, with my camcorder on top of it and a half smoked joint on top of that. I write in it for a while, updating it with my thoughts, feelings, activities, things it might be nice to remember at some point. Even Lisbeth gets a mention. I go to Claire's room and try to shake her awake but she's either been at Dad's diazepam or something else that she hasn't bothered to share with me - and won't be waking up for a while. I smoke the rest of the joint I found out of her window, poke a couple of her cuddly toys then leave. I find the camcorder cable in my desk and start recharging it. I'd assumed the battery was dead, and was right. I decide to film my fish swimming for a few hours because I'm not going to buy any more if they die on me again. I write 'Film them' on a piece of paper torn from a notepad and sellotape it to their tank. I was woken up by the camcorder beeping. Means it's recharged. I go back to sleep. When I get up none of my cereal is in the cereal cupboard which really annoys me. I have a cigarette in the garden and take one of two perd. capsules I have in my desk drawer I ring dad who claims he bought it, then wake up Claire and ask her if she's eaten it, although I know she hates cereal. I wake her up again half an hour later and ask if she moved it to punish me for losing Lisbeth, or maybe for not finding her. She screams at me to fuck off. After a few minutes sat at the dining table I go and look in the same cupboard. It was next to the crunchy nut but at an angle that made it impossible to see. I pour myself a bowl, pour milk on, take one mouthful and realise I'm not even a bit hungry. I spit it out of the window. When I go to feed my fish one of them is dead. She gets flushed down the toilet after I slightly mummify her in wet toilet paper to make sure she goes down properly. There's also a bit of scrap paper stuck on to the tank which says 'film them'. My handwriting. I rip it off and go tell Claire if she goes and buys me another goldfish I'll order more perdidazine. She agrees on the condition that I take pictures of the latest batch of gerbils and write up an advert on gumtree to sell them. Deal. I look for my phone but can't find it, and it goes straight to voicemail when I ring from the house phone. I think the camcorder can take stills anyway. The camcorder belonged to dad before I asked for it. I found it in the cellar. I was bored at the time and was getting stoned every day, I wanted distractions. I found a lot of other junk too but it was the camcorder I wanted. I scanned through the tape in it, there was footage of me and Claire laughing and hitting a beach ball that was almost the same size as we were back and forth between us; as well as what looked like a party with a lot of old people sitting around in it. I recognised one or two. As I didn't think it was likely I could still get the tapes for it I asked dad if he minded me taping over it. He didn't. I type out the advert. Gerbils, four pounds each. Loving homes wanted, please no vivisectionists. Simple. As I'm taking the camcorder downstairs I start to wonder how I'll get the photos online - the camcorder predates USB ports- but I'll deal with that later. I want to see if there's anything left of the beach ball video first, I'm feeling a bit nostalgic. Nostalgia isn't my thing, but the drugs drag it to the surface. After watching for a few minutes I turn it off, bring it to my room and dump it on my bookcase. The gerbils remain unphotographed. I put on some Soundgarden and rifle through Dad's room for some of his diazepam or thorazine but it's been moved, or ran out, or otherwise gone. I stay in my room for some time with one fish and a chainsaw headache. Claire isn't in her room although her window's open. I throw the camcorder onto her bed with a note on it saying 'Watch this' I smoke a cigarette out of her window before deciding to pour out my last capsule and snort the contents. The last pill isn't in my desk though, which means I've probably already had that idea and already done it. It makes sense, as my headache's eased up. And things are okay. Not great, but not bad. Halfway down the stairs i stop, confused as to why my mind's so clear. I assume I've taken some perdidazine - a drug me and Claire have been taking. It causes some problems with memories. And I can't remember why I'm going down the stairs. I want to talk to Claire. I want to swop neuroses with her, have a deep conversation about whatever, whatever she wants, if we had a beach ball we could go in the garden and play volleyball with it, or something. Anything she wants to do really. But she isn't in her room, although the window's open. My camcorder is on her bed with a note attached. I take it back to my room and put it on my bookshelf where it belongs. My room. The camcorder is on my lap. On my desk, the laptop is still open, halfway through typing that gerbil advert. My fish (plural) are swimming around the tank (thanks Claire) my chainsaw headache is revving, revving. Claire is next to me, watching the camcorder with me. The room full of old people are laughing, sitting in our living room, but with different chairs. They're boring, and I'm about to fast foward when it begins and the view changes to a lopsided view of my bed, desk, and fish tank - a bookcases-eye-view. My voice can be heard from outside in the hall, muffled. It's my second time watching this and Claire's first but honestly, my recollection is hazy. It's mostly new to us both. On the screen I walk in holding Lisbeth the gerbil by the base of her tail. I see myself look just to the left of the lens, and my eyes are blank, empty. Although I couldn't say what it is, some feature of my eyes are lost. Especially compared with Lisbeth's which are very much alive, big, black, and frightened. her paws are flapping at nothing, there's nothing to cling onto for her. We watch me make a fist around her, open the aquarium lid with my other hand and plunge her in. In the now Claire has started to scream at me, things like what the fuck am I doing and what the fuck am I showing her. A lot of 'fucks'. I tell her to shut up but she doesn't until she appears on screen and I grab her face and twist her at the screen so she sees herself. On screen, I don't look up, I'm just staring at my submerged fist -and I guess those were gerbil bites and scratches on my hand- and Claire doesn't look at me while I drown Lisbeth, but she plunges in her own arm, coiled around mine like a snake, and puts her hand over my closed fist. One or both of us is squeezing. Because red ribbons of blood are starting to trail upwards from between our fingers. She puts her other hand on my waist and slowly moves it up and down, under my t shirt, stroking, in a way few people have touched me and in a way my sister never has. We're both grinning now, but the smiles seem painted on. It's not something that feels real. I can't see our eyes, but I know how blank and devoid of anything they are, I just know. More crimson streams waft out of our interlocked hands, and the fish swim strictly in the corner of their tank, well away from us. At this point Claire runs from the room. I watch for another few minutes before turning it off. I knock on her door but she just starts to scream at me again. I shout over her that we need more perd. and she gets louder, screaming 'fuck you' over and over but eventually quietens down and soon after slides Dad's debit card under the door. I listen to Pearl Jam's Lost Dogs with the volume quite low so I can hear if the letterbox is rattled and when it is, me and Claire are both at the door in seconds. She rips open the small brown package with her teeth, same with the plastic wrapper and tips the capsules into her hand. She starts dividing them into two piles in her palm. "Maybe in an hour or two we could look for Lisbeth again, if you want."I say. She pauses, then gets back to rationing. One for you, one for me. "Maybe try the study again?" She stops again. "And we could change her bedding so it's nice for her when we find her." She does look up at me this time, with an expression like gratitude. I think she's going to hug me but her hands are full of pills and packaging. So she doesn't.

This story is from a recent car crash I was a part of and the events leading up to it. **Car crash from last night, as I remember it.** Two thirty-two ounce Jeremiah Reds and we still looked sharper than a butcher's knife. It takes a real man to order a bottle of red, and even more so to take them as effortlessly as we did. It was quite a sight for the regular crowd. Three manly men enjoying their drink and catching up on some sports down at the, always welcoming, BJ's brew house. As it turns out, and although it may seem like it, not everything always goes our way. The home team lost a crucial playoff game, beers were running low, and I hadn't been offered sex all night. This combination of unfortunate mishaps started giving me an odd feeling. I needed to shake off this funk, but I was out of smokes. My good friend Mauri sensed my discomfort, that or my childish fidgeting from craving a smoke. Whatever the case, it worked. He spotted a friendly, slanted eyed, sports fan that headed out for an opium break. Lucky for us he happened to smoke regular stuff as well. Our type of stuff. Some quick witted banter later and we were three cigarettes richer. We took care of the first two immediately. Mauri put away our third friend for a later puff. Normally he'll do it with such elegance, I swoon. This time though, it strangely grazed his slightly large, but still handsome, earlobe. What normally wouldn't affect a frail or even a wet cigarette, this time destroyed our last piece of lung candy. Things were happening. Bad vibes were definitely out tonight. I decided at this point, it was up to me to keep bad shit from happening. I didn't mention any of these strange occurrences to Mauri or Mikey, I had to keep my composure. Lead by example and example the lead. It works. It was getting late and it began to feel as if we had overstayed our welcome, that or this one fat headed bartender felt threatened. He offered free beer in exchange for our absence. I'm no cheap man whore, but no man in their right mind would turn down free beer. As a matter of fact no man in any state of mind would. No man. We left to resume our night. The feelings that manifested at the bar had followed to the parking lot. Maybe it just wasn't my night, maybe I was being a pussy, maybe fuck you reader, but I didn't even put up a fight for the front seat. "Shotgun!" Mauri called enthusiastically. I let out a quiet sigh, he rushed to the front. I'd usually sneak my way to passenger, tonight shotgun didn't appeal to me. I figured I should stop worrying and just enjoy my night. Mikey decided to play the classic sounds of our favorite trio, the Beastie Boys. With our last set of Reds in our hand and our heads boppin' he began to lay out the plan for the night. "We're gonna head over to jack in the box to try that new jalapeno burger..." He said with such anticipation, and reassurance I had never heard from him. He was leading by example. Just when I was starting to feel right for the night, my gut instinct struck again. I was nice and buzzed but these goddamn spidey senses were tingling. Before I knew it, everything slowed down. My senses were amplified. I had a moment of clarity in my drunken stupor. I looked around to see if the guys felt this moment of divine lucidity, but all I could make out was Mikey going on with the plans and Mauri trying to rap to the B-boys. I closed my eyes. This was it. Whatever bad energy that was following us, it was here and it was about to blow. It was up to me to try to decipher where it was going to come from. I presses my eyelids shut. And I knew. "Holy shit!" Mauri yelled in the front. I quickly fastened my seat belt and braced myself for impact. Some dumb bitch had made the roughest turn any of us had seen. Although alert Mikey reacted as fast as he cums, it wasn't fast enough for a clean escape. Mauri's glasses flew, Mikey's pride stung, and I had let them down. I should've said something. But men don't think in 'should'ves', we think for the moment and at that moment Mauri and I knew we had to dispose of any incriminating substance. We played the part. "What the fuck?!" Mauri exclaimed as he stepped out. "Ahh mah shoulder!" I played along. "Are you guys ok?" A worried voice shouted from the other car. We had them. I quickly grabbed my bottle of Red and made my way to some stairway away from the crash. Mauri followed, Mikey worked on damage control. Mauri and I did what we do best and chugged those big Reds until their last drop. No man wastes a free beer and we example by lead. I was clearly drunk after this. We found our way back to the mess. Scolded the girl on her driving skills, but there's only so much you can do for a woman driver, and I was glad the bad vibes ended with something so trivial as a car crash. We waited, smoked, took tourist pictures of the sight and decided it was as good moment as any to call it a night.

It was a cold winters night, I was sitting quietly downstairs looking out into the dark of the night as the stars flickered in and out like a train in the distance. My pin vice was my only friend that night, he saw me through the necessary drilling I needed to do, and he never said a word... Just faithfully drilling. Then it happened. A snap like a whip on Jesus' back erupted throughout the room and I felt my soul shatter as the drills soul followed my own. It was like watching him walk onto a landmine. Body parts flung across my hand and table... My eye's watered from the emotional and physical pain... It was over... Blood splashed across my hands and face with the cold dead eyes of Drill staring at me in the black of night. I needed to send word that Drill wouldn't be coming home but right now the emotional pain held me in place like Medusa's stare...

This is my first short story I've written. I would love your criticism and suggestions. Also, what genre would you consider this story? "It Giveth And It Taketh Away" Growing up, I always had a hard time making friends and an even harder time trying to maintain the few relationships I actually made. As both of my parents were in the Airforce, I was what many call a "military brat." Essentially, every year or two the family had to pack our bags and move across the country to wherever the Airforce wanted us stationed. I actually remember us having a bumper sticker that said "Home is where the Airforce sends us." Right after graduating from middle school, we moved from Massachusetts to the lovely city of St. Petersburg where I experienced the most sweltering heat I've ever known. Besides the heat and bugs, I also had a very difficult time adjusting to the culture. People talked and acted differently here. Although it wasn't a huge difference, it sure seemed liked it to a teenager with social anxiety. After some painful months of my freshman year, Spring came with some warmer weather, but don't let that phrase confuse you...Winter is Florida is plenty warm. I had recently joined a youth group at our local church and they were starting to plan groups to go to Clearwater beach. The youth group was really cheesy, the whole "extreme Christian" culture that glorified God by skateboarding, surfing, or playing Wonderwall at bonfires. However, I started to really enjoy the water and atmosphere of Clearwater Beach. It's a really tough thing to explain...the hot sand under your feet, nice cool breezes blowing down the sand dunes, food and icecream stands as far as you can see, and performers of almost every kind. I finally felt happy and comfortable about my life. It felt like a paradise, and it was. At the start, most groups were just your general outings relaxing on the beach. After a couple of weeks though, some of the other guys were complaining that they were getting bored. A few of them were experienced divers, and encouraged the rest of us to take scuba classes. For most of us though, this seemed out of reach. Training was expensive and cash was low. However, there was a nearby town widely known for their diving history and classes there were significantly cheaper. After raising some money from dubious methods involving the church's finances, we all completed our training and further reappropriated the church budget to get equipment. It was a glorious time in my life and I can still remember so many fond memories. Our embezzlement and diving continued for a couple of years and we eventually started shedding the scuba gear and entered the world of free diving. It was even better than scuba diving...no clunky gear to wear or haul around, no cleaning, and no bubbles or noise to scare off fish. The world was our oyster. It was our senior year and life was better than ever. I was in the best shape of my life, had many admirers, and actually scored a real nice lifeguarding job. We took a few dives in the Fall and Winter, but when Spring came we rolled out in full force. I knew it was going to be one of the most memorable years of my life. This is when I learned about the phrase "jinx," which I never heard of until I moved to Florida. For the unfamiliar, it's some sort of curse you get when you brag about your future accomplishments that haven't even happened. The idea is that it's as if you're daring the Universe to stop you. But fate doesn't like to be tempted, as I learned in the March of 2008. Some our friends who graduated the previous year where coming back home on Spring Break for a few days, and we arranged a diving day for all of us. The best diver amongst us was a guy I'll call JC and he was free diving really low that day. Though it was a small concern for us, JC could hold his breath for several minutes, so we didn't think much of it. It was getting pretty late and everyone was exhausted and ready to have a few drinks and watch the sunset. JC opted to dive a little bit more though as we were drinking some Dew (the drink of champions). After a few moments, another friend I'll call TB asked us if anyone had seen JC surface recently. It was such a casual question, but everyone on the boat understood the significance of it immediately. A couple awkward seconds went by as we waited and I specifically remember TB with a sheepish grin as if JC would pop out of the water at any moment and we would all have a good laugh about it. It didn't take long for the grin to disappear. We tried busting out some scuba gear but the tanks were empty. Everyone capable dived into the water and searched for JC. Social anxiety wasn't shit compared to the anxiety I was feeling at that time...I doubt they even have a name for it. We searched for what seemed to be forever, but was probably more around fifteen minutes. After I dove one last time, I surfaced to the noise of screaming and crying. Climbing back into the boat, TB was quietly sobbing with his head in his hands. He was supposed to refill the tanks that morning. It certainly was a memorable year, and I think we all learned the true meaning of hubris that day. The water was our friend, but we didn't respect it. Although the exact reason for the tragedy was never determined, it's most likely he died to water blackout when ascending back to the surface. Rapid depressurization while ascending causes hypoxia (a lack of oxygen in the brain). Unconsciousness sets in and then death. From that day forward, we all took diving safety extremely serious. But sometimes hubris isn't even your own fault. A year later, three of us (RL, SD, and I) were deep sea diving when we found a small underwater cave. After two dives checking it out, we descended for one more look. When our tanks were getting low, we started to prepare to ascend. And then all of a sudden, RL started swimming deeper inside the cave. We figured he had just suddenly seen something and was going to check it out quickly, but after a minute he didn't reappear. He had swam deep inside the cave. SD gestured to ascend, and when we surfaced, he stated that he think RL had just succumbed to nitrogen narcosis. Nitrogen narcosis is a condition that often occurs when deep sea diving that causes you to lose the ability to make decisions and creates a feeling of overconfidence and sometimes even euphoria. We decided to not redive and immediately called the Coast Guard. Once again, water showed its wrath. However, as morbid as these stories are, they pale in comparison to what happened a couple of months ago. I had been working as a commercial diver for about a half of a year and was loving the job. The personal experiences I've had were always in the back of mind. Unless a job had ideal conditions and I deemed it safe, I wouldn't do it until my conditions were met. I was teamed up with a veteran diver for this job and we headed to a nearby water treatment plant. It was supposed to be a quick and easy job with just some minor repairs in one of the water chambers. The setup is a little difficult to explain, but part of the facility consisted of several huge water chambers that connect with each other, with various pipes near the bottom linking them together. In each pipe, there were two valves that separated the water flow between tanks, and could be opened in order to flow water through the chambers and facility. I had a huge problem when we arrived though. The chamber that we would be working seemed safe enough, but when I went and inspected the adjacent chamber there was hardly any water in it. One of the least well known diving risk is also one of the most horrifying. There is something known as differential pressure (often known as "Delta P") that is sometimes a risk in commercial diving. How Delta P works is that if you have two containers of liquids with different amounts of pressure (water pressure), and you link the two containers via a tube or pipe, both containers will even themselves out. The water in the container with more water "wants" to rush into the container with less water so that the pressure is equal. One of the best ways to describe Delta P, although not entirely accurate, is that of a bathtub drain. Say you're enjoying a nice hot bath and after a bit it starts to get cold. You decide to get out and pull out the stopper to drain the water. All of a sudden all the water starts rushing down the drain. You stand up and accidently knock your bottle of body wash into the draining water. No biggie. But then you realize the draining has slowed down, and notice that bottle has been sucked towards the drain and is now blocking the water flow. You may not notice when you remove the bottle, but there is actually suction on it from the drain. Now imagine the job I described earlier, with one chamber full with water and another chamber right next to it with hardly any water in it. What would happen if a diver was working in the full chamber when the two pipe valves were opened. It may be hard to grasp, but there would be a MASSIVE suction pulling the diver to pipe hole just as your bottle was pulled to the pipe hole. In this case though, it is EXTREMELY hard to remove a diver caught in such a situation. There could be hundreds or even thousands of pounds of pressure holding him in place. If a diver gets in this situation and there is nobody monitoring, it is almost certain death. There is ZERO chance of getting out your own, so you're forced to stay there in abject terror until you slowly run out of air. We had to open the first valve so that we could work in the pipe area between the two valves, so I alerted my partner KA of the Delta P risk, but he seemed unconcerned. Told me I was "worrying too much" and that he "has been doing this for years" and to "trust him" that there was no risk. I protested and found the current head operator of the plant and shared my concerns with him. The operator understood my concerns and explained that they had a second valve exactly for this type of situation. A second valve is a good safeguard, but not good enough. I informed the operator that I would not complete the job until the second chamber was filled with water. He was very resistant to the idea, and eventually KA decided that he would just do it himself. I stayed at the top of the chamber watching just in case he needed help. After completing the first few repairs, KA give me the signal to open the first valve. I walked to the central office and asked for the valve to be open. Upon arriving back to the chamber, I could see KA halfway in the pipe doing the repairs. I was wrong about the Delta P, but I'd rather be wrong a hundred times than take a risk. Looking again though, KA seemed to be struggling and kicking his feet. The only thing I could think was "Fuck." I immediately entered the second chambers and looked into the pipe. The second valve had been open, and KA was sucked into the pipe. I could see KA's head stuck in the narrowing of the pipe between the valves. I immediately started to swim upwards to run back to the central office and close the second valve (KA was in the way of the first). After a few kicks, I looked down and saw the most horrifying thing... Adrenaline was rushing through me as I saw some strange object with a tail fly out of the pipe. I must have stared at it for a good 5 seconds as crimson darkness surrounded me before I realized it was. It was KA's head, with his spinal cord attached. Throwing up is never a good thing when scuba diving...I had to get out RIGHT THEN. As organs and tissues were being thrust out into the chamber I climbed out, removed my gear and clothing, and just collapsed into the hallway. In some ways I don't really remember what happened afterwards, and in some ways I do. It felt like I was trapped in between reality and fantasy. I could see around me but I didn't process any of it, I didn't "feel" any of it. Eventually an employee came upon the disaster, next thing I know I'm in a blanket, an ambulance, a psychiatric ward, an isolation cell. I've never experienced anything like this in my life and I doubt I ever will again. I've nearly fully recovered from what happened with therapy and meds, and got a nice settlement from the water treatment plant. It's enough that I'll never have to work again but I plan to start working after just taking a break from life for a year or two. Needless to say, I don't much like water anymore.

On Earth it is the year 2286 and a humanity-changing scientific discovery has once again been made to further our never ending need to know whom we are and where it is we came from. Over the course of the last two centuries there are several items that have become known as everyday knowledge. The planet was found to be expanding quite slowly from all of the waste that we as humans had created while Earth's natural resources were being siphoned at a much more rapid pace. Realizing this we created massive dig sites which were erected worldwide with the hopes of a discovery for a yet unknown resource we could utilize. After several decades we had made our first major discovery. Miles within the Earth we found what remained of what we would believe to be an ancient civilization. While we have known them as several names through the years, in slang they are now commonly called "Epoch". We quickly realized that the Epoch had massive cities just like ours, but made of an unknown metallic alloy that reflected much as a mirror would. Within each city we found enormous platforms made out of the same material, but no visible markings. Through all of our discoveries we realized that among all of this we discovered no traces of the actual Epoch themselves. Never was found a single trace of an anatomical nature, nor anything that would be equivalent to personal property. There was nothing. It was as if we had only discovered a piece of the puzzle. We were left with all of their technology, but nothing of them as an actual species. We harnessed their technology and our own increased ten fold. We didn't understand it at first, but we came to learn to use it and after time we learned to improve upon it. With this it brings us to today. Now I stand here recalling the stories my father told me of the ancient Epoch race and the mysteries surrounding who they were. It is only now that I stop to take notice of the mirrored object slowly filling the nights' sky. Humanity changing indeed.

Ned Harper was an ordinary man with an ordinary job, which is why it came as no surprise that this particular Tuesday began like any other; he was running late. Ned whipped his beige Toyota into the gravel parking lot of the Ashland train station and skid to a rock-flinging halt. The clock outside read 4:38 AM, 3 minutes after his train to was scheduled to depart. “Please be running late,” he exclaimed as he snatched his suitcase from the passenger seat and belted towards the small white station that doubled as the Ashland visitor center. The November air was icy cold and it bit at his cheeks and burned his lungs as he flung open the door of the building. “Has the 4:35 to Atlanta left yet?” he asked the small aging woman behind the ticket counter. Her gray hair was pulled back in a tight bun and she seemed too embroiled in removing a hangnail from her thumb to hear him. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” she asked, looking up at Ned. “The 4:35 train to Atlanta, has it left yet?” “Yes, sir; I’m afraid you’ve just missed it. It was running ahead of schedule and departed about 10 minutes ago. Could I get you another ticket?” “No, no that won’t be necessary” Ned replied, the disappointment evident in his voice. “Is there a public phone I could use? I forgot to charge my cellphone and I need to ring my manager to have him schedule another through our office.” “Certainly, sir. Just outside on the platform, second door to your left.” “Thanks.” Ned picked up his suitcase and headed in the direction the woman had indicated. Although he’d only been inside a few moments, the Virginia air shocked him as it cut through his thick business jacket when he stepped outside. Even more surprising, Ned was immediately confronted with the sight of a hulking gray locomotive looming out of the dim, pre-dawn air of the platform. A tall, thin man in a dark blue uniform with brightly polished buttons leaned from one of its doors. He smiled warmly as Ned jogged up to the side. “Excuse me, sir,” Ned asked. “Where is this train going?” “Why, we’re on our way to Atlanta, son,” he said with a long southern drawl. “That where you’re headin’?” “Oh thank God,” Ned sighed, relieved at the fortunate turn of events. “Yes, I’m going to Atlanta.” “Well, step right up and we’ll get ‘ya there in a jiffy. Just grab a seat and tha’ inspector will be by shortly to check ‘ya ticket.” “Thank you so much,” Ned replied and stepped inside. Faded teal paint coated the walls, starkly contrasted by bronze curtains on the windows and dark brown seats along both sides of the car. There were no other passengers save for a young man in an olive-green uniform seated across from a young black girl in a dress. Ned picked a seat one row down from them and settled in for a long day. He’d made the trip to Atlanta before, last year when he’d attended a restaurant equipment convention for work. This time it was for a corporate meeting at his company’s headquarters. Trimark U.S.A. had just opened a new showroom in Virginia and Ned was traveling down to personally meet with the chief financial officer to deliver their first annual sales report. It had been quite a year; they’d blown away every estimate they’d received from the company and Ned was excited he’d been chosen as the one to break the good news. He eyed the car’s other two passengers. The young soldier’s uniform seemed different from those he’d seen before. Then again, it seemed to him the military changed their clothes as often as where they fought. The train lurched away from the station and they spent the next hour or so in silence, the young girl reading a book, the soldier dozing off and on, and Ned reading the newspaper he’d packed the night before. Finally, after finishing the last of the sports page, he decided to strike up a conversation with the man in the next row over. “How long have you been in?” he asked the young soldier. “A little over a year,” he replied. His shortly cropped blonde hair and smooth face made him look young. Ned thought he couldn’t have been more than 19 at most. “Did you sign up right out of high school?” he asked. “No, sir. Got drafted as soon as I dropped out. I’ve been pretty lucky so far though. I took artillery shrapnel to the leg my first day in theater and so I’ve been working the supply lines and haven’t been sent to the front. I’m only home now because both my brothers were killed so they gave me a month of R&R to see my folks.” *That’s strange*, Ned thought. *I didn’t know the Taliban had artillery. Although, with the way the Russians were selling things off at the end of the Cold War I’m not surprised some of it made its way to Afghanistan. And what does he mean, “drafted?”* “Sorry to hear that,” he offered. “My condolences to you and your parents.” They were interrupted by the door at the end of the car opening to admit the ticket inspector. His handlebar mustache and pocketwatch marked him as someone fond of antique fashions. Ned checked his own to see how long they’d been traveling but was shocked to see it still read 4:39 AM. *Must have banged it getting on,* he thought to himself. “Excuse me, sir,” he asked the inspector as he handed him his ticket. “Do you happen to have the time?” “10 ‘till 6,” the man replied. “Looks like we’re right on schedule.” “Thanks,” Ned said as he watched the inspector punch holes in the tickets of the other two passengers and move to the next car. “What about you?” he asked the young girl. “Visiting family as well?” She set her book down in her lap and smoothed the long folds of her skirt around her legs. “No, sir. My mama’s sendin’ me to live with my aunt in Little Rock. She says they just started letting black folks go to the schools down there and they better ‘n the ones at home.” “Surely the schools there have been integrated for quite some time now, haven’t they?” Ned asked quizzically. “No, sir. Mama said not since the President sent the Army down there last year and made ‘em open ‘em up.” “Well, that’s nice” he said. Confusion and worry crept onto his face over the next half hour as he began to wonder what was going on. *Is she messing with me?* he thought. *I think I need some air.* He stood and walked to the end of the car, intent on finding a place where he could open a window. As he neared the door he encountered the inspector returning to the front of the train. “Um, what time is it, again?” Ned asked, his mind reeling with confusion. The inspector pulled out his watch. “10 ‘till 6,” the man replied. “Looks like we’re right on schedule.

A girl sits alone in a room, wings folded around her bare body. Her wings are made of glass, and when the wind comes, they shatter and crack. She can't fly anymore. She cuts strips of fabric to the exact length she needs, sewing with a bone and bits of hair. The fabric covers her body. Makes her warm and safe. But still the wings wont fly. Glass can't really be fixed, she decides. Someone from the next room over cries out in sadness. What are they mourning? She caused it. The messenger, the bearer of bad news. It was that that caused her wings to crack. She had flown for the last time. Caused pain, and died herself. Her wings were now stained with red. Did glass bleed? The rosy pearls spilling down the sides to be sopped up by the swooping fabric. She was breakable. She never thought she was before. After that, she was never the same. She could no longer fly. No longer reach the mountains with a strong beat of her wings. No, she remained on the ground, walking the cold earth from then until forever.

/ *click* No round. I eased off the ground and tried to stretch out my muscles which had been contorted painfully for the past 2 hours or so I had been laying in wait trying to hit leaves flying across the range at almost 1000 meters, the very edge of my M40’s effective range. I sigh and reach back for the box of ammunition we brought. 500 .308’s and not one left. Looking over at Earl slumped over unnaturally in the tattered green lawn chair. “Earl. Earl. EARL! It’s time to go, I’m out and you’re asleep!” I walk over to him and squat down “Earl? Are you ok? Hey, look at me!” It was the first day of freshman year. I had two friends. Well it’s all past now; so to be realistic I had no friends. They were one-faceted friends, we formed a pack at school to fend off attacks but out of school we were lone wolves. I found companionship elsewhere, after my dad died in Afghanistan when I was 8, my mom finally finished her internships and got a job as a neurologist. We moved into a big house with everything I could ever want, except a family, so I spent my time gaming. All of my time. The people online were my friends, my family, and I treated everyone else I met in kind. I was standing on the perfect white concrete curb looking over the perfect black asphalt road at the perfect brick houses dotting the road out for as far as I cared to look, waiting for the ugly bus to come and grind to a halt so it could drag me to yet another 8 hour interruption in my gaming. I was the only one waiting, not that it really mattered, day after day, year after year. Then, freshman year, things changed. “Hey! Kid!” a graveled old voice striped my thoughts from their tracks; startling me, but I relaxed and made sure my shock didn’t show. “Yes?” “When does your bus come?” “Not for a while, Why?” “Come help me move this.” The command in his voice made my compliance almost instantaneous, almost. I looked up the driveway at him, a shorter robust man, he could defiantly do some damage. For some reason I agreed. I was led around the back of his large garage to a small shed. Inside there was nothing much in the way of anything at all. But there was one thing that stood out, something I recognized very well from many hours of Battle Field 1; a BMW R12. Probably one of the most iconic motorcycles of WWII and there was a perfect one right in front of me. I lost all sense of where I was and who I was with and reached out to touch the seat. “She’s a beauty, huh?” “Oh. Um, yea. I just, well I haven’t ever seen one in person before” “I got it in 1950, right after the third Reich fell and brought it here. I keep it running and tuned, but I’m just too old to ride it. Now come on, we need to move this rain barrel before you miss your bus.” I didn’t forget that exchange, I probably never will. For the next few weeks I didn’t see that stock old man again, but every day I looked up at his house, I wondered if he was as alone as I was. March 17, I was waiting for the bus when I head a stranger’s familiar voice. “Hey! Kid!” So loud it was almost a roar I looked back up at that black brick house, so different from all the other perfect white picket fence, red brick houses dotting the landscape. “Yes?” “Come up here, youngblood.” Annoyed, I decide, yet again to go help him out. “Ok, but don’t call me youngblood, I’m in highschool” “Kid, when you’re 81 years old, everyone is youngblood” This time we walk past the shed and into the woods, about 40 feet in there is a large clearing with some construction equipment which appears to be digging a large hole. “I’m not sure the construction guys would want us on their worksite” I argued He doesn’t respond, he just lead me around tothe back of the excavator. “Do you see that hydraulic hose under there? I’m too old to get under there and reconnect it, I need you to.” “But there’s mud and stuff down there, I have to go to school in…” The icy look of pure disregard took me by surprise, and I did what I was told. All was fine until I got out. I stood up, still clean as a whistle and adjusted my collar. Even as I did it, I knew that I had hydraulic fluid all over my hand and consequently all over my shirt now. “I need to go change before I go to school” “Well you had better get on that, your bus gets here in 2 minuets.” “Shit!” I didn’t make the bus, I changed in record time, but it was just an ugly yellow dot in the distance when I got back outside. “Hey kid. You need a ride?” “No... I can get my mom to come home give me a ride...” “Na, you don’t need to bother your ma. Besides, I held you up, the least I can do is haul you to school. How old are you?” “ Thanks. um, 15. Why?” “Ah, Well you can’t drive then I suppose. Well follow me on up here.” If I had been forced to call my mother for a ride to school because I missed the bus, I am fairly confident that I would have been skinned. He led me around to the side of the garage, pulled out an old brass key and opened the door. Once inside I quickly realised that there was only one car in this huge 4 stall garage, but about 20 motorcycles, all covered. He pulled the cover off of a bright red 1985 Porsche 944 turbo. At this point it just looked like an old sports car to me, I didn’t know there were only a few thousand left in the US, nor how much stupid power this one had. All I knew was it was old. “Hop in, it’s the only car I care to own.” “Why?” “Motorcycles, kid, motorcycles.” In no time at all we were out of the driveway and out of the neighborhood. We rode in silence. There was no radio, no dash at all as it was. There was a speedometer, tachometer, fuel gage and boost gage and that is about the extent of the dash. The 5 point racing harnesses pinned me to the seat and the cold steel roll cage ominously hung above me. I didn’t see the purpose of any of this until we got on the rural highway that leads into town. The harnesses that were so tight previously went slack with the amount of acceleration we pulled onto this road. The engine only growled in response, I dared to glance at the Jupiter sized speedometer, 135 and rising. The speed limit is 65, I couldn’t even think. We blasted past the bus in the oncoming lane like it was going to opposite direction on a highway. Suddenly the town was almost upon us and he hit the brakes, actually, he slaughtered them. We decelerated smoothly and evenly but at an ungodly pace. It felt as though the racing harness I was wearing was going to tear me limb from limb. Then; suddenly, we were only going 30. We blended right in with the morning traffic amidst the minivans and family sedans. “I haven’t done that in a long time.” I didn’t respond, to this day I’m not sure there was a response in that situation. He didn’t say anything after that except to thank me for helping him out and bid me goodbye. I got off the bus that afternoon and I wanted to go back. I wanted to talk to him, see those motorcycles that car... *knock* *knock* *knock* I waited *knock* and the garage door roared to life, it opened impossibly slow for the amount of sound it made. I just stood awkwardly by the front door with my hands in my pockets. Once open the old man stepped out and put out his hand for a handshake. “I don’t think we have officially met yet, I’m Earl.” “Oh, I’m um, I’m uh Mathew.” “Well Mathew whadd’ya need?” “I just wanted to see that car. It was pretty fast, what kind was it?” Earl smiled kindly “ Sure, come on into the garage. She didn’t quite make it home after our escapade this morning, it’s been a long time since I have pushed her like that.” “Oh, I’m sorry..” “For what?! I haven’t had fun like that since the mid ‘90’s, she just couldn’t quite take that much abuse so soon.” “Oh, Ok. What’s wrong? exactly?” “I’m not quite sure, really. I lost oil pressure and coolant containment on the way back up this road here. ‘Be a head gasket or valve train seal, really ‘could be anything. I think I’m going to rebuild the whole drive line. I haven’t had a real project to work on for a long time.” “How do you do that?” That question brought about next 2 months of going to school and not looking forward to going home and gaming by myself, but to going home, changing into work clothes and going to Earls house. I would sit in french and write lists of things we had to do before we got the next part in and during physics I surfed Wikipedia, learning as much as I could about cars. Within a week we had the entire drive train out and at the two month mark, he asked me something simple, but my answer changed my life. Earl pulled his head out from the oil catch under the jugs and looked at me, I stopped wrestling with the valve spring I was trying desperately to get into the train and looked over at him. “How abouts we go shooting?” “Shooting?” I inquired “Yah, take ma guns out to the backstop range over that big hill to the south and do some shootin.” Even at this point I was still fairly skiddish about things so I asked “Is that even legal?” “Does it matter?” “I suppose not.” “Well, then lets go! But clean your hands first, guns are expensive.” After Earl grabbed a large black case from the garage, which he insisted that I not carry, we set off over the hill behind his house, away from the subdivisions, away from civilization. It was approximately a 15 minute walk to a large, natural ravine. On the side closest to us, there was a large dug out area and downrange about 1500m there was a immense backstop. Earl hauled the big black box off the small utility cart he was pulling up the hill and set it on the ground. He flipped open the latches and pulled out a tattered green chair. I would come to know that chair quite well over the next few years. Earl sat down and motioned to me while saying “Alright kid, pick your poison.” Laid out under the first layer of foam in the box was a trove of guns, each with its own cut in the foam allowing it to stay securely in place. I grabbed the MP5, a stout but powerful 9mm submachine gun. I had never shot a real gun in my life, but at 15 years old I was not going to let that stop me. I picked it up, grabbed the box of ammunition underneath of it and fumbled a bit, finally getting the clip out and loaded. Earl just looked on in an interested but disconnected sort of way. Finally I got the clip filled and back in the gun, I looked downrange and found a tree to shoot at. I brought the gun to my shoulder and looked down the scope, I lined up the reticle with the tree, turned off the safety and pulled the trigger. “Nice shootin, Ace” I hear from behind me, I flip the safety back on and look at Earl who now has a sighting scope set up. “When did you set that up?!” “You were taking 100 years to line up, so I assumed you were trying to actually hit something and pulled out my sighting scope to confirm the shot, but all you did is prove you can hit a tree at 200m. Why don’t you just hand me my M40.” I obliged him. He loaded a single round into the chamber, put the butt of the gun up to his shoulder and without ever even leaving his chair, he put a round downrange. “What were you aiming for?” Earl didn’t say anything, he just lined up the sighting scope and motioned for me to look through it. There was a metal plate that I hadn’t seen before and in the very center was a hole. “Did you just do that? Sitting in your chair?” “Yes.” I came to find out that at one time, Earl was a sniper in the marines. As the months went by we worked on the 944 during the week and went shooting almost every weekend. I became a much better shot and the 944 really started to take shape. He gave me something I desired since I was 8. I remember the day like it was yesterday. My 16th birthday, my mom was pulling a 36 hour shift at work, over my birthday. The real kicker was that it was a Saturday. All she had said was to pick a car that costed less than $10k and she would buy it for me. I was in no mood to look for cars and honestly just wanted to go shooting. I walked into the garage and saw the black covered car in the 4th stall. My dads car. I walked over to it slowly, I don’t know why we had never uncovered it before. I pull the cover aside and slowly reveled the body of a Laguna Seca blue 1998 BMW M3. The all black interior was perfect. The car had been my dad’s pride and joy, I don’t think my mother could have ever brought herself to sell it, no matter how little money we had. It was that moment I knew what I wanted for my 16th birthday, I was going to take that $10k and turn this M3 into a street monster. With this hair brained idea still fresh in my head I ran to Earls house and he met me at the door. “What are you doing here? It’s your birthday, go be home with your mom.” “She took a 36 hour shift. It ends tomorrow.” “Oh” the transient pain in his voice was beyond obvious, it was almost tangible. “Are you ok?” I inquired, concerned by this show of emotion I had never seen from him before. “NO! I am not ok! I’m not your family, I’m just the old guy who lives down the street! This is a damn shame, a kid, alone on his birthday...” He would have gone on, but I cut him off. “Earl! It’s ok, she gave me $10k to buy a car.” “How does that make it ok?” “Earl? Can we just ignore it and hang out here today? I have something you will be interested in.” “Ok, but I aint happy about it.” “Come on, I want to show you something.” We walked to my house and I keyed the code into the keypad to open door number 4. The smooth aluminum door swiftly slid away, reveling my Dad’s M3. “You already bought a car?” “No, this used to be my Dads. The last time it ran was when we put it in this garage stall. 8 years ago. I want to use the money to rebuild the drive line and make it a street machine as a tribute to my dad.” “And you want me to help?” “I couldn’t do it on my own” “I would be honored to help you remember your Dad.” That is exactly what we did. It took about 6 months of work between working on the M3, finishing the 944 and shooting. There were days where I spent hours with a rag in one hand and degreaser in the other hand, trying to get all the grime out of the engine bay. Other days I sat with a sharpie and a box of ziplock bags, labeling every bolt. Then there were the days that made it all worth it, like the first time we flicked on the electrical system. Everything came to life without a hitch, the lights came on and the dash displayed all correct values. The day we finished the 944 is probably one of the most memorable days of my life. rest of the story in comments, it was too long to all post here.

Brian O’Brien was a Man. Not merely a man, a Man. Upon his entering a busy room, its female occupants would run restless fingers through their hair or press out the creases in their skirts, while the other, lesser men inside would glance at their feet or crack their knuckles and shift their feet. His driver liked to tell the story of a common thief who, after thrusting a gun at the tall, dark-haired passenger exiting the car, dropped his pistol and almost tripped over his feet turning away from O’Brien. Another time, at an important meeting, some young upstart had dared to interrupt the silence O’Brien’s presence demanded. Though he reacted calmly at the time, glancing briefly over his papers to identify the youth, something had happened afterwards that the shattered underling would never take upon himself to repeat, something that drained the color from his face every time he thought of it. With all the stories he’d heard of O’Brien, it was of little wonder that the young accountant sitting before the magnificent oak door labelled “Brian O’Brien, Partner” could barely stop his foot twitching, or that his hair had begun to itch as the pores on his scalp slowly began to ooze sweat. Having started at the law firm only three weeks earlier, the college graduate could not imagine what the great O’Brien wanted from him. If it were up to him, Julian Zachary would not have taken the job in the first place. His parents, concerned that Julian would never use the talents he’d developed in the college education they’d paid for, had pushed and pressured him into working at the partnership. Julian had obliged them, as always, and allowed them to pursue the accounting position. But now things were getting far too serious; Julian had no problem dealing with simple, objective numbers, but the thought of confrontation with O’Brien was enough to make him twist his clammy hands. At precisely three thirty, just as the email had instructed him, Julian stood - well, Julian jumped - and approached the door. Before he could raise his hand to knock, the clerk heard that distinctive, powerful voice echoing from within: “Enter.” Straightening abruptly in surprise, Julian waited a moment before turning the bronze handle. Julian had a moment to take in the room, the rows upon rows of nondescript books, the expensive furniture, and the large window looking over the grey city skyline. Finally, hesitatingly, Julian’s eyes fell to the Man himself. Even sitting in the chair, O’Brien filled the room, emanating a power entirely unfamiliar to Julian. Though he was not an old man, O’Brien’s sharp eyes suggested an uncanny wisdom that bordered on omnipotence; as they focused in on the unexperienced accountant, the generic greeting Julian had so carefully prepared dropped from his mouth as a confused jumble of muttered syllables and vowels. O’Brien, after disdainfully waving away the weak speech that polluted his office air, directed Julian again: “Sit.” The Man moved one of his large hands towards the chair in front of his stout wooden desk. Had he been a more athletic person, Julian might have noticed that O’Brien moved with the grace of a dancer or, more fittingly, a boxer. Instead, Julian thought of that mighty hand swinging down to smite the chair at which it pointed. Julian swallowed and sat, silently praying that his nervousness would not betray itself to the demigod in the chair across the desk from him. O’Brien’s expression of smug competence told Julian that it already had. “I did not inform you as to why we were meeting today.” Julian started, having almost forgotten himself, “No.” O’Brien waited a moment, as though waiting for Julian to add something in his defense, explaining how he could have been so lazy as to decline to determine the purpose of the meeting, “I like to acquaint myself with everyone in this firm.” He fixed his gaze even more closely at Julian. Julian swallowed. “As one of the two names in this partnership, the actions of this firm reflect upon me. Your actions reflect upon me. Your actions will not fail to reflect positively upon me. Do you understand?” Julian understood. His parents were no longer the only ones watching his every step. He attempted an understanding, competent nod. Judging by O’Brien’s immediate smirk, it must have come out far faster than the accountant had intended. Disappointed, Julian tried to be still, though he still could not control his tapping foot. O’Brien stood, turning his back to Julian to gaze out upon the city, presenting his inferior with a full view of his broad, muscular back. “There is much work to be done here, and more will be expected of you than what you have done so far.” As he spoke, O’Brien moved towards a small vitrine built into one of his bookshelves. Inside were an assortment of small cases, vials, and mechanisms, all of them foreign to the seated accountant. O’Brien opened the glass door to retrieve a thin, wooden case about six inches long and two wide. After returning to his leather armchair, O’Brien brought his attention back to the skinny clerk in front of him, “This was most unwisely left in my possession by a man that I am defending. A murderer,” he pushed the case towards Julian, leaving it in front of the trembling youngster. “You will destroy it.” O’Brien snapped open the golden clasp that held the case shut. Julian blanched, his eyes darting around the room for something - anything else - to focus on. “Do you understand me?” Julian, looking far away, coughed. “Mr. Zachary: do you understand me?” Julian looked down at his feet, “Yes.” Later that evening, as he took the bus home from the firm, Julian fingered his belongings nervously, trying to think of anything but the severed finger wrapped in plastic lying in the tiny coffin in his suitcase. Had he been a cleverer man, Julian might have pondered why O’Brien would prescribe him with such a task. Had he been a braver man, Julian might have thought about bringing his grisly baggage to the police. Being neither of these things, Julian pulled a pencil out of his pocket and, with a shudder, slipped a notepad out of his briefcase. He began the process of forgetting his vicious cross-examination by constructing a maze for himself. And with that, the young, nervous man on the train began to accept that he would do as he was told.

As a child, I was always a tiny ball of never-ending energy. Concentration? Non-existent. I was the type of child that was most at ease when I was doing something with my hands, although I was very particular about just what that activity would be. I had always been extremely sensitive. Not in an emotional way; on that front I had always been shut-down and rock solid. No, I was sensitive to the touch, and I would cry at any loud or sudden noise. As a result, I wore my clothing inside-out and isolated myself from most other children. Bullying was prominent in my elementary school. Even as a first-grader, children would pick on me for my strange outfits and social ineptitude. As a teenage, I'm still fairly socially awkward, but it's nothing compared to how bad it was then. The day I met my best friend was snowy. Elementary school was just as rough as it'd always been, and I was sitting near the swing sets alone. A girl- I think her name was Natalie- came up to me and began the usual routine of taunting me. I took in my characteristic stoic silence, sitting with a blank expression on my face. Just as the girl turned away from me to go back to her friends, a voice sounded from behind her. "Don't make fun of her! She only wears her clothes like that 'cause she doesn't like the seams." When said aloud, it sounded perfectly logical. Of course I didn't like the seams; I failed to understand how anyone tolerated them. This girl understood the world. Her name was Sophie, and she quickly became my best friend. Still is, in fact. I love her dearly, and miss her dreadfully. The day that I met him was incidentally the same day that I realised just how underused and unappreciated the word 'wonderful' is. The four of us were on the floor, and his best friend accidentally rolled headfirst into a wall. His laughter filled the room as best friend sat up, rubbing the back of his head with an irritated expression. "That was wonderful!" he exclaimed in the way that I would soon learn was extremely characteristic of him, and what would become one of his most prominent defining features in my eyes. Wonderful, as it seemed, was his go-to word for anything that happened that he found amusing or even just worth positively acknowledging. Whether it was something that made his ribs hurt from mad laughter, or something that awed him, it was always the same three words. "That was wonderful." I twitched my nose in mild aggravation. It itched terribly, but I knew that should I relieve that itch, my finger would come away blackened with marker. I crossed my eyes, attempting to peer more closely the cat whiskers that my friend had hastily etched upon my face. I looked over at her, and smiled slightly at her own whisker-marred face. At least we were ridiculous together. Of course, I was perfectly aware of how 'normal' we actually appeared in our pursuit of abnormality. This was all so typical, but I remained enthusiastic nonetheless. "Ellie, why're there whiskers drawn on your face?" Asked the girl sitting across from me on the crowded bus. She pushed her curly brown hair away from her face, looking at me expectantly. I answered her quickly, giving some brief explanation about youtubers. Our conversation quickly moved on to the upcoming season of our mutually-favourite television show: Doctor Who. Our conversation-turned-debate was quickly growing heated when a voice sounded, just to her left. It was clear and soft, low and husky, but easily heard over the noise of the bus. "The Angels could take the Silence any day." I looked over at the owner of the dulcet tones, determined to find out why I hadn't been acquainted with him before. I stopped short, however, as I saw him. He was sitting casually beside my debate companion, one arm draped over a metal pole and ankles crossed. He wore a dull blue-purple button-down and blue jeans. His dark hair was neatly coiffed, and he was smiling crookedly. I stared intently at him for a brief moment before opening my mouth and proclaiming, much to my present and ongoing embarrassment, "You're going to be my best friend." He smirked, giving me a small two-fingered salute. "Alex." My sock-clad feet dangled off of the splintering wooden porch. It was a blisteringly hot July afternoon, and the palm of my right hand rested against my jaw. I blinked slowly, the summer heat rendering my brain sluggish and nearly useless. Across from me, my best friend and constant companion of almost six years had struck a similar pose. I gazed aimlessly at her for a while, my eyes tracing the gentle slope of her jaw and the soft waves of her chin-length blonde hair. I was pulled from my warmth-induced reverie by the sound of her voice. “Ellie,” she began, her tone rough with discomfort, “I’m hot. Can we do something else? Preferably cooling.” I blinked rapidly a few times, trying to jumpstart my uncooperative brain. “Yeah, sure,” I told her. “Any suggestions?” “No...” she said thoughtfully, getting up and beginning to walk around the back of my house. Thinking that she had simply grown weary of laying on my porch, I let her go. Just as my eyes had begun to sag closed once again, I felt a startlingly cold splash of water against the hot flesh of my back and arms. I uttered a small shriek and jumped up from my position, turning to see my friend holding my garden hose with a maniacal look upon her face. She sprayed me again, all the while laughing like a hyena. “I’m cooling you down!” came her excited voice. I grinned then. I did feel better, and the heat was nearly as unbearable now. But still, there were principles that must be upheld. “I’ll get you back for that!” I yelled, racing across my lawn in pursuit of my attacker. I inhaled deeply, my face pressed against the warm, delicious-smelling flesh of his neck. I loosened my grip around his neck, leaning against the back of the front seat so as to get a better look at his face. We were curled around each other in the backseat of a friend’s car; my arms around his neck and his around my waist as was characteristic of us. The slight bumpiness of the ride didn’t faze us anymore, as we had long since gotten accustomed to the severity of the driver’s turns. After a few moments of smiling wanly at him, I lowered my head down to his shoulder. Squeezing him tightly, I tilted my head slightly and place my lips against the shell of his ear. “Love, love, love,” I murmured gently. He pushed me away slightly, his eyes locked on my face for a brief moment before he shook his head. “You really do love me.” To me, it sounded like a realisation. His eyes were bright, and I’m sure that mine were shining with emotion. He hugged me to him once again, and I kissed his neck serenely. “I really do.” EDIT: I don't know what's up with the formatting. Sorry.

To whoever finds this note after I’m gone, Today is the day. For several months now I’ve been planning to walk into Merryville Middle School with my grandfather’s collection of assault rifles and shoot whoever and whatever I see. I am writing this letter so that you may have a window into my thought process here. This way the media won’t have to endlessly speculate about why I did what I did. I’ll be honest, I’m a little nervous. Today is really special to me. I imagine this is how a bride and groom feel the morning of their wedding. It’s one of those days where your life will change forever, you’re making a new commitment, beginning something new. So much could go wrong. The guns could jam. My car could get a flat. I might chicken out. The school security guard might shoot me down before I can unleash proper carnage. My bullets might be duds. I might actually get taken into custody whereupon I will spend years rotting in our unkempt prison system. I am also very excited (I once read that nervousness and excitement are the same emotion). Today I will finally get the chance to feel alive. I will finally exact revenge on those who have wronged me. I will finally be listened to. By the end of Mrs. Muddly’s second period English class (she nearly failed me when I went there a decade ago), my name will be a household one around the country. Now, I don’t want you to get any wrong ideas here. I’m sure CNN is reporting, by the time you’re reading this, that I was a troubled young adult. That I spent all day locked in my single bedroom apartment in this shitty suburb listening to Horrorcore Rap Music and playing violent video games. They’ll say I was lonely (I only have 243 Facebook friends and 57 Twitter Followers, don’t ask about my Tumblr). They’ll say I just wanted to be noticed. “He would rather be remembered as a monster than live as a nobody.” This is all strictly nonsense. My motives in this attack were not fueled by mental illness, by hatred of a school which rejected me during my pimply years, by a subconscious desire for personal fame, or by lonely desperation. I want to be crystal clear. My motives in this attack are as follows: to raise national awareness of the problem of gun control laws and gun violence in this country. The children and teachers who will fall victim to my attack today will not be alone. In fact, approximately 268 people are shot in the United States each day. My victims will pale in comparison to the over 1,000,000 people who have been killed by a gun in this country since the late 1960s. The guns I stole from my grandfather were always twenty-two times more likely to be used in some sort of violent act than for any legal purpose. My grandpa bought these guns for purposes of self-defense, but he was able to do so without a background check. Think about how archaic that is for a second. This isn’t the wild-fucking-west. It’s not the California Gold Rush of 1849 anymore. It’s two-thousand-and-thirteen. You have to pass a drivers test before you can own or drive a car, but you don’t have to do anything similar with a gun? And the whole self-defense thing is ridiculous too. Apparently my grandpa didn’t even know that there are only 201 people killed legally and out of self-defense with guns each year. That pales in comparison to the nearly 12,000 people who are killed illegally with guns in this country each year. So when the NRA gets on CNN and says that if one of the 7th graders I shot fourteen times in the face had had a gun this wouldn’t have happened, they’re speaking ignorantly. Studies actually show that guns carried for the purpose of self defense often do more harm than good to those carrying them. So today I will die to support a noble cause, and through that nobility I will feel alive. Today I will extract revenge on the men and women of the United States Congress who have failed to legislate on this issue (this tragedy will rest on their consciences). Today people will read this letter, and I will be listened to. Respectfully, Ethan Nolan Marryville Middle School Massacre, Perpetrator P.S. Please see to it that all assets and money which I leave behind are donated to the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence. P.P.S. Please send my warm congratulations to the families of those who I killed. The victims died valiantly and bravely in the great fight for sensible gun legislation.

1. The soldier slowly awoke to the sound of rain tapping out Morse code on his windowpane. Amid the murmuring drumming he lay already defeated, simply staring above into the white paint swirls of the high attic ceiling. The room itself was enormous, in the far corner away from the bed a few ladder rungs poked up from the moist floorboards, whilst the soldier’s bed and a few old boxes scattered throughout the room provided the only real decoration. The doctors had urged sunlight, yet ever since they hauled his bed upstairs and dragged it beside the enormous bay window; it simply had not stopped raining. Jenny though had seen the bright side of the dismal days, arguing as they ate their meals together in the attic that the rain could help him relax. That in a certain respect he should think of himself lucky with such a sea view, that he should feel sheltered and secure near the window rather than the imprisonment he oft complained of. To the soldier it was all white wet noise, unrelenting and monotonous. With great effort he shifted on his shoulder to see the clock just tick to six, his hand reached for the bell beside the bed but he knew it was far too early to wake Jenny. Just as the young man was about to fall back into sleep, a brief cry escaped down below from the beach outside. The sea view from the back of the house had been the main reason they had bought the place, and even in the gums of winter the mixture of crashing ocean and bone white beach exuded a consummate calm. From the back porch of the house, a small sandy garden that begun at the bottom of the patio steps gave way to the pale beach that rolled out before the lapping waves. 2. When the two of them had climbed the ladder to the attic with a few other newlyweds all those years ago, he had gripped Jenny’s hand in excitement upon spying the open space before the vast bay window. They hadn’t even asked a price yet and already he was eager, seeing in his head a thick wooden desk before the perfect view, with rows upon rows of bookcases encircling the high white walls. Now his books collected in various corners, falling out of cardboard boxes that flaked from the moisture of the mostly empty room. The window itself was enormous with a cross work of black mesh on the pane shaping the various frames within it. It took up much of the attic wall, almost doing justice in its size to the sea that unfurled out before it. Though he was physically fine to write after the assault in France, the desk was never bought, all his previous passion for Literature seemingly seeping away upon his return to Jenny and the house. As soon as the soldier found the source of the yelp, he questioned if what he was seeing down below through the window was some form of hangover from the relentless medication. Propping himself up, both elbows clearly defined through his skin against the windowsill he spied two boys, one fairly young standing beside what seemed to be merely the head of the other submerged in the sand. The children appeared to be chatting amiably, though the boom of the surging surf behind them smothered anything said. The soldier soon smiled however as he noticed it was merely the angle of the window lattice from where he was looking out that had suggested a severed head on account of the boy. It seemed the child was just standing in a dug hole, one that looked surprisingly deep and wide as the tall child climbed out unaided with much effort amid the moistening sand. The downpour was growing heavier now and the boys appeared to the soldier from above, to hasten as they began to dig even further into the now clay-like ground. Shovels lay flat beside the pit but for whatever reason they were now clawing with their palms, tossing sand in every direction, stopping every now and then for a breath of two. It took a few minutes of surveillance but the soldier realized that he had seen them a few times around the town, two brothers. Before his view of the siblings, thick droplets were now amassing quickly on the pane. Rarely was the rain this insistent or obscuring. They were always together in his mind; an image in particular of them sharing a single ice cream before one of the town square storefronts struck him as oddly memorable. Most vividly however he recalled their rowdiness at the parade for the departing soldiers that had been held almost a year before. Amongst the bulging crowd they charged and darted with no concern but that the other not get ahead, seemingly reveling in the chance of an audience. A few of the crowd disputed, attempting to grab them in an effort of respect, but they were too liquid. This was before the rain came and the small square was unfittingly beautiful that day. Near everyone in the town crowded all around as convoys of men waved uncertain goodbyes to people they had only really considered background. After the last truck disappeared beyond the beachhead, Jenny had helped him walk away from the crowd and argued that the boys were too young to understand the prescience of what was happening, that they meant no disrespect. The soldier snapped back quickly however that a Second World War was something to be respected universally, regardless of age. 3. Turning his head for but a second to check the time again he found the children down below had disappeared from view. The void in the sand remained but even that was vanishing before his eyes as giant dewdrops splattered onto the window, distorting the outlook from the attic. The two quickly returned however through the view of indistinct condensation, with the small boy becoming magnified suddenly through an odd angle of refraction through glass and rain. The shower itself was growing relentless now, practically smothering the window into a thick fog. The soldier could make out little but it seemed the boys had returned carrying a small body between them. Two clearly defined legs lifelessly dangled between the young carriers. The soldier simply didn’t think in that moment. Didn’t dwell upon what they might be being buried, or why and indeed how they felt the beach behind he and his wife’s house was the apt place. He simply acted like his sergeant before had taught him to. Pounding the window once before him with a rare burst of energy, he cleared the view before him of condensation and muddying droplets. He had hoped to have the sound of the slam swallowed by the sea, but the boys clearly heard something and scurried away with their secret. The soldier waited, starting for a few seconds at the open grave and the waves behind gesturing forward. It seemed that the rain on the window however had led to misinterpretation; it was a dog they were carrying between them. Its tongue hung lifeless from its mouth; from high up he found it difficult to determine exactly what was wrong with it, but it was clearly dead. The two quickly returned kneeling down beside the hole and slowly lowered the animal into the beach. Rain had kicked up once more. The soldier suddenly felt angry and was about to ring for Jenny regardless of the hour. He stopped with the bell in his hand however when he noticed that they were saluting at the graveside. Their silhouettes cut out against the surf. The taller boy who he had at first believed to be but a head was clearly much disturbed by the whole event, staring straight down, gaze never from the void. The smaller child turned around and looked directly at the soldier for a few seconds without even realizing, the rain so driving now that he squinted when looking away. Dogs had grown rare around the town since the departing parade, most mothers preferring to keep the animals inside as surrogates for their departed sons than to allow them free to roam. With this in mind the soldier struggled to place the animal, perhaps it was the brother’s own rather than that they had killed it, or maybe they had merely discovered it in this condition and wished better for it than to merely be slumped in some passageway. The answers he would never really know, and oddly felt no real need to as he watched them fill the grave slowly with the shovels in hand. With the grave filled the two walked slowly towards the sea, just stopping as the waves lapped at their shoes. The rain was growing strong again, and the soldier lacked the energy to clear his view once more. Straining out past the precipitations he spotted the older brother placing his arm around the younger one until finally the rain obscured them indefinable from the crashing waves and the sodden beach.

Alex had a dream he will never forget. The dream was of him and his friend Jake lying in bed naked, cuddling up on each other peacefully sleeping, when they both wake up and start kissing when Jake whispers *"I love you, Alex".* Alex responds as he's tightly holding Jake *"Don't let me go, Jake".* Jake whispers back *"I won't... I'll hold you and keep you warm until the Sun comes"* Alex leans in as he says *"Jake..."* Their faces coming closer to each other like magnets. Their mouths about to touch... But then Alex woke up to the sound of his alarm clock. Confused as to what he just experienced, he whispered "... What the hell was that..". Alex and Jake being best friends since the 8th grade, this dream came as a shock to Alex. Alex eventually shock it off as best as he could and went to get dressed for school. He caught the bus listening to one of his friend's song that he promised to listen to and tell her what he thought. "... Wow, this is actually good." He chuckled to himself quietly. But then, a line was in a song that echoed through Alex's mind through the whole bus ride. *"... I'll hold you and keep you warm until the Sun rises..."* The dream came back to Alex. Every last detail of it. Alex was hit by so many emotions at once it was hard trying to see how he could react to it. But, when Alex got to school and met his friends he forgot it almost immediately. One of his friends, Jordan, asked where Jake is. Alex replied, "Oh, Jake's grandparents are over from Switzerland and so he's off." Jordan was annoyed. "What the fuck? And the school let him? That's so unfair! I tell the school I'm sick and they won't let me go, but Jake gets a pass for his grandparents?" "Well, that's because the school knows you're calling bullshit." Alex replied while chuckling. Everyone agreed and laughed. Jordan still annoyed. Then, the bell rang and they went to their classes. The whole day seemed so long, he was wondering when it was ever going end. Just as the bell rang letting the students know that they are free to go, Alex got a text from Jake that read *"Come to my house, I need to tell you something"* Alex texted back *"Sure, but what do you want to tell me".* *"I don't think I should tell you through text"* *"At least give a hint"* *"Haha no."* *"Damn you, you fucking tease haha, I'm on my way"* *"Thanks, dude :) "* Alex got to Jake's house at around 5 and he knocked on the door. The door answered to Jake. "Hey man, how's it going?" "Just fine, dude." Alex's face looked uneasy to Jake because the sight of Jake's face reminded him of the dream. "... You alright, man?" "Yeah, I'm fine. Where are you grandparents?" "Oh, they went out to dinner with my parents and won't be back until 9." "So you're alone then. Nice." They both laughed and walked into the house and Alex told Jake about how pissed Jordan was about the situation. They both went up into Jake's room. And then Alex asked "Anyway, what did you want to talk about?" "Oh... yeah..." Jake's face grew with anxiety. "I had a dream last night..." Alex chuckled. "Yes, and so did more than half of the population." "Shut up." Jake responded and they both laughed. "This dream was... unique." "How so?" Alex responded. "Okay, I'm just going to say it. It was you and me in bed having sex. There, I said it." Alex's face grew with confusion and worrisome. After a few minutes of silence Alex got the courage to admit he had a similar dream "I... had the same dream..." Alex said with hesitation. Jake turned to Alex with shock. "What?" Jake whispered. "Oh man, that is creepy." "I mean it wasn't exactly that, but it was similar." Alex said. They were looking into each other's eyes for a bit, then Alex bursted out saying "But, it doesn't mean anything. It was just a stupid dream." "Yeah... o- of course it was..." Jake said. "I mean, I'm not gay and... I don't..." Alex paused to catch his breathe for he was slightly panicing. "I have to go..." Alex said while grabbing his bag to go in a rush. He ran to the door until he felt a hand on his shoulder pulling him back. He turned around and saw Jake. Jake's hand moved from his shoulder to his waist. Then Jake passionately kissed Alex. Alex hesitated at first, but then Alex rapped his arms around Jake's neck and showed the same passion back to Jake. Jake grabbed Alex's hand and the two ran to his room and jumped on his bed. The two fell onto the bed and they kissed each other again with the same passion, if not more. Jake started to take off Alex's shirt and Alex did the same for Jake. Jake whispered into Alex's ear while he was on top of him "I've liked you for a long time, I was going to tell you on your 16th, but I couldn't do it." Then Jake started kissing Alex's neck. Alex whispered "I've liked you too, but I couldn't admit to myself." Jake's kiss moved from his neck to his chest, undoing Alex's belt and throwing it aside, his pants along with it. Alex slowly pulled down his boxers and pulled out his hard penis. Jake looked at Alex with a lustful smile and kissed him again. Jake did the same, but practically tore off his clothes. Jake took out a condom from his wallet that was on the floor and put it on while kissing Alex's neck. He rolled it on and Alex spread his legs very eagerly. Jake slowly put it in him. Alex moans because this is the first time he had anything like this, but it felt so good to him. He felt this warm sensation in his stomach. It felt like he was completed, like a puzzle piece being placed. Without realising, Alex came allover himself and a little of it on Jake, but he didn't care. All he cared about was the feeling of Jake's penis inside of him. Jake finally came and the two stayed in silence embracing the experience of each other's warmth. Jack eventually rolled off Alex and the two started cuddling and their legs wrapped together with Alex lying on Jake's chest. They laid there for a very long time until Alex looked up at Jake and said "Looks like those dreams did mean something after all" They both smiled at each other. "Wait, what time did you say your parents would be back again? Alex asked. "Oh.. um 9." "What time is it now?" Jake checked his phone and it read "8:59". The two jumped up and rushed to get their clothes back on and get themselves organised before Jake's parents and grandparents get home. The two were in such a rush, they even started falling over. It made them laugh which made it even harder. When they eventually got dressed, Alex got his bag and was prepared to run home if necessary. Jake and him ran to the door and before Alex left Jake gave him one passionate kiss again, they both smiled and Alex ran with a gleaming smile on his face. When he got home, his parents were having dinner "Oh, look who decided to come home after almost 4 hours. How was Jake?" "He's fine." Alex replied without realising he still had that gleaming smile on his face. "You look happy, so I'm assuming you had fun?" Alex's smile grew bigger as he replied "Yep.

When he awoke, he came to a sudden realization. This isn't my bed. I'm not in my home. I don't know this person laying beside me. This hand doesn't belong to me, although it seems that I control it. He awoke terrified. The air crept out of his lungs, and try as he might, it wouldn't draw back in. He started shuffling back up the bed, back against the headboard. Where was his breath? Why did the air taste so... unfamiliar? He had woken up like this every day for the last year. His wife woke up beside him, her eyes bleary, dark circles under them. She hardly slept, because he hardly slept. She knew better than to try to reach out to him. He hadn't let her for a year. At first she tried to calm him. "I'm Juilie," she would say "your wife. I love you." "You're not Julie," he would say "Julie is blonde... well I know you're blonde, but you're not her blonde. Her voice is like yours, but its not yours. I mean, you're like Julie, but you're not Julie. I know Julie. I love her, and you're not her." And through the day, she would walk him through their home, where they had lived for almost a decade. It was their first home, their daughter Anna's room was upstairs. The tiles were the same. She would show him mail with his name, and her name, and show him how it arrived in the mailbox each day fresh, and with their names on it. He would concede that all of the facts were the same. The address, the names, the colors, the ages. But he wouldn't believe it. Not for a second. This life wasn't his, but he couldn't remember where he'd placed his own. His anxiety over the matter kept him (and her) awake, day after day, until he collapsed from the exhaustion of trying to figure out where everything had gone. Somehow though, he never came to believe that it was a conspiracy, that his life had been replaced. He always seemed to have an awareness that somehow he was mistaken. As though, perhaps, he'd come through some curious means that remained shrouded in a confused memory, to be in this place. Where the people claimed to know him, even if he didn't know them. He knew that he couldn't remember a huge portion of his life. The present, for him, lacked a history. He knew the answer was in that history, but without it, without the story, all he had was the certainty that this wasn't his life. And how could it be? It didn't feel at all like it. It didn't feel warm. It didn't feel familiar. But then, nothing did. Warm sun on the skin felt kind, and soothing. But it felt like moonlight. Something about it made it not the sun of memory. It didn't feel like his sun. The air didn't feel like his air. His hands didn't feel like his hands. Nothing felt right. And he worried. Even the worries felt as though they came from outside. As certain as he was about them, they didn't seem like his concern. There is worry, therefore I am, I worry. And this is what kept him from fleeing, from being paranoid, or angry. His fears seemed unfounded, because he didn't recognize them as his own. All he feels is lost. Like he has fallen asleep on a bus, and at last shaken awake by the driver, found himself alone on a dark lit street. Around are the objects of his own landscape -light poles, parked cars, buildings, people. And he knows that home lies on that bus route. But for now the line is closed, and he will have to wait until morning. For now, he spends the night in the company of strangers, in a place that's not his home. Nothing to do but wait for the clarity of morning, when an opportunity will present itself, and offer to fill in the missing information that would make it all make sense. And so he waits. He thinks this woman knows how lost he is, maybe she's claiming to be Julie to save him from some hurt. She seems kind. She tries very hard. But she's not Julie, because he knows Julie. It's been this way for a year. He's in the garden. It's springtime. He likes it in the garden. Out of the places to be lost in, it is certainly the best. It's warm, and the flowers are beautiful, vibrant, and smell wonderful. He doesn't recognize the species that are here. He thinks it looks the way his garden used to. He'd tend to it while Anna slept in her basket, shaded from the sun. Never out of ear shot. There's a small bird on the ground. An infant. Fallen from a high tree branch. It struggles as he picks it up, but it doesn't resist, just goes through the motions. It's been here for a while. It's dehydrated. It struggles for air. But it's just going through the motions. He strokes its tiny head. It stops struggling. His head spins. Anna. He falls to his knees as the air fills his lungs in a deep, desperate gasp. This breath feels familiar. He knows this breath. And it burns. Ohh god how it swells in his chest. How it hurts. But he knows this breath. This breath of fresh air.

It was a good day, walking alone, only my shadow next to me. I had run away from my home. I'm sick of all the lies my 'role models' tell me. My name is Jonathan Suburbia. My friends at my homeland called me the Jesus of Suburbia. I miss my friends at home. The name of it is pointless now. Here in America, I have nothing. I do blend in well as a regular white suburban teenager, living in a ordinary suburban town called Longview, California, and; blgahagah! I am sick being a normal American Idiot! Then it happened. As I was deep in thought, I crossed the street, then a white Ford SUV came and hit me. My body buckled like I had been shot with a shotgun in the chest. I hit my skull on the hood and then the pavement below me as I fell to the floor in pain. I'm not sure if I blacked out from the pain or got knocked out from me hitting the car and the pavement. When I woke up I was in St. Jimmy's National Hospital. I as I came to I heard this voice in my head, a voice that I have never heard in my life, raging and rebelling against everything that I kept secreted in my mind. It hurt. Then a nurse came over to my cot and spoke to me. I noticed her name tag hung from a lanyard around her neck. Her name was Maria Liberty. She was a sight to behold after what happened to me. She said," Good mourning John!" Her smile probably cured a case of cancer at one point. I know it stopped my headache. After a bit of routine vital signs check, Maria helped me off the cot and into a wheelchair. We made idle conversation as she brought me into a room with a two men and women, sitting at a table together. One man just stared at me. I knew that disappointed face from anywhere. It was Brad. My stepfather. He always seemed to be neglecting me and me being around him made him very angry. He looked disgruntled and unhappy about me still being alive and breathing. My mother's face was red and her eyes were wet with tears. The other man turned out to be a doctor. He was was a bald old man with glasses. He smiled gently at me as he looked up from his clipboard. He turned his glance toward Maria, my parent, and THAT other person, and motioned for them to talk with him. Being the eavesdropper I am, I listened closely. "Mr. and Ms. Suburbia, John has suffered a major blow to his brain after his accident," he said sympathetically. "He now has permanent damage to his prefrontal cortex, deep limbic system and his temporal lobes. These are the parts of the brain that essentially control our emotions," the doctor said sternly. "I'm sorry to say this; but your son now has a multipersonality disorder. We have had cases like this in the past and we call it Saint Jimmy's disorder." The doctor's voice began to crack. "Your son is expected to live for 1 year." The voice in my head begins to take control of me. It tells me this," That's a lie Jesus! They just want your parents money! The government just wants your money!" I didn't know what to think of it so I let out an enormous scream. I shouted to St. Jimmy," GEEEETTTTT OOOOOUUUUUUTTTTTT!!!! My Mom and Brad jumped and so did Maria. I was pale and breathing heavy. Maria came over and sat down on my lap. When she sat down St. Jimmy disappeared. POOF. Out of my mind. I started to relax as she put her hand on my cheek and rubbed her thumb back and forth on it. We shared a moment, alone in the world. Then the doctor cleared his throat and spoke. "It seems John's disorder disappears when Maria is around him," He said with a smile. "I think we will start the therapy with Maria accompanying John." He turned his glance at me and said,"There maybe hope for you yet, John." After that ordeal was over and done with, my parent gave me some money so grab some food at the Cafe. I brought Maria with me. I asked her what she does for a living. She says she interns here, but that's not her real job. I asked her what it was and said," How about you come with me to work tonight, John?", she said with mischievous smile. She saw the worried look on my face and said,"Don't worry it's not like we are going to get caught." I thought to myself, she's a rebel all right. Later that evening she appeared outside my door. She was the definition of an angel. She was wearing a pair of skinny jeans with a men's black button-up shirt with a red tie on it. Her hair was in a pony tail and on her lips was the reddest lip stick I've ever seen. Her top two buttons on her shirt were unbuttoned so I could see a bit of hear cleavage. She teasing me, I thought. Jimmy had something to say too. "It's not going to work John. She's not your kind of girl." I fire back at Jimmy," I will make her mine! Jimmy had enough. He took control and told her to wait a second and guided me inside. He sat me down at the dinner table. He said,"Look Jesus, I know your exited about dating... Ms. Whatsername out there. But your no rebel, you have no guts. I backed off today to see what you would do. AND YOU DID SHIT ALL! Let me show you how to give Whatsername the time of her life." My head started to ache. I am now St. Jimmy. I picked myself up and took some Novacaine and rejoined Whatsername outside. She was about to say something but my lips stopped her and she closed her eyes. We hurry along in a taxi to a club in town. We go inside and she disappears among the crowd. I find her again and shes with a white guy with dreadlocks. She was sitting on the floor getting high on weed. Her top is unbuttoned and her bra is on the floor next to her underwear. She offers the blunt to me and I accept it. Jesus in says in my head, "Don't do it Jimmy! We are going to get in trouble!" I take a big sniff of air and start to feel the effects. I sink to the floor next to Whatsername and lean my head against her shoulder. She tells the white guy to get us a drink. He comes back and we drink until we get wasted to the point where she kicks a stripper off of her place and replaces her. And does better. Then I hear the sounds of sirens outside. Jesus says to me,"SHIT! We are done Jimmy; it's over." I thought of any way out and I saw a the fire door identified by a red EXIT sign. I quickly picked up Whatsername while she was still giggling drunkenly from all the booze we drank tonight. She cussed at me for taking her away from her position as the center of attention to the male patrons at the club. I made a break for the door, when Jesus said something," D-DUDE! That door has an alarm on it!" I disregarded his warning and burst through the door carrying Whatsername in my arms. Then the bell sounded. The sprinklers came on and tried to put out a fire that didn't exist. I could hear the people screaming from the water getting soaked. I laughed to myself as I ran. I ran to my home and never looked back. I layed Whatsername on the couch. She said as her eyes closed,"Best 20 minute date I've ever had." I buttoned her shirt back up and sort of just drooped down to the floor and passed out. I could tell Jesus was impressed. Maybe even jealous. I woke up with the biggest headache ever, probably from Jimmy and... her, going to the club and getting drunk of their asses. Also, Jimmy had gone to sleep for today, he told me in my dreams. I was in control for today. I saw her get up, stretch and let out a big yawn. She rubbed her eyes and then her neck, probably from bunking on the couch all night. She looked really hungover. I said smoothly," Good mourning, sleepyhead." "Mourning Jimmy," She says half asleep. Then she realizes that Jimmy is not here but instead it was the non-rebelous John Suburbia. She smiled kindly at me and then I heard HIM come down the stairs. Brad came down the stairs to see us sitting next to each other in a moment. His face swells up with anger at me. Probably from the sight of ME being with a girl that was AMAZING. "JOHN WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TO HER?!!", he bellowed. "SHE'S YOUR NURSE NOT YOUR GIRLFRIEND!!!!" I called for St. Jimmy in my head to help me but he told me sort it out myself. I took a deep gasp of air and while he was still babbling, I let out at the top of my lungs,"Listen asshole, she is mine and you can't say otherwise! I am TIRED of you neglecting me and you telling me what to do. Hell, your not even my dad. You just married my mom that I love, oh so much, so you could sleep with her!!! You know what we are done here! Maria... let get the hell out of here." I could see him beginning to swell up with anger as me and Maria walked out the door. To my surprise he seized me by the by the collar of my shirt and held me against the wall next to the door. He called for my Mom. As soon as she came down the stairs I curled my fist and hit him square in the nose. I heard the *crack* as his nose bent and broke. He released me and I ran out the door with Maria at my heels. We stopped at after a few blocks to catch our breath. Maria asked,"Jesus is going to be jealous after that Jimmy." I laughed and then said,"That was me, the Jesus of Suburbia.

Night was quickly approaching, and the doves had already taken to the air. She watched them from her spot by the parkade, and listened to their gentle cooing, and wished that she could be so free, to spread wings and go where the wind would take her. She had been living in the parkade for over a month now. The doves had followed her all the way from Cliff's Edge, her previous home. She had been forced to leave: winter was far colder by Cliff's Edge, and the snow tended to fall in great white sheets. Her journey had been long and arduous, and the doves had been there every step of the way. She welcomed their company, because it was the only company she had. A small dove landed on her shoulder and cooed softly in her ear. It ruffled its feathers, then took to the air once again. They had grown accustomed to her, she knew. To them, she was just an oversized dove, wingless and beakless but a friend nonetheless. They never judged her or ridiculed her because of the way she looked, or talked, or lived. They just accepted. She gazed up wistfully at the Buniard Building and noticed there were a few lights on in some of the apartments. Still early, then. Some of them were probably having supper now: families eating around the dinner table, or couples snuggled warmly infront of the television set, eating their T.V. dinners. The doves were her companions, her family. And the Buniard Building was her television set. Through it she experienced the lives of its inhabitants. She learned to love some of them, and hate others, and often she caught herself rooting for one member of a family or another, and hoping things would come out right for them in the end. The day Mrs. Parkins suffered a heart attack she had been there, watching in horror, worried and angry at the injustices of life. Tonight Mr. Parkins was alone at home, pacing, clasping his hands tightly behind his back, moving like a caged animal - restless and lonely. Somehow she knew Mrs. Parkins had passed away. Perhaps it was the way he slouched, as though he had given up hope, or the way he had stopped brooding, as though there was nothing left to hope for. She turned her gaze back to the doves, and saw them painted against a full moon. The moon was larger then she had ever seen it before, and took up a large portion of the night sky - a beacon among the tiny stars, and she was reminded of the story she had read in one of the papers, about a space shuttle that would soon be launched from Cape Canaveral and put the first man on the moon. How ridiculous it seemed, to spend so much money and effort to get to the moon, when there was so much suffering right here on Earth. A chill wind started to blow. She heard its dismal howl, and watched as it overturned old carton boxes and sent newspapers skittering across the cold cement like mice. A plastic bag rolled down the road, hopping and creeping as though it possessed a life of its own. She started to shiver, and hugged herself tightly. She got up and brought a trash can from the parkade, filled it with the newspapers she had found that day - the Herald and the Boston Globe and the New York Times - and lit a small fire. Startled by the sudden heat, the doves took to the air, and just when it seemed they would go up to the trees to roost for the night, they returned to her outstretched arms, and pecked at the bread crumbs she held in her hands. As her gaze drew back to the Buniard Building, she had a strange premonition. Just as she had known that Mrs. Parkins was dead, she knew that something was going to happen tonight. The feeling was vague and far off, like a mirage in the desert, and she wondered if perhaps - and just like the mirage - it was a matter of wishful thinking. Did she want something to happen? Perhaps looking up at the Buniard was not enough, perhaps she longed for something more, something real. Something that would happen to her for a change. Soon the feeling passed, leaving her cold and tired. Young Vanessa Lewis was out by her bedroom window, gazing at the sky, and, in another apartment, Mr. Parkins was still pacing restlessly. Vanessa was a strange girl, but one of her favourite people to watch. She was forever arguing with her parents, like teenagers will, and sneaking off in the middle of the night. She spent long hours at her bedroom window, watching the doves, admiring their grace and beauty, not knowing that she herself was being watched. Time passed, and soon even the sight of the pretty, wistful girl was not enough to keep her interest, and her gaze drifted, as it tended to do, back to the doves. They were acting strangely tonight, moving in short, abrupt movements, taking to the air and then returning, not remaining in one place for too long. Restless, she thought. Maybe they, too, felt that something was going to happen tonight. She would worry about that another time, though. It was getting late. "Come," she whispered, "we'll find a place to rest this tired body of mine." The pain in her back had returned with the cold, and she found it difficult to walk. She made her way to the park nearby, the Royal Grand park, a small sign stated, although it was far from royal and hardly what she would call grand. She made her bed in the lush, wet grass, and lay beneath the stars, and waited for sleep to take her. Around her the doves cooed and pawed at her clothing, perhaps looking for a last scrap of bread before they went up to roost. But she felt restless, and sleep did not come quickly. She sat up and shivered slightly, and her eyes were drawn once again to the Buniard. Something was going to happen tonight. The realisation excited her. It was a warm feeling inside of her, as though a candle had been lit in her belly. Her eyes sparkled with a life she thought she had lost long ago. And that's when she saw him, silhouette against the night, running. With a violent shudder the warm feeling was ripped from her, and in its place was only dread. Something bad was going to happen tonight. Something unspeakable.

We were enjoying the cool night air. I lit a cigarette and took a quick harsh drag. My friend sat next me, quiet. He wouldn’t admit his thoughts, but I could see them on his face. I sat with the cigarette between fingers, slowly burning down, quickly giving me a buzz, relieving my stress. He was waiting for a text. I was waiting for anything. That night I wore shorts and a sweater: comfortably chilled. I can’t remember, but it is possible that we had been drinking. From the vantage point of my friend’s porch we could see them approach her building and stand just outside her door. She was anxious. He, as always, was calm and cool. I turned to my friend, “Do you see this?” I took a drag, eager for what happened next. They stood there. Talking. His jeans loose, hems on the concrete, striped hoody, and backwards flat-billed baseball cap, all synonymous with his profile. She wore a skirt, netted leggings underneath, large boots coming half way up her calf, a low cut shirt and a half buttoned up purple cardigan sweater, her sunset red hair kept neat under a black beret. These two friends stood talking in the dark of night; thinking that they were alone in this moment. That for a few minutes the world was theirs. I watched on, ignorant to my friend’s presence and text chimes. In my mind I saw and heard their conversation. She was thanking him for being a good guy to walk her home. He said it was nothing and that he was happy to do it; “No problem.” One of them checked their phone, probably he did. He motioned to go. She asked him to wait. She stepped in for a hug and embraced him. He wasn’t reluctant, he didn’t stop to think about the implications, and he did not consider his girlfriend hundreds of miles away. He didn’t think about how much his girlfriend meant to him, and he didn’t consider how much this girl holding him right now wanted to be more than friends. He held her tight in his arms. And he released first. She held a second longer, understanding that now, given the circumstances, and his obligations, that he could not be with her. She turned to unlock her door; she pulled it open and stood there, holding it. One hand on the door, the other hanging at her side. They said goodbye, he turned and walked away. But she didn’t turn in. She stood there. I was fixated on her. I wanted to walk over to her and tell her I’m sorry it wouldn’t work out with him. I wanted to run after him and tell him what he’s doing to her. But I couldn’t. I watched her. This image is cast in my mind like stone. The yellow lights on the wall above her emitting their soft enveloping glow. The way she held most of her weight on one foot. Her head cocked slightly to one side and inclined towards his fleeting presence. And my friend reclined on next to me. Cigarette smoke drifting before my face in the breeze. To me this moment only lasted about fifteen seconds. She watched after him. I saw in her body language how she registered the ramifications of their conversation and interactions. Her body slouched. Her hand fell off the door letting it swing in, stopping against her shoulder. She loosened her firm stance and stepped one foot back to turn, but she couldn’t yet. She had to watch him a few seconds longer; she had to hope that he’d changed; that maybe he did feel the same way for her. Hoped that maybe he’d turn back for her. I could only imagine how long this felt for her, the emotions she felt as he went farther away, without looking back: the impact of his words tonight, the realizations within that hug, the disappointment and despondency of that brief moment. She finally turned in—sad, lonely, defeated. I felt sorry for her. I felt guilty that I had intruded on this moment; that I watched something that was supposed to be private and within only her world. I finished my cigarette, crushed the butt, and threw it away.

He stared blankly out of his window. He wasn’t sure what day it was, but that didn’t matter anymore. None of it did. All that he cared about was that tree outside. It seemed so out of place. It was alone in the vast field that it stood in. He hadn’t been outside for days now, but even before then he’d never paid much attention to the tree that so captivated him now. He studied every detail of the tree that he could see from the distance he permitted himself. The pines of it were a standard evergreen color; the bark, brown and sturdy. There was nothing unusual about it. It wasn’t abnormally tall, nor was it a very impressive tree. It was the average Joe of trees. It was so unremarkably average, yet somehow it continued to enthrall his very being. He wanted to touch it, but was too at ease in his safe, comfy home. Besides, it was rather chilly outside, and almost dinnertime. Still, something pulled him closer to the tree that stood at a tauntingly 200 feet away. Why? Why did it call him so? Why him? Why couldn’t it just leave him be? He was content in his home; he wanted the solitude that he was granted in the past few days, but that damn tree… He stayed there at his window, watching the wind travel through the pines of that average tree. He stood there watching, ignoring his growling stomach; ignoring his ringing phone. He stood there. He stood there… As the night carried on, he noticed something moving towards the tree. What was it, an owl? Yes, yes, an owl. But why? Owls weren’t common on this side of town. The great white owl moved closer towards the tree. It didn’t seem cautious in the slightest bit. It gadded about the tree in a clumsy manner, then back stepped until the tree was in full view. At this point, the insolent owl took flight through the pines of the tree. It flew clumsily through the branches, knocking something off of it, and then continued through until it made its way out of the defensive tree’s grasp. The owl without so much as looking back continued its way through the night in a peculiar manner. The man continued watching the owl, growing angry for no particular reason. What gave that owl the right to fly through there in such an uncouth manner? It hit something as it flew through there! Aren’t owls supposed to be graceful in flight? It could have knocked a bird’s nest or something out! He contemplated going out there to check, but it was too dark, and far too cold to leave now. It’ll be fine; no point in checking now. It can wait until morning anyways. When the morning finally came, the man returned to his station at the window of his house. Maybe he should go check on whatever it was that fell out. But it’s so early, why bother? Can’t Mother Nature take care of it anyways? But still, maybe… He waited, waited; waited. He stared intensely at the ground surrounding the tree, searching for whatever it was, but to no avail. He grew worried. So many gruesome scenarios of poor defenseless birds ravaged his mind until he could take it no more. He back away from the window and returned to his room. The tree, the oh-so average tree just continued to stand alone in apathy. The wind moved on as usual; and the sky was the same shade of grey that it has been for days. Nothing had changed. Nothing. A door opened with a man tall man standing hesitantly in the doorway. The man was bearing brown boots, jeans, and a thick, red, plaid jacket. His face had been unshaved for days and his hair an excited flutter, but his eyes registered as those of a stoic. The man stood in there doorway staring at the taunting tree for a moment longer, then stepped forward. His movement was a clumsy traipse, but he continued onward. He was an awkward refrain, composed of lines; with anxious legs. His limbs were tangled like a streamer and he’d become an unclear, awkward dreamer, but he had a direction and stammered on for it. Once he finally reached the tree, he just watched it. He almost expected something to happen but the nothingness continued. After being lost in thought for a moment, he remembered the purpose of his journey and looked at his feet for what it was that had fallen the night before. He looked to the right of the tree and finally saw it. He leaned over to pick up the mysterious object that had caused such panic in his mind and once he had it in his grasp, he smiled and said to himself, “What an odd little pine cone.

John Snatch. Given name: Johnny Snatch. John Snatch sounds more professional though. John worked in an office downtown. The office was on the third floor of what used to be a grain storage building or something like that. John didn't care too much for the specifics, and certainly didn't pay much attention during the tour on his first day. He didn't even know the name of the offices above and below his. Like him, his coworkers were young subscribers to the current urban fads and had certain sensitivities to the nonchalant method of doing things. Indie music that wasn't so indie anymore could often be heard throughout his office. No one wore khakis to work. A generation with an appreciation for themselves. His job was relatively unimportant, but necessary nonetheless. John was a secretary, and had his explanation for the peculiar job down pat. "Just trying to break those gender barriers," John would say, adding in a half-hearted attempt at a laugh. The truth was that John didn't care much for any job he could occupy his time with. He saw a certain level of the superficial in just about everything he did now. A somewhat nihilistic and apathetic attitude embraced him most of the time. He didn't understand why everyone couldn't just slow down. Our story sets its self on the twenty-fifth of September, a day with a temperature of about 60 degrees. John walked out of his measly apartment, a paperback book tucked under his arm and messenger bag over his shoulder. He wore a white oxford shirt with an olive green sweater vest on top -the sleeves were half rolled up his forearm- his pants were brown and his shoes a different shade of the color. John had not opened his red and white paper back book in three days, but carried it along with him in unrecognized hopes that he could tell someone about it. He was about half way through, and mildly enjoyed the story. John's vocabulary was wide enough to make the plot seem much more interesting that it was, anyways. On the bus, John found the usual urge to listen to music off of his mobile phone absent. Today was an overcast day, a day to stare out of the window of your bus silently as if you're conceptualizing your new novel, or maybe considering the human condition by forcing the rain in to some complex metaphor for which it was never intended. John exited a stop early and unconsciously decided to not go in to work that day. The stop happened to be in front of an old, yet hip (by the new definition) bookstore and coffee shop. John had never noticed it before, but ducked in for no particular reason. He ordered his coffee, a mocha, no whipped cream, and walked around the bookstore. John dodged the regular titles found at all stores that at least turn a regular profit, catering to the likes of teenagers that needed a copy of Crime and Punishment with a foreword that would write their reports for them. John immediately looked for the most dust covered shelf. On it, John found an odd assortment of literature, they were not in alphabetical order, nor in any order of genre or style. Not by color, size, rating, rarity. Although, something about many of them spiked familiarity in John. He picked up a book titled "Amy Rhinehart, the girl." This was odd. The girl in cubicle twenty-two was named Amy Rhinehart. He guessed it was an odd enough named to be used in a book. He opened to the first page. "Amy Rhinehart was born on the seventeenth of June, 1982." John looked up from the book, starting in to the shelves who, if by some sort of magic could transform in to a mirror, John would have seen the most puzzled look that ever wrote itself upon a man's face. Amy Rhinehart -the real one, from the office- was born June 17, 1982. He had read it in a personnel file just a day before. Surely he had misread. Nope. The paper in front of him still printed the same thing he had seen moments before. "Odd." John thought. He put the book on the shelf, not wanting to scare himself any farther. He scanned the rows again, and as if by some spell saw a book titled, "Rob Snatch." His father's name. John couldn't help but express his confusion audibly. John began to reach for the novel, but before his hand could grasp its target, his eye found a new obsession. "The Mild Adventures of Johnny Snatch." John asked the price of the book. It wasn't for sale. John stared at the cover for a moment, and opened the cover with the anticipation of a pirate, finding his lost gold contained in a chest within the bowels of a cave. John saw no text in this book, instead, he found a pen secured in a cut out of the pages. He picked the pen up, and while examining it, did not notice that the cutout ceased to exist. John looked back at the book, his mind was as blank as the pages before him. The book wasn't for sale. John ran out of the store, book and all. No one stopped him.

Link woke up from a good nights sleep. His mother made him some nice hot bagels and his father told him brave stories of how he himself had saved Hyrule. When his father was done reminiscing and he had finished eating, ten year old link went to take a dump. Oh no, He pushed the poop out of his anus too hard, making all of his secret belongings like porn pictures of Saria and Zelda fall out of his anus crack. They all fell into the toilet. He had to get them, he couldn't let those sexy pictures of Zelda and Saria go to waste, there was jizzing to do. He thought of all of the jizz that could be done and he jumped into the toilet headfirst. To his surprise, the angle at which he jumped and also the speed had made him make a tear in the space time continuum and appear in Master Chiefs home. Everything was futuristic and he was shocked. He gasped and Master Chief was also surprised but he was able to pull himself together faster and use Links shock to capture him. Master Chief, not having any ladies to fuck, stuck his Master Dick in Links ass. Link almost died but he used the power of the Tri force to incinerate Master Chiefs Master dick. Master Chief was writhing on the ground. Link then said the secret chant, Hoss china cheese and he was instantly teleported into his house. He frantically went to his bathroom and saw that his father flushed the toilet. He screamed fuck and cried because all his pictures were gone. And then his father gave him a pedo smile and said, are you looking for these? They then proceeded to jack off all day long to sexy porn. Link, now 30 years old and bored of saving Hyrule and fucking Zelda, decided to go on an adventure of his own. Everyday he would wake up and still feel the rock hard super soldier dick of Master Chief penetrating his anus. The feeling never went away. Even though he had escaped from Master Chief and had incinerated his master dick he still felt there was revenge to be had. He went to his bedroom and grabbed his master sword and his quiver of arrows along with his other crap load of items. After he fucked Zelda up the butt one more time and ejaculated all over her face he left. He went to the temple of time and hacked it so he could observe the speed and angle at which he had jumped to go to the realm of Halo. After listening to khan academy about using the laws of 3 dimensional physics to figure out angle and speed at which he jumped as a child he left on his journey to the temple. While back in time he made sure to get the pictures of Zelda and Saria, now deemed child porn, back because he had lost them. After that side mission he did the complex math , making sure not to be seen, and went back to the present. He went to the top of death mountain and used his numbers he had retrieved to jump off. Right when he thought it would not work he ripped a hole in the space time continuum once again and appeared in Master Chiefs home. Luckily no one was home so he could waste some time investigating. He found tons of pictures of Cortana nude and jacked off to them. After there was Hylian jizz covering almost every square inch of Master Chiefs home he found a hiding place. He heard the doors open after an hour and saw Master Chief walk in. Unfortunately Master Chief was the same age because of his cryogenic chamber. And to his horror there was a lump in Master Chiefs pelvic area. A very huge lump. So big Master Chief had to carry it with his hands. He used a hovering device to make it float when he didn’t want to carry his Master dick. Whatever, back to the Hossy part. Link jumped out and shoved the Master Sword up his anus. “ha ha, I’ve been waiting for you.” He heard as his sword clinked against Master Chiefs metal covered anus. Link jumped backward and put up his hylian shield. Master Chief ripped off his suit and to links disgust there was multiple penises attached to Master Cheifs pelvis. “Doctors could not get one penis to work because if all my blood rushed to it , it would explode so they had to make multiple dicks.” Master Chief said. Link took out his boomerang and tried to chop off the writhing dicks. “Hyah” Link screamed as the boomerang clinked off the cyber penises metal shells. As one of the penises opened up its urethra link tossed a bomb in there. 1 down, 7 to go. Link noticed that the outside of Chiefs room was covered in metal tracks, similar to what his spinning top could go on. He lured Chief to the lining of his room he used his spinning top to cut off 3 of Chiefs cyber dicks. Even though was winning he saw no way of going on. And then he noticed the metal lining of the dicks had the same metal his hook shot could attach to. He shot his hook shot on the penis and used the speed of the spinning top to tear it op. Only 3 left. Master Chief, fighting the pain pushed onward. Link reached into his bag and took out his Ocarina. He played zeldas lullaby and the penises fell asleep. “No, please, my dicks are all I have.” Master Chief cried. Link didn’t care, he was filled with a rape victims rage took how his light arrows and shot all of the penises off in one clean stroke. Master Chief then bent down and came up with a smiling face. “You fool, you think you can beat me so easy. You see, when they were making me a spartan, they added to much power to my dick, turning me into walking super dick. Everyday I have to take a medication to make me look like a human, but now it is wearing off.” Master Chiefs head slowly melted way into 2 balls. Link panicked and said hoss china cheese but it did not work. In one second master chief was transformed into master cock. He had penises for arms and legs and nipples. All of them were protected by metal. Link thought back to when he incinerated the dick the first time and he used the tri force of courage to do it again. Sadly it did not work. He used a deku seed to slow master cock down. There was nothing left to do. Link went to the last resort and took out his bottle with a shrunken Tingle. With age tingle became even more pedophilic and link had to capture him and put him away. Tingle was even a danger to him, bigger than ganondorf. He let tingle out, who grew to his true size. Tingle walked towards master cock and link turned his back and heard “ What he fuck is that. Fuck fuck fuck. AHHHHHHH!” Link didn’t even want to look back ,even feeling a little bad for master cock. Link, suddenly splashed with rainbow jizz tried altering his chant and said, “ I like butthole in my butthole while I’m licking my butthole.” The chant worked and he appeared back home. The end? Or is it. Actually no, he actually took a dump first and to his disgust there was a little alien egg attached to his tunic. He wiped it off and flushed it down his toilet. The egg, really the fertilized egg of tingle hatched ten years later into the hoss. The end.

“Ohhh god.....” Sighed Steven, collapsing down into bed. Stevens girlfriend cuddles up from behind him and asked the mandatory, “Rough day at the clinic?” “Ha, that’s one way to put it.” “Is it the stress getting to you? Or is it someone specific?” Dian’s thoughtful words were comforting as always to Steven, but it seemed to him something else lay behind them. Possibly guilt, he diagnosed. He decided that he’s address it later. “Well there’s this one guy, he’s really just a pain in the ass, I guess.” Steven’s heart rate quickened ever so slightly thinking about it, and Dian took notice, giving his hand a comforting squeeze. Steven continued, “This guy is so frustrating to work with. I can deal with mental issues, I mean, I completely understand him, but it’s just such a rare case. It’s defiantly schizophrenia, no doubt about it, but this specific guy just seems like he was designed for some sort of final exam back at... School.” Dian nodded encouragingly, showing far too many signs of guilt for his liking. What had she been up to? Doesn’t she know she can’t get away with anything while dating a psychologist? Maybe she’s cheating. “Steven?” She asked, breaking the extended silence. Steven decided to keep going with his story anyway. “Right, sorry. As I was saying, this specific schizophrenic patient of mine seems like too perfect a case. This guy, along with having countless imaginary “friends,” actually believes that he’s a psychologist.” “Oh.” Was the only response Dian had. If it was one of his colleges, Steven supposed he would have gotten at least a laugh. But that ‘Oh’ seemed to contain more than just guilt; now it seems to have manifested some fear as well. Steven officially decided that it was time to figure out what was going on. “Dian, is there something wrong? Something you need to tell me?” “Well...” She started, “I guess I always knew this day would come.” Steven was confused. “What do you mean Dian, do you know many schizophrenics? You can’t know more than I do.” Steven smiled at his own little bit of humor. “Never mind. I meant nothing by it.” Dian reassured. Sometimes, Dian almost seemed foreign to Steven. Almost. “Um... Alright then, I guess I’ll go on. So this guy took one look around my room, and instantly asked me why I was sitting in his chair. Ha! His chair! Of course I had been told of his condition beforehand, so I willingly moved to the patient’s chair. But this is when it got bad. As I was supposed to be analyzing his mind, he started interviewing me! I could barely get a question in!” “Uh-huh.” Agreed Dian. Nearly silent now. “All I figured out was that he thought he had a girlfriend. Not a word about abuse, neglect, and only a few thoughts on his feelings. But back to the girlfriend, this is when it got weird. I swear that in the one glance around my room, he must have memorized everything he saw. He called his “girlfriend” Dian! He must have seen your picture on the desk, because he described you perfectly! His short-term memory must be amazing, because he went on to talk about my college degree and he even called himself doctor Ste-... Dian? Are you alright? Why are you crying?” The warm dampness of Dian’s tears was spreading on the sleeve of his shirt. Funny, he thought he had taken off his work jacket. That was probably why he was so uncomfortable, and probably why Dian was refusing to be held. “There’s no reason to cry Dian, it’s just a man who has something wrong with him.” Dian let out another sob. “I’m not crying because of him, it’s you!” Steven thought then. Had he done anything to upset Dian? Not that he could remember. “Dian, why are you crying?” “I’m not.” Said Dian. And she was right. But where were those tears coming from? My eyes. I’m crying, thought Steven. But why am I crying? “Because it’s all falling apart.” Said Dian. No, said Steven. NO! Get it right! I just said that! “And why is my shirt SO tight?” Steven- No- I just yelled out to the world! To whoever was beside me, as it obviously wasn’t Dian! “I think she’s cheating on me.” The other Steven had told him. “It makes me mad, because she should know that I can tell she’s guilty!” But I just thought that minutes ago! “NO!” I yelled, straining against- “-these infernal straps! Dian now gone, I finally opened my eyes to look for her! Where is my bed?!?! I yelled, for now I was in my office. I can see Dian’s photo from where I lay. Still in the patient’s chair.

A little disclaimer first... sorry about the format, or the length. This was originally an idea I had at school, then I wrote it as a short story in many parts through facebook chat for an awesome person I know. As such the style may change, or there is an unnatural jump. Either way I hope you enjoy it. The great theatre of the world The stage manager stands there and surveys his work. It wa sgood. He particularly liked the way the light went through the leaves of the trees. The land was luscious and green, th people happy and all was good. Soon he would meet the director and show him what he has done but for now he could relax in this perfect world he had created. Soon the director turned up and boy was he pleased with the stage managers work. "This is perfect, it is amazing. How did you get the light to go through the trees like that? Seriously my friend you have earned this." With that the director handed the stage manager a small bag tied at the top. "What's this?" Asked the stage manager "Money. You know? To pay you for work you have done?" "But i didint put money in this world, whats it for?" "It represents worth, one thing could cost more money than another. you can sell your work, goods, anything really and in exchange you can buy stuff." "Stuff?" "Yeah, food, entertainment, land... people" "People?! Buy people?!" "Well only those that can afford to anyway" "This is not how I built this place!" "Yeah but audiences dont like perfect. They get bored. I need a story. I need to make this place more interesting." "This will end in tears, and not just mind mark you" "Grow up man! Things will be fine, a little story never hurt" "Mark my words this will be bad" With that the stage manager left, throwing the money onto the ground. the director continued to survey the land. this will do. qquite nicely I believe. The director is at a table, staring intently at something. In walks the stage manager. "Ah, stage manager. Come have a look at this" "This isnt another change is it? You have made so many. I created perfection, it didnt need changes" "Hush your mouth, perfection is boring. And yes it is another change -" "It'll end in tears you know" "Stop moping and have a look at this" The stage manager moves closer to the table and as he gets closer he sees that a map of the world is on the table, next to it lies some felt pens and the director has enthusiastically been adding colour to the map. "Its a map of the world which you have scribbled on. so what?" "It's what the scribbles mean thats important. They are borders" The director beamed proudly "Borders? What do they need borders for, they are all already bordered by the ocean" "Ah well its more of a seperation from the other countries nearby... You know generate some community spirit and the such" "But they were one big community?" "Ah see what I've done as well is in the process given them a few diffferent languages, colours and beliefs. I tell you what it was quite tough to think up all the ridiculous things for them to believe, however they accepted it" "Things to believe... are we talking god again? Must you make a cameo for your friend everytime? He cant even act. What you done this time?" "Well the Christians believe he built the world." "HE DIDNT I DID!" "Calm down, I know that and he knows that. What does it matter if they dont?" "I cant believe you. Stop making changes, someone is going to get hurt." The stage manager walks off in anger. "Perfection is boring!" shouts the director after him. The director turns back to his map and picks up a pen. "Maybe I'll add platypus to Australia... That will really fuck them up." "Hello?" the stage manager's voice travelled into the void. the director's lab was empty. this is unusual, normally he is here tinkering, interferring. "Hello?" the stage manager tried again. The same void swallowed his voice and it faded off into the distance. "Up here!" the director cried, "come look at this! you'll have to hurry!" The stage manager climbed through the laboratory, discarded thoughts littering the floor where they had taken root with a life of their own. The stage manager climbed the ladder to the roof where the director was stood, in a rain coat, with the wind tearing through his hair. "You wont want to miss this" The stage manager curious inspite of himself joined the director and looked out over the land in the general direction that he was. After a couple of moments the skies grew darker and darker and clouds formed. As the clouds met a funnel emerged and and gradually saught its way downwards. As it touched the floor it seemed to rip the earth around it. Everything flew through the air, landing in heaps of rubbish. "What on earth is that?!" "I call it a tornado. Beautiful isnt it?" "Deadly more like" "Well yeah, whats the point in it if its not? the best stories come out of tragedy. You should see what else I have done, earth quakes, tsunamis, hurricanes, volcanoes, the works. I am going to call them natural disasters." "They look horrid. Why would you do this to people?" "Its entertainment my dear friend, its all just entertainment." "I dont want any part of this." "What are you talking about?! its your world. You are part of this. Without you there would not be any of this. We owe our thanks to you. You built the stage, all I have done is make the stries happen. and boy are they happening." "You are sick" "You should see it, the horror people will put each other through, it shows the best in others. Every criminal has a story which makes you yearn for him to be brought back into society. Every act of hardship is followed up by resilience." "Only in the stories that you show. What about where they dont get back to normal? or they dont rehabilitate? what happens to those people?" "Well, of course there will be fallout. There is always fallout. Can't make an ommlette without breaking some eggs." "You arent breaking eggs, you are smashing them and rolling in delight in the mess. Thats it. Im through. I am not indulging you any more. I am going down into that place and I am going to correct what you have done. I am going to tell people the truth" "They will think you are crazy..." "I dont care. I cant stand here playing with people for entertainment. I created perfection and you have destroyed it in favour of this horrorshow. Good luck with your endeavors as I am gone" the stage manager stormed off fuming. As he walked down the hill into the world he threw his mobile phone and only contact with the director into a pond. He ditched his creators bag and with every step became more human. At the bottom of the hill he entered the world as a human to do what he could... The director grabbed his phone and dialled for the stage manger. *ring ring* shit *ring ring* Fuck pick up *ring ring* Come on! Pick up *You have reached the answering machine of-" ""Fuck fuck fuck shit shit" "Please leave a message after the tone" *Beep* "Hey. It's me. uhh. I need your help. I think you were right. The world cant handle it anymore. Things are getting bad down there. I dont know what to do. I gave them entertainment but they just wanted more. More sex, more violence, more horror. I dont have anything left to give. Shit! what was that? I think there may be someone outside. our someones. It's getting noiser... I dont have anything left to give, and I cant watch the horribleness that they gleefully inflict on one another. Have you seen Auschwitz yet? I didnt make that. They did. Well maybe I gave them the tools to do it. No i gave them the tols to build civilisation, not evil. Perhaps they no longer want t obe civil? It's getting louder outside... I think they are coming for me. What I am trying to say is although perfection is boring it is safe. Remember how beautiful that world looked when you built it? They have shit all over it now? Crap! I think they are in the labratory! Anyway what I'm saying is undo it all. Only you know what I have done and what can be undone. Ignore God, he is a prick, he just wants to stay God. Did you see his commandments? What a turd. *Shouting grows loud* Ithink they are right outside. Promise me you will do this? *Crash as door breakss down* You've got to fix this. Fix it-" *Line goes dead* **************************************************************** Two kids are laughing and joking as they walk down an alleyway. They see a homeless man passed out, stinking of piss and alcohol. They move over to him and start going through his stuff. They pull out a small bag which contains coins, but no currency they have ever heard off. They see a map with scribbles all over it, notes about religions. They unfold a photo of a tornado. "What a fucking freak" With that on of the heftier teenagers swings his foot back and punts the homeless man in the stomach. The homeless guy wakes with a start as the teenagers run off down the alleyway. The homeless man coughs and splutters up phlegm and blood. And there sat the saviour of the world, everyday becoming more human, and every day the world taking another part of him.

Working Title, unfinished... The truck ambles up the steep slope of the roadway - she groans and moans and whirs a sickly myriad of regurgitation and I pat the dash. "Easy girl, few more clicks, promise, darling," I purr to her. I look over at you and I wonder quietly if you know, if you have the skill to read minds and, if you did, if you knew that what was coming was an awful, awful lot of inexplicable nothingness. An atheist's belief. A blank sheet of canvas ready to start anew as bones disintegrate into whisps of timeless soot. Of course, I knew. I knew that this road led to that road, and then the final turn would lead us to a resort that would be the final resting place. The 'Excessum Specus', I thought, humourlessly. You cheered delightfully when I suggested it, and I felt a sickened sense of guilt ride up my throat from my belly. I held your hand as we clicked through corridors of the internet to find the perfect romantic spot. You talked for days, you packed for days, you swam in your simple, beautiful way of happiness for days, and for days I couldn't and just wouldn't even consider telling you that I knew what I know. I bought the truck several years ago from a drifter that may or may not have lived at the residence that he was squatting in. He seemed eager to get rid of her, and, at $1,500, thinking I could either love her or turn a monumental and even record-breaking profit, I followed suit and eagerly shook his hand to seal the proposition. He handed me the keys to my new darling after I had returned from the bank, and I handed him a thick wad of 15 crisp hundreds, "hot off the presses," the clerk had pipped happily. The drifter swatted them from my hand like a ridiculous thief and he skipped off down the street. I tossed the keys in the air and whistled a sexy cat-call as my fingers ran over her body delicately. I stayed in that spot for what seemed like several hours, examining every nuance of my new lady. I've never been one for knowing the inner-workings of the marvelous beasts we putter around in throughout our daily lives, but having owned more than a handful in my some thirty-years of life, I've grown to have an unspoken degree of respect for them. And this one, this slick, beautiful girl that I had obtained and was petting oh so gingerly, was no exception. She was a creamy, luxurious white, like fresh, hot nail polish on a call-girl's fingernails. I fell into a deep chasm of love for her; my fingers traced every inch of her exterior from grill to tail-light. I fingered the dash interior softly, caressing each gauge that lay behind perfectly dirty glass. I slid my fingertips around the knobs that tune and regulate the blasts of air and music that would accompany me for the next millennium. She was imperfect, she was flawed, she was a perpetual list of synonyms for a blemished vehicle, but oh, she was mine. She was mine. I thought of the previous owners for a moment, I thought of the drifter for half a moment, and I thought of my future with her for what seemed like another billion years. Trips, parties, love-making, fights, blinding sun-lit mornings, eerily peaceful and calm nights where the night just swallowed me and her whole like a helpless fly in a trap; I remember my heart beating to the rhythm of the ideas that churned out like chocolates along an I Love Lucy conveyor belt. I felt myself sink into her seat, the seven-Postmeridian sun slowly turning her coordinates to travel, to awaken the other half of the world. I slid the key into the ignition (oh, what a satisfying click it made), and I turned her to start. She roared alive like a leopard plotting revenge. I never thought of selling her again. "The brochure said:," I put one hand on the wheel and raise the other, and speak in what I think is my best Shakespearean actor impression, "'Come with tired hearts, leave with happy farts!'" You laugh and the sun makes your eyes seem like rubies. "With a slogan like that, you know we're in for a treat, if not a relaxing one, and don't forget there's-," you interrupt and tell me you know of all the things we can do, your words passing by giggling lips and perfect teeth. You tell me you're looking forward to the Queen Sized bed the most, and you wink and I feel my stomach flip like a half-cooked hamburger, minutes away from being the perfect, succulent slab of meat for the gorging. Your face drops into seriousness, which is one of things that I love so much about you; how you can go from hysterics to complete, lawyer-standing-at-the-podium dead pan, and you tell me with that you "without a doubt" want to try everything at least once. Your finger raises in the air as you speak, punctuating each hope and dream. You tell me that you're tired of being afraid of everything, that you want to rock-climb, bungee-jump, and, even though I don't have the heart to beg to differ, you tell me you want to scuba dive. I knew for a fact that there was no such recreational opportunity at this resort. Instead, I just smile, I shift into a lower gear, and I turn the last left-hand turn I knew I'd ever take in my life. I grip my darling's steering wheel tightly and I try, oh do I try, to hold back the tears as I hear your hands excitedly pat-pat-pat your lap in a tuneless bout of glee. Like a freight train, the thoughts that I’ve been trying to ignore for what seems like forever, they plough into me. I thought I had forgotten them, or at least stored them away in a dusty filing cabinet for purposes that I can only, and begrudgingly, label as ‘unwanted, but necessary’. Yet they heave themselves, thick and gooey and fresh like a picked scab, into my mind. My eyes flutter like a silent movie reel and I feel a hot slug of vomit creep up from inside me. I quickly but quietly slip out of our bed, leap into the bathroom and inhale a gushing relief of cool tap-water. Bent over the sink, I let several leagues-under-the-sea wet my lips, breathing in mist and white-noise. These thoughts are a juggernaut, I think to myself, a modern-day and dangerous Hydra. They reproduce and reproduce and reproduce with every slaying swing of my sword. It’s best to just stop fighting and deal with the number of heads at hand, as they tower over me. I slowly shut the faucet. I stand in the door frame now, my hands supporting me. Your laptop’s screensaver swirls on the desk and, without looking back, I decide to take advantage. I open a new document and hesitate. The slightly dimmed screen starts to mock me. Its smirk is a pixel blip – a line – a dash that continuously pulses like a primitive heartbeat; digital routine work, pumping default information which is ready and willing for input. I, for some reason, imagine the possibility that my heartbeat is in rhythm. I imagine that my body is ready and willing for something to signal my gears and ligaments to move from dormancy and that I can turn to you and look at you and watch you sleep. Hoping that I’ll be able to watch the just awoken sun crawl across your skin; the tiny hairs, like immaculate peaches, react to the warmth and gentle caress of light, stand on end with unbeknownst-to-you-goose-bumps as a bar of sunshine slowly and methodically scans a carbon copy of you. Your impeccable perfection immortalized into infinity. Infinity that I can keep in my back-pocket, giving me the complete knowledge that, as everything smudges and gets swept away by an end-all-be-all eraser, I can relax, fold my arms, trust inevitability and fall backward into limbo. No matter where I land, where my feet finally touch from their as of yet undetermined length of travel, I’ll be able to take you out of my pocket and remember that you were what once held me together in days yonder. The clock on the desk, situated around a plentiful array of pamphlets detailing the activities one can do on the grounds, points stiffly to 6:28. And then you shift in your sleep. I jump instinctively, fear rippling in a jolt through my veins. It takes me several degrees of the clock’s ticking second-hand to realize that everything, in this moment, is fine. I inhale a deep breath and notice what my wandering fingers must have typed as I was lost in thought. I quickly backspace ‘The End’, and I momentarily think about how easily it is to reverse time in a written world with just a keystroke. Still, the heartbeat pumps. My fingers dangle over the keyboard and finally, I turn to you. Everything is perfect. A keystroke in my mind temporarily backspaces ‘The End’. And I type: “Last night was fun ;) I love you more than I love pancakes. I’ll be back with some.” Quietly, I slip through a crack in the door that just allows me to exit, and I close it behind me.

Hope, what is hope, some people view it as a golden ticket, Just like the one from Charlie in the Chocolate factory. To some hope is obtained through pure luck, just like that golden ticket, and that lucky ticket may take you on an adventure in a magic facotry with Willy Wonka and then you may save your poor family by obtaining that factory, even though it would probably be shut down becuase I don't think Oompa loompa's have Green Cards. But most people don't find hope that way, because hope is elusive and shy, you have to get a glimpse of it to think it is real and then you have to coax it out of the deep dark pit it got itself stuck in, but nobody gives out the secret to hope, because when it is found it is taken, built into something successful, powerful, amazing, beautiful and majestic, but the Human who made it that way kept it in his coat pocket and never told anyone how it works. Sure, many people have found hope and made it real, like Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerburg, but some people like Bill Gates have always had hope, Gates Sr. was a lawyer, they had a ton of money, Bill got the proper education and tools and he used them, because his Dad gave him a glimpse of his coat pocket. Hope is like a secret, a whisper under someones breath that not everyone is able to pick up, it gives some burning passion and a reason to be good, but the people who never had luck, or caught a glimpse of hope or didn't get to see in the successful mans pocket are called the Hopeless. To most people hope is not real, all they see is pain and suffering, people trying and falling on their face, whats the reason to do good if your just going to get shot down, it could be an actual bullit or it could be someone telling you that you can't, you could think you are stupid, you have better shit to do, right? I mean anyone can tell me that I am wrong you can make fun of me, you can punch me, that's not what gets me down, what makes me feel hopeless is knowing that everyday someone is going to get hurt, someones dreams will be shattered easier then a shot glass at a frat party, and that someone will make a decision to hurt themselves and negativly influence someones life. I think school has no outcome, I mean i could just make money selling drugs, working minimum wage but is that what i want, do i wanna live in an apartment with 4 other people until im 40? or do i want a big house, a nice car, a beautiful wife, and a positive change in the world people can blame on me? yes i do, but DO YOU? just ask yourself whats the answer, if it is yes then go hunting whereever you think hope might be because you just might find it, and make sure to whip that bitch out of your coat pocket and show it to everyone who might need to think positive.

Foreword: This was originally posted to /r/leagueoflegends, and makes more sense in the context of the game. You could call it fan-fiction. "The meta's changed, Singed," Darius smiled. "You don't have any real gap-closers, you just can't keep up." Singed furrowed his brow and took another drink. He'd come to the Rabble Rouser Inn for a nice tonic, not to defend himself. "I've got speed to make up for it," he mumbled, "and there's my slow..." "Every champ and their support has a slow, Singed," Zyra mused, "and without items you're no faster than the rest of us. Frankly, your dependence is a liability, especially with less movement items available." No matter how angrily he glared at it, Singed's glass was still in one piece. "Gap-closers aren't everything," Singed protested. "I can get more health than anyone else with my passive, and with Madred's Bloodrazor gone, I--" "Hah! Madred's might be gone," Darius interrupted, "but you know as well as I do the Blade of the Ruined King more than makes up for it." "Never mind a Liandry's Torment," Zyra interjected. Singed was beginning to snarl beneath his bandages. He'd throw them into the counter, if he could find it. "My poison can push like nothing else," Singed growled, his voice lifting slowly, "and it's very effective at directing, particularly with a Liandry's." Singed shot a look at Zyra as he mentioned it, receiving a glare in return. Darius looked noticeably irritated at the ease with which Singed shrugged off his harassment. "Magic resist might be less common than before," he snapped "but with a crystalline flask, I'm not that bothered." Slight foam forming in his mouth, Singed bared his teeth and stormed towards the exit. Darius stomped after him, but as he reached out for Singed's shoulder, he began to feel weak. Singed stopped, and Darius bounced off him, slumping against the wall. His vision becoming blurry, Darius looked up to see someone crouching down to him. He felt their breath on his cheek, and listened as they whispered into his ear. "Don't Chase Singed.

Grey light sank into the cell, revealing the other occupants - An old woman, cradling her head between her knees, rocking feebly. A teenage boy with a bloody nose, who mopped at his face half-heartedly. A man, ashy beard and blackened face, who only stared up at the light with mouth hanging open. All at once a cough would rattle his chest and then he would fall still again. And there was me, in my own corner of the cell, reeking in the same clothes I had been abducted with two weeks ago. Ambushed in the hospital after my bite, quietly commanded to dress, leave my things, I wouldn't need them where I was going. The men, three of them in military ware, each had the butt of a gun jutting from his belt. You can't argue with that. And now I was their prisoner, a quiet concentration camp for the bitten. We were infected, more men in sullied commando gear insisted. They looked on us like rabid dogs, gun barrels following us wherever we turned. The first three nights I railed against the cell door, splintering wood and making iron sing until my hands bled. The other occupants just watched me with hollow eyes. My son, you can't keep me from him. You can't lock me up, treat us like animals. You were bitten, they hissed through the bars. You're not a man anymore.

A short story based upon characters in “The Duchess of Malfi” by John Webster “How tedious is a guilty conscience!” – Cardinal Ferdinand paced his chamber, fuming with rage. Antonio, he thought, a slave, that only smelled of ink and counters, and ne’er in’s life looked like a gentleman... “He is husband to that lusty widow? They all shall pay!” His last cry rang throughout the room in time with echoes of his heavy footsteps. And so he had his princely sister imprisoned. In the dead of night, when he was satisfied that no light pierced the duchess’s chamber, he crept in to visit her. “Do you visit me thus?” she whispered into the darkness, “You violate a sacrament o’th’ church shall make you howl in Hell for it.” And howl he would, though sooner on earth than he would in Hell. “Here’s a hand to which you vowed much love; the ring on it you gave.” Ferdinand smirked as his sister kissed the dead man’s hand. Turning to leave, he tossed her the ring to keep as a love-token, promising that the heart it belonged to would follow. For a moment, his thirst for vengeance had been quenched. “Let this lie still,” said Bosola. Ferdinand entered, looking grim. “Is she dead?” Without hesitation, Bosola announced, “She is what you’d have her. But here begin your pity.” With a regretful look, he sighed, drew back a curtain and asked, “Alas, how have these offended?” His eyes boring into Bosola’s, Ferdinand answered, “ The death of young wolves is never to be pitied.” “Fix your eye here.” For once, the duke shifted his gazes to the corpses strewn about the room, finally resting on the peaceful face of his sister. “Constantly,” he whispered. “Do you not weep? Other sins speak;” Bosola paused, looking for a reaction. Meanwhile, Ferdinand’s thoughts were in turmoil. “Murder shrieks out. The element of water moistens the earth, but blood flies upwards, and bedews the heavens.” If Bosola said anything after that, it fell on deaf ears. Still fixed on the Duchess’s delicate features, his eyes seemed to mist. “Cover her face.” My God, what have I done? She was my only sister! My beautiful, sweet sister! NO! She was not of my blood. She went against my orders and brought shame to our family. Yes, that whore deserved exactly what she got. But she was so young! Heaven knows she’d seen enough tragedy with the death of her first husband. I’ve surrounded her with wolves in sheep’s skin. Bosola did this, not you! He had the executioners kill her, and rightly too! “She and I were twins,” he breathed, barely making a sound. “Should I die this instant, I had lived her time to a minute.” He spoke to himself and to the duchess more so than to anyone else. Though her face had been covered, his eyes had not moved, and her visage still flickered before them. Ferdinand was deaf to all but the clangs and shouts rising from the war his thoughts and conscience held. “Let me see her face again.” Bosola drew back the shroud over the lady’s face. The cacophony in Ferdinand’s mind quieted, replaced by a low, harsh sound, much like the sound the surface of a frozen pond makes just before it gives way to a heavier power. He snapped to face Bosola, turning completely ‘round on the heel of his boot. “Why didst thou not pity her? What an excellent honest man might’st thou have been if thou hadst borne her to some sanctuary!” Bosola looked shocked and his face drained of all color. The duke took no notice. “Or, bold in a good cause, opposed thyself with thy advanced sword above thy head, between her innocence and my revenge!” He started to pace, throwing his arms wildly about. “ I bade thee, when I was distracted of my own wits, go kill my dearest friend, and thou hast done’t.” He stopped and knelt at the duchess’s head. He looked up at Bosola and continued, “ For let me but examine well the cause: what was the meanness of her match to me? Only I must confess, I had a hope, had she continued widow, to have gained an infinite mass of treasure by her death; and that was the main cause. Her marriage, that drew a stream of gall quite though my heart.” He rose, towering over Bosola. His voice dropped to a whisper. “For thee (as we observe in tragedies that a good actor many times is cursed for playing a villain’s part), I hate thee for’t: and for my sake say thou hast done much ill well.” Bosola’s cheeks flushed, and his chest puffed with indignity. “Let me quicken your memory; for I perceive you are falling into ingratitude. I challenge the reward due to my service.” Ferdinand’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell thee what I’ll give thee. I’ll give thee a pardon for this murder.” “The office of justice is perverted quite when one thief hangs another. Who shall dare reveal this?” Snarling, Ferdinand replied, “O, I’ll tell thee: the wolf shall find her grave, and scrape it up; not to devour the corpse, but to discover the horrid murder.” The night after the duchess’s body had been buried in a shallow grave, there came a rustling from the trees. A naked, shuffling figure hunched over nearly on all fours limped its way into the clearing. It stepped into a beam of moonlight, threw back its face and howled into the night. If anyone were spying in the trees that night, they would have seen the duke Ferdinand, but human, he was not. His form was still that of a man’s, but his eyes were wide and wild as any ferocious beast’s. They darted to and fro. His nostrils flared, sniffing the air. Tufts of hair were missing altogether from his head and scratches and cuts, some seemingly self-inflicted, ran in every direction across his body. He scuttled unnervingly along the borders of the clearing, and once he was satisfied that no eyes winked in the shadows, he stopped, resting on his fists and feet. His eyes still sweeping the area, he crept slowly to a shadowy corner where the earth was tilled up and uneven. He began to scoop at it with his hands, slowly. The beast stopped and prowled around the clearing once more, snarling at an owl that had alighted on a nearby branch. He leapt upwards toward the bird, and frightened it away. At that moment, something told him, a voice, or pure instinct perhaps, that he must go back to that patch of uneven dirt. He resumed digging, faster and faster. He struck a nail on a rock, splitting it. He merely grunted and continued his furious excavation. He would lick away the blood and grime later. After nearly an hour, he struck something softer than the loamy earth. He pushed aside the dirt, unearthing a hand with a ring on one of the fingers. This was what he had been searching for. He sniffed the hand and knew it to be true. Within two hours, he had uncovered the whole body, and howled as if in pain when he looked upon the face. Weary from his work, and sickened by the sight of this woman, buried like a criminal in the woods, he lost his stomach and fainted in the shadow of the trees, covered in dirt, blood, and bile. Upon waking, he remembered his actions and howled ever more fearfully than the night before. His eyes were no longer those of a ravenous monster, but those of a man, tortured with the horrific knowledge of his own nefarious deeds. When men found him, he wept that he was a wolf, claiming the only difference was a wolf’s skin was hairy on the outside, his on the inside.

THE BOOK OF DAVE In the beginning, Dave created a bunch of stuff like the earth, water, animals, and humans. He thought "Meh, it's cool I guess...", and then he pretty much sat back and watched everything unfold, chillin' like a villain and taking many forms. Mostly though he liked to be a plastic dove. He saw all his creations screw up the world he created, and it pissed him off pretty badly. He thought for centuries about how he could save the world he put so little effort into creating. One day, in the late 1990's he came up with a plan. It was about time too, because the world he created was in pretty pitiful condition by this time. He set out to create 5 strong men who would spread his holy name. One of them appearing to be a heretic, but obviously a believer. One of them a natural born leader to guide the prophets. One of them tall and strong willed and convert others. One of them with great musical talents with which to sing and play instruments in the name of Dave, and the last one. Dave's only son. He arranged so that these men would one day come together and use their own talents to spread the word of Dave. These young men grew and realized their talents (except for the son of Dave, who had a hard time because he had not yet recognized his true purpose in life). They misused their talents, however, because they did not know that their destiny was the destiny that Dave set for them. They would know in the future that Dave needed them to rid the world of ignorance and stupidity. It would take time, though, for them to be ready for the task at hand. By the time these 5 young men were ready for their destiny, the world was even worse than it was before. There had been terrorist attacks, wars, destruction in massive proportions. They were indeed ready at the last minute. The 5 boys had grown to be good friends, and were like family. One day, fate brought them all together, and set them on a journey that would open their eyes to the truth. Open their eyes to Dave. They found themselves in their leader's house, discussing the most important of current events, politics, economics, history, and other things of the like. Then, as fate may have it, they embarked on a journey. They started with a trip to a local general store to purchase liquid refreshment, and to win the heart of a fair maiden. They failed miserably at the winning the heart part, but succeeded in buying refreshments. They also caused the son of Dave to smudge a dipping sauce on his trousers. They then headed to a larger store to buy him a new pair of trousers. They failed in their quest to acquire new trousers, but had good hearty laughs and made the son wear clothes meant for girls. However, it was here that they discovered The Great Dave. They found him in his usual form, a plastic bird, perched upon a raised surface. They were drawn to him, and immediately knew that it was to be theirs. They did not know why, but they knew it must be. They purchased the plastic bird, took him home, and immediately idolized him. They knew that his name was to be Dave, and that he was of great importance. The boys did not truly understand that Dave was of much more importance until much later. The day after their trip to the store, their land was ice-ridden. The plants outside were enveloped in a solid sheet of ice, and the roads were only traversible by foot, because none of their automobiles were equipped to operate on the ice-covered roads. The young men grew hungry, and weary of being held inside their home, and by the will of Dave, which they still failed to recognize, decided to embark on a long journey to obtain cheap, delicious food. They left their home and started down the road, talking and laughing, unaware of the great events that awaited them. They would soon find out the true purpose of what was happening. They noticed a bird that looked exactly like their plastic bird that was perched upon a telephone wire. Then they realized that this, in fact, WAS their bird, but in the form of a living version of it's plastic form, guarding them, and guiding them. They then began to realize that they had a greater purpose in this journey, and that Dave was more than a mere plastic bird. They began to have revelations and realizations that Dave placed in their minds. They came to the conclusion that Dave was the true God, and that they were prophets, since they were the only ones who realized this truth. They then realized that the one with no apparent useful talent must have been the son of Dave, because of the hardships he faced and trials and tribulations. They realized that since he had no talent to offer Dave, he didn't require one, because him simply being among the other prophets was enough to please Dave. Then came their true sign that they were led by The Great and Powerful Dave. They noticed on the side of the path a beautiful sight. A useless, disappointing, fresh, beautiful sight. They knew in their hearts that Dave put this there for them, that he loved them, and that he wanted them to cleanse the world of the wrongness that had befallen it.

"Matty what is the meaning of life?" "There is no meaning to this thing you call life." "But you're a cat, how do you know this?" "I am a cat, and you are a human. But we are also the same." "What do you mean, wise feline?" "There is only one piece of knowledge that we know is true, and it is the only fact in our universe worthy of consideration. It is this: when the universe began, you, and I, and everything you can see - and even things you cannot - were the same. You, and the man collecting your garbage, were created from the same particle of matter, smaller than a grain of sand, yet heavier than the sun. From that particle came everything in existence in this small but significant universe. It is human invention that makes you believe we are different. When you are kind to another person, you are kind to yourself. Inversely, when you hate a patron of your work, you also hate yourself. This is not religion, nor philosophy, it is the truth. This is all I know - this is what gives life and existence beauty beyond measure." "Wait, Matty, are you speaking English?" "I am speaking an ancient language, human, but I will never speak it again. Remember my purrs, for they will guide you, until everything is one again." Matty then pooped in his litter box and slept by the fireplace.

A great, majestic, mechanical snake, slithering through the city, on an endless quest of delivering little seedlings here and there, to let them go on with their meaningless lives, and carry on with their own quests. Hundreds of people packed into a tube, part of a colossal network, momentarily trapped in dynamic staticity. Moving, yet perfectly still. Maybe talking to a friend, a stranger, or another seedling. Maybe simply looking out the window, while listening to music thanks to the wonders of (relatively) modern technology, supposedly having profound thoughts of life, our existence, our place on this planet, perpetually suspended in space. In reality, their thoughts aren’t profound at all, they’re just the meaningless mental entanglements anyone could have. The essence of it all lies somewhere else, somewhere hidden.