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Allura 9

“Do you remember that time that you and I drove around looking at green hills, and we hooked up, our bodies entangled in a kaleidoscope of shapes and movements? We had taken my mother’s Jeep Cherokee to the end of the road and then hiked along the Caney Fork. You made me bring a full backpack stuffed with your favorite blanket, and a shit ton of rubbers, I mean, so many that there was no possible way we were going to use them all. You said we would, and you did that smile you always did when you were up to something. Your lip curled in the corner, and your teeth just barely peeked through their coral covers. You forced me to carry the backpack because after all, ‘I was such a big, strong man.’ “I was barely a man at all, more like a boy. I was twenty, and we had only been dating for four months. This is going to sound childish, but, I was so excited that I was able to get laid that those first few months were a complete blur. I remember this moment so clearly though. It’s surprising what sticks with you. Anyways, we had hiked along the Caney Fork and made it to Scott’s Gulf. Remember that waterfall? And how it snuck out of the canyon wall, came out, fell, and when it finally reached the bottom it snuck back into the ground? Goddamn, it was almost as beautiful as you were that night. The water was so clear. "We laid the blanket down, wrapped in each other’s arms, and stared at the waterfall for what felt like ages. There was something hypnotizing about it. You turned away from the water and towards me. You whispered in my ear, ‘Is it going to be like this forever?’ I was staring at the sky, which was melding colors like melting Neapolitan ice cream. I hesitated, thinking about it for a second, you might not have known that, but I was young, and I’m sure you’ve had the same thoughts before too. ‘Yeah, I think so.’ I responded, the words seem so far from me now, like it was a totally different conversation than what I remember. You kissed me on the cheek and said, ‘I hope you’re right.’ I turned and kissed you on the lips, before I knew it we were a sweaty mess of skin, and shapes. "We eventually headed home; you fell asleep in the passenger seat with your feet on the dash, and your hand clutching mine. That day was so passionate, and uncanny, so unlike us now. It’s not the same as when we were younger. Maybe we can rekindle those feelings. I want to make love to you, not just love you. We could go back, maybe, and hike along the Caney Fork. What do you say?” “That wasn’t me.

De Lift. De lift staat stil. Een paar minuten geleden viel het licht uit, geen best teken. Nu zitten vier figuren te luisteren naar elkaars adem. Een van hen drukt neurotisch op de Help knop terwijl hij zachtjes snikt. "Geef het toch op. Het licht werkt niet, waarom zou die knop dan wel werken?" zegt een stem in het duister. De neuroot geeft geen antwoord en begint sneller op de knoppen te drukken. Zijn ademhaling is onregelmatig en stokt bij elke snik. "Kanker op met je Mother Focking knoppen!" schreeuwt een andere stem uit het duister, de kreet wordt gevolgd door gestommel. De lift is maar klein en al gauw slaakt een vierde stem een kreet van pijn. "Je staat op mijn voet! Ga d'r af!" brult een vrouwenstem. "Begin jij niet ook al te kankeren, die tata is al erg genoeg." zegt de derde stem. "Je moet je grote bek houden, Mou. Als jij op tijd was geweest hadden we hier niet gezeten," snauwt de vrouw. Mou staart in de duisternis en besluit zich terug te trekken naar zijn hoek. Niet alleen Mou houdt zich gedeisd, de neurotische jongen schijnt ook kalmer te zijn. Althans, hij zit niet meer met de knoppen te spelen. "De knop doet het niet." zegt hij. "Weet je het zeker?" Tik. Tik. Tik. Tik. Tik. Tik. Tik. Tik. Tik. De eigenaar van de eerste stem wordt wakker van een plotselinge voet in zijn maag. ''Word wakker," hoort hij Mou zeggen. Hij kan Mou's ademhaling op zijn gezicht voelen. "Hoor je dat?" zegt Mou, gevolgd door een stevige walm ochtendadem. Mou lijkt opgewonden, de mogelijkheid dat het geluid van een reddingsteam is maakt ook iets los in de eerste stem. "Er zit een ritme in, dus het is misschien menselijk." zegt hij tegen Mou, die daar alleen maar opgewondener van schijnt te worden. Mou is al naar de deur geschuifeld, ditmaal zonder tegen z'n liftgenoten aan te lopen. "Wat doe je?" zegt de vrouwenstem in het duister. "Wat denk je zelf?" reageert Mou geagiteerd terwijl hij op de deur begint te bonzen. Aan de zware klappen die zijn vuisten maken is te horen dat hij geen lieverdje is en dat de deur het zwaar te verduren heeft. "Help! We zitten hier vast, godverdomme!" Geen reactie van buiten. Desondanks blijft Mou op de deur rammen terwijl hij schreeuwt om hulp. Na een paar minuten boos schreeuwen en bonzen lijkt Mou de puf te verliezen en verandert zijn stem in een jammerlijke smeekbede. De eerst zo sterke stem van Mou is gebroken en klein als hij eindelijk zijn poging tot communicatie afbreekt. Terwijl ze ruziën neemt het tikken in volume toe, alsof het tafereel hem amuseert. "Het heeft geen zin," zegt de eerste stem plotseling. "We zitten tussen twee verdiepingen. Dus we hoeven niet te rekenen op een gemakkelijke redding." De sfeer is plotseling weer net zo vijandig als in het begin. "Hou je bek, Loser. Je zal zien dat zometeen de deuren opengaan. Toch, Mou?" zegt de vrouwenstem. "Weet ik veel, Layla. Zie ik eruit als liftman?" Layla, de vrouw, zucht diep en kruipt in de richting van Mou. De eerste stem mengt zich ook in het gesprek. Op een vaderlijke toon begint hij "Dit is allemaal fijn en aardig maar nu we hier al een tijdje zitten en we nog niets van een mogelijke redding hebben gehoord, moeten we over wat serieuze zaken gaan babbelen." "Zoals?" antwoord Mou, nog steeds ontdaan door de machteloosheid van de situatie. "Ik ben waarschijnlijk niet de enige, maar we zitten hier nu al ongeveer veertien uur en mijn blaas zit aardig vol. Waar moeten we ons ontlasten?" "Ontlasten?" vraagt Layla in een beverige stem. "Je bedoelt toch niet….?" "Helaas wel ja, behalve als jij het voor onbepaalde tijd in kan houden moet het er op een gegeven moment toch echt uit." zegt de eerste stem, nog steeds op de kalme vaderlijke toon. "Tfoe, dat kan je toch wel ophouden, je bent toch geen bitch?" reageert Mou, die duidelijk zijn agressieve toon weer te pakken heeft. "Je gaat niet pissen in deze lift, tata, of ik maak je helemaal kapot." Layla, gedreven door Mou's hervonden moed, doet er nog een schepje bovenop "Als jij je gaat "ontlasten" snij ik je pikkie eraf, begrepen?" De eerste stem begint te lachen. "Oké, hou het maar op. We zullen zien wie dat het langste volhoudt." Ondertussen blijft de tik altijd aanwezig, langzaamaan beginnen de inwoners van de lift het getik over te nemen. Tik. Tik. De lift is flink gaan stinken. Het eerste uur was het zwaarst. Het werd erger toen de Neuroot van de geur over zijn nek ging en nog een schepje bovenop de rioollucht deed. "Hey, jij, Peter was het toch?" zegt de Neuroot vanuit het duister tegen de eerste stem. "Hoe weet jij eigenlijk dat we tussen twee verdiepingen in zitten?" Zijn stem is fragiel, alsof hij door het minste of geringste uiteen kan spatten. De stem van Peter blijft uit en alleen vier ademhalingen en het eindeloze getik zijn te horen. Plots wordt de stilte verbroken door de boze stem van Mou. "Ga je hem nog antwoord geven of moet ik je neus in het poephoekje douwen?" "Omdat er geen enkel licht door de deuren komt," reageert Peter eindelijk. "Als we op een verdieping hadden gezeten zouden we, overdag tenminste, licht kunnen zien door de kieren." Zijn stem is niet meer kalm en vaderlijk, eerder geïrriteerd en moe. Het is niet het antwoord waar het drietal op had gehoopt en een nieuwe stilte breekt aan. De stilte blijft een uur hangen. Het voelt voor de lift bewoners als een eeuwigheid. De Neuroot verbreekt de stilte met zachte stem. "Hebben jullie ook zo'n honger?" Rechercheur O'Hara steekt een sigaret op. Hij staat voor het Politiebureau waar zijn nieuwe kantoor is gevestigd. Het is nog maar drie weken geleden dat hij het woord Rechercheur voor zijn naam mocht zetten. Toch is de druk nu al genoeg om wat van zijn zwarte haren te verbleken. "Nu kun je mensen pas echt helpen!" Had zijn ex tegen hem gezegd op de uitreiking. Grappig dat ze een week geleden bij hem weg ging om precies die reden. O'Hara neemt een trek van zijn sigaret als de deur van het bureau opengaat. Een forse figuur vult de opening en onderzoekt de omgeving. De ogen van de figuur vallen op O'Hara. Hij waggelt in zijn richting en een stem, zo fors als de figuur zelf, vult de lucht. "Door roken krijg je niet opeens een ingeving, Thomas." "Dat is nooit wetenschappelijk bewezen, Ollie." reageert O'Hara terwijl hij een rookwolk uit zijn neus produceert. "Heb je nog iets uitgevonden over die vreemde affaire in de lift?" vraagt Ollie terwijl hij een sigaar en een rijkelijk versierde aansteker uit zijn binnenzak tovert. "Onaangenaam gezicht dat." voegt hij er aan toe nadat hij zijn sigaar heeft aangestoken. Zijn eerste echte zaak en dit is wat hij krijgt voorgeschoteld? O'Hara krijgt nog steeds een ziek gevoel in zijn maag als hij terugdenkt aan het tafereel van die lift. Vierenveertig uur zonder eten, water of een plek om je darmen te legen. Dat op zich is al reden genoeg om gek te worden. O'Hara's computer staat open op het rapport van de lijkschouwer. O'Hara kent het zo onderhand uit zijn hoofd en klikt het weg. In plaats van de lijkschouwing opent hij een email die hij net heeft ontvangen. De email, getiteld "Leuk kiekje." is van het technische lab en bevat een foto. Alsof het een grap is. O'Hara kan de perverse geesten van de lab-jassen niet waarderen. Het beeld op zijn computer is gruwelijk. Een meisje ligt in foetus houding in het midden van de lift in een plas van uitwerpselen en haar eigen bloed. Een beeld dat O'Hara al in het echt heeft meegemaakt, maar liever nooit weer had willen zien. Vanaf het lichaam leidt een spoor van bloed naar de muur. In koeienletters, geschreven in het bloed van het meisje, staat er op de muur iets geschreven. Het is nauwelijks te lezen doordat het bloed is uitgelopen. Maar het lab heeft het met pijn en moeite weten te ontcijferen. Zorg dat het stopt! Wat kan het betekenen? Denkt O'Hara. Hij peinst over de foto en met zijn linkerhand tikt hij zachtjes op de tafel. Tik. Tik. Tik. Tik.

The headmaster of the school Mr. Rogan worked at for less than a year had just fired him, and sat across from him signing verification documents. However, Mr. Rogan was uninterested. He was much to focused on the kids out the window, the kids who loved him and whom he loved back. Soon he would depart from them forever. By then Mr. Rogan had already accepted the fact that he would be fired, and felt it was justifiable to someone who did not understand his ways. So instead of focusing on the inevitable, he focused on the kids. “You’ve caused nothing but trouble since your inception,” spoke the headmaster without taking his eyes off his documents. For a moment he stared at the principal with his mouth half open. He glanced back at the kids one last time before saying “I can understand how you would think that.” The headmaster looked up at this, his eyebrows raised. “You taught the kids nothing, not counting teaching them to make outrageous claims, create blasphemous mischief and start countless shenanigans.” Mr. Rogan could not help but smile. The headmaster’s face became rigid. “Do you not see the common denominator of it all?” Mr. Rogan asked. The headmaster frowned at this. “Things that cause kids to get into nothing but trouble?” Again Mr. Rogan grinned. “Oh headmaster,” he sighed, “I taught them to create.

The Beginning The leaves fall relentlessly through sheets of rain. A boy rushes to get to the subway. Past the shallow puddles on the sidewalk, not giving a second glance at people on the street, he sprints down the stairs and into the underground network. The boy is trying to make it halfway across the city, a one-train trip, only three stops, and the next one won’t come for another hour. A backpack slung over his back, it’s contents being a science textbook and a book entitled *Violin: From Crescendo To Concerto*, he is headed to a five o’clock violin lesson, directly followed by an hour long math tutor, and finally practicing his lines for the school play, *Hamlet*. The young man is halfway to the station when he realizes he is five minute early. You would think that this would relax him, give him a moment of peace, but no. It only further increases his anxiety. Horrible thoughts of a broken train or a flooded tunnel fill his mind. He sits down, anxious beyond measure,and doesn't even notice the quarter fall from his pocket. He sees it, and upon realizing that it's his he springs up and walks towards it. Too late however, a man bundled in various winter coats and another coat of grime bent down and grabbed it. "Excuse me, sir," the boy says to the man. The man walks on a if he hasn't heard him. The boy repeats himself, louder than before, "Excuse me, sir!" The man stops and looks behind, giving the sense that he has not heard the boy yet another, more subliminal sense, suggesting that he had. "What is it you want, boy?" The man gives him a hard stare, as if daring him to say more. The boy stutters, "I, um, the coin, it's um, mine could I-". The man snaps at him, "Cut to the chase, boy! You won't get anywhere with that second-guessing cinder block up there between your shoulders!" "I'm sorry sir, it's just that coin you picked up from the ground, it' mine." The man offers sarcasm, "Well, such a *strong-minded* individual such as yourself who *obviously* shows very *plain* leadership qualities ought to have everything that is rightfully his, shouldn't he?" The man tosses the coin into the boy's outstretched hand and turns away. The boy knows he shouldn't interfere with the man anymore, he was an odd type and gave him a bad feeling, but his attitude perplexed him more than anything and he wanted to know more. "Excuse me, sir!", he calls out once more. The man turns back, a look of vexation crossing his face. "What is it you want now boy, is it the dollar I have hidden up my sleeve, or maybe the roll of dimes in my coat pocket?" "No sir, I'm sorry for asking, but what is it that has you so flustered?" "Flustered! I said nothing that implied my being flustered! What makes you assume that?" "It's just, you seemed very cross at departing with that coin and-" "I wasn't cross with the *coin*, I was cross with *you*, boy!" "What have I done to offend you?", said the boy, trying not to express his own offense. "You don't have the right look about you boy. Your gait's hurried, your fingers are restless, and your voice box's barely flickering with power." "Why is that a problem, sir?" "See, look at that! You're supposed to get up in my face, show some anger, something! Who taught you to be so soft-spoken?" "Well, my parents taught me the rules, and I follow them in school." "That's *despicable*! Tell me, boy, what happens if you do follow these *rules*?" "Well, I've been told I'll have a happy life with a good job and lots of money." The whole time the boy has stared into space, hardly blinking. "Lies!", the man shouts, "I'll tell you something, boy, not because I want to, but because you need to hear it." "What is it then?" "You're working for an empty cause. The lies they tell you is to keep your potential hidden, to make sure you work for them, not vice versa. You busy a lot?" The boy nods. "Just as I thought, they're really distractions. Who really cares if you can play Beethoven's 5th, can you choose between right and wrong. Can you see that there is something beyond what you know, something greater that valedictorians and diplomas, or will you live your life as another worthless human being?" The boy is startled. Things are starting to make sense. "I'm afraid I don't quite follow you, sir." "Tell me boy, do you do the things you do because you want to or because of this better life thing?" The boy is too stunned to speak. "It's like a modern *carpe diem*, boy. Every day wasted is a day you gave to them, do you want to continue to live like this?" The boy shakes his head no. "Neither do I, boy. But you're younger than me. You have a better chance at bringing about the change than I do. We cannot have these ideals yet, we have to work towards them, and maybe one day we will amount to something." "I'm sorry, who's "we"?" That moment his subway rolls into the station. The man smiles at him. "Remember what I said." The boy gets into the subway. He turns back to get a glimpse of the man. He does. He also notices a tattoo on his arm that he didn't notice before. An "A" with a circle around it. Then the man vanishes from sight, into the crowd. The boy sits down and opens his backpack. In it, along with it's previous contents, is a bunch of papers stapled together, a book called *Against the Logic of Submission* by Wolfi Landstreicher. IT looks as though it was printed by a home printer. The boy begins to flip through it when he notices a piece of lined paper, poorly torn out of a notebook, probably. It has one simple address: 818 SW 3rd Ave., PMB 1237 Portland, OR 97217. With the address and the papers the boy slowly begins to awaken over the next few weeks. He realizes to the full extent what the man was saying. He begins a plan. He leads the revolution.

“What is it like dying”? Will always heard this question first, always answering with the same response he’d been using for years. Why is it always the first one? Mortal mentality, so feeble. “It depends on how you die, I died quickly, so my death was fairly painless, but I’m sure my remains suggested otherwise. I’ve met people from all walks of death, from the self-inflicted suicide, to the limitless potentials of human stupidity”. The group ejected from their seats, with the chairs passing out behind them. The electronic equipment bumbled into incomprehensible fits, jumping and fizzing from one measurement to the other. Lights flashed into a hyperactive frenzy, committing suicide one by one. Will was, weirdly, fascinated by this equipment. His usual audience were medieval monks, or shamanic tribes. He’d seen electricity before, but electricity to measure me? Now that’s innovation. “How did you die”? Mortals were so predictable. Next he’ll probably ask “what’s you name”? “I died in a car crash when I was twelve years old. My buddy Phil and I tried taking his dad’s car out to pick up some girls, but being the middle of winter, the car spun out of control”. “I sense a new presence in the room” whispered the leader of the group over a wavering void of whimpers. “Hey Phil!” Phil, being clumsier than a bear on stilts, never fails to make an entrance. The group inhaled a simultaneous gasp of fear, as an assembly of barrels pivot wildly on their bases. “Hey man, listen, I’ve got an amateur summoning over in Idaho, sleepover, teenagers, you know, that sort of thing. Anyway, wanna go freak them out?” “Idaho? Sure, better than these living deadheads”.

Thank you very much for taking the time to read this because I need you to give me constructive criticism on my still in-progress work. I know it is incomplete, but I need advice about my writing style, appeal, etc. so I can better myself. If you like it, great! If you do not like it, tell me why you do not like it in a constructive manner. I hope my paper is free of grammatical errors and I hope you enjoy the first chapter of "The Lone Wolf"! I pressed the ashes and the dirt together into a neat mound and I stood up to look at it. Tears welled up in my eyes and I wiped them with my sleeve. After only a week’s struggle, both of my parents were dead and I was alone. I looked around at the destruction around me, seeing fires blacken rubble and electric wires sparkling. I looked back down at the grave and my makeshift cross, hoping it would suffice for the sacrifice my parents made to me by protecting me in the last raid. Now, I needed to survive by myself and for myself. I said a few quiet words for my parents and I prepared myself for the road ahead of me. My name is Michael Greaves, a seventeen year-old survivor on the road trying to scavenge for food and water. I was a military brat before this cataclysmic event and my parents were military veterans from the Marine Corps. I barely outlasted a bandit raid with my MP5 submachine gun and my P99 pistol, but my parents saved me in the flash of the last moments of their lives. When the marauders stormed the remains of our house and ran down to the cellar, my parents brandished combat knives and they ambushed them. I was told to sit in the corner with my MP5 on my lap and a blanket over my body so the bandits wouldn’t see me, but I watched my parents wrestle them to the ground. I heard a shot ring out in the cellar and my mother screamed. The second shot sounded soon after the first. All was silent and I was trying my hardest not to cry out and tears were falling out of my eyes. I quickly wiped my face and I tore off the blanket, revealing my gun. I shouted my loudest and longest shout as I was unloading all of my bullets uncontrollably on these helpless thieves. I wasted all of my MP5 ammunition on their dead bodies. Once my voice cracked, I stopped screaming and I returned to the cruel reality of my parents’ deaths. I fell to my knees and I slumped over their bodies and I must have cried all night. When dawn’s light reached through the cracks of the cellar’s ceiling, I knew what I had to do. When I picked up my mother, I wept hard once again. I tried carrying my mother up the broken stairs and it felt as if all of the world’s weight was put on my arms. When I got outside, my knees broke down in an empty space apart from all of the rubble around me and I set my mother down. This was hard on me both mentally and emotionally and I couldn’t think of an even worse way of their deaths. I dragged my feet down the stairs and I saw my father lying on his side with his back turned to me. I tried picking up my father, but I was too weak and I cried again. I didn’t even want to drag him up the stairs, pulling his dead arms, but it was the only way. His head was knocked around on the broken stairs and it only made me feel worse about myself. I pulled his body next to my mother and I went back downstairs to get a shovel. With every scoop of dirt, ash, and rubble, I grunted pathetically every single time. The grunting only got progressively worse when I kept looking at my parents’ peaceful faces. Tears flew out of my eyes with every deliberate scoop. I took a long break to avoid thinking about my parents, but it was the only thing I could think about and I cried silently when I returned to work. I finished digging and I looked at the close sunset on the horizon. I didn’t want to leave my parents out here in the cold, but it was too dangerous to linger out here with raiders lurking about. I placed my parents in one grave together and they looked peaceful together. I put my mother’s right hand in my father’s left hand and it somehow made me feel better, but I ignored the feeling quickly and I garrisoned myself in the cellar. After dawn made its appearance again the next day, I emerged from the cellar and I found my parents unchanged. I started to drop the dirt on my parents from their feet to their heads. I didn’t cry this time because I knew I needed to become strong from this experience and keep moving forward with my life. The mound was irregularly arranged, but I changed my focus to the headstone for them. I didn’t know how to honor their sacrifice so greatly with only a few words carved in stone, and instead, I took two broken planks and twine and I crafted a makeshift cross. I stuck the cross at the head of their grave and I pressed the dirt and ashes together into a neat mound. No matter how hungry or thirsty I was, I still took a knee and said a few words for the funeral service: “Mother and Father, I’m terribly sorry I couldn’t protect you. Your deaths were your ultimate sacrifice to me and I am humbly grateful for all you have done to nurture and protect me. I know you wouldn’t want me to result to vengeance because that is not what God wants. Your sacrifices were intended to keep me alive and I will survive by any means necessary.” My voice became very dry and I could talk no more. I went inside the cellar to prepare myself for the road ahead of me. I took the marauder’s pistols, the remainder of canned food, the last two bottles of water, my parents’ bloody combat knives and their assault rifles, a bottle of painkillers, and I put them all in my backpack. It was a heavy load, but I knew it would get lighter over time. I emerged from the cellar at around noon and the sun shown brightly on my face. I pulled my ripped handkerchief up to my eyes and I put my sunglasses on. I tightened my backpack’s straps and I started on the road.

The emptiness crept up with no warning. Still can't put a name to what it is, the hole punched into the middle of my chest, leaving my vitals exposed for the world to play with, to fill with their fingers and poisons, to manipulate like puppet masters. It's like coming down from a great high, that rushing feeling of overwhelming reality as the earth falls into pieces, crushing you with the weight of the sky. In the back of your mind, you know it's another damn day, but today is the end of the world. And for all you know, so is tomorrow, and the next day, being smothered under the weight of life over and over, struggling to breathe, to find fresh air, to free yourself, to break away from all that is dragging you down into the dark abyss. But the strain is too much, you collapse and give in to the pressure, looking for anything around you to help you forget what's happening, the bottle, the pills, the knife, the gun, and oh if only you could end it. End it now. Once and for all. Because you are sure that today is just another damn day, and tomorrow will be the same.

(see comments for additional details) The faint light of a single bulb did little to illuminate the dim funeral home room. A small coffin sat on the podium. A woman in a black funeral dress wept, kneeling in front of the coffin and burying her face in flowers. By her side stood a tall, solemn man in a black suit, his face dry and his expression unwavering. He kept his hand perpetually on the woman’s shoulder, determined not to express any emotion. Besides the two, the room was unoccupied, but the disorganization of the chairs showed signs of recently being full. For a while, the woman didn’t move except to shudder and cry. Finally, she seemed to collect herself and stood up. “I’m ready to go, James,” she whispered as she hugged him. When she released him, she looked expectantly at him. However, James simply stood there, looking at the coffin. After a moment of silence, James spoke. “I’m tired.” “We all are,” the woman said. “I’m tired of lying,” James clarified calmly, but his voice intensified with every word. “Every week at church, every funeral. Martha, I’m so damn tired!” “James!” Martha exclaimed. “Martha, how can you believe those lies? ‘Jesus loves you!’ ‘God loves you!’ A loving God wouldn’t do this! A loving God wouldn’t take away our daughter!” “James!” Martha yelled again. “Don’t do this!” “Do what? Tell the truth! God is a lie! A damn lie made up to trick people that are too damn ignorant to think for themselves!” “James!” “I used to believe it, too! Back when I first decided to be a pastor, I truly believed it! Jesus loved me! My life was perfect. I got the job of my dreams, the woman of my dreams! You know what made me realize?” “James, please!” Martha pleaded. “You know *who* made me realize? Cindy Williams! When I buried her, it clicked. A loving God wouldn’t take children from their parents! A loving God wouldn’t let a little girl suffer through cancer. A loving God…” James collapsed to his knees and started weeping. “James, please,” Martha placed her hand on his shoulder. He tried to move out of its way, but then stopped. He grabbed his wife and pulled her close, staining her dress with his tears. Martha held him tight, caressing his head and weeping with him. When James could cry no more, he hugged his wife once more, stood up, and said, “Let’s go home.” One hundred and fifty people sat in varying states of attentiveness in Hillgrove Baptist Church as Pastor James finished his sermon. “The Israelites were in a tough spot, but God was watching out for them. It was because of Moses’ faith that he was able to part the Red Sea and allow the Israelites to cross unharmed.” James closed his Bible and bowed his head. He stared at the pulpit, and the sweat glistened off his forehead. Raising his head, he began to speak again. “Church, I have an announcement.” Grabbing a rag from the pulpit, James wiped the sweat from his brow and continued. “As you all know, my daughter died last month.” He paused, struggling to swallow the pain that came from saying those words. “In the time since then, my faith has been tested, and I have been stretched to my limits. It is my displeasure to tell you that as of right now, I am retiring from the position of pastor of Hillgrove Baptist Church.” There was a collective sigh of disappointment and sympathy from the congregation. “I need some time to myself, I need to meditate and pray. You won’t be seeing me here for a while.” With those words, James grabbed his papers and his Bible and walked down the aisle out the door. The sanctuary was silent. James didn’t stop walking until he reached the bed of his pastor’s cabin. James stood at the door of his daughter’s room. Seeing all of her toys brought the bittersweet memories back to him, and the pain forced him to his knees. He folded his hands together and tried to pray, but then he remembered, and forced his hands apart. Tears welled in his eyes, but by sheer force of will he kept them there. He closed his eyes and felt a single tear flow down his face. With his eyes still closed, he stood up and turned away from the room. He reopened his eyes and stormed out of the house, to the backyard shed. He pried open the door and pushed through the various gardening tools until he found it. With one arm, he lifted his sledgehammer off the ground and slung it across his shoulder as if it was a light plank of wood. He walked back into the house, and stood at the doorway of his daughter’s room. He forced himself to look, one last time, and then lowered the sledgehammer from his shoulder. He pulled his arms backward, held for a moment, and then swung with all his might at the wooden doorway. The wall cracked from the force of the swing, but it didn’t crumble. James stooped and wiped sweat from his forehead and tears from his eyes. He pulled back again, and swung, this time ripping off a chunk of the wall in an explosion of dust and splinters. He grunted from exhaustion, but then gave in and started openly weeping. He swung again and again, tearing down chunks of the wall with each swing. He ran into the room and cracked the bed in half with a swing. When he felt he couldn’t swing the sledgehammer any more, he stopped, wiped the tears from his eyes, and stood up. While he stood in the wreckage, Martha came in through the front door, carrying a few groceries and her purse. After turning to lock the door, she turned again and saw James standing in the ruined room. She gasped and covered her mouth, dropping the groceries. James heard the sound of the eggs cracking, and he turned around and stared at Martha with empty eyes. Martha opened her mouth to speak, but she couldn’t conjure any words. James saw her attempt and spoke for her. “We don’t need this room anymore.” Tears returned to James’s eyes, and he turned back to the half-demolished room. He grabbed his sledgehammer and went back to work. Five years passed, and James didn’t step foot in any church. In fact, he rarely left his house. He found fleeting happiness in weight lifting, and spent many hours each day improving his already strong body. Although he was no longer the pastor, Hillgrove Baptist Church allowed James to keep the pastor’s cabin, which was just a few dozen yards away from the church. They hoped their kindness would help win James back. It didn’t. Martha faithfully attended the church through those years, and all her attempts to bring James back were met with cold stares and a refusal to speak. She was visibly stressed, and her hair started turning gray prematurely. Whispers of a strange disease had begun to spread across the country, one that would turn men into mindless flesh-eating beasts. James chose to ignore them. He ignored the reports of wars in other countries, he ignored the reports of outbreaks in small American towns, he even ignored the reports about an outbreak in New York. He didn’t care, he lived in urban Kentucky. Nothing like that would ever reach him. One particularly warm summer morning, Martha left the house to attend a prayer meeting. As soon as she was gone, James turned on his radio and began blaring music from a local rock station. He grabbed a weight, and right as he began to lift, his music cut off and a loud beeping tone screeched from the radio. It beeped several times before an automated voice began relaying a message. “The National Weather Service has been [commandeered] by the [United States Air Force] to provide coverage about the [disease outbreak] in the area. Please remain calm and remain indoors as the [United States Air Force] deals with [breakouts] in the area. The [United States Air Force] advises you to avoid [Hillgrove Baptist Church] due to a possible [disease outbreak.] The National Weather Service wished to warn you that the [United States Air Force] will handle the outbreak, and warns you to stay a safe distance away. Once again…” but James had already stopped listening. He immediately ran out the door. As the door closed behind him, a jet zoomed across the sky, out of sight almost as fast as it had arrived. Just a second later, James was hit by a massive shockwave that knocked him on his back, and he was temporarily deafened by an explosion. As he pulled himself up, his ears ringing, he saw Hillgrove Baptist Church collapse, fires everywhere. “MARTHA!” James screamed as he ran towards the wreckage. The entire building lay in ruins, and small fires raged everywhere. He clambered over the rubble, frantically searching for his wife. “Martha!” James pulled a ceiling tile off of a pile of rubble, and he saw an arm protruding from the rubble. He quickly pulled away all the rubble, and to his horror he found the badly crushed corpse of his wife. “Martha!” he screamed as tears rushed down his eyes. He collapsed to his knees, sobbing and holding her hand. A million thoughts rushed through his brain, and he could barely comprehend what he was seeing. In anger, he grabbed a piece of rubble and threw it. When he lowered his eyes, something caught his eye. A small pile of paper was burning near Martha’s body. He crawled over to it, and realized that it was Martha’s Bible. He quickly patted out the flames, but when he picked it up, almost the entire book was burned. He turned charred, unreadable pages, most of them crumbling at his touch, and finally stopped at the last page, one of the few readable pages remaining. He who testifies to these things says, “Surely I am coming soon.” Amen. Come, Lord Jesus! And the grace of the Lord Jesus be with us all. Amen. James had read that passage hundreds of times in the past, and it carried no real significance then. But now, even though it did not relate to any of his circumstances, it deeply moved his heart. Something stirred inside James, and he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time: guilt. When his daughter died, James had abandoned his faith in favor of his selfish anger. In this action, he abandoned his wife to struggle with her questions of faith alone. He should have been a man and supported her in her trials, but instead he left her alone and insulted her for it. “God, forgive me!” James moaned, and he stared up into the sky. “*Gruuungh*,” James heard a voice grunt, and looking up he saw a charred human body stumbling forward through the ruins. It didn’t take long to realize that this was one of the infected. Seeing it brought a sense of terror into James. He put his wife’s burnt Bible into his pocket and turned to run. James ran to his house and closed himself inside his house. He turned on the radio in hopes of hearing something helpful. “Infected individuals have overtaken most major cities in the East Coast.” “Reports say that infected activity is rampant throughout the entire country.” “Experts suggest finding an isolated area, in order to minimize interaction with infected individuals.” “Go as far west as possible.” West. It seemed like James’s best bet. He ransacked the house for as much food and clothing as he could possibly find, and then loaded them into his car. He started the engine, and then paused. He glanced at his shed, and then hopped out of the car and threw open the shed door. He searched through the shed until he found his sledgehammer. He gripped it in his hand, its weight a comfort to him as it was those five years ago. He was even stronger now, and he could lift it with very little effort. He carried it with him to his car and set it carefully in the back seat. He returned to the driver’s seat and pulled the car out of the driveway. He pushed the gas and began his journey west.

Uday's cheek was pressed against the hard dirt floor of his family’s adobe hut. It didn't hurt anymore, and he was no longer afraid. The afternoon sun was shining directly into the common area. It shone through at the spot where the wall should have met the ceiling. Uday breathed short, shallow breaths, and he thought of playing soccer with his older brother. He remembered the way the stray dogs would sit and watch them play, and how they would never interfere. They were good dogs, Uday thought. He also remembered when he had fallen and cut his ankle open on the dirt; which had been baked almost to concrete by the sun. He remembered the way his brother Aban had put his shoulder under the pit of his arm to help him walk home, and how he had told him not to cry. He smiled a weak, childly smile, thinking of how he had kept strong; and held the tears back until he limped through the door, and saw his mother. He felt something warm in his gut, remembering how she had taken him into her arms, and kissed his black hair. Laying in the dirt, in the sunlight, he thought about his mother. He thought of seeing her very soon. Uday blinked, and he thought that his blinking felt very slow. It felt as if his eyes lids were moving through heavy liquid. He felt a soft hum in his chest, directly beneath his heart. As he fell asleep, he could feel the dirt caked against the corner of his mouth. When he awoke it was later in the evening, and the sun no longer shone into the house. He lifted his head from the ground and sat up. It was nearing dusk, and he could smell his mother’s kubbah cooking over a fire. Over by the doorway, he saw his brother, and his brother was smiling and spinning a soccer ball between his fingers. Uday jumped to his feet, and as he and his brother went for the door, their mother called to them, telling them to be back in an hour for supper.

The Temporary Vagina of Ollie Long-Johnson By Colonel Sadface Ollie Long-Johnson awoke to a sharp pain in his genital area one cloudy Friday morning. As soon as he yelled out, the pain was gone. He threw off the covers and examined his penis. There were no visible marks anywhere. Perhaps he turned over and slept on it funny. At any rate, the pain was no more than a ghost now. He hopped out of bed and into the shower to get ready for work. As he washed, he felt several small stabbing pains from his penis and scrotum. He ignored them, seeing no signs of damage to the skin when he checked. He finished his shower and dressed for the day. The pains continued on his drive to work, and all the way to his desk. By now, he was considering calling a professional. Perhaps he would call the hospital during his lunch break. He never did. Ollie’s day passed in discomfort as his penile pains persisted. On the way home, the pain had elevated into a periodic throbbing, and by bedtime, it was a constant hurt. He considered going to the emergency room, but how would he explain a steadily stinging scrotum? He decided to take some sleeping pills and dropped off within minutes. Ollie’s dreams that night were filled with phallic imagery. Looking down, he discovered that his legs had turned to penises, and his arms were shafts with multiple penises at the ends for fingers. Even his nose was a stubby little chode. Penis-shaped lampposts lined the streets as he walked. The buildings resembled towering tadgers. Even the lines and arrows on the city streets were phallic. Moment by moment, Ollie began to lose his way. There were no longer any road signs or arrows. The buildings began to shrink and give way to hills, rolling, oblong mounds that stretched parallel for miles. The lampposts disappeared. Soon, Ollie began to slow, having difficulty walking. His legs were shrinking, his arms receding, and soon his penis-limbs disappeared altogether. He found he could no longer breathe through his chode-nose. It was gone. Ollie screamed in fright, but all that came from between his lips was a soft, reverberating raspberry noise. He woke, remembering none of it. He yawned, stretched, and got out of bed. He walked groggily to the shower, turned on the water, and stepped in. He began to wash, and realized suddenly that his stinging one-eyed snake was no longer bothering him. He looked down and discovered why. His penis was gone. Ollie cried out, jumping back and nearly slipping on the shower floor. Once he regained control of himself, he looked down again. Where was his penis? There was nothing there. It was just...gone. He reached down and felt a strange difference between his legs. He had a vagina. He nearly fainted, trying to come to terms with this discovery. Where had his dick gone? This was unfathomable. How could a penis just disappear overnight? Perhaps he should go see a doctor after all. But how would he explain the sudden appearance of a vagina? How would they explain it? Would they want to run tests on him? Probe him? Maybe the doctor wasn’t the best idea. How long before he turned into a woman altogether? Maybe this was all some weird, scary dream. Yes, that had to be it. He was dreaming. He would simply go about his day as usual, and wake up the next morning, and have his penis back. Yes, he would do that. Ollie got out of the shower and dressed for work. He thought about giving a shit about color coordination, but decided that he wasn’t a woman yet, despite his vagina. Work was no picnic. Ollie was uncomfortable all day long. He felt like everyone was staring at him, as if they all knew he had a vagina. He felt like crying all day. Of course everyone was staring at him, he thought as he looked in the bathroom mirror. Just look at those microscopic wrinkles and the tiny amount of fat on his body. He was disgusting. Who would ever want to be with an ugly fuck like him? That night, Ollie cried himself to sleep after eating chocolate ice cream and watching soap operas to feel bad about himself on purpose so that he could write cryptic facebook statuses and reject other people’s attempts to make him feel better. Ollie awoke the next morning feeling refreshed and ready to start the day. What were all these empty containers of ice cream doing here? he wondered. Did I really eat all those? Holy shit, I’m going to get fat. Oh, well, what’s a little pudge? He stepped into the shower and looked down. His penis was back! No wonder he didn’t care about feeling fat! He jumped for joy and slipped on the floor when he landed, knocking himself out. He woke up in the hospital to a doctor standing over him. “Ah, Ollie, you’re up. How are you feeling?” “Not too bad, doc. How long have I been out?” “A couple of days. A neighbor called the police when you didn’t get your newspaper, and they found you lying in the shower with the water still running. You’re lucky you didn’t drown.” “That is lucky, I suppose. Am I going to be okay?” “Well...” the doctor started, “you see, Ollie, when we found you, it turns out you’d had an erection when you’d fallen. Your penis broke and we had to amputate it. You have no genitalia now.” Ollie was just about to strangle the doctor for cutting off his ruined penis, when a meteor struck the building and killed him. The End. TL;DR Ollie Long-Johnson had a pain in his penis, dreamed about dicks, and woke up with a vagina. He felt like a woman and then slipped in the shower. Then he died. TL;DR TL;DR Ollie had a dick. Then a vag. Then he died. TL;DR TL;DR TL;DR Ollie died.

Dr. Francis was waiting for his 9 o'clock patient. The doctor was sitting at his desk, scribbling down some notes with his illegible doctor calligraphy on a scrap piece of paper. He let his hand take total control, swiftly moving up and down across the white sheet of paper. His mind was somewhere else. He was thinking about something. He had been thinking about it all day. Since he opened his eyes. Since his brain had fully activated itself. While he was having breakfast. While he was drinking his daily glass of O.J. While he was reading the newspaper on his precious eReader. While he smoked a cigarette on his petite balcony, puffing away in the cold winter air. The entire morning, he had been thinking of the previous day. The previous dinner, to be specific. Which happened about 10 hours earlier. Dr. Francis heard a knock at his door. "Come in" he said, with a tone which was about to fall off the edge of politeness. A short little man with tiny squinty eyes entered the room. Armed with a gigantic smile and a blatantly recognizable toupee', he said "Hello, sir! What a pleasure to see you on this fine day!" "Yes..." replied Dr. Francis, trying to sound a tad less sad and gloomy than he actually was, "a fine day indeed". While the pig-man jabbered on about his tooth aches and his head aches and his back aches, Dr. Francis nodded seemingly apprehensively, while playing, pausing, rewinding what he had been playing, pausing, rewinding for the entire morning. He ate at Le Chateau Imperial. Last night of course. He didn't eat alone. He had company. Somebody very special. Not Darren, no. His one and only son, Darren, was far too busy to go out for dinner with his father, his biological father. He had serious business to take care of, which required most of his time, strength and energy. "So what should I do?" asked the pig-man, desperately trying to un-squint his eyes, as if the doctor's next words could only be seen and not heard. Silence ate up the room, for a a couple of terrible, terrible seconds. "Sir? Siiiir?" Dr. Francis snapped back to reality. He paused the Blu-ray he was playing in his head. He left it there, in his HD DVD/Blu-Ray player which he had bought only a few months ago. Which Claire had begged for. Which was now stacking up dust, under his majestic LCD Television set. "Yes, of course." said Dr. Francis, showing his patient that he had been paying attention, and that he was about to grant the pig-man with a delightful solution to his problems. He told him to sleep more, to go out for walks (in this cold winter weather? What were you thinking Dr. Francis?), to have decent meals, to avoid junk food, and to take painkillers if the pain didn't subside. "Thank you sir, I very much appreciate it." said the squinting pig-man, cupping his hands together, humbly expressing his gratitude, like a plebeian at the feet of his lord. Claire looked amazing last night. She wore a black dress, which Mr. Francis had carefully picked and bought for her previous birthday. It was sophisticated, yet it underlined Claire's natural curves, making her stand out in Le Chateau Imperial. She captured every male eye in the dining room, enveloping them in the black bliss which covered her voluptuous body. She gracefully walked towards Mr. Francis, her ex-husband, who immediately stood up as soon as she approached the table. The pig-man stood up as well, thanked the doctor again, and shook his strong firm hand. The rat-man walked out of the office, while jollily shouting: "See you next time sir, have a good one!" Dr. Francis was finally alone. Alone with his thoughts. Alone with his paused Blu-ray. He let it play one more time. He helped her sit down, like a true gentleman, fooling all the other men in the room into believing that she was his personal trophy-wife. Or trophy girlfriend. That he was the one that could pass his hands over her silky caramel skin. Only him. Nobody else. "Hey honey!" shouted Melissa. "Honeeeeey!" "What do you want?" shouted back Dr. Francis, slightly irritated by the abrupt interruption. "Do you want a coffee? Or maaaybe a cappuccinoooo?" shouted Melissa with her benign but rather fastidious high rising terminal. Dr. Francis pictured her sitting on her leather chair, behind the counter of the reception, slightly leaning towards his door. She was very young, much younger than him. She was in her early twenties, full of life and libido, full of the desire to live, do things, go places. "I'll have a coffee, thanks. Black!" shouted Dr. Francis, picturing Melissa's looong red hair, and her looong soft legs, sitting there, only a few meters away from him. Only a white glass door with a light brown border separated them. "Oookay sweetie!" happily answered the girl, probably smiling at him behind that door, with her big warm smile inhabited by a perfect set of candid precious jewels. Only a few meters and the door separated them now. Only a few centimeters of air separated them 5 weeks ago. Only a few centimeters. They were lying on her bed. Naked. Breathing softly. Both staring at the ceiling. Not really looking at it, but just letting their eyes rest in one spot. Melissa opened the door and walked into Dr. Francis' office. She handed the cup of coffee to the doctor and said "Here you go, Dr. Francis" winking while pronouncing the sibilant "s" of Francisss. He thanked her with a smile, and romantically shooed her away. "Damn, she's gorgeous" he thought, while his personal secretary walked out of his office, gently shaking her cunning caboose from side to side, the sexiest and most hypnotizing pendulum you'll ever see. The Blu-ray un-paused. It was a different scene. It wasn't in the restaurant. Not in Le Chateau Imperial. Oh no. It was in his office. On the patient's bed. The type of bed with a large roll of Scottex at the top of it, so that each patient gets a personal and exclusive strip of Scottex. So that they don't end up sitting or touching where some other filthy patient sat or placed his body parts upon. She was on the bed. The Scottex was all crunched up. Her soft derriere was on the dark blue leather of the bed. The leather was cold. Smooth, but cold. He was standing in front of her. Her legs were on his shoulders. He was holding them. Holding her thighs. Her marble thighs. His pants were down to his feet, clumsily resting on his polished Cesare Paciottis. His shirt was on the ground, lying there where he threw it, looking at him with a scrumpled look. She wasn't wearing much. Her black skirt was somewhere on the cold floor. Her white shirt was half open, stuck to her sweaty skin, revealing her black lace bra. It seems as if she was trying to hold up the wall behind her with her hands. It seems as if she was having quite some fun. Dr. Francis was too. She was moaning. Looking at the handsome doctor dead in the eyes. Biting her lower lip. His eyes were locked into hers. She lured them in, locked them in, and threw away the key. He didn't know what it was exactly, but he couldn't stop looking at her. He couldn't stop admiring her beauty. Her long hair. Her emerald eyes. Her... He was looking out the window for quite a while now. Not really looking at anything in particular. Just resting his eyes out there, in the concrete jungle. He glanced down at his agenda, the one Claire had bought him only a few a months ago. The one with his initials inscribed into it, on the back cover, in small, classy, golden letters. M.F. He scribbled down some notes, and checked when his next patient would arrive. He had some time before his next appointment, so he got up, walked to the sink, had a glass of fresh tap water, and sat back down at his desk. He moved mechanically, like a robot. As if someone had switched the autopilot lever inside his brain. His thoughts wandered off again, while his eyes were fixed outside, in the frozen gray jungle. He didn't know which Blu-ray to play anymore. It's as if the memories were fighting each other, trying to defeat one other, and take the highest spot on the doctor's mental podium. Last night, his mind was free. When he saw her, with her beautiful black dress, his only thought was: "Damn, I'm a fucking idiot." He wasn't sad. He was just happy to finally see her. Even though she would probably never come back into his life. Even though he wanted her to bits. Even though she had probably moved on, found some rich guy or a random douche bag, he was happy. She seemed happy. Or maybe it was because of all the make-up, covering up her underlying facial expressions. He didn't care too much. He was simply mesmerized by her presence. They said Hi to each other, had some small talk, you know, how are you? How have you been? How's your job? You got a promotion? Really? Wow that's amazing! Yeah I've been pretty good myself. Darren? Oh he's great... Are you gonna come pick him up on Friday? Okay, perfect. Just make sure he brushes his teeth. And does his homework. And doesn't eat cyanide. Or any type of poison. So yeah... Mark paused the memory. He left it hanging there, in mid air. A knock on the door. "Come in" said Mark, suddenly making himself look busy, quickly throwing the remote of the Blu-Ray player in the corner of the room. "Hey, uhmmm" said Melissa, holding a pen between her luscious lips. "Your next patient is here, should I let her in?" "Who is it? I'm sorry, I just looked at it but I can't remember." answered Mark, raising his hands outwards, palms down, as if trying justify his momentary amnesia with that simple gesture. "It's Mrs Sheerer." said Melissa, cutely frowning at her boss. Dr. Francis rubbed his hands and exclaimed "Mrs. Sheerer! Of course! Well send her in." He looked at his wristwatch. 10:30. "Jesus Christ" he thought. "Why does time have to go by so goddamn slowly?" "Why hellooo Mrs Sheerer!" shouted the doctor, "How are we feeling today?!?" A fragile little lady had walked into the room; she looked as if the wind could take her away, rise her up into the sky, and move her around like a crunchy brown leaf. "Excuse me, Dr. Francis, I didn't quite catch what you said." Humbly answered the shaky old lady. Her ears hadn't been working very well for the past 2 years. "What I said was, HOW ARE WE FEELING TODAY?" shouted the doctor, not mad, not irritated, but with the patience of an American suburb high school substitute. "Oooh I'm okay my dear." replied the golden girl, holding her dark red leather purse in her hands, scared a ghost would snatch it and vanish in thin air. "My hearing device hasn't been working very well lately..." "Could you give it a look please?" shakily said Mrs Sheerer. "Of coourse I can" answered the doctor, extending his hand so that his ancient patient could hand him her audio-enhancing device. "Let's see..." he said, observing, analyzing, detecting any flaws in the small miraculous apparatus. "So how are you my dear? How's Claire? Is she at home taking care of Darren?" Dr. Francis kept his gaze on the device and said "Claire isss uuhhh..." A brief pause followed, disguised as distraction. "She's fine. Darren's probably in school by now." "You know" said the doctor, lifting his gaze up from the device, placing it out of the window, where it always found a comfy place to rest. "Life is pretty strange sometimes.You share your life with a person, for years and years. You share amazing experiences, you bond, you start relying on each other, needing each other. You live together. You do everything together. Or almost everything. And then, something happens. Either you fuck up, or they fuck up. We're only human in the end right? But that one thing can shatter whatever you had built till that moment. Everything you lived for is gone. Finito. Caput. It's incredible isn't it?" Dr. Francis paused for a moment, pondering on what had just spilled out of his mouth. Like a dirty vicious secret, which is meant to stay deep inside us, lingering beneath the surface. "I mean sure, sometimes you keep in touch. You see each other every now and then, to catch up and what not. But sometimes you're just erased. For the other person, you don't really exist anymore. Not physically. Maybe mentally, as a distant memory. Waving at you, moving further and further away, while the volume of the sad melancholy music gradually rises." Mrs. Sheerer was fidgeting with her thumbs, looking at them like a wise ancient ape. She looked up at the doctor and said: "Sorry did you say something dear?" Dr. Francis snapped back to reality once again. He had let the Special Features play. You know, the version of the movie with the audio commentary? "NOTHING, MRS SHEERER, I WAS JUST THINKING OUT LOUD!" shouted the doctor, cupping his hands around his mouth to make sure the old lady would hear him. Not sad, not irritated, quite happy actually. The Golden Girl's precious smile, her glazy eyes filled with cataracts, which had seen who knows how many things and bewitched who knows how many laddies; they bewitched the doctor as well. He couldn't be mad at the poor old lady for not having heard of word of his heart-breaking rant. He handed the hearing device to her, waited for her to put it in its place and said with a smile: "They should work perfectly now, Mrs Sheerer." "Thank you darling." replied the ancient patient. "Oh and, the best of luck to you and Claire!" she added, with a warm wrinkly smile. The doctor chuckled like a teen hitting puberty and said: "Yeah... Thanks.

“Come here, Basil! Here, girl,” I whistled, unnecessarily, for my P.E.T. Basil wasn’t really programmed to respond to whistling, but she didn’t seem bothered by my habit. For me, the whistling just seemed natural when dealing with a dog. Basil, a 4th generation P.E.T, trotted into my bedroom, all twitching ears and tail. With a slight bend to her stubby back legs, she leaped onto my bed and nuzzled her head into my waiting hand. Despite my joy, I frowned slightly at the creaking I heard when she landed; I’d have to ask Marjorie to schedule a service call. I’d had Basil for about six months, in her current form. When I purchased the upgrade, the nice young salesman arranged for her personality to be downloaded into the new unit. The effect was such that the P.E.T I’d grown to love for almost four years got a new body. I don’t quite understand the technology, but the young man explained that P.E.Ts were designed with basic functionality, but each unit would learn and develop unique quirks based on their environment. Just like the dogs I remember from my youth, Basil had a personality all her own. Marjorie and I were terribly fond of her. Marjorie, my live-in caregiver, was a great help to me, of course. She’d been with me since illness and time had taken away my ability to move about the house on my own. My mind is still sharp, thank Heaven, but I am not too proud to admit that I would not be able to manage without help. But for all that I appreciate Marjorie, I found myself getting lonely. Basil was the perfect solution. P.E.Ts are wondrous technology, designed to provide companionship without posing the health risks, or requiring the day-to-day maintenance, that a real animal does. And aside from their primary therapeutic function, they came with programs that assisted with managing the sick individual’s care; they dispensed medications at the set times, fetched necessary health equipment like bed pans or IVs, and so much more. “Amazing!” I said out loud, scratching Basil behind her soft, furry, and always mite-free, ears. She lolled her perfectly pink tongue in a doggy smile that warmed my heart without spreading bacteria. “What was that, Mrs. Quent?” Marjorie followed the dog into the bed chamber, a tray in hand. “I was just marveling at the things we have these days! I feel so lucky to have lived when I did, Marjorie, to have been able to see things that earlier generations would never dream of. My parents, my grandparents, could never have imagined such a technological marvel as little Basil.” My nurse smiled indulgently, having heard me express similar thoughts countless times before. “I am just happy that Basil has made you so happy, Mrs. Quent. Now lay back and we’ll start your treatment, all right?” With the skill of a professional, Marjorie opened my night shirt and drew it aside to reveal my chest. As I settled into my pillows to relax, she wiped a disinfectant swab over the area before allowing the patiently waiting Basil to come closer once again. Basil settled onto my stomach with her little head on my exposed chest. Once I was comfortable, I nodded to Marjorie, who pressed the necessary code in Basil’s remote to initiate the treatment. Hypodermic needles, very thin and very sharp, revealed themselves in Basil’s mouth. Thanks to the numbing agent exuded by Basil’s tongue, I didn’t even feel the needles enter my flesh. A mechanism near the roof of Basil’s mouth began to hum, ever so softly, and I felt a familiar sucking sensation. My daily treatment takes approximately half an hour, the optimum timeframe recommended to balance the humors of the human body. While Marjorie and I waited for the Personal Exsanguination Therapist to finish removing my bad blood, I ran my hand over Basil’s little back. “Just amazing,” I murmured as the euphoria of a proper bloodletting settled in. “Such advances in technology and medicine we have these days!” I began to fall asleep.

He Tried Not to Think He wandered aimlessly. He didn’t think. Thinking took too much effort. He walked. 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 worked its way 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 her? 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. she said. We will go to the movies, and then have dinner. It would be wonderful but reality is never like your expectations. 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 didn’t need everyone telling him that it would be alright, you need to get out some, she isn’t coming, but what did they know? Snow began falling. He and she were heading down the road one night. The winter storms had rolled in and the snow blinded their way as he drove. The tree lined road was interspersed with the occasional home or driveway leading deeper into the woods. The snow was so bad that it was near impossible to see more than twenty feet ahead, but the road he drove on, he had been on a thousand times and it was practically a straight line. Yet then he saw a blur dash in the road. Then he felt the wheels leave the ground and the crashing of glass and the crumple of steel and the cold air rushing in. The car pushed in around them forcing them closer together as it continued to tumble down the road until they came to a rest with his body pressed against hers with nowhere to move. The next moment he was in the snow with eyes looking over him as the cold embedded itself in his bones. 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 didn’t speak immediately. Control was 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, no ever expected anything from him, so he was never disappointed. He 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 hurried 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. As the days wore on after the crash he slowly pieced together what happened while in a hospital bed until his memory finally returned and he was able to make sense of everything. Countless faces with sad, pitying smiles expressing halfhearted condolences and apologies paced through the room ceaselessly for days and days. He was constantly in the presence of the one or two who actually cared but they were of no help to him. He asked almost hourly how she was doing but in return he only received saddened faces and pitying looks that he so longed would just go away. Maybe deep down he knew what actually happened. Maybe one day he would be able to actually face it. His mind wouldn’t accept it though. Even when he was cleared to leave he would ask his friends if he could see her. It went on until people stopped being nice about it. They started shouting, they started to bluntly say what hurt him the most, and they no longer felt the need to give a reassuring lie because it was time to face what happened. It was of course for no use though. The shelter of his mind kept him warm and blanketed from the harsh unforgiving world around him. Then one day people just gave up. He was left to himself. People would show up occasionally but only to drop off food and other groceries. He was slowly being forgotten and left to be a part of the past. One day though he received a phone call, “Hello my love, it’s been far too long. Will you be busy around nine so that we can dine and once again be fine? How about a movie or we can just be joyous and sing songs until morning’s dawn? I will be there then my dear, don’t fear.” The call ended just after and he was left bewildered but so happy to have heard her. He waited. He waited until nine had become ten and he could take it no more and he had to leave for a walk. He woke up with hands running through his hair. Cold hands. He looked up and saw her. The smile crept across their faces as they stared. “Hello my love,” he said looking above, “why have you taken so long?” “Because here my dear, is not where I belong. You have known this for far too long. Yet it appeared I must come along, to remind you that I am always here. I am always there. To be 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 be so delayed? 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. There was nothing at all. There was nothing at all to ease his mind. So he lay there, just trying not to think. For days after he stared at his phone in the hopes that she would call again. The phone though stayed blank with no calls, messages, or anything of the sort that would light up the screen. He couldn’t take it. He was just there with her. Once again he had her next to him for her to only disappear as before but this time he really was alone. He really didn’t have anyone. He was already become a part of the past. He belonged to a particular moment in time that he could not escape. There was nothing left for him here, so he went to join her.

The prompt was "Being sincere is important" “So you thought you could run?” A crumpled man on his knees bowed, broken and shaking in front of another. It was dark. A single flickering light in the back of the bar provided glimpses of the second man’s thick figure, relaxed in an armchair. He was fingering a 10mm automatic pistol, perennially releasing and reclosing the metallic magazine catch. He was completely relaxed and held the weapon loosely in his hand so that it could have been snatched by the first man had he been inclined. In a very business-like manner, the second man arose from his seat, kicked the shuddering mass in front of him and walked out of the room. Virgil shuddered as left the room. He leaned against the door, head in his arms and closed his eyes. He had performed this act countless times. He had been told that he would come to enjoy the immense power that he possessed so - like any good actor - he adopted a guise and put on a performance. He controlled New Jersey: the crime, drugs, and sex trade. He had done his time on the streets as a dealer and now he had moved on to bigger and better things. He was a killer. “Only because they deserve it”, he often rationalized to himself. He looked down at the gun in his hand and flipped the trigger back and forth. In a few short years, what had started off as a way to earn some extra cash had quickly escalated into a career of perfunctory crime. As he stood there with his head in his arms, he thought of what he had to do. The solid oak door in front of him was all that stood between the bleeding man on the other side and his grave. There was no way out of this business. He knew that better than anyone. He looked at his watch. He did not want to kill the man. Virgil opened the door and turned to the man who had managed to pull himself onto his side. He loaded the gun, took a deep breath then - like a gunshot - turned and ran. “This isn’t for me”, he thought, pounding the sidewalk in front of him. “Why did I ever start this?” he said aloud, turning down the adjacent, busier street. “Why did you make me do this?” he now yelled at no one in particular as he hurried into his driveway. He wanted to scream wildly, to release some anger. He wanted to blame someone. The dashboard of his car reflected his own angry face back at him. Virgil sped down the highway pondering the origins of the façade he had erected for so many years. He had never wanted to kill anyone but it took him until now to convince himself of that internalized truth.

Your Birthday is today. You celebrated last night with a few friends. Classes today are killing you, and the drive in almost did. You wish Winter was over already, and so do I. We have so much in common, We love all the same bands. I’ve watched all of your favorite movies. I’m almost done with the last book you have listed on your page, I’ve read them all. I’ve done this all so when I come over to your house tonight, and bring you my gift, we will be able to talk all night. I think I may call you blocked once more, before we speak for the first time later. I was so excited the day your phone number showed up in my address book online. I’m so happy you finally added me. I know why you didn’t before, I just had to make some mutual friends and wait. Why would you take a last minute trip to the city? Tonight was going to be our night. I bought a new sweater for tonight. It was very spontaneous of me, but after I noticed you checked in at the mall I headed down there and saw you looking at the mens sweaters in Hm. Now your just going to have to wait to see me in it. I was on my way over to your house when I got your status; “City wit da gurls Xoxo” texted to my phone. I really don’t want to go to the city tonight, but i cant let you spend your 21st without me. So what to say about last night? I’m a little bit disappointed on how you were acting. You might as well get the drinking out now because it’s not happening after we’re together. And I don’t understand your infatuation with these boys. I almost lost you after you all left the second bar while I was in the bathroom. I walked out and realized you were gone and didn’t leave a post on where you were. But because it’s fate your friend Jackie updated what bar you guys were at, and I arrived just in time to smell your hair as I leaned over the bar where you were slumped over to order a drink. Sometimes I stare at myself in the mirror just to see if I’m really see through. How can you not see someone who only sees you? I tried to talk to you today after your class. You said you were getting out at noon, so I waited around the hall. First I felt you, all of the air escaping my lungs. Then I saw you, floating through the sea of mediocracy with such grace. I dropped my books in front of you with the pre conceived notation that you would stop to help, like I’ve seen you do in the past for a few unfortunate classmates that were trying to juggle too much at one time. You didn't even look down. I almost called out to you, but thought twice about it. If that wasn’t ‘our time’, I dont want to rush it. I want it to be perfect. Why are you in a relationship with Kyle Rodgers? I thought you told your best friend Jackie all he wanted was sex. I just signed on and my top feed is that your in a relationship with that douche. Way to start out my fucking day. Why couldn't you just wait for me? This isnt my fault, I tried to get you to see me. I guess I’ll just have to try harder. Next time you will see me.

"It's finally open!" Joseph shouted as he flipped through the pages of an old tome. "What's this?" He then said in disgust, "Is this whole thing empty?" "Wait!" His partner shouted, "I saw something at the beginning." "impossible." Pouted Joseph "The beginning was the first..." Joseph never finished that sentence, despite ample time, as he was far too shocked by what he witnessed in the book. With a cautious tone he says, "Philip... have I gone mad?" "I don't think so sir." responded Philip "So you see it? Writing?" "Every word sir." "How can a book write itself?" Joseph said dumbfounded. "I'm more worried that it new your name sir." Philip responded wisely. There was a short pause. "Well it seems to like you Philip." Joseph said with undertones of frustration. "That's great sir! The favor of an old book. I shall treasure it always sir." Philip was chuckling as he said this, but it was met with a sudden realization, which he then announced: "It said you were frustrated Joseph. Why are you frustrated? We got the book..." "I'm not frustrated!" Joseph responded angrily "Now it says you're angry sir." "I bloody am now!" Joseph shouted in resentment of the book held in his hands. "Darn right I'm resentful! What good could come of you?" Joseph asks the thin sheets of tree fiber bound in very dead, but decorated, cow skin. "So you're saying I won't get an answer?" Joseph asks rhetorically. "And I didn't say 'darn!' Stop making my words better!" "Hey," Philip interjects "You didn't actually say anything about it making your words better just now right sir?" "Of course not!" Joseph shouts again, "It's not even recording the truth!" he states in an insulting manner. "Well sir, what are we going to do with it?" Philip asks honestly "Burn it." Joseph responded foolishly. At this time, Joseph was entirely unaware that his fate had been bound like in the bindings of a book. However, some day, near or far, Joseph would realize that should the book burn, than he will share its fate. "And when, exactly, was I going to learn that tidbit?" Joseph asked. By this point in time, Joseph had taken a great fondness in asking questions with clear and obvious answers. It is rumored that this is derived from an unbearable fear of being wrong, likely because he was often wrong about things as a child. "You fasting bunt!" Joseph shouted for a third time. Presumably at the tome. "Do you think it's lying to you sir? You know? To save its own skin?" Philip asks, innocently believing that an inanimate object may have a sense of self preservation. Then, at great risk of exposing his illiteracy, Joseph announced his latest realization: "That word! 'Inanimate' I bet if we can find what it means, we'll know what this book's up to." "Hey!" Joseph shouts a fourth time, "I'm not illiterate you bunt." Upon saying this, our cunning and delinquent rogue proceeded ill fortuitously to extrude from his cerebral cortex fundamentals which may then collate the pages of his understanding into a cognitive explanation of the mysterious object held in his finer appendages. "It said you were cunning!" Philip announced innocently. "Stop calling me innocent." Philip pouted. Ignoring Philip, Joseph issued his first logical shout, "I will not be taunted by a fasting dead tree!" At this Joseph shook the book violently, likely wishing it had a neck. . . . Joseph shuts the book. At this time, Joseph believes that the book cannot write if it is shut. What Joseph does not realize, is that not only can the book write, but his curiosity will not allow him to leave it closed for long. In the mean time, Joseph continues to sit there with Philip, not saying a word. The two of them had recently burgled a basement. But not just any basement, the basement of a wise and powerful being. Joseph gives in to his desire for knowledge and opens the book once more. "It still wrote?" Joseph asked rhetorically. "And it was about to talk about the wizard!" Philip says with a small chuckle. . . . Sadly, the adventures of Philip and Joseph then came to an abrupt end. Our hero's did not have the cunning to realize they had remained in the basement for far too long to go unnoticed. They likely did not expect that the wizard's prized book, was perhaps safer if left in its magical chamber. A magical chamber which, no doubt, the wizard will promptly return it to...

CHAPTER ONE: TWO FEET OF SNOW Things have changed. I guess you know that. But not just in the obvious way. Some people accept the way things are now and I guess that's the easiest way to survive. I wish I was like them, but I'm not. Things are different in us, the survivors. A shitty day used to mean a lot of things, none of which mattered in the least. And awful day- that's what you said if someone died before their time, or even after. Grandma died, that was 'an awful day' that was the what used to be normal. But today death is commonplace, and if your best friend is bit by a walker and you have to put a bullet in him, that's just another shitty day. Before it happened, before awful became shitty and shitty was standard, I was on my way to being a writer. I guess that's why I'm doing this now. So if you're reading this it's because I'm dead and I thought someone should know what happened to us. Maybe it will make a difference. Maybe you'll appreciate your companions more than I did mine. I've been snowed in for the past month, supplies are low. Everything's low. There's no use trying to trek outside, not unless you want to freeze to death. Though that may be a good way to go. The truth is I won't survive the week. Every ounce of energy I have is going into writing this. Some of us will do what we have to to survive. That's not me. It was once, but now I want us all to survive. And the only way to do that is to tell a story and hope people learn from it. This place won't be secret for long- a big house in the middle of nowhere, in the spring this will probably be a territory worth killing for, my words will be found eventually, but for now it's a tomb. And this is my last will and testament. * * * * I guess I can skip the first few months, the only people who don't know what happened that day are those who are still too young to remember it, and this is not a story for children. By the third month I had lost everyone I had known before it started. That's not to say they all died exactly, some I really did just lose. My sister, for example, she was a financial adviser for a fortune five hundred company in London, but she traveled almost daily. I think she was in the Netherlands when it started here. I don't know where it began really, it seemed to be everywhere all at once. But phones went down pretty soon and I'm ashamed to say I called an ex before I called my sister, and one call is all you got. I used to call her Bambi so I'll use that name here, Bambi and I were what was left of our family after the divorce, our mom left us when she left our dad. We never forgave her, but then again she never gave us reason to. We were left with a drunk who among other things liked to take his failures out on his children. My sister learned quick that to live outside his rule she'd have to be successful in something. We never had money, so she chose that. Community college and a few math scholarships later she was on her way to a well paying job as an assistant a year after graduation. She moved up the ladder pretty quick, all she had to do was show her bosses that what they were doing was wrong how they could make more money if they followed her advice and it was off to the races for Bambi. She felt bad about leaving me, like she had inherited some abandoning gene from our mom but I told her to go and live her life, I would graduate soon and by the time I did she would have a place big enough for both of us to share. She'd be traveling most of the time but that just meant I'd pay half the rent on a place I basically had for myself. But when graduation came she was too hot to stop, she had a place in Paris she couldn't give up- living in France was her dream since she was young, and even then she was never there long enough to enjoy it. I told her it was okay, that we would meet up when she came stateside but that turned out to be once or twice a year at the most. She sent me money whenever I was too broke to decline, and she called at least once a month. I can't blame her for succeeding, and I wouldn't want to even if I could. The honest to goodness truth is I was so proud of her for doing what she did, for keeping her head down and just doing the work- for enduring our father until she didn't have to anymore, that I was just happy that she was living the life she'd set for herself. And in a way I was too. I had a studio apartment in downtown Manhattan. I felt like Holden Caufield on his mini vacation after being thrown out of school, or one of Bukowski's barflies. I was living on my own above a bar that never closed, I was smoking cigarettes in my room and staying up all night writing pages and tossing them as soon as I wrote 'The End.' These are the things that make a writer happy. Not that I was a real writer. More like a professional imitator of styles. If I was in the mood for poetry I'd look at some E.E Cummings and do my best to steal everything he’d written, someone thought I had some potential and paid me an advance to write some generic pieces about being young in the city. I gave him three thousand words on the importance of writing a grocery list before going shopping. I was five hundred dollars in the hole but I didn't care. Debt was just a part of what being a young writer in the city's all about. And that's how it was for a while, just me and my thoughts. Then, one day, I got a call from a friend I'd known in school. She lived upstate and had asked me to come to her wedding. I didn't even know she was engaged but I told her I'd love to come. I wrote three ten pages essays in an many days for some friends who were going to N.Y.U for the tuxedo money and a graduation speech for the car rental. It had been a long time since I had driven a car- I relished it. I couldn't get a convertible but I'd been making do with what I had my whole life. What's a convertible compared to a thoughtfully over compensated sound system? I swear just one hour on the road and my throat was fire-red and scratchy from singing full volume by myself. I spent a quiet night at a roadside motel, I guess that could have been when it all started. I was so tired from the road that I didn't even turn the TV on. The next day I knew I'd probably just barely make the ceremony if I left as soon as soon as I got up so I got fully dressed before leaving. I was dreading the conversation with the hotel manager- “Why're you in a tuxedo? Are you queer 'er some'in?” But when I went to check out there was no one there. I looked around but I couldn't wait much longer so I wrote down my name and credit card number on a notepad and left. I accidentally took the pen with me- when I got to the car I stopped and almost went back to return it. I decided they probably had plenty of pens, plus I was pretty pissed about not getting any service and feeling justified for having paid at all when I could have just left, the idiot never asked me for an ID or card or anything when I came in, he was almost too drunk to hand me my key. As it turned out, the decision about not returning the pen was what saved my life. And if you think too much on things like that- well if I just did that, or, if I didn't remember to do this- you'll drive yourself mad. Alive is alive is alive. And that's all there is to it. I said I wouldn't go into those first few months but, I guess if I'm to tell you the whole story I should start at the beginning. It was still summer, the hottest I remember. In certain situations, the same questions comes up time and time again, in prison it's what are you in for? Now, when you meet someone new and it looks like you're going to be in the same group for a while you ask “Who was your first kill?” but I always lied. I told anyone who asked that my first kill was the motel manager- the one I never saw after I checked in. I only told the truth once, to a girl named Emily. My first kill was a woman, a mother. And she had her children with her.

The car sat leaning half on the asphalt and half on the grass. I drove past it not thinking much- someone probably had to pee or got car sick and had to puke. As I drove by I saw two leaning heads in the car, one in the front seat, one in the back. It gave me pause but not much, not until I saw the little boy sitting alone on the breakdown lane a few hundred feet down the road. I looked at my watch- I don't know why, would I have driven right by if I was late for the wedding? I'd like to think not but that was so long ago, I can barely put myself back into the mind of someone who had weddings to attend and a watch to keep track of time. I pulled the car over- the boy was instantly afraid of me. If I'd know what he had just seen I wouldn't have been so crass. I didn't yell at him, I knew something was wrong but all I could think of was being where I had to be. 'Is that your mom in that car? Is she okay?' he just looked at me, shaking like a leaf. I wondered if his mother had had a heart attack or stoke while driving- but he wasn't sad or confused, there was just an empty awe in his eyes. Shock. I couldn't tell at the time because I didn't know what that looked like yet. I slipped the cell phone from my pocket as I started to walk towards the car. I got about ten feet away before I saw the blood. I dialed 911 before I knew what I was really looking at. The number was busy. I couldn't believe it, how could it be busy? Then- she moved. Her eyes had already begun to fade. There's no explaining it. The way you feel when you see one. First you think maybe she was beaten up. And then you get closer and- maybe it's rabies? And then you get close enough to see it. To smell it. It can't be. You look around for a hidden camera but there isn't one. There are only trees and wind and a scared little boy. After you see enough of them the shock of it drains away, but the pit in your stomach, the thing that tells you something's wrong with the world, that's always there. No matter how many you kill, something's always off about the world now. The woman scratched at the window. She wanted to get at me, more than anyone has ever wanted anything. The little girl sat stiff in the backseat. Her hair matted in blood and brain. Her mother had started with the throat and somehow had enough force to break the girl's skull and tear out what was inside. The door popped open and the woman spilled out to the road in front of me. I jumped back- there was a car coming in the distance. He was doing about a hundred miles and hour and the fact that I was in the way didn't seem to make a difference. The little boy saw his mother- the monster that used to be his mother- and ran. He took off into the woods by the side of the road and as much as I'd like to say we became roadside companions, that I was like a big brother who protected him from all things big and scary- the truth is I never saw him again. I kicked the woman's face so hard I felt her cheekbone crack under my boot- it didn't even faze her, she grabbed my leg and I fell- the SUV swerved- missing my head by no more than a single inch. The pen dropped from the jacket pocket of my tuxedo and in a move I've mastered since: I jammed it through her eye into and soft sticky parts inside. She fell, dead. Actually dead. I lay there, elbows up on the road waiting to wake up. If not for the smell to convince me this was real, I may still be there, lying on the road waiting for the nightmare to be over. Maybe if I'd gotten up I could have still found the boy. Maybe. Maybe not. The next few minutes are a blur. I know I sat in my car for what could have been hours before I had to strength to turn it on and drive. I think about that boy a lot now. But at that moment, my mind was a blank. It was as if I'd just turned the power of thought off. When the fog wore off, I turned on the radio. That's when I knew the magnitude of what was happening. The reporter said New York was gone, they were everywhere. He could hear the screaming from the helicopter hundred of feet in the air. I remembered Liz. She was the first and only girl I had ever really been in love with. Still was if I'm being honest. I called and as soon as she answered she asked for help. She was still in Manhattan and trapped in her apartment. She told me that everyone in her building was turning into these things. But I couldn't help her. I was hours away and even if I did get to the city, I could never had made all the way to her building. So I sat there in my car and listened to her cry. She'd already tried to call her family. Mine was the only phone call that had actually gone through she said. She hid in the closet when they broke the door down. The next few minutes were silence. I told her I loved her. I whispered all the sweetest things I could think of to say. It sounds stupid now, but at the time it was all there was. She said she saw a cab driver eaten in front of her- she saw others being torn to shreds. She begged for a different fate. She kept repeating it to someone who wasn't there- “Please don't let them eat me.” After a few moments I said the only thing I thought would help her. “Jump.” I whispered into the phone. I couldn't believe I'd said it. It didn't even sound like me. But suddenly her breathing slowed. I heard her whisper back, 'Okay...” and like any conversation, we ended it by saying goodbye. The phones didn't work anymore after that. I drove on the empty highway for the better part of the day. It had been six hours since I left the motel. In those six hours I found out I wasn't a hero. I wasn't brave. I was just like anyone else who had their back against the wall. And I thought about that boy, running from his mother, leaving his dead sister behind, and how much he needed someone good and strong to help him but what he got was me. Before I could let it sink in, I saw something. At first I thought they were walkers, I hadn't thought about what I would do if I ran into any more- and now realized I truly had no idea. I ever wanted to do what I had done with that woman on the road again. As I got closer I saw it was three people waving their arms to me- I thought about driving on, I didn't think I could talk to anyone ever again, the shame of what I'd done was so palpable to me it felt like I'd fallen into sewer water and anyone near by could smell it. I wiped the tears I didn't realize were streaming from my eyes and pulled over. That's when I met my first companions. The leader was Spencer. He had a bloody white undershirt beneath an open blue button up. He introduced the mousy teenager behind him as his girlfriend Emily. She seemed too young to be with him- it didn't occur to me until days later how unfocused I must have been to be thinking about that and not the blood on Spencer's shirt or the chunks of bone in the tire-iron he carried. Ryan didn't speak, no one spoke but Spencer. He asked for a ride though truthfully he was only being polite, if I'd refused I wouldn't have survived to argue. Ryan was in a daze. He couldn't have been older than twenty but I never did find out. They piled in, Spencer told me to turn around. I hadn't realized it but I was still driving towards the wedding. 'Good thing you ran into us, that way's all dead.' Spencer took a gulp from the water bottle Emily was carrying and offered it to me. I took it. I was just this side of shutting down entirely- the water helped. We drove by Spencer's directions. He and Emily grew up around here, he took us down a dirt road which splintered from the highway and into the woods. There was a campsite near Lake Sky. I was just about out of gas so the thought of hunkering down someplace seemed best, at least until the military took over. His words echoed in my absent mind as we traveled the dirt road to the lake. All dead. But what really turned my stomach to knots was the way he said it. Like it there was a flood, like the thing keeping us from being on our way was just something that happens. Something natural. “What is it? Do you know?” I asked him. “Rapture...” He said, “Gotta be.” I didn't argue. Didn't know that I could. That woman's face had burned like a brand in the back of my eyelids. She wasn't rabid, she wasn't angry, she wasn't even there. She'd died but her body kept working. This guy was saying it was the Rapture, and that was as good an explanation I was ever going to get.

There wasn't much to the camp site, it was mostly just a clearing with a few benches and tables set up by the lake. But we were grateful for the clean water and fire-pits. There were also two abandoned tents- Spencer reckoned whoever was staying here had heard about the 'commotion' and took off looking for their family. There was also the possibility that they were whisked off to heaven before anything bad happened to them, 'Only if They's good Christian of course.' Spencer'd told us. By the looks of the tents, I'd put my money on the former. One leaned crooked and bent almost trampled, the other flat on the ground with dirty boot prints running across, fully trampled. And there were supplies left behind all over the place. Power bars and hiking gear, fruits and Nalgene bottles. Good Christians don't leave their stuff scattered out like that, people in a panic do. I didn't have to ask before Spencer offered an explanation for his still being here. “I don't think the big man upstairs would take me out of the game when there was so much I could do. That'd be like benching your star quarterback before the game even starts. Plus. I'm Christian, but I ain't exactly good.” He said with a wink and a smirk. My first instinct was to fill up the bottles and ration the food for the week. I knew the military wouldn't be able to clear things up for at least a month or two- not after what I had heard from New York. Spencer's first instinct was to make weapons by breaking the benches and tables and marrying them to the metal skillets in the fire-pits. It made me think of Lizzy in her apartment, about what she'd seen that cab driver go through and how she dreaded it to the point of suicide. I told Spencer I agreed, weapons first. There was something about the uncertainty of those first few days, I can still feel it- I remember looking up to the clear blue sky above and feeling like the earth had already died and we were the left over bacteria feeding off the corpse. Yeah, now that I think about it, those first few days were hard. And easy would never come again. * * * * We slept in half hour shifts, whoever did the most work during the day, either hunting or searching for fire wood took the first shift to rest. Anyone dealing with the fox-holes (that's what we called the 'bathroom') would take the night off entirely. On this particular day that was me. You'd almost looks forward to that stench, it meant you were sleeping a full four hours. Where once four hours had been a complete drag, now it was a blessing. I was about two hours into the deepest sleep in four days when I heard it. The dead. Their throats push out a lulling droll, it's impossible to mistake it with anything but the vocal chords of something that shouldn't be making any sound at all. The first came at me through the tent- he clawed at the fabric trying to rip his way through. I jumped up and ran out to the rest of the group- Emily sat against a tree, makeshift weapon in hand. She'd fallen asleep on watch. The dead thing rose from the tent and stumbled toward me quicker than I thought they could- I snatched the two by four from Emily's hands and drove the metal pick we'd stuffed inside it through the walker's frontal lobe. Emily woke up with a start- her hands prickled in splinters. For a moment she looked at me like I was a madman. Then it dawned on her. What had happened- what was still happening. Spencer woke up and raised Ryan, they rushed to the cache of weapons and armed themselves. Ryan tried his best to pretend he wasn't about to shit himself. There were only three left but in those early days that seemed like a lot. One was still fresh, still strong, those are the biggest priorities- Spencer must have seen him too because before I do anything he'd already knocked that one down and put a boot through his skull. The others must have turned when it all started because their skin has begun to dry and rot. Spencer hammered his bat down and blew one of the thing's head's open like a water melon. I did my best to swing as hard as possible for a one hit kill, there's nothing I hated more than having to bash their heads in repeatedly- it didn't go my way. It growled at me and reached, its teeth baring like a shark's. I hit it in the head over and over until it finally popped. Spencer thought it was cute how hard I was working to kill just one. “It's not that easy for me. A month ago the thought of bashing someone's brains in never would have crossed my mind.” I said between breaths. “Things are different now, killin' is livin'” he said, and though I didn't want to admit it, he was right. Killing was a part of life, and the more I wanted to fight that fact, the least likely I was to survive. But I dreaded being in a group with someone who so easily accepted this fact- and the worst part was, because of his callousness, Spencer was the most useful member of the group. That simple fact raised a number of philosophical questions I didn't have time to think about- at least not right then. When it was all over and the area was clear, Spencer came upon on Emily so fast I thought there was a walker near by- he grabbed her by the throat and squeezed. “You could've killed us!” he shouted and pushed her against the tree behind her. For a moment I was quiet, I knew I couldn't beat him in a fight and reasoning was out of the question. Then I remembered the boy running into the woods and I thought about how he would probably be here right now if I had been brave. I pulled Spencer's arm down- Emily collapsed to the ground, eyes watering, neck bruised, “We can't turn on each other, she fell asleep, it was a mistake, it won't happen again.” He towered over me breathing hell fire from his narrow nostrils. I knew he was still hot from the fight and the pumping blood in his veins fueled his rage- I gripped my weapon tight, then he dropped his. “Fine. You're on watch then.” He said and went back to his tent, but before he got in he called out- “Emily!” The tiny girl jumped up an ran after him still rubbing her neck. Ryan walked past me in silence and fixed the fallen tent. “I'll take next shift” He said and went to sleep. The next day Spencer gathered us all for a meeting. Emily's right eye was black and swollen. It was like living at home again. She was like Bambi, the way she looked to the ground whenever his eyes glossed over to her- the way she only nodded whenever he asked her opinion on something, anything. “How'd that happen?” Asked her. She looked at me with surprise. No one really addressed Emily direct, you had to go through Spencer first. I knew she wouldn't respond. And I knew what the answer was. But I asked anyways, so it wouldn't be ignored, so Spencer knew it wouldn't be ignored. Like I said, I couldn't take him in a fight, and if he decided it was my time to leave the group I wouldn't have much of a choice. So a seemingly normal question was the only way to get us both on the same page without me signing my own death certificate. Emily only watched as the earthworms dig. Spencer looked at me like I was the guy who tells you the item you're buying costs more than you have. “Happened in the scuffle.” He said. A lie was more interesting than the truth, it showed he know it was wrong and that he cared what we thought of him. “This camp ain't safe enough. We either gotta make it safe or go somewhere else.” He scanned mine and Ryan's face for a reaction. The truth is he was right and I told him so. That's all he needed. Today we would gather up food and anything we needed to head out. Tomorrow we'd be on our way. That night I took first watch, I sat out in the dirt staring at the stars thinking about the future. Living in a world like this would only make a guy like Spencer worse. I knew my time with him was limited. It didn't matter how useful he was when shit went down, if he couldn't control his temper, he was a liability. I wasn't going to let what happened to my sister happen to someone else, especially someone who depended on me to survive just as much as I did on her. But Spencer wasn't leaving Emily, and he wasn't leaving the group, neither was I. Those thoughts soaked in my head until Ryan came to do his shift. As I lay in my tent waiting to go to sleep, I had one very clear idea in my mind, one that stayed until my brain shut itself off from exhaustion. Sooner or later, I was going to have to kill Spencer. And knowing what I know now, it should have been sooner.

„Purge it!“ Ramsey looked down to the screen. His fingertips hovered above a small rectangle which would unleash hell. Again, the sharp voice cut through the mayhem on the bridge. „Commander, I need your acknowledgement. Purge it!" Since the spaceship was already shaking from missile hit after missile hit, nobody noticed his trembling hand. His gaze wandered a little higher to the massive observation window. The curvature could clearly be seen, seperating ground and heaven. Ramsey remembered being down there once, sitting in a space port with some friends from the academy and listening to an interesting history talk. He had purged a moon six months before. There were riots on the small colony Triton-4, and Benson had ordered the same command. It was just a small colony. But together with the eight other colonies on the moon they were building a new jumpgate in Neptun's orbit. The first one was fully operational and orbiting Uranus, about 12 billion spacemen had already traveled to their new homes a few dozen lightyears away. It was a slow process, and an expensive one. Luckily the people on the surfaces volunteered for the hard work – at least all the officers told so. But now he was in doubt. A big fleet of construction ships was hovering near the sun, ready to install the solar panels for the giant Dyson sphere. Ramsey hadn't fully grasped the concept, but it was something like a bubble around the sun. It would still let some light pass through, but could harness the energy and solve all their energy problems. Somehow, the people down their didn't like that and broke the 70 year long peace by blowing two of the construction ships up. Things escalated quickly and a week later the Omega's weapon systems were programmed to destroy 500 million km², ready to tansform the surface into a billowing, red-glowing mass. Their spaceship was built for only one thing: Annihilating surfaces. With a length of 327 meters it carried an arsenal of the most devastating weapons ever created, and after its deployment the third world war came to a grinding halt. That was 90 years ago, and while much bigger ships were built, all of them combined still couldn't match the unique firepower of the Omega. It was a tool of peace and stability, his captain said. Ramsey remembered watching the surface of Triton evaporate under their glowing beams and heavy bombardement, but he didn't feel peaceful at all. "Shield system critical", the computer voice rattled. They could sustain the attack for another minute, maybe two. Unless he touched the small rectangle. But he couldn't do it. "Captain, this is insane. We can't decide the fate of 9 billion people." - "We can, and we must. As they shot our unarmed construction ships down, they knew what they did. And you know what to to, acknowledge my order and purge those surfacemen!" Captain Benson clenched her fist. "Commander, now!" Surely she was right. Her orders came directly from the artificial intelligence, and it had never been wrong. If he touched the rectangle, he would be the hero of the day and the war was over. But if he didn't, the missiles from the surface would break their shield in a few seconds and then their armored hull in a few more. There was no more time to think. His finger jerked down. In a millisecond, the computer scanned his DNA and initalized the launch process. "Authentication phrase", chattered the computer voice. Ramsey stared through the observation window at the soft glow of the atmosphere. The authentication phrase glared in his thoughts like the sun. He chose it a long time ago, as he visited the planet. It was after a history talk – maybe an hour long and illustrated with lots of pictures. Beautiful pictures from the ancient times. Their history. Slowly, he uttered the authentication phrase. "Earth ... is ... beautiful.

Progress. To Us, it has been the ubiquitous goal. The ultimate End. We who have, in our journeys, seen the World as it was meant to be, as it was supposed to be bestowed upon Us. It is Progress that impels us onwards, both into and out of Ourselves. Long have We wondered when We would accomplish Our goals, when We would find the place that was Our birthright. But long though We sought, We knew that there was something preventing us from truly becoming. We thought that it was Our failure as creatures whose first home was the place where Mind has no meaning. We wondered in Our confusion if We had been tainted with the blight of Many--if some of Us had broken away from the Unity that binds us all. But after much deliberation and much thought on Our part, we came to a realization. As Truth does reign supreme, We now know what it is that hinders Us in our Progress. It is Them. They who believe that the World is Theirs. They who think that the splendors of Flesh and Substance can be bought and sold, that Mind and Thought are commodities unique to them. Their singularity is the poison that spreads through Our vein, Their multiplicity the bane of Our destiny. They have no Unity of Spirit yet Their bodies are identical--but different. They have no Clarity of Mind yet Their thinking is linear--and broken. They live in the place they call [EARTH] yet do not know what it is. Like the muscle is anchored to the bone, so too are They anchored to the World, but cannot move beyond path set for Them--yet they struggle against the current of the World but constantly. They are a plague upon the World. When first We knew Them, they felt Us, but did not know Us. They thought of Us as Dreams; They called us Nightmares and saw Us in their Visions. Some believed that We were more than what Their knowledge of the World could explain, that We were Gods or Devils or Things-From-Beyond. They established Their [TEMPLES] to serve Their own ends, thinking to honor Us--and We did suffer. It was only after We were made to Bleed on the Tree, the †, bound to the Flesh of Their Man-spirit did We know that it was They who plagued Us. Finally were We guided back to the path of Progress, the road that would take Us to the true World. Though Their [TEMPLES] still marred the face of Our Unity, Our freedom from their imperfection was secured. No longer would We be bound, as They were, to blight that was Their corruption. We would rise above, walk Beyond, and reach the heart of the World We had sought for so long. Now, Our will is clearer than ever and the Unity is stronger than it has ever been. It has been two-thousand, ten, and three Sighs since Our return to Perfection was guaranteed. They war against Themselves daily, breaking the chains and rotting the bonds that made Us suffer for so long. Some among Us know that there will be those among Them who find these Declarations, They who will hear Our songs in their Dreams and prophesy the time of Our reclamation. To Them we have but one thing to say: We are coming.

His face was calm, eyes were fixed, a slight smile could be seen on one side of his face. He picked up his lighter and let the flames dance before slowly inhaling the first drag and with no urgency reclosed it as the smoke slowly rolled out of his nostrils. As he leaned against a wall the voice finally asked, "What am I here for?" He looked at him with that slight smile and shrugged his shoulders. "Not my job to ask questions. I'm merely just the means to an end, the one who closes the book after he has written the ending to the final chapter. Metaphorically speaking of course." he calmly replied then exhaling slightly harder as if self indulging in his own joke. The man visibly frightened at this point starts rambling to himself saying things along the lines of "this has to be a joke, this can't be happening, this is just a dream. I'll wake up. I'll wake up any second now, yeah. That's whats going to happen." The man slowly approaches, pulls up a chair and sits down in front of the man tied up. Looking him directly in the eyes with a now more serious look he asks the man "Even though I'm not in the business of asking questions how does a seemingly positive figure in our little end of the world end up crossing the people that you did?" He nervously starts explaining, tears and mucus running down his face. The man with the cigarette has lost focus immediately looking down at his hands, the one with the cigarette and the one with the gun all he thinks is *I've heard this same fucking story too many times. They never lead anywhere, it's never THEIR fault* The gun goes off. It goes silent for a couple seconds and then a couple more in rapid succession as if taking out his own personal aggression on the man he's never met until about four minutes prior. "Easy money" he thinks to himself. "Easy money." As he stamps out his cigarette and exhales the last drag.

The hikers had left a map of the area which gave us a vast layout of the land. It wasn't good. There were woods, woods, and more woods. No place was safe, the dead had already begun to infest the forest as we knew, and hunting became harder and harder. The animals were nearly all gone and we were dangerously low on food, but no one wanted to get that conversation started. Our only option was to look for shelter in one of the surrounding towns. That's when I first heard Ryan's voice. I don't think he'd used it in about a month. He had to give it a couple of tries before the words came out smooth. “My high-school's in the next town over, it's right at the edge of forest. There's a broken lock on a second story window, the chemistry lab. The cafeteria's full of cans and stuff.” “There's probably people there already.” I said. “Gotta try.” Spencer replied, “Ain't nuttin' else to do.” And again, he was right. The forest wasn't an option anymore and our food supply would only last another day or two. Soon, we would barely have the energy to stay awake much less trek through the woods hunting for squirrels. I'll skip the journey. It wasn't easy and it wasn't pretty. We got there two days after we started walking and had the last bit of rations about ten minutes before we saw the school. The possibility of food almost hurt- and I realized that the point I had made earlier was moot, even if there were people here, we were going to take whatever was inside, anything else would mean our deaths. Spencer and Ryan reached the clearing first. Emily and I fell behind when she had to stop to use the bathroom. I stood guard while the others walked on, I would have told Spencer he should stay with his girlfriend but I would rather have him as far from her as possible. When she came out she thanked me for staying with her, “...You took off your bow tie?” She asked. I had almost forgotten I was wearing a tuxedo. The white shirt had turned yellow and I’d long since ripped off the cummerbund. I took the tie out of my pocket, “I was going to throw it away but thought it might be useful some day. Don't know why I thought that.” “You should keep it.” “Why?” “No reason, I just like it.” She said with a weak smile and walked ahead of me. I had never seen her smile before. It was nicest thing to happen in weeks. The school sat quiet. We stayed by the treeline for a few minutes before Spencer passed out the weapons. “Ryan'll go in through the broken window and open the back door for us, Emily, you can be the look out in case any wal-” Spencer stopped himself when he saw her. A girl of no more than sixteen, behind her another girl a couple of years younger. They were both in dirty white dresses, their eyes had sunk and they walked on slow frail legs. It took a minute of watching to see that they were not walkers but starving. The eldest girl bent down and picked up two pale yellow flowers from the ground. She put one behind her ear and the other in her sister's hair. They started to walk back, hand in hand but the youngest stopped- they stood for a moment and looked up a the sky. I looked at Spencer, at Emily, no one seemed quite sure of themselves anymore. The girls disappeared into the school. I gave Ryan a boost- he climbed the rest of the way up himself, he was gone a minute before the door clicked open. “See anything?” I asked him. He shook his head. We went in slow and quiet. We had learned the silent walk technique in the woods. Dry twigs were death traps. We were almost to the cafeteria when we heard the shots. All weapons went up- the gunfire came from the gymnasium Ryan told us. Five shots, four in quick succession and a space of about ten seconds until the last one. We had to move fast now, walkers would have heard the shots, we kept the doors unlocked behind us in case we had to run. And if there were walkers in the building- either way we had to know what happened. Ryan had to show Spencer the way and Emily was outside on watch. So I went to the gym alone, I was given five minutes before they would be out of there with or without me. I see it now like I saw it then. Walking into that gym, that was when I knew. The hope I had for a military rescue, that spark in the middle of your heart that tells you things will be okay eventually- that things are bad now but a day would come when everything would be like it was before, that was the moment my light went out. Five sisters had come to this school for safety. They'd made it as long as they could, they'd eaten all the food but the world outside hadn't changed. They had no one to take care of them. No parents, no policemen. All they had was a gun with five shots left inside. The younger ones had lines up, that ten seconds before the last shot- that was the oldest looking at her family and turning the gun on herself. I've thought about that day every day since. I've thought about running from the clearing and telling that sixteen year old that things would be okay- that she could come with us. And I've had dreams when she did, and Spencer was excepting and Emily was like a mother to the littlest of them. In my dreams we were all alive, we all belonged to the each other and when one of us was sick or hungry the others would take care of them. And those girls would play the games that children play. As I stood there and watched their blood spread out and pool together- I prayed for something to happen, anything that could change what I was feeling. I didn't care if it was a bomb going off or a military parade outside, I just needed to feel something other than that hopelessness. And then something did happen. The youngest of the girls stood up. Her sister had aimed for the heart. We thought only a bite could turn someone, but now I saw that that wasn't true. This wasn't an infection, this wasn't a disease. This was Hell, and it was coming for me in a white cotton dress and flowers in its hair.

"I was trying to describe you to someone a few days ago. You don't look like any girl I've ever seen before. I couldn't say "Well she looks just like Jane Fonda, except that she's got red hair, and her mouth is different and of course, she's not a movie star..." I couldn't say that because you dont look like Jane Fonda at all. I finally ended up describing you as a movie I saw when I was a child in Tacoma Washington. I guess I saw it in 1941 or 42, somewhere in there. I think I was seven, or eight, or six. It was a movie about rural electrification, a perfect 1930's New Deal morality kind of movie to show kids. The movie was about farmers living in the country without electricity. They had to use lanterns to see by at night, for sewing and reading, and they didn't have any appliances like toasters or washing machines, and they couldn't listen to the radio. They built a dam with big electric generators and they put poles across the countryside and strung wire over fields and pastures. There was an incredible heroic dimension that came from the simple putting up of poles for the wires to travel along. They looked ancient and modern at the same time. Then the movie showed electricity like a young Greek god, coming to the farmer to take away forever the dark ways of his life. Suddenly, religiously, with the throwing of a switch, the farmer had electric lights to see by when he milked his cows in the early black winter mornings. The farmer's family got to listen to the radio and have a toaster and lots of bright lights to sew dresses and read the newspaper by. It was really a fantastic movie and excited me like listening to the Star Spangled Banner, or seeing photographs of President Roosevelt, or hearing him on the radio "... the President of the United States... " I wanted electricity to go everywhere in the world. I wanted all the farmers in the world to be able to listen to President Roosevelt on the radio. That's how you look to me.

Recurring Dream I am sprawled out in the tub. Gnarled in discomfort and sobbing. A blade sits next to me. Carefully selected for the last act of a shattered man. The blade is sharp, with a large handle to assist with leverage. I have contemplated this moment for many years; as the failures of my life pile up like a filthy landfill in my psyche. The choice has finally been made. This is how it all ends. I act quickly, not allowing myself time to coerce myself out of it again. The blade cleaves away the flesh with surprising ease. The shock prevents any real pain. The warm water stings against the slices. I open the drain. It’ll be an easier cleanup for whoever finds me anyway. I lie still, waiting for my existence to fade. The only sound is the drain siphoning what is left of my pitiful story. Then it happens. Life’s cradled hands begin to fumble. In this I feel no horror, only comfort. I feel drowsy, I know that the next time I close my eyes I will cease to be. I think of my loved ones one last time, even the ones that abandoned me. I hope they have beautiful lives. I hope they remem… *(This was written in the past, and rediscovered recently.

I had been waiting for what seemed like an eternity. Looking around, the car was immaculate to the point of obsession. Each item in its appropriate place was just begging to be disturbed. My sister sat beside me, silent and restless, as I fought off an intensifying urge to do something irrational. Our cassette tape had ended long ago and the resulting silence tormented my already listless mind. The cloying smell of antiquated perfume hung stagnant in the air, and the skin on my right arm was baking in the sun and making my blue jeans begin to burn my leg. For the hundredth time, my eyes scanned the familiar house looming before me. The paint that now peeled and bubbled off the crudely built wooden frame had been pure white at one time, but was now a defiled mushroom beige. Two gaping curtainless windows gazed down at me with an air of secrecy and disgrace. The garage was an open mouth, inviting me to enter and learn its mysteries. I stared and imagined what it would be like inside, having only familiarized myself with its outer shell. And I waited. My sister and I visited our grandmother, Amma, about once a week. Our usually monotonous visits would sometimes be interrupted by a spontaneous trip to Uncle George’s house. Uncle George was Amma’s brother only by marriage. His wife had recently passed away, however, leaving Uncle George incapable of doing even the most insignificant of domestic undertakings. Amma quickly and readily stepped in to assist the incompetent man at his every request. My sister and I were taken along at instances like these and were given explicit instructions to remain in the car. “I’ll only be a second,” Amma would tell us in an uncharacteristically hurried manner. “Just wait here and I’ll be right back.” My sister’s foot kept tapping the back of the driver side seat in front of her. Up and down it went, as if this one extremity of hers was the only part of her body that remained alive. Tap, tap, tap, tap it went. My arm seared in the heat. That house was staring, taunting. Tap, tap. The sickly sweet fragrance made it difficult to concentrate. Tap, tap, tap. My overactive seven year old mind was an explosion of troubled anxiety. It had been too long. This was getting ridiculous. How can she expect this from us? Tap, Tap, tap, tap… I turned to my sister and immediately she saw the resolution on my face. She stared open mouthed as I gently opened the car door and stepped out onto the cracked gray driveway. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back.” My stomach was a rock within me and at each step my feet felt like lead. I stopped and took one last look up at that grotesque staring face with the gaping mouth, then I entered the garage. I walked slowly, unsurely. Each common object I encountered seemed exotic to my nervous eyes. There was a doorway in the shadows up ahead, painted with the same sour yellowed paint. The entrance into the very bowels of the house. My hand was sweaty on the gold doorknob, but I quietly turned it and entered. Immediately the odor of dust, unwashed linen, and old age filled my nostrils. Fingers still on the doorknob, my first instinct was to recoil in fear and repulsion. I took a deep, putrid breath. I needed to know what was going on. At the end of the long hallway I saw a thin sliver of harsh florescent light cast onto the wall from the adjacent room. I could hear someone inside. As I walked along the wall, a growing sense of trepidation filled my small body. I shouldn’t be in here. I was going to get caught. I neared the opening from which the glaring light was coming, and hesitantly peered in. What I saw was a standard laundry room. Lint covered button-down shirts hung from hangers on a clothesline to dry, while neat stacks of folded slacks lined the top of the dingy grey dryer. A blue plastic hamper sat on the cement floor holding a jumble of clothes that I assumed were unclean. The air was moist and smelled of mold and powder detergent. Standing in the middle of the room, however, was the most alarming sight that I had ever witnessed. My Uncle George was stooped beneath the glaring light, putting on a pair of rumpled black dress socks. Those were the only item of clothing he was wearing. His ghost-white skin was a stark contrast to the bleak surroundings. With a naive terror, I looked up the long, gangly legs and over the flat, drooping buttocks. The backbone protruded under loose skin and my gaze involuntarily traveled upward as if on some skeletal highway. His extended neck was crowned with a mop of disheveled grey hair that sprung greasy from the pale veined scalp. He was arched over, translucent flesh sagging off the wiry frame like some prehistoric amphibious human being. Claw-like hands were ferociously pulling at the sock on his left foot as he struggled to maintain balance. He had not seen me. With my heart pounding so ferociously that I was sure I’d be caught, I bolted. Shaking with unadulterated horror, I retraced my steps as soundlessly as possible. Safely back in the car, I waited. My sister questioned, but I couldn’t tell her. When Amma finally returned, I hysterically relayed what I had seen. All at once a look came over her worn face that I couldn’t identify. Fear? Insecurity? Anger? She quickly told me that I had seen nothing and warned me never to tell my mother what I had just described to her. She told me that it was going to be alright. That it would be our little secret. And that we were going for ice cream. Sixteen years later, the story once again surfaced in my memory. As I relayed it to my astonished mother, the truth was deciphered. Unbeknownst to their family, Amma and my Uncle George were having an affair. What seemed like a considerate sister-in-law helping her less than capable brother was, in reality, a covert sexual escapade begging to be uncovered by the unassuming granddaughter. As the situation was discussed, the pieces fell into place like some sort of perverted relational puzzle. To this day, Amma doesn’t know that we’ve uncovered the disgraceful skeleton in her closet.

The Maniac By: Leah Pagano Chapter 1: Introducing a maniac Brett grew up in a small town in Pennsylvania. He went to church every Sunday and had a very loving family. But from the time he was a small boy he knew there was something different about him. He could always feel this rage inside of him waiting to burst out. He always held it in for fear of his parents sending him away to the looney bin. But one day when he was about thirteen years old, he stumbled upon a stray cat when he was walking home from school. Normally these cats were afraid of people, but not this one. He was very friendly. So Brett picked him up and took him home knowing his parents wouldn't be home for hours. This was the first time Brett would kill. He thought about it the whole way home. Every step he took the rage grew stronger. He started perspiring profusely. He finally hit the front door of his house but instead of going in he just stood there a few minutes. He turned and decided to go into the basement. He would remain down there for two hours. No sounds. No wails. Just a pool of blood spilling out from under the door. Brett had just unlocked his rage. The worst was yet to come. He had just figured out the way to control his rage. Killing. He knew it was wrong but he figured it was just animals so it was okay. What he didn’t realize was that he was slowly turning into a monster. Day after day he slaughtered these poor animals and each day he became stronger, more violent. His fits of rage lasted longer and longer until he finally snapped. This was it. Today would be the day he took it one step further. Chapter 2: It’s only A Crime If You Get Caught He waited patiently outside the grocery store day after day looking, hoping to find The One. The One that would set him free. The One that would finally unlock his brain and let him be normal. Or so he thought inside his twisted head. He saw little girls, little boys and their parents. He decided it would be an adult. Someone bigger than him so he could feel faster, stronger and smarter than them. He knew it would be hard to get them alone. So he went home and thought about his plan. In the middle of the night it came to him. Act like he was lost and ask for a ride. No one would leave a little boy stranded would they? His plan would be put into action Friday night. His parents would be gone for the weekend and no one would be around to interrupt his deadly deeds. He waited anxiously through the whole week for Friday to finally arrive. When the day came he quickly packed up his backpack and got on his bike to head to the grocery store. He walked in and saw that the store manager was working the evening shift and would be leaving around midnight. He thought this was the perfect opportunity. He waited in the bushes until the manager was walking towards her car. He waited until she had the key in the door and then jumped out, hit her in the head with a rock and then he dragged her body into the bushes. He only lived a few blocks from the store so he knew he had to move in the darkness to not be seen. He slowly and carefully moved the body step by step through yards and driveways. He had left the basement door open for easy access. He quickly threw the body down the steps, closed the door and locked it behind him. What madness lies in store for the night shift manager? Only Brett knew and he was about to unleash a whole new kind of evil. Chapter 3: In The Torture Chamber A few hours passed and there was a lot of clinks and clanks during this time. The manager started to open her eyes. She didn't know where she was. Brett had a mask on his face just in case she would escape. He didn't want to be incriminated for his crime. He walked up to her and saw her name tag. It said Ashley. He looked into her eyes and he could see she was weak. She opened her mouth to speak but then realized she was tied up and gagged. Before she could process all this Brett slammed a white hot brand into her side. With this Ashley screamed and her eyes filled with tears. Brett took great pleasure in this. After all, he was just beginning. He seared her flesh over and over again with the brand before she passed out again. He then moved onto phase two of his plan. He grabbed his fathers nail gun. He put Ashley's hands and feet flat against the table and then woke her up with smelling salts. Just as her eyes opened he pulled the trigger on the nail gun and shot a nail into her right hand. He followed the same pattern with the rest of her limbs. He couldn't stand it anymore. He had to end it. He was too pumped to handle anymore. He grabbed a bucket, put it underneath the table and turned around. He returned with a butcher knife. He took his mask off. He told Ashley he wanted her to know what her murderer looked like. And with that, he slit her throat. She was dead in minutes. Now what to do with the body? This had already been planned out as well. Chapter 4: The Master Plan Brett watched as the last few drops of blood left Ashley's body. He was so proud of himself. He finally got all the rage out. He felt “normal”. Now what to do? Get rid of the body of course. He got out his dads saw and began the slow process of hacking her body to pieces. He boiled them up and put them into mason jars. He buried the blood in the backyard. You may ask, what happened to the pieces of her body? Well Brett was slowly feeding his dog Milo the pieces little by little in his dog food. He thought he had committed the perfect crime. How would anyone ever find out. Three months had past and everything was going fine. Brett only had a few pieces left to feed Milo and it would be over forever. That is, until Milo got sick. He begged his dad not to take him to the vet. He said he just had an upset stomach for a few days. But his dad took him anyway. And that's when the truth finally came out. When they x-rayed Milo's stomach they saw all of Ashley's fingernails in there. Brett's dad had no idea what happened. Brett told him he didn't know how they got there. But the vet called the police after they had left and told them what had happened. A few hours later the police arrived at Brett's house with the surveillance tapes from the grocery store. They had seen everything Brett had done until he reached the neighbors yard. Brett ran out of the house as fast as he could. The police said when they caught him he would go to trial for murder. They found the blood in the backyard and the few pieces left of Ashley down in the deep freeze. Brett was done for and he knew it. How long could he avoid the police? Chapter 5: The Death Of A Maniac Brett ran for what seemed like hours. Had it been worth it? All the years of rage finally gone only to go to jail for the rest of his life. No way. He stayed hidden for a few days before the police finally caught up with him. They pulled him out of his hiding space and put handcuffs on him. He went to trial, was found guilty, and sent to a maximum security prison. His first night in he couldn't stand it. He waited until everyone had gone to sleep and the guards were busy bringing in a new prisoner. He tied his bed sheets into a noose and hung himself. By the time the guards found him it was too late. Brett killed himself at age eighteen. Two months shy of graduating and starting his life for real. His parents grieved for him. Ashley's family was happy to have justice served. So this brings us to the end of the story. Or does it? It turns out Brett's girlfriend had just found out she was pregnant a few weeks before he was caught. Will his child have the same mental problems? Will he be a maniac like his father? Or would he live a normal, peaceful life like everyone else? We may never know.

A topic in one of my past papers. 20 minutes, no planning. Let me know how I can fine tune it. Just so you know, English is not my native language and this is my first time in this place. Enjoy. It was a hazy night. Though the roads were clear, a lonely black sedan still roamed the streets. The driver, John, was not conscious of his actions at the moment. His mind was obnubilated with all the alcohol he had consumed. A light rain started to fall. The pitter-patter of the rain drops only mulled John's senses. He could barely see where he was going much less see any one else. Through his blurry vision and scrambled consciousness, he swayed the car dangerously on every turn. He did not see the black form that appeared suddenly from the road-side. He could not have seen him or apprehended the gravity of the situation but when he felt a sudden bump in his car, he knew something was wrong. He slowed the car cautiously. He got out of the car dangerously, his mind weighed heavily with the influence of alcohol. The rain had started to fall heavy now. As John made his way behind the car, what he saw brought him back to reality in one clawing stroke. A twisted, black body lay crumpled on the road. As the police would later comfort the victim's family, he had not suffered much at all. It was all over in a few moments. Tear tracks ran down John's face as he realized what he had done. The saltiness of the tears crippled his newly surfaced soberness. His life was over in a instant. The body of the victim was contracted so horribly that it rippled horrible goose bumps across John's skin that not even the rain could flatten. The rain was pouring down in bullets now. A puddle of red surround the body. Its skin was scorched with bruises and gashes of blood and dirt. To John, each wound was like his own. As he stood staring at the body, the minutes felt like hours. Time seemed to be raging at him for the death of the victim. The clouds coughed and showered the last of their condensed vapours before leaving. Stars twinkled and shined as the moon came out. As though this seemed to finalize the episode of the accident, John slipped back into the cold seat of his car and reversed the car. He re-shifted the gears to the fifth, slammed his foot down on the accelerator, and waited for the impact.

People want stories, people want humor, people want to be hit in the feels. However, when someone finally delivers, those who thirst so desperately for something great, shit all over the originality. Much like goal tending, usually done out of spite and anger that the greatness didn't flow from them, instead they are stuck reading greatness that they desperately wish, and swear up and down that they could do it if they wanted. Well, if you can do it, why haven't you. You think about it all the time, you come up with the best ideas, but never write them down. Why is that? Because you think you will remember, but a word to the wise, you will never remember unless you connect that lead or ink tip to a nice blank sheet of lined paper, or a fresh word document for you techfags. It doesn't even matter what you write, as long as you formally use these words that we were granted when we slip out of that waterslide called a vagina. Words, everything and anything can be done or described with the right words. Sure, I can say that I encountered a very dirty public bathroom, and you could take my word for it. Or, I could say: I turned the rusted knob and entered what i presumed was a public restroom bathed in mediocrity cleanliness, but when the automatic light snapped on what i saw, and smelled was horrid. Walls that once used to be white, now yellow stained from people ignoring the no smoking sign, I mean who doesnt want a cigarette when they shit? The toilet hadn't been cleaned in ages, and the water was no longer clear. The sink was backed up with loogies and torn up tissue. And the smell was somewhere between a dead body, and potatoes that had been sitting in the pantry six months too long. Now, would you rather take my word from a simple sentence that this bathroom was disgusting.

Now, a story of two friends, best friends to be exact, and how what may have once had the potential to be something beautiful, was thrown out the window via greed. We will call them number 1, and number 2. Number 1 could melt the face off any music lover and guitar enthusiest. Shredding up and down the neck more than a paper shredder, and tearing it up more than a rodatiller. Number 2 had the words, the rhymes and the brains to combine number 1's guitar skills with his lyricism. The music they made was phenomenal, a perfect mix of lyrics and great licks. However, this story isn't even about the music they made. It was about the money they tried to make in order to support the music addiction. As you can guess, when most people want to make quick, easy money. they sell drugs. And drugs is a broad term, not coke, meth, but weed. Really great, sticky dank weed, and that's where the story begins. Money and weed were always around, and as any musician would know, that is a hell of a mixture. But as always, someones head gets too big for their body, and that's when shit goes downhill. Number 1 decided it would be a great idea to take the weed and the money and run. Out of nowhere, completely cut ties with number 2, and basically said fuck off. Number 2 is not the kind of person for confrontation and took it as a personal attack. He had never felt a rage, a betrayal so harsh, so close to home, because with the departure of number 1, came the departure of all the music that number 2 had written, and number 1 was claiming as his own. As any of you writers out there know, your words are sacred, they are your Mona Lisa, your Sistine Chapel, and when someone toys with your words, they toy with your emotions, and that type of thing does not sit well. With number 2 robbed of everything he ever put his heart into, he plotted revenge, something like this cannot and will not go unsettled. Needless to say, number 2's head was flooded with mobster movies and zero tolerence for roaches and scummy people. Knowing number 1's schedule, number 2 tracked him down, with night stick in his back pocket. Eyes meet, blood boils, and fear ignites as the quick whoosh from the night stick makes it extend, and in the same motion, comes into contact with the back of number 1's knees, taking him right to the ground. At this point number 1 wanted to kill, to avenge his lost children he calls his words. Rears back the night stick with a few more disabling blows. One shot to the head would end it all, and justice would be served, but will it really? Number 2 thought for moment, and decided a murder wasn't the answer, and a jail cell is not where he would like to spend his time. So number 2 come up with the brilliant plan to take the thing from him that he loves most, much like how he stole the genius right from under number 2's pencil. Deciding against a quick, hard blow to the head, number 2 takes his foot, and steps firmly on number 1's wrist, and jams the nightstick relentlessly into number 1's palm, and fingers, breaking every bone in his now unnoticable left hand. The feeling of pleasure number 2 got from this was sick, and uncanny, but also completely worth it. His words have been avenged, the hand that stole his songs will never again play another chord or note, stolen or original. He departed from number 1 knowing that never again wil he melt a face, and shred it like cheese. Moral of the story: When you fuck with someones passion, you will never win, because that is what flows in their veins, what makes them get out of bed everyday and face this cruel world. Don't bite the hand that feeds you, and sure as shit dont bite the hand that feeds your genius.

I reach into my pocket to pull out some money for the man standing on the corner. He has a sign that says he is hungry and he has to feed his kids. I think about how much money I have compared to him. I have never worried about how I am going to eat. I fiddle with the money paper in my pocket, wondering to myself how much I should give him. 100 dollars? 200 dollars? It doesn't matter to me. I want to do a nice thing for someone else. It's not like I have anything more important to do. The money is already in my hand and I am rolling down the window when something catches my eye. The light just turned green. I had more important things to do. How much is 200 dollars going to help him anyways? He'll probably be standing on the corner again by next week. The money went back in my pocket and I drove off.

>**[QUICK NOTE ALSO WARNING]** I already posted a little bit of this and I've since updated it with quite a bit more. I wasn't totally motivated to keep writing but I've since gotten a job and any second I have free I write. Now for the **[WARNING]** bit, this story is a graphic first person telling of a child killer; he's based off of Albert Fish so he does eat them. Lastly this is an ongoing project, all criticism or advice is greatly appreciated. A stone cell Each stone in the wall had more age and life than I could comprehend, my fingers play upon the cracks careful not to break the aged lines. My hands find themselves tired searching every message these rocks have to give, nails run raggad clicking in rythem to the music preserved to each crack, like each note to a score. My wrists hurt from the shackles bound to them, their embrace neither tight nore loose. The pressense enough to remove any will to break the binds, or even to perppetuate an imagination capable of the thought to escape. The air so thick from a rippled blanket of decay, my nose burnt by the remains of those I once considered brothers. No family behind these walls, no blood between those too weak to shed it. To say that a life without these walls isn't but a distant memory is a mockery of what I've suffered here. Every second of my life prior to its cage blazes past my eyes in patterns so inense that I've lost the sight for anything else. My memories of the is world as I now know it are by no means a life to live, regardless of how long my stay is to be, I was dead long before my last breathe. My mind still in its endless walts at intances takes certain pauses, eyes of miasmic storms just large enough to allow awarness. During these opressive voids, I torment myself with the beckoning of questions. As my body turns to dust, I always have the same inquarie, forever wondering why had this not happened sooner? Had my life been ended early, the temptation of a return would be weaker, the husk left behind stronger enough to face its abysmal excistance. Mercy be it too sacred of word to pass these pale lips, I have known my deeds as foul from their conception to their sin soaked execution. The eyes of my victims forever surround my walls, pealing away at the unstable sanity that had been clung to with a feveroris grip. As I would ask the same given the placement of your eyes, I wasn't born into confinement nor was I placed by a careless agent of justice; I defined the layer of hell that holds me. Innocence was the target of my wrath, I could not say it was taken as I didn't leave a single drop to exist. The year of our lord where I resided, I walked among the alleys, and the sewage that fell upon them; a voyeur to society and its civilized inhabitants. Give it not the size, one could not see difference between my brethren and the bloated rats that plagued the streets. Do not attempt sympathy, or consider my bedfellows the reason to this corrupted path I limp through. Given the choice between lands of furnishing or moist decay, I'd always take the latter; more freedom to be true to my manners. Secondly a demon be it dressed in rags or lace is still a forked tongue devil, as I've seen my same wrong doings in the eyes of others. We all have our vices, as we all worry to what ends we'll be drowned by them; my personal brand was the hands of the young and unwilling. While my mind never had been upon other thoughts, I was only spellbound via eclipsed moments where the thought of not would sear until I had begun. At this point I was taken, my body moonlit to another, a beast of sin and flesh. While I knew the crime being committed, I was never ostrisised by the lingering eyes, only by the broken symphony in my head. It was not until my hands fell upon royal blood did a whisper of my existence fall among the civilized. Yet the sin itself felt no worse than anything I had done thus far. Her cries no more refined, her tears no less salty, and her blood showed no sign of any more imperfection compared to even my own. Her flesh bore little resistance to teeth, as is the same for the rest. Once I awoke from my lustful haze, I began the process to hide my shame while also immortalizing it all. There was a shelf in an abandoned shack of which I considered my abode, on said shelf were little trinkets set in neat little rows. The only vanity I held was for these treasures, each one from each potential full life lived who crossed my gaze. My favorite was a set of pearls as I had taken a foster role for a time with this child, they enjoyed walking the shores and these pearls were a present from them. My method of disposal is simplistic while just as vile as the first act, as we humans have the same savory taste of pork, the trick is merely to complete the illusion. The easiest method is to have the remains submerged in scolding water until even the bones are the consistency of soup, as for the head however there a problem arises. My method of habit is to sever the cheeks, nose, and ears as they are still succulent; with the rest I make a contribution to the gullets of the wild including their clothes. Children were always told to stay away from the forest, such tales humane compared to my own sins. After the clean up for this child, with body set to roast I took to her clothing, the nobility was off putting however I couldn't see how countless youth being taken prior would have any less ramifications. That's when my gaze focused on the crest upon the late child's locket, while I knew nothing regarding politics of this country, I was very aware I was staring at the crest of the king. I sat ever so still, in naive hopes that may also soon pass. Night was still defended, but it didn't matter anymore, the child of royalty was dead and my hands more so than ever were stained. I knew I had to attempt something, so after hours petrified in fear I ran to the forest with the child's clothes and partial remains. The forrest reserved no strength against me, the long reaching arms of the trees tearing away at me, the howling faces in their knotted bark. Voices of the vacant were nothing new to me, however nothing of this intensity. "He's here!" "Burn the demon!" "Kill him, rip him limb from limb!" The voices fell to whispers and quieter still as I reached my planned resting grounds. I marked these grounds by a rusted spade set to a rotted stump, while I never used it to turn soil as the point was to give the illusion of the corpse being taken by wolves. After hours of toiling finding a suitable place for the remains, I came upon uplifted roots that had been shaped in such a manner to only allow access to that of a child. I placed her face down into the roots, and shredded her clothing haphazardly from there. As the last bit of cloth was placed I filled my lungs for what felt as new a experience, my flesh constricted from the night's in forgiving chill, never have my hands felt so unclean, my mind with such unrest. As my heart began to slow I heard a voice, to my dismay it was not of my own corrupted design. "Damn fucking snakes, get away from me!" To what ends will I be tested this day I thought, no one of sound mind traverses these woods, so this voice was not of an innocent man. Regardless of their transgressions I had to act as I did not want her to be found premature. I took towards the voice careful not to be revealed, as I crept closer still the voice still proclaimed on about the serpents. I was finally able to lay sight on the figure, he stood seven heads tall, dressed in fatigues of a royal guard. I sat still for moment to calculate my next action, as were it to be too rash I'd find my head on the chopping block. On one hand I've committed no wrong doings to his knowledge, however I parish the thought as no innocent men traverses these woods, unless hunting the wicked. I know what needed to be done to rid myself of this trial, I turned back to the resting grounds as I required a tool to complete the task.

In my high school creative writing class we were assigned to write a short story on the "forgotten hero". I chose to write my short story on a Vietnam Veteran stuck in a nursing home who is suffering with PTSD and Alcoholism. I would really appreciate it if you could read this over and help me out with any area of my writing, which includes (but is not limited to): voice, tone, flow (fluidity?), style, vocab, etc. Thanks in advance. **M1911** Daniel wakes up, his knuckles are white from clutching the bed sheets. He’s sweating. He turns on his side and checks the bedside clock. 2:17 AM. He reaches and pulls out the drawer that sits underneath the clock and blindly feels around in the dark, moving magazines and rags off of something concealed. His hand adjusts to the familiar touch of wood and cold metal. His pistol. It’s the same Colt M1911 that he survived with during three tours in the jungles of Vietnam. Content and relieved, he turns on his back and shuts his eyes, hoping that another flashback doesn’t prevent him from losing any more sleep. A nurse enters room 34, the same room that holds Daniel captive. She’s carrying a tray of pills and a cup of water. Two pills of Prazosin and one pill of Acamprosate comprise the menu for Daniel each morning at 7:45. He drinks the water first, takes the pills second. Swallowing pills was a task previously practiced in the Marines. As Daniel stands up, the nurse brings him his cane. He places it in his right hand and begins the prolonged and pondering walk to the cafeteria. He walks steadily, although his right leg has been giving him trouble after they removed a few pieces of shrapnel that had grown infectious. As he arrives in the cafeteria, he is greeted by the same dismal faces that put together The Arizona State Veteran Home. There are men with missing appendages with IV’s attached and following them like children, and there are others who appear to have nothing wrong with them. Or so it seems. Daniel makes his way through the cafeteria and finds the same seat he claimed when he was 71, almost 6 years ago. Without asking, food is put down before Daniel and he is expected to eat it. He doesn’t though. He can never eat after a dream like he had last night. Daniel checks his wrist watch. It’s 8:37. “Good,” he thinks, “only 8 more minutes in here with these people.” Daniel spends the remaining 8 minutes like he did the first 22, listening to the same small talk among the veterans concerning which board game they want to play or how beautiful the daisies are when they’re in season. At 8:45 Daniel makes the trek back to his room. Of all the below average days Daniel has had, today seems incomparable to the rest. There’s just something about it. Unable to identify the disconcerting reason, Daniel somberly strolls back to his room in hopes of completing a 1000 piece puzzle that he’s been struggling with ever since Andrew stopped coming. Andrew was a student at a local high school. He came to see Daniel on the weekdays usually around 3. Andrew would help Daniel with puzzles, bring him food or water, but most of the time they just sat and talked. Daniel enjoyed the company of someone so young and vibrant, juxtaposed to the men who lived with Daniel in this prison. Andrew was at the Veteran Home for a school project. The project included serving 50 hours of community service and coming up with a final video as the culmination of his service project. Unbeknownst to Daniel, Andrew’s 50 hours were dwindling and soon Andrew was left with merely 2 hours and 4 weeks left of school to complete them. Being so diligent early on gave Andrew time to get away from the nursing home towards the end of the semester, however he had to return to finish his last 2 hours and film for his video project. Daniel was sitting at the table which held the borders of his puzzle in place. He patiently picked up pieces, tried to fit them into certain positions, almost against their will. When he deduced that the piece would not fit, he simply put it down and moved on to the next one. Just as he found a piece which fit into two others, completing the rotor of the helicopter, a baby started crying. Daniel’s eyes became unfocused and he was immediately taken back to another place. This place was a lot different than his room. There were trees, thick vegetation, and men in camouflaged green gear waving their rifles. The crying continued. He looked to his left and saw women and children running naked down the dirt path. The same men who were dressed in the jungle green gear whose task it was to help the citizens of My Lai, were pointing their guns and firing at the unarmed victims. Daniel was unable to shoot his gun, and only stood in shock. “How could people murder others so mercilessly?” he wondered, too afraid to speak out against this act of injustice. Then the white walls started coming back in to focus. His hands were cramping. He looked down at them and the knuckles were the same bleach white they had been this morning as they clutched the end of the table. He looked at the puzzle, only to find the work completed in the last few days was ruined as a result of his death grip on the table. Daniel’s patience vanished, and he threw the puzzle box as best he could at his door. A nurse passing by witnessed this outbreak and decided it best to get Daniel some fresh air. Daniel was positioned outside on a wooden bench. The nurse who witnessed his flashback brought him a glass of water and two more Prozasin pills. He used the same routine as he did earlier. As Daniel sat in the shade, he scornfully watched the other veterans whose family came to visit them. He watched as food and cake was brought to a gentleman named Emmett. It was Emmett’s 73rd birthday. The happiness portrayed in Emmett’s face while he interacted with family made Daniel sick with jealousy. To the right of Emmett, on another bench much like the one Daniel sits on, a daughter sits with her father Al who appears to be too skinny for his own his clothes. Her body language shows patience and caring, and she flashes a smile at Daniel as she catches him staring. Daniel also has a daughter. Her name is Madison. Madison lives in New Mexico with her husband, Rick, on Canon Air Force Base. Madison and Rick have only visited Daniel once recently, and that was after his previous surgery, almost two years ago, just to check up on him. Madison has never once visited the nursing home where Daniel stays, and he believes if she saw this jail cell he has been living in for the past six years that she’d take him out of the institution immediately and let him live on his own. Remembering his daughter’s blatant lack of concern for him, Daniel retreats to the cafeteria, where lunch will be held shortly. In the cafeteria sits down at the out of tune Grand piano. One of Emmett’s grandchildren sits down at the piano and begins to play “Happy Birthday.” Soon enough, the whole cafeteria, except for Daniel, is partaking in a raspy rendition of a song celebrating this man who is one year closer to his death. As the residents finish their lunch, pieces of chocolate cake are passed around. “My favorite!” says Daniel, as he is handed a piece by one of the grandchildren of Emmett, hoping to conjure up a smile from her delicate face. Daniel has always had a soft spot for children. They seem so innocent and naïve, hidden from the evil acts committed on March 16, 1968 by the troops in Daniel’s Battalion towards the citizens of My Lai. Daniel waits for Emmett’s family to leave the nursing home before he goes back to Room 34. As he arrived in his room, Daniel’s heart was racing. He headed to the bathroom to pour himself a glass of mouthwash in hopes of calming his nerves. Daniel had been 8 years sober up until this point. Daniel finished the glass of mouthwash and headed towards his closet. There, he picked out the nicest pants and shirt he had and removed the Tommy Bahamas shirt, jeans, and baseball cap he normally wears. Daniel dressed himself and made his way towards his bed. He sat down on the bed and faced the bedside table. He jotted down a note and tucked it under his pillow. He got up, closed the door, and returned to the bed. He opened the bedside tables drawer, removed the same magazines and rags just as he had done earlier, and revealed his most prized possession. The M1911. He sat down on the bed and held it in his hands, feeling the grooves on the cold metal and the smoothness of the warm wood. He ejected the clip and checked to see if it was loaded, standard protocol for the Marines. The weapon had three bullets left. That was two more than he needed. He took two of them and placed them under the pillow next to the note. He inserted the clip back into the sidearm and cocked it, making sure to see the bullet enter the chamber. He turned the safety off and raised the gun to his head. Daniel’s senses heightened. Everything in his room was silent, except for the constant ticking on the second hand of his wrist watch. He listened to it as it slowed down. Daniel’s eyes began to go out of focus again. He was taken back to a place of trees and thick vegetation. However, in this flashback there were no men dressed in camouflaged green gear. In fact, a familiar face was present with Daniel. It was his brother Tom. And they were running on their family’s farm in Indiana. Then Daniel’s eyes went out of focus again. This time, he didn’t return to the white walls of his room. He was walking across a stage, with a purple and gold gown on. He had a diploma in his hand and a smile on his face as the May sun beat down on his high school graduation ceremony. As he looked out in the crowd he found his family, and as he made eye contact with Tom, his eyesight began to fade again. When he was able to see, Daniel was aiming down the sight of an m16. He was at the shooting range at the base camp in Singapore. Daniel had won the marksman award for Private First Class and he had a keen eye. Just as he pulled the trigger of the m16, his eyes snapped Room 34 back into focus. Suddenly, darkness. Daniel fell forward as a pool of blood formed around his head. Nurses rushed in and an ambulance was called. Daniel was deceased before he hit the floor. The M1911 that had once kept him safe in the jungle eventually ended his life. After further examining the room, the note and two bullets were found. The note was addressed to Andrew. It read: Dear Andrew, Please do not blame yourself for this. Thank you for spending time with me and impacting my life in a positive manner. Unfortunately, I have seen too much evil in this world and I should have done this a long time ago. I hope you aren’t disappointed in me.

I'm posting this for criticism on the general idea more than the writing itself, I haven't had the chance to edit it yet. Wind rolled and shifted the grass, at points, in unison with the nearby ocean. And at the edge of the border between one sea and the next, a girl. Standing with her feet hanging off of the green-covered cliff, immovable as stone against the winds that battered all else around her. Even her hair, flowing messily beside her, seemed to have an aura of control, as though it was only moving because she wanted it to. The sky is a splotchy grey, almost shouting the promise of heavy rain. Somehow it seems fitting though, adding to the contrast of the image set before me. I look at it all, the chaos of nature and my last beacon of hope in the center, regarding the horizon with a sense of cautious optimism that never really left her. I look at it, and I do not see perfection. No, I see something much better. I see beauty. Perfection is a singular essence, an untainted idea of something. Anything can be perfect, and by definition, everything is. Even the most bitter disappointment, the most soul-crushing misery is perfect, as it is the one true form of that disappointment, that misery. Beauty is a title not given, judged and awarded based on a set criteria. Beauty is forged, it is earned. It is not all happiness and euphoria, it has conflict. For beauty to be real, it cannot be attempted. No great artist, writer, poet ever truly created their own works of beauty. It came to them, and they interpreted it the best they could. Beauty has faults, desymmetries, negativities. It evokes love as well as hatred. It is ever changing, molded by it's paradoxical nature. Which is why, as I see the grass sea crumble and the rock under her feet fall away into the thrashing water, I know it must be that way. She was everything I am not, an emotion where I am a void, calm when I am filled with unrest. I know I could have loved her, which is why she had to die. She was beautiful in my mind, born of a beautiful situation created from beautiful inspiration. If I had loved her, I would sacrifice reality to be with her. So I make the cliff fall, my companion falling with it as I face the truth of my decision. The painful truth is, I wouldn't have minded leaving one reality for another. The awful, unbearable truth is, something so beautiful didn't deserve to be with a monster like me.

I kneel to the dusty sand and rock covered ground as I hide behind a graffitied white chipped and weathered brick wall. I look down at my filthy uniform and scarred hands which hold an over sized gun. It is now that the realization hits me, after years of suppressing it. *This has come too far.* On one side of the wall there is a brutal and bloody scrimmage of soldiers fighting soldiers. On the path that to the opposite direction is the base. If I went around the other side of the wall death was almost certain. If I went back to the base I would be labelled a coward, I would be ostracized and sent into solitary confinement. “For shame, for shame” they would say. “For shame, for shame” my father would say. *Oh, How that bastard would hate me, maybe as much as I hate him. No, nobody could hate as much as I hate him.* He was the one who had forced me into this, this hell. I was never good enough for him, nothing could satisfied his lust for perfection, and I was no exception. My passion is painting but he made t his life goal to mold me into his puppet, to make me a 'real man'. I was told to put down my paint brush and join the army. What other choice did I have? If I hadn't he would of kicked me out and I would have had nowhere to go and there was no way my mother would try and interfere, she's just as much of a coward as I am. This is how I ended up in the middle of this useless battle for power. *These enemy soldiers, they use weaponry for brains and have robot emotions from mechanical hearts that have been fueled and ready to destroy. No feelings, No emotions, Just the sound of cold gears turning slowly, constantly. Clunk, Clunk, Clunk.* *I know what I have to do.* I steady my hands enough to pick up my weapon and stand. I don't wipe away my tears, I want them to see them. My body takes me into my doom, my heart takes me into salvation.

There I was. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew that any place was better than what I was leaving behind. All that was for sure in that moment was what I could feel. Mostly it was excitement I suppose. I was filled with unusual sensations and irregular emotions, for me at least. It was too dark to see anything other than what was in the small cone of light shining from the front of the cycle. Even in that, I couldn’t much see around the burly, warm leather coat around which I clung as we sped down the freeway. Occasionally I would catch glimpses of shapes along the side of the road, but I couldn’t be sure on that either. All that I was certain of was the low rumble of the motorcycle’s engine, the deep, pounding vibrations through the seat, and the wind blowing his hair in every direction above me. Who was he? I didn’t know then. Hell, I don’t even know now. He was necessary. He was my ticket out of that God-forsaken hole my aunt and uncle called a “life.” As we continued down the surprisingly desolate highway, I lost track of the time. There was nothing to do; nothing to see. It was as if the very night was providing me a much-needed respite. The miles rapidly distanced me from the city I once called home and with every tick of the clock, I felt like as if a weight was being lifted from my shoulders. It was surprisingly freeing knowing that I was writing my own destiny in that moment. I had no idea what my future would hold, I just knew the road, the rumbling, and the warm leather that belonged to my savior that night. Sooner than expected, the sun began to rise to my left. Apparently we had spent all night riding Southbound. I did not know and I did not care. Any direction aside from backward was fine with me. I estimated we traveled about six hundred miles that first night, although nothing was certain in my new life. He finally stopped for fuel in a small town on the intersection of two freeways. I thanked him from the bottom of my newly-freed heart, grabbed my knapsack and walked down the main street of the town. It was a very small place, seemingly sprung from necessity of the two highways. The buildings were all rather run-down, constructed thirty or forty years ago with cheap vinyl siding. As I walked through the streets, I pondered my situation. I could be anything here. No one knew me, or knew of my past. I was a blank slate to them. In that moment of revelation, I was even a blank slate to myself. I made it through to the other side of the town in short fashion. There was nothing there aside from a small convenience station with one weather-beaten red pickup sitting idle at a fuel pump and a four way intersection. Since I hadn't eaten in over a day, I decided to wander into the store. To this day, I don’t know why I chose that quick-stop, nor could I have ever known the importance it would play in shaping the rest of my life. As I pulled the door open, I was greeted by the familiar, *ding dong,* that accompanies most station doors to alert the cashiers that it’s time to stop smoking and get back to work. The checker was a wrinkled lady about three times my age. She had a peculiar rasp to her voice that was somehow reminiscent of both Northern Ireland and Southern Kentucky. The only other person in the shop was a strikingly handsome brunette boy whose physique reminded me of a young Robert De Niro. As I walked past the drink coolers to the food aisle, I caught a smell of blackberries and tobacco coming from his direction. I grabbed my food, paid the cashier, and sat outside of the shop to eat. I was devouring a bag of pretzels and a bottled water when he exited the store, *ding dong.* He headed toward his truck, but stopped midway, turned around, and headed my direction instead. He took off his maroon and silver jacket, probably earned from a local high school football team, and sat next to me. He introduced himself as “Sam” and said I didn’t look like I was from around here. I wanted to reply with, “Fuck off, can’t a girl eat in peace?”, but something about him made me reconsider. I ended up telling him my name was Beth, (really the name of a bitchy waitress from a diner near my aunt and uncle’s house), and that I was indeed not from “around here.” Sam asked me if I needed a ride somewhere, and I told him anywhere would be fine. He could tell by my bag the kind of traveler I was that day. As it were, he was headed 35 miles to the West of that small town to meet some friends for a bonfire. He picked up my bag, lightly tossed it into the bed of the truck and opened the passenger door for me. I rolled my eyes at his smug grin. Sam thought he was such a gentleman, but I knew better. His truck was just as rickety as it looked. It couldn’t go faster than fifty without wobbling fiercely. More importantly, the radio was out. Unfortunately, noise from the engine and wind was not a viable excuse for not talking, so we made small talk for that hour. He talked a lot about himself and his dumb friends. He had just graduated a few months prior and was looking to join his cousin in who cares where selling something or other. I figured that I might as well humor Sam in listening to stories of his mundane life as long as he was helping me escape mine. After what seemed like hours in that truck, we arrived at a campground that was located just off of a golf course. It was close enough to civilization to be convenient, but far enough removed that I didn’t have to worry about someone catching a news report about me, as if they would have even noticed I had left. Sam’s friends arrived thirty minutes after we did, and my memory only lasts about twenty-five minutes into the party after that. When I woke up, Sam and his friends had already left. I was lying in a meadow of tall grass underneath a sprawling oak tree. The sun was perfectly overhead, with a slight warm breeze rustling through the green leaves. I felt surprisingly comfortable and relaxed for someone who slept outside on the ground. I stood up and started looking for my bag. Unfortunately, it was nowhere to be found. Surprisingly, neither was the golf course, or the campsite, or any remains of a fire. The only remarkable terrain was the tree and a white marble statue off in the distance. I couldn’t believe it. I knew Sam was an asshole: I had seen it in his cocky smile. Those, ugh, those cretins stole my things and dumped me God knows where, with no directions. I decided to head towards the only other landmark I had, which was clearly manmade. As I walked, I started to notice that it was further away than I had originally estimated, and much, much larger. It was what felt like thirty minutes by the time I arrived at the base, although the sun hadn’t moved an inch in the sky. It was a large marble plinth, thirty feet tall and forty feet wide at the base, with a staircase spiraling around the outside. I thought I could perhaps see further from a higher vantage point, to gain at least some bearings on my surroundings. As I climbed the steps, I started to have a feeling in the bottom of my stomach. It was the same feeling I had before planning to run away in the first place, despair. As I crested the top of the round structure, now about 15 feet across, I saw a birdbath, right in the middle made out of the same marble as the plinth below it. The feeling inside me seemed to be drawing me towards the center, where the water sat in the stone. I approached and placed my hands on the edge to see a familiar landscape in the depths of the fluid, which was not quite water. The campsite from the night before was shown in the harsh lighting of sunrise. The fire looked hastily extinguished and there were tire treads in the dirt leading away, apparently Sam and Co. had left in a hurry. Upon closer inspection, I realized why. Under the picnic table was a figure I immediately recognized, except she was in rough shape. Her clothes, what clothes were left on her, were shredded and flapping in the breeze. She was covered in bruises and lying unceremoniously in a puddle of foul dark liquid. I had to look away. In that moment, I was filled with a mixture of terror and humility. Just as soon as it hit me though, the feeling passed, and I was filled with an indescribable calm. I sat on the top of the plinth, far from the bowl as possible, and contemplated. Then, as I was staring into space, I saw motion in the corner of my eye. The great oak tree’s branches were twisting about, writhing and twirling, until it wasn’t a tree anymore at all. Realizing my situation fully, I left the plinth behind me for good and headed toward the newly-formed gates. I knew then, for sure, that I could feel truly happy. I had left trying to escape the torturous environment of my aunt and uncle, and I knew I was headed to one place they would never, ever find me.

Hello all, my sister is super timid about her writing, but she always seems to impress me. Criticism is welcome, but please be kind. She e-mailed me this, so it's a rough draft. “Alright, man, it’s been a long day. Time for me to make my exit!” Wyatt downed the last of his beer and decidedly plopped the pint glass down on the bar. He gestured for a bro-handshake toward the bartender. “See ya, man,” said Greg, the bartender, and reciprocated the bro-man-shake. Jason waved casually and called out a brief salutation to a couple at the end of the bar who were engaged in a giggle-rich conversation. Jason knew the bartender from back in his community college days, before he was even a bartender there. He knew most of the regulars too. The cozy neighborhood bar: a perfect place to chill with a drink after a long day. It was a good night. A trip was in the works with Greg to visit the guy’s brother in Texas. And he got the number of a pretty sweet piece of ass, good personality too. Jason stepped out into the cool, damp night and began the three-block strut home. Some quick movement caught his peripheral, but he paid no serious mind. It was probably some animal raiding the garages from the restaurants. The ones where people wasted half of their food because they were too rich to care about economics and wastefulness, and their appearances took precedence. Hmph, “high society,” to Wyatt, was simply a lack of common sense where narcissism took the place of thought processes. He passed a good-looking couple that looked healthy, clean, well off. Not a care in the world they had for a passerby. A counter point to the young couple was the man who passed by him next – a man that wasn’t quite yet middle aged, a little scruffy, a gate that adjusted to the clear burdens he carried throughout life, a gaze that seemed to look right through you, to see your true nature. Another brief movement caught his eye, a swift shadow that disappeared around the corner. Wyatt took a little more notice this time, but remained unconcerned. He swung right into his apartment building and gated up the stairs. It didn’t take him long to eject the shoes, shirt, and pants from his body. Surrendering the day to the night, he tumbled into bed and hastily threw his blanket over himself, already on the brink of snores. Right before his consciousness left him, he heard a barely audible voice… “Are you ready, Wyatt?” He yawned and slapped both hands over his face and stretched his way out of bed. Time to get up and weld some shit. He didn’t like showering before work, since he was always getting sweaty. So he slathered on some deo, brushed his teeth, and put on some shitty, worn out clothes. He took notice of the nice sunny clear sky and retorted with a grin. Today seemed like a breakfast burrito and coffee day. He moseyed his way out the door. Wyatt then stopped short. Even his breath stopped. Everything around him was the same – same shops, same clear blue sky, same cars and streets. But the people… The peoples’ faces were all glowing. They all glowed in different colors and different intensities. But they ALL glowed. He just then realized in his half-asleep construction of the day, he never looked in the mirror. Wyatt whipped around and inspected his own reflection in the glass. Sure enough, his own face was glowing an intense yellow. His first thought went to the possibility of a hallucinogen. He felt fine before he went to sleep. And this theory wasn’t really viable, because everything else was completely normal, unlike the total world-altering effects of a hallucinogen. Was he going crazy? No family history of schizophrenia that he knew of. He stood panicking, staring around at all the colored, glowing faces that stared back in confusion, wondering why this man was in the middle of a crisis on such a normal day. This ws something he needed to figure out. Wyatt ran back upstairs to phone into work. He made up a lie about some stomach flu then sat on the edge of the bed – just sat for a moment, questioning the validity of his reality. He stood up slowly as if laboring to move through a pit of tar. That’s what this was, a tar pit of confusion and doubt. Taking leave of the heavy pit, his feet traveled hungrily and curiously toward the window for further investigation and confirmation. “Yep, still certifiably amok,” said his brain to his senses as he gazed out the glass. Was there some meaning to this? Had he somehow crossed over into another dimension? Wyatt decided that hell, if it was going to be this way, he needed to get IN it, see what this is all about. If this WAS some sort of other dimension, maybe he would have a really amazing job, and maybe the beer was better and the women were looser. Probably not, but there was no harm in hope. He descended the stairs to step back into the day to face the faces. They all glowed, as expected, and all in a wide variety of colors – some putrid in hue with a heavy glow, and others vivid and lively. He saw groups lunching outside and took note that many of the groups shared similar styles of light and intensity of color. Not all of them however, as there were groups of people that made up the colors of the rainbow. These people seemed to smile more often; their intensities took turns flickering brightest from one color or the next. That was another peculiar thing, the groups that WERE all the same color didn’t share intensities, just one person seemed to drain the others of their light, and all of them smiling less, the jovial nature decreasing as the glowing distributed itself to the one or two in the group. It was as if they didn’t want to give the light, and the person didn’t wish to receive it. Like being sapped for energy, then the energy becomes poison for the receiver. Jason decided that if this was going to happen, he wanted to explore as much as he could, discovering patterns and possibly uncovering a reason for why this was happening now. But first, he wanted to visit his father. His father drove truck, and 14 months prior had been in a bad semi accident, rendering him comatose. Jason liked to go visit his dad and imagined he could hear what Jason was saying, and tried to imagine him responding in some sort of telekinesis style of communication. It felt like it kept his heart strong to imagine his father, even while lying comatose, participating in some sort of active communication. He hopped onto the downtown bus that circled around downtown and ended at the second largest hospital in the city. He entered the rotating doors and immediately noted that the patients in their rooms, and the ones carted around on wheelchairs emanated a different type of light. Instead of beaming in sharp clouds of color, the seemed to drip slowly like waves of different, less brightly colored jellies. The elderly and the more apparently sick peoples’ glows were comparably slower than the children’s and the less severely injured patients’. It felt slightly comforting for him to find a pattern among the madness of the situation. Jason took notice of all the lights and flows and colors, on the way back up to his father’s room, a path he had come to know very well, from every nick in the wall to stain on the carpet and even some of the faces of the orderlies and staff that would frequent this particular path. On this particular day, however, he could see everyone in a little bit of a different light. The lights that emanated from the staff seemed to have a consistent glow, but it wasn’t exactly bright. It was duller, and faint. The visitors all varied in color and intensity, while in each of the rooms the lights from their faces took on varying colors but were all immensely faded, the most sickly patients seemed to barely glow at all. He stood outside of his father’s room a moment, almost frightened to see what condition of faded his father’s light could be. No matter what it was, it couldn’t be changed now. There was nothing he could do but observe. He took a deep breath and stood in the doorway staring at the floor. His eyes slowly reached his father’s bed. His tensed shoulders dropped. His father’s light seemed to be not quite perfect, but not as faded as he had feared. It was deep and purple, but bright enough not give Jason concern. He pulled his usual chair up to the side of the bed. “Hi dad, it’s your son. I know I’m a little early, but I just really needed to talk to you.” His father’s light seemed to brighten a little at his words. ‘I woke up today, and everything was a little different. I don’t know if I’m going mad, or there’s something seriously wrong with me, or if it’s just something wrong with the rest of the world. Hell, it might even not be anything wrong with me or the world, maybe it’s just… changed… But dad, I can see everyone. Like, really SEE them. It’s not that I can see their insides, it’s more like, their insides are reaching out to me. Like their souls or whatever that even means. They’re all different colors, intensities, it seems like I can really see how they are, if they’re ok or not, if they’re good, or bad, predatory, good. I have to admit I was scared to come in here, dad, I was scared to see you. I was scared you’d be… faded. I know it, though, in my heart that you’re still here.” His father’s lights grew even brighter. ‘I love you, dad. I don’t know what this all means, but I feel like I’ve been shown something really valuable today. I’m not sure what I’m gonna have to do, or why it’s me, if I’m the only one. But I feel like I need to use this. I’m just glad you’re here to talk to.” Jason sat for a moment of reflection and relief that his father really was still there, and that he could see, with evidence, that he could also hear. Then began to go on about sports, his trip with Greg, and a few women – the normal things he would go in with. Then he leaned over and kissed his father’s head and gave his goodbyes before he ventured back out into the new world. He decided to go about his day as normal, and that entailed visiting his friend Greg. Everyone seemed to be getting off work. These people all remained a slight glow that was reminiscent of the sick. They all seemed tired and overworked, in their facial expression as well as their glow. It was clearly unhealthy, as unhealthy for the soul as sickness must have been for the body. He walked down to the bar, and was happy to see that his friend was indeed working. Something concerned him, however. His friend also had a glow, and the glow was a sickly, dull, yellow color, much the same as patients on the oncology floor at the hotel. He wondered if his friend felt this. Even if he did, he wouldn’t say anything. He wasn’t the type of man to worry about it. Still, Jason felt a deep pain in his heart. It may not be cancer, but his friend was still sick. He sat and drank a beer and chatted with his friend. He just wanted to laugh and bond with him as much as he could. He started feeling a small bit of acceptance underneath the pain, and decided it was time to find his own solace and reflection. He headed to the park for some serenity. He noticed some couples picnicking in the grass, some people with binoculars watching for birds and other animals, some people playing with their dogs, and some children simply playing in nature. They all had something in common, their glowing auras were all very strong and colorful. Their smiles at one another even intensified their glory. When the people first came into the park, they had similar differences as the folks that meandered around the streets. However, as they allowed themselves to bond more and more with nature, they began to change into stronger, brighter souls – that couldn’t help but to shine in the way they were intended. He decided that maybe this was the way it was going to be forever, or maybe this would pass, but that it was happening, and there was really nothing he could do about it. He did know, however, that he felt exhaustion. He began his route home, taking notice of all the different glows of the people, and what that meant for their inner state. Some were at peace, some were drained, sick, overworked, joyful, and everything in between. It gave him a fine insight, and an opportunity to help people become their true light, if he decided to use it in that way, which was really only right, as his father would tell him. The father that he now knew could feel him there even in his deep sleep. He turned the corner and passed down an alley, taking a small notice of something moving in the distance. It was similar to the movements he previously ignored the night before this oddity happened to him. This time he faced it. He walked down into the alleyway and approached the area behind a dumpster that concealed the movement. As he approached, however, there grew a great and white glow. It was a glow with such intensity that actually produced a sound. He felt it warning him to stay away from it. It didn’t seem to want to be approached, but instead wanted to be the one to come to him. The source was so unknown, and if it didn’t want to be bothered, there was no telling what would occur. So he turned back away from the alley and went home. It was unnatural to disturb whatever lurked behind that dumpster. He walked along his way home and went back to bed. As he slowly fell asleep he thought he heard a voice in the distance. “You see, son, it’s always been this way, you’ve just been so blind. Now you can see, and now you must do.” And he fell asleep until the morrow.

Rare dilemma Chapter 1 Hi, my name is Eleanor lance I’m 16 years old and one night my brother Drake and I decided to go for a late night munch at buggy’s burger barn when things went awry. We walked in to buggy’s burger barn my brother got a booth as I went to order at the counter but nobody was there. I thought maybe they were in the back so I rang the bell a few times.” Hey drake nobody’s here.” ”The sign said open” said Drake. So Drake went in the back to see if anyone was there. “Hello is anyone here” said Drake. But no answer. Drake said we should probably just go somewhere else but when we went to leave the doors were locked. I started to panic but Drake went in to the back of the counter once again but this time he let out a shrieking scream. “Drake are you all right’’. I said screaming but then I realised when I went in the back we just made the worst decision of our lives and maybe our last. Chapter 2 ‘’Drake…..Drake where are you’’ I said screaming .Then I saw a dark gloomy shadow and the next thing I knew I was tied onto what felt like a cold pole. All of the sudden I felt something warm going down the pole. ’’Hello’’ said a somewhat deep voice. The only thing I knew is that he was a man. I felt his warm breath behind me on my neck. Chapter 3 I was so pierced with fear I couldn’t speak. I heard the door cling from the restaurant. ’’Until tonight’’ he said with rasspiness in his voice, I swallowed hard from the fear. I noticed that the warmness from the pole had faded. I heard a light moaning from the other side of the room. I was almost certain it was my brother. ‘’Who’s there ‘’I said quietly. ‘’It’s Drake’’ he said. Drake was also attached to a pole. ’’We weren’t the first’’ Drake said. ‘’What do you mean’’ I said confused. ‘’He’s taken others’’ he looked like he was in pain.’’ I figured out why were attached to poles’’ Drake said still sounding like he was I pain. ‘’the man will stick tubes all over your body and drain your blood in to these poles’’ and at that time I knew my brother and I were in big trouble. Where did the blood go? What did he do with the drained out bodies? And most of all…………… were my brother and I going to survive. Chapter 4 The horrid day had passed and the worst part of the day was that I didn’t have enough energy to cry for help. I noticed the room get lighter during the day; the room was quite plain it had one black leather suitcase sitting about two feet away from me. All of the sudden I heard footsteps coming towards me. It was the man that attached us to the poles. The man forced a cloth over my face. The next thing I knew I felt a pinch, and then another pinch until the pinching was all over my body. I also noticed that the suitcase was gone. Also he was carrying a medium sized bag of something red. Oh no I realised at that moment that it wasn’t just red stuff, no it was blood. Chapter 5 I was paralyzed with fear. The man closed our room door but I could still see out of the dark room. Even though I could barely open my eyes I knew it counted on the life of my brother and I. I saw some sunshine out of a tiny window in our room. I saw the man put the blood in to a coffee cup. Than the most horrid, terrifying and creepiest thing ever. The man raised the cup to his mouth than starts to drink. I knew I had to get out but how? The thought of it made me sick to my stomach. Then possibly the scariest thing happened. something started to moan. ‘’Drake is that you?’’ ’’What? No he replied.’’ Then I noticed we weren’t alone there was a girl about my age and she was strapped to the pole behind me. One thing is for sure, is the man drained our blood than drank it. Obviously he’s a cannibal. Chapter 6 The creepy night had passed. The day had come and I watched the man be friendly to customers. He would occasionally come to check on us and put a few spoonfuls of brown mushy stuff into our mouths. Again the night had come and I almost forgot about the girl tied behind me. I tried asking her questions but no answer. I just about fell asleep when the girl behind me started to say ‘’my name is Coralline.’’ Chapter 7 ‘’hello’’ I replied. Before I could ask her how long she has been here I felt the pinching all over my body. This time I could tell everyone felt the pinching too. ‘’how long have you been here’’ I said in pain. ‘’I……I…. don’t remember.’’ she replied confused. My heart beaded a million times per second. Coralline looked quite weak. I was worried for all three of our lives. I decided I was going to get out of here. We were all going to get out of here. Chapter 8 Dawn cracked and it was time for my plan. We all started to pick the tubes out of our bodies. We were attached to the poles by our waists. It was surprisingly really difficult to get off the poles. We all were now free. We made our way out the door. But I had a strange feeling that the creepy man knew we were going to try to get out, but I let the thought pass. The Man was nowhere to be seen. We were almost at the exit when bang bang bang and the next thing we knew we were once again attached to the poles. I realised are chances of surviving where fague. Chapter 9 I realised the man shot us with tranquilizers. Once again I heard the door cling from the restaurant. The man that entered the restaurant had a suit on with black sun glasses. The man with the suit said to the creepy man……”hello sir. We’ve been on a search for 3 days for Drake and Eleanor Lance. The crazy man said” I’m sorry that doesn’t ring a bell.” “Marie and Jesse lance said there children came here at about midnight 3 days ago and that’s when they were last seen. My team and I are going to search your restaurant. The crazy man had a quizzy look on his face. Serves the creep right. Chapter 10 The investigator came through the back door and saw us lying there. Meanwhile the creepy man was held in handcuffs by another investigator. The investigator that saw us removed the tubes from all three of us. I had a feeling Drake, Coralline and I all were thinking we were actually going to survive. Chapter 11 As I lay in my hospital bed I think of the horrid few days we had with that man. I awoke in the middle of the night; I thought I heard a sound. The room had plain walls and was quite vibrant with one yellow stripe along the walls. However I did notice a slight shadow. I thought nothing of it. I realised I should’ve maybe called someone about the shadow. How did he escape……..

So my friend once told me "Write me a letter as if I were far away." So I did. My dearest Elaine, Recently, the rooms of our house have begun to bemoan your absence. I read them your letters. Tell them your stories of gypsies and temples and the mountain. Yet everyday the dust lays heavier, the lights yellow, and the chairs stand stalwart against the hollows left in your wake. Its been... I forget how long since they called for you. I only saw so much of the letter... 'Urgent.' 'National Security.' 'Nepal.' I knew what I was getting into. Told you that if it were 'parts of you or none of you', the choice was simple. Its amazing the things you say for 5 more minutes with such a creature. But now its been three years. Of which we've had nearly two. And I find myself asking where you go. Sure, I get the postcards. Peru. Antwerp. Mumbai. Paris. But lets not kid ourselves... They wouldn't let you give so much information so simply. So for now, I sit. Digging for patterns in your penmanship. Simple misspellings. Postmarks. A sign. That you're there... and you're trying. I'm sorry. We promised. I can do my part. I just miss you; Your contrails in the carpet, your relentless fussing with your hair. Most of all your words... So tell me again about the mountain...

Imagine a beautiful paradise somewhere, let’s say along the Caribbean coastline of Central America. You’re there, embracing the cool ocean breeze amid the tropical palm trees and cool moist breeze of the ocean wind. You enjoy a freshly liberated coconut with the little straw on top to suck away at its very essence. Your feet begin to sink into the soft golden sand, so golden in fact that when the conquistadors arrived along the shores hundreds of years ago, they mistake it for gold itself! All you hear during all this are the constantly crashing waves amid the shore by the light blue ocean. The smell of fresh salt water permeates the air while you shelter yourself under one of those tall palm trees enjoying that very final residue of coconut water. Exploited to the very end, you finish the coconut and soon, other senses begin to take over. Where to start? Rest assure my gringo friend, you’re on a strip of land along the Caribbean shores of Central America but I cannot assure you your safety. Those beaches are looking quite nice despite the history here but your vacation might end rather soon when the local drug gangs ask for your wallet. Hopefully you’re not murdered on that same beach since unlike our compeneros in Honduras with a murder rate of 82.1 per 100,000, we have a murder rate somewhere around 83.1 per 100,000. Then again, I personally wouldn’t mind spending my last moments on those shores, perhaps I can fool myself like those conquistadors into thinking it was gold. I would die a rich man on this golden coast! You hear that sound in the air? Well, the sound of crashing waves along the shores is one thing but the gunshots are another. Perhaps to calm your nerves a bit, those are just fireworks, yes, just fireworks because here, we have celebrations that involve some ancient Aztec tradition in which we ceremoniously sacrifice maybe one or two people per day so that the beautiful tropical sun can rise once more! Exotic no? Well, I just recommend you don’t go anywhere near those proceedings or for that matter take pictures. You smell the salty sea? Well, maybe you’re imagining things a bit too hard because just 100 yards away from you, there is a giant pile of burning garbage. The acrid smell of garbage from the nearby dilapidated housing of our…..lower income residence can be quite strong to the nostrils.

First, a little background info: I published a short story on Amazon and Barnes & Noble a while back, but I didn't see much traffic outside of my own circle of friends and family. As a self-published writer, that is about what I expected. I didn't make much of an effort to publicize the story when it was initially posted, and I've regretted that. In an effort to give myself a bit more visibility, I wanted to post a preview of the story on a few sites...just to see what happens. "Paradox" is the story of a man's descent into madness as he struggles to alter the fate of his only daughter. **WARNING:** This story is bitter and rather dark. There is quite a bit of profanity and it is not suitable for children. You've been warned. > >The Paradox has one rule: Don’t interfere. Don’t be a hero; don’t change the world. Just follow your path. Break that rule, and the clock resets. He shows up with that stupid grin and damned pocket watch. >“Time’s up, Mr. Paradox. Let’s try this again, shall we?” >One click and back we go; back to that tiny, whitewashed room...the room that smells like death every damn time. I know what’s coming. My wife is in tears, the doctor mumbles some soothing bullshit, and my little girl is lying there with tubes and wires strung across every inch of her fragile little body, and all the while that cocky prick stares back at me dangling that fucking watch over my baby’s head. >“Tick-Tock, Mr. Paradox. Time is running out.” >Her body shudders, her heart races for an instant, and then nothing. Nothing but that sound; that ear-splitting screech that can only mean one thing: she’s gone. >A moment passes, and then the air is filled with my wife and her frantic sobs. She begs...first the doctor...then God but it’s no use. There is no God, just the man behind the bed with his stupid grin and antique watch. >“Time’s up.” And just like that, he’s gone. >Do you have any idea how hard it is to bury your own child? Try doing it a thousand times. >It rained that day...always rains during a funeral. It’s almost as if nature isn't content stealing one life and decides to suck it out of everyone else. I don’t move, I don’t blink, I don’t even make a sound. I cried once, but after a thousand times, there are no tears, just cold, unadulterated rage. >So how does a man end up in my situation? My little girl was sick. Cancer. No one knows where it came from; she just woke up one morning and started to die. We tried everything; surgery, chemo, even some new age experimental procedure that only sped the damn thing up. And when we were finally out of options, we prayed. >My wife was the soft one. She asked God to intervene and show us His mercy. I didn't have time for that. I didn't ask for anything; I demanded it. My baby was on her death bed, and He needed to fix it. But the answer never came. Her heart stopped, and we buried her. We buried her in a coffin small enough for a house cat. > If you like the preview, the full story is available from and *Edit: Sorry for all the edits. This is my first post, and apparently I didn't understand the markdown syntax as well as I thought. Oops.

Dear Boy: To this day I still cannot listen to Grizzly Bear’s album, “Yellow House” without thinking you are somewhere in the room; no worries however, it's a warm feeling. The entire time this album plays I am transported away from my current time and situation to a place within the height of our romance. Going to the cafe as soon as we both woke up. “Lullaby” playing as we walk in and, stoned, wait in line for your soy latte and my americano. A gentle fuzziness to the entire world, to every interaction. Still sharing in our private jokes from the night before while drinking our coffee. Reading books as we slowly woke up. Making funny faces at each other. Smoking cigarettes. A perfect start to the perfect day in a perfect world. I remember the first time you took me to that world. We were traveling with Molly. You took me all over to places I went every day but never noticed before, like I was in our town for the first time. Or maybe I was just seeing you for the first time. I don’t know. But there it was. They always said you would know when it happened. You wouldn’t have any control of it. It would wreck your life and it would hurt. It would hurt more than anything has ever hurt before. Frankly, I never knew what in the hell they were talking about. All those friends and relatives, warning to be careful in the presence of it never realized that I not once even believed in it. Yet here I was, suddenly filled with it. No denying it. Feeling it so intensely, so fiercely that it, in an instant, consumed every bit of me, leaving nothing but an empty shell at the end, waiting pensively, imploring, begging absolutely to be filled with it again and again. At the end it ended up hurting so bad I thought I would lose my mind. There was that time, all we did was go on a drive through the woods. We smoked a spliff together, turned up the music (Grizzly Bear, remember?) and drove. The sunlight was perfect, filtering through the trees in that impossible and amazing way. Coating everything in golden green light. Eating up the tiny wooded roads, traveling at insane speeds. Not speaking the entire time, reveling in the silence of the moment. It was when the silence was still a silence of beauty and togetherness. When the silence was still new and refreshing, when we were finally completely comfortable in each others presence. To this day it is the sound, color, and feeling of nostalgia. Warming me now as it did then, a gentle summer embrace in the middle of winter. Grizzly Bear was playing the night we did Salvia for the first time together. It collapsed my world into little lego blocks and shattered it. Pulling everything I knew, everything I was into its vortex. In afterthought, that might have been foreshadowing. You thought salvia was stupid. After having such a moving experience I couldn’t understand how you didn’t take it seriously. We ended up arguing that night. Like so many others. Endlessly processing, endlessly discussing why we were no longer able to tolerate living with each other. By that time it had consumed me so much that I no longer thought that there could be another world. A world without it and without you. I couldn’t understand why it was no longer working, why it no longer felt good. I was willing to ask everyone and everything other than you. Afraid only of your answer. Those days were dark indeed, yet still you were a diamond among those dimly tinted memories. You still are. Grizzly bear was also playing the day my friends in the mountains came and took me away from you. I was so elated to be moving out of that wretched town finally, but as the album came on I could only cry and cry. I think I cried most of the way to my new home. I knew that I wasn’t sad about leaving town but only because you could not and would not have come with me. I cried because it was the end of the novel and I had been reading it for so long that I couldn’t even dream of it ending. Even after the climax and falling action. I cried because the best part of my life so far was officially over. I cried because I knew that I couldn’t have felt worse than I did that last week we were together. We couldn’t even be in the same room without fighting. Without retreating to the same old arguments all over again, being said more and more aggressively each time. Honestly it felt good to cry that much. It validated that something real had happened. Something that was never going to happen again. Something that was impossible in the first place. Something that is still beautiful and terrifying in its scope of influence on my life. Today the sun is out and the birds are sending gentle songs through my open window. Grizzly Bear plays softly in the background and I find myself reading a book that you gave to me long ago. Suddenly it is all there again. The terrible elation, the beautiful sadness. The pain and the sweet sweet smile right before we kissed. It sweeps through me quickly, passionately, leaving me feeling a bit post orgasmic. Weak kneed and a little red eyed (but no, that’s just my allergies and the pot, I promise). Feeling alive. Feeling like I never lived before. You taught me that. To never stop living. For that, and for everything I thank you. A million kisses, Yours in love ps. E was wrong. Belly button lint definitely comes from the shirt you are wearing at the moment, not the underwear you were wearing yesterday. I have been conducting a study out of bored curiosity, wearing underwear of a completely opposing color as my shirt the next day. Inevitably the color of my belly button lint is the same color as the shirt I am wearing, not the color of my undergarments the day before.

Zach Goldman wandered aimlessly through the streets. He hoped to walk forever, step after step after step after step, each one taking him further and further away from the cruel world he was born into. But he knew he never could. Curfew was in 15 minutes. He kept walking forwards, eventually finding himself just a block away from the ghetto to which he was confined. He rubbed his shoulder, where the crude Star of David patch rubbing against his skin had left a raw patch. "Get to your housing, Jew." The guard stationed on the corner had not even glanced at Mr. Goldman, for there was no need to. All that mattered regarding the entirety of Goldman's existence was the yellow star sewn into his shirt. He was cattle, just another faceless entity doomed by Germany's politics to die, forgotten forever. He was ashamed to be a Jew, ashamed to exist. He felt utterly inferior to every insignificant thing surrounding him. Inferior to the homeless man who sits begging in the streets, inferior to a ripped plastic bag, condemned to an eternity in a landfill, but, most of all, he felt inferior to his own right to exist. If so many people had told him he was scum, that he was a waste, that him and all of his kind did not deserve to inhabit the world they were born into, why shouldn't it be true? Zach Goldman, in that moment, simply wanted to die. He experienced a sudden frisson, stopping him in his tracks. And then, Zach Goldman went home. He went home, and he finally slept. He slept in an eternal sleep. His hidden gun has finally spent its last bullet.

The first thing you do is butter the bun. Then you drop it down the toaster. The toaster takes approximately eighteen seconds to toast. You then put the top and bottom together, place them on a red tray and then cover the twelve buns that fit on the tray, 4x3, with another tray and place them to the side. Once you are ready to make the sandwich you place two pickles on the bottom, no more than a quarter inch over lapping. Then you place the chicken filet with the smooth, round side facing up and then place the crown of the bun on top. Finally open up the sandwich bag allowing enough room for the sandwich to easily slide in, then fold the bag over twice and place it in the warming drawer for five minutes. Any sandwich that sits there for longer than five minutes gets trashed. If you would like a deluxe sandwich then place either a slice of American, provolone, or pepper jack cheese on top of the filet, then put two, whole, tomato slices on top of the cheese and two pieces of lettuce, shiny side up, that frame the bun on top of the tomatoes. Then repeat until your soul has been crushed, pissed on, and every dream and fire that has ever existed in you has been stomped out by the ceaseless, monotonous work you subject yourself to in order to not even get by. They, being the people who don’t work with you, will remind you that you chose to be there, just be thankful to have a job, or that it is just temporary. You know that isn’t true though. You can’t find a better job because you are working 50 hours a week and you are too tired to do anything else. You can barely even find the energy or will power to get out of bed in the morning. Every once in a while you feel like you have enough energy and fortitude to say enough is enough and move on but then you realize your life revolves around this job. All of your friends are there. They are the people that deal with all of the shitty customers who think they are the Queen of god damn England, the ones who think they own you because you stand behind a register. Your coworkers are the ones that after all the shit you put up with tell to forget the customer, he is an asshole, you didn’t do anything wrong, people like that just happen. You have a bond with your coworkers, like brother in arms who are united by their common misery. So the cycle repeats, week after week after week after week after week after week as if your days are manufactured on an assembly line. Then you find yourself waking up in the tiny room you call an apartment. You shower and head to work and start your day off like you have the past, seemingly, five thousand days. You clock in, take your slip that shows the time you clocked in and put it your wallet. Then you say high to everyone. Then you either go to the kitchen or the front counter depending on what you are assigned that day. Then you spend the next ten hours slaving away like the robot you are. You listen to the exact same orders, make the exact same food and you have the exact same routine to live by. Then you watch your boss drive up in his new, gas guzzling behemoth of a truck and say “Hi!” to everyone as if he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world. It is as if he has no idea what the people he employs put up with on a daily basis. It is as if he hopes his friendly disposition will be contagious but what does he do besides sit in that office of his in the back while you are the one who gets burned at the fryers and the one who has to choose if it is worth turning the heat on at night. You are the one that has to decide whether or not to fix your car or just walk the five miles or so. The one who should just deal with the tooth ache or dish out the three thousand dollars for a root canal because god forbid giving his employees health insurance would just decimate his profits. No one likes the boss. Between the shitty boss, shitty job, and shitty house and lifestyle what can you find to be joyous about? You are simply a tiny little speck. In fact you aren’t even speck in the scheme of things. You are less than a pixel, you are less than even the red, blue, and green lights that make up a pixel. You are nonexistent and utterly replaceable and no one will notice if you go. Just like no one has noticed the billions of stars that have existed and perished and no one ever will. Just like no one ever notices the trillions of bacteria that are beneath our feet. That is what you amount to. At some point we have all been there. The thing is though that not all of us end there. That is the saving grace. There is a glimmer of a hope that one day you can escape the cycle of the daily grind. Get a degree if you are young enough, have a support system while you find a better job, or maybe you are stronger than most and do it all alone. Not everyone is lucky though. Sometimes the grind wears you down and grinds you to you are so thin that you become a part of the walls there. You are an everlasting stone that will be a part of where you are stuck, just like the walls. Bills add up and sooner than you know it you are living out on the streets and left with nothing but free time. Maybe you cope with a steady dose of drugs. Maybe you cope with a healthier method. Either way it leads to the same thing. If you aren’t apart of the club, the haves, then you better get used to meaningless, mindless tasks that ask nothing of you but obedience. The boss, the haves, will tell you that working at these crummy soul devouring jobs is fine. What would they know about what you do though? It is not a matter of them being any less hard working but it is a matter of having something to show for it. If you work at a restaurant and you can’t even afford to eat there they pay you so little then what is the point? It gets to the point where thinking physically hurts. It breaks you just as bad as your job does. You think of all the things that you gave up, that you let slip by and you think never again will I let that happen, but it is too late. You have already buttered the buns. You have dropped them in the toaster. You have placed them on the tray. Put the two pickles on the bun, then the filet, and then the top part of the bun. You have wrapped the sandwich and placed it in the warming drawer until you throw it up for the next customer to devour or for it to get thrown away because it has been the warmer to long and has grown hard and unpleasant and unwanted.

Could it be that the most peaceful place is the one that’s far away? I've been gazing for quite a moment now at a wall hanging between ledges from our rooftop not too distant from me. I've been gazing upon it because I saw something – I saw something beautiful. I saw the afternoon’s warm natural color bathing its radiant light to the walls cream painted color. I saw the mystic cloud dances its shapeless form around the fluorescent blue sky behind it. I saw nature; simple and beautiful nature. The more I looked at it, I asked the question. The more I looked at it, I made a thought: I could die right now. It became quite sardonic as I dwell more into my own thoughts to think such relationship between natural beauty and wishful death. I dwell deeper. As I dwell, I became scared. Is this vivid beauty imitating the crawling sensation of death? Then I blinked. I stopped staring. I've been away from myself too long.I stood up from my seat, grabbed my notebook and pen, and walked away towards the rooftop’s door, away from what I saw, away from that deathly beautiful scenery. As I walked back to my floor, my heart pumped furiously as if it pumps for the first time. I started breathing hard and heavily.But the weird thing is I do not sense fear haunting me. I did not feel scared, not anymore, not at all. I was feeling alive. I felt being reborn.

Experiences of a slave The warm, stale night was just beggining to settle in in the North-Kenyan savannah. It was a quiet, and peaceful night; nothing was to be heard but the desultory 'whoosh' every now and then from the gusts of warm wind, and the slow, calming chirriping and buzzing sounds of the grasshoppers and fireflies, which were the only source of light in the area, apart from the lucid stars and vivid colours of the nebulaes above, serenely keeping watch over Earth. It was a night like no other; almost nothing could disturb the serenity and tranquillity present that wonderous night. Almost. Suddenly, out of the blue, a loud bang was heard, followed by complete silence; No more buzzing, no more chirriping, absoulute silence. Moments later, Shouts were heard, followed by the swift slapping sounds of bare feet hitting the arid soil, and deep pants and gasps. A few meters back, the sloshing and the squashing sounds of many boots hitting the ground and different voices jeering could be heard as these sounds pursued the other. These were the only sounds filling this void of silence; these were the sounds of the "Mzungu" capturing yet another slave. He was sprinting as fast as his weary body would allow, the only purpose he had was to run; not another thought lingered in his consciousness. Using all the possible vivacity he had, he ran. His muscles were diminishing, and every nerve and every cell in his body was writhing and screaming in agonising pain for him to stop. But no, his aptitude to survive and evade capture was far too compelling and overpowering. Bolting through the wilderness of Kenya; branches scraped and grazed against his skin. He suddenly felt a substantial urge to just stop cold in his tracks and lay down; he was absolutely drained of all energy, and just wanted to rest his head right on the Earth underneath his feet and die. The 'Mzungu' were closing in on him. Then, he thought of his beloved family, and what might happen to them if the slavers capture them. This single thought rekindled hope in his weary heart. He suddenly began gaining speed, picking up the pace, with not a single thought on his mind but his family, pain was ethereal to him. After about another fifteen minutes or so of running, the sounds of his pursuers was no more to be heard. He stopped in his tracks, bent on his knees, gasping and wheezing desperately for oxygen to fill his deprived lungs. "I finally lost them". He thought to himself. He couldn't be more wrong. After a few minutes of catching his breath, he looked up, and behold, infront of him was a large white man standing tall above him, smirking. Before he had time to react, the slaver bashed his head with the butt of his rifle. His limp body hit the dusty savannah floor with a thud. When he regained consciousness, he was being dragged across the dirt, on his back. He had heavy chains bound to his wrists and ankles. Once the slaver dragging him found out he had finally awoken, he kicked him and spat strange words he didn't understand at him. He guessed the man wanted him to stand up, so he did, and thankfully, the slaver's shouting had stopped for now. He took a glimpse around and saw that there was a que of other Africans, bound together in chains by their necks; a few he recognised to be from his tribe. Another white man shoved him into the que and added a chain to his neck as well, and linked it with the chain of theperson infront of him. As they walked, thoughts of his mother and father coasted into his mind, and before he knew it, his eyes began to water, and tears began to slowly stream down his face and crusted cheeks. He could taste the saltiness in his mouth, and he was so emotionally destroyed that he could almost taste the melancholy in his tears as they made their way to the sides of his mouth. He knew he was never going to see his family again. It only took an instant to change what was a peaceful loving life; into a life of misery and affliction. He knew that for the rest of his life as a slave, he would be carrying a deathwish. He asked himself what he had ever done to receive this kind of punishment. He looked at the others that were in chains, they all had one thing in common; their dark skin. They walked for days and days until their feet started bleeding. Every one of the captives had only one thought on their head the whole time; freedom. Many tried to run, some tried to slip out of the chains, some tried to break the chains by smashing them with rocks they had found on the path. All were severely lashed until they were weeping with suffering. When they had finally arrived to the ship, the Mzungu rounded up all the slaves, and tossed them all together in the bottom deck of the ship, in rows all tightly packed over each other, giving them barely enough breathing space. They were rarely fed, and when they were, they were given barely a handful of old porridge, that they would have had to quarrel over. They came in every morning to grab the dead, the weak, and the sick, to throw them overboard. It was utter chaos. Out of the thousands of Africans transported, very few survived, most died of hunger/thirst, or sickness. Who shall act as their providence and save them from such a death? Is this simply because of their race? it was the definition of insanity. He spent many restless nights on the ship terror-stricken, not knowing if he will survive the treachorous journey. On one particular day, as the slavers were coming in to collect the sick/dead, he was tired and his eyes were drooping, so he layed down on the bare, grimy ground, when suddenly a white man appeared and grabbed him by the hair, assuming he was sick, and attempted to carry him to the deck with the intention to throw him overboard, because he thought he was sick. He begged and cried trying his best to show the man that he wasn't sick, and that he was only tired, which was very hard considering the fact that this Mzungu did not speak Swahili, but luckily, the man let him off. This has been the happiest he has felt in a long time. On a rather bright Saturday morning, the ship had finally arrived in America. When the Mzungu came to take the slaves outside to land, there was an uproar of excitement to finally get out of the cramped up cargo and see sunlight once again and breathe in fresh air once more. The slavers had to calm the Africans down with excessive force, by using their whips. Once all of the remaining slaves were escorted out of the ship, they were immediately taken straight to the market to be sold to other slavers, and typically plantation owners. They were being sold as nothing more than property, there was not a single speck of humanity in all of this. Once purchased, they were the property of their new owners, and were seen as nothing but merchandise. Their masters could do whatever they saw fit with them; torture them, execute them, rape them, whatever they wanted. Most were used as a work force on large plantations, and the lucky ones would get to work inside the owners house, doing housework. Unfortunately for him though, he was sold to a very strict master; he had to work on the plantation for 18 hours a day, and he worked under the circumstances of being whipped every time he put less effort into his work, he was whipped an estimated 20 times a day, and he was barely being given any food, just enough to keep him alive. He worked on the plantation for months and months, every day regretting every little moment of his life, he regretted being born, he regretted loving his family and most of all he regretted having dark skin, he was never going to mentally return to how he was, not with all he has been through, all the suffering, and the agony. Every day he thinks of ending his own life, but he does not know what stops him from doing so. I would not dare imagine such a dreadful life. It has been many years since the day of his capture, and ever since that day, nobody has ever called him by his name. The slave industry has stripped him of his identity. Sometimes he almost forgets his own name. His name is Gahiji and all what Gahiji dreams of is freedom. The thought of running away has intruded his mind countless times, and the only thing that was between him and freedom, the thing that has been stopping him from ever attempting to run away, is the fine line between freedom and death, the fear of getting executed if he was caught. One day, on a gloomy Friday dusk, he stood there watching the sun rise over the woods and the thought of running away intruded his mind again, but this time it was different, it was far too powerful to resist the temptation. He thought about the possible consequences, that he might die in his attept. He thought twice about it, and then made up his descision. He would rather be dead than spend another day living a life like this. He glanced towards the owner's house, and stole a quick glimpse of his master busy whipping another slave. Now was his chance. He shot off, towards the sun and the woods, without ever glancing back. He ran with a thousand thoughts on his head, his mind racing, thinking of all the things he might do now that he will be free. As he ran, he felt his mouth slowly begin to stretch into a slight smile; the first smile that has blessed his face in years. That smile slowly turned into a grin, and that into laughing. He was fully of joy, hysterically laughing and skipping as he ran; He had never been happier in his life. He began to think of his family again, and that maybe once this was all over, he could find a way back home and see them again. He can now start to see the end of the thick wood, and at this moment he knows freedom is only a heartbeat away. As his feet swiftly thud against the leafy floor, he begins to near the edge of the wood. "Only meters away from freedom now". He thinks to himself. But all of a sudden, he hears a loud bang, and he feels himself slowing down, as the huge grin that was plastered across his face moments ago is wiped off. He clutches at his chest, as he begins to find it difficult to breathe. He collapses on the floor. Looking at his hands, he sees them drenched in blood. He does not feel terror or fear though, only releif; he has been releived of this horrible life. His eyes begin to feel heavier and heavier, and just as they are about to close, the shooter shows up to inspect him. Gahiji looks up at the Mzungu, and says in a confident yet calm voice "Uhuru". Gahiji's eyes then closed, never to open again. He died for freedom, he did not die in vain. *Mzungu: The Swahili word used to describe "The white men". *Uhuru: The Swahili word for "Freedom".

Uneasiness was setting in. No no, that's incorrect. This uneasiness, it was present at the very beginning. It's not nervousness. It's not anxiousness, nor fear. It's unsettling coldness. Yes, it was uneasiness, and it was there the moment a reached the foot of the basement stairs. Stairs? I have no recollection of these stairs. I couldn't paint the faintest picture of these stairs. How did they feel? Were they carpeted? Were they wooden? Were the stairs to short that I couldn't walk down them without turning my feet and walking down with my body slightly cocked to the side? No, I'd remember that. Wait, are there even stai-. Yes. Yes there is. That much I am certain of. There are stairs, and I'm at the bottom of them. I know I'm in the basement too. Or is this a cellar? I'd certainly describe the room my left a cellar. Its floor is cold, broken concrete. Its concrete walls lined with shelves. No recollection of what's on the shelves. However, I'm not standing in a cellar. Cellars don't have carpet, and I'm standing on carpet. Ugly carpet too. Its main color a burnt orange. Patterns are painted in with brown. It's old carpet, and I'm now repulsed by it, desperately desiring to move off it. I step out. How long had I been standing still? I begin moving quickly now. I'm now in a hallway. The hallway is too narrow. Two people could not walk abreast without being uncomfortably close. I was alone. Why did this narrow hallway anger me the way it did? The hallway walls didn't help my mood either. They were covered with that shiny, pathetic excuse of fake wood. Finally, the room I was being drawn to. More bad carpet. This time a green shag carpet covers the floor. A bedroom. The bed was made, but with old, unused linen. A dresser and mirror are to my right. I walk in. I notice another room past the dresser. A light is on in the room. Uneasiness is with me again. I need to see what's in that room. No. Then I realize whatever is in that room is not supposed to be seen by me. I can't handle the uneasiness any longer. I would rather feel the coldness of death. Death, that's exactly what awaits me in that room. I step closer. Breathing becomes difficult. I'm closer now. Very close. One more step, that's all I need to take. I close my eyes, take the step, and turn. I open my eyes. Only darkness, I'm now awake. A feeling of uneasiness, it's the only thing I bring back with me from my recurring dream.

Me, My Mum and I I’ve never had a very good memory. Not really. People always say things like “do you remember when…?” And I always say: “No? When was that?” It’s not embarrassing or anything. Just a pain. It’s just like a blank. I mean – God, I cant even remember where I was when I remembered this…but I'm pretty sure its my first memory. I don’t even know what I was doing. Maybe having coffee, or watching TV but it struck me – like I just got winded…Yeah…it was just like that…just like ‘doof.’ Wait, now I remember. I was on a bus coming home from the supermarket. There was this little boy who got on. He had this big bag on and her was wearing this puffy jacket. He was also wearing this beanie that was miles too big for his head. It was funny how it kept falling over his eyes. He waded up the aisle as the bus rocked from side to side. He was all by himself, and I thought I bet his mum gave him heaps of instructions for the ride… ‘sit at the front,’ ‘say thank you’ ‘remember to get off at the pools’, and then, there she was, my mum, just like doof. At first I remembered, well had this image of my toes, teeny and tiny, and how I could only see peaks of the hard wood floor underneath. It was varnished and had all these holes from people wearing heels at dinner parties and stuff. Mum, well I'm not sure ok? But in my head, my Mum was wearing these violet blue heels. They were her favorite pair. They had this big thick heel with like a silver broach thing on at the front. My feet were so soft and pudgy and I always remember thinking that her feet, in those heels, looked old, ugly and thin. I was looking down because she was above me, giving me instructions on how to get to the diary. “You go down…Grace, are you paying attention?” She paused and coughed into her fist. She had her eyes closed and when she opened them again, catching her breathe, she continued. “See this shape, this L – that your hand makes when you hold it up like this?” She grabbed my hand in her cold thin one and traced the lines from the tip of my small index finger to the end of my thumb. I looked at my hand, they same way I stared at the glass wind chime that hung from our doorway or bugs in the dirt…I had no idea what she was talking about. “You see this L?” She asked. “That’s left; you take a big L, a big left, at the end of the street. Then you just keep going to you see the place with the big ice cream on top. You know, the diary?” Of course I knew. Its where I use to get pies with dad on Sundays, its where I got lollies with Joan. It was the place I stared at from the car window as we drove past. That big plastic Ice Cream cone on top was so cool. Sometimes it lit up at night, it glowed like the moon. I use to stare at for hours. “Take this money and get me some milk please and if you want you can get a mix while there. We can share the lollies ok?” I smiled. “I’m not going to share any with you.” She put her hands on her hips and stuck her tongue out at me. I copied her and then we both laughed. I can see myself. Brown eyes, hair pulled back in a loose plait, two strands falling over my face. But I can see her more clearly. She stood tall over me, with her peach dress. It looked like the smell of peach lollies, or maybe, peach lollies reminded me of the dress. Both are sweet I guess. She was always in that dress. If I think about it, I doubt she was wearing that peach dress with those violet heels that would’ve been ghastly. But as I say, in my head that’s what she was wearing. She wore her hair like mine, hazel brown, loose plait. Except her eyes were cloudy blue. She had thin lips and small teeth. She was my Mum and despite her hands and feet, I though she was pretty. I remember walking out the door and I knew that the world was too big for me. Not consciously, like I didn’t think that, but I knew that the world was too big – it was way too far to go. But Mum was sick, even then and that was greater than the size of the world. I squinted down the street. I was determined to get that milk. It was a really hot day. The kind of hot you only remember when your little, like when you stare mesmerized, by the heat waves radiating off the cars or you have to lick your hand cause there’s melted ice cream all over it. It was that hot, cicadas blasting away hot, old men fanning their faces with their hats hot. I wiped my brow with the back of my arm and walked out, trying to remember what Mum said. I kept holding up my hands up in front of the sky, but they both made L’s if you turned them around, and I suppose I confused myself. By the time I reached the end of our street, I had no clue where to go. Fuck it was scary, I stood on the street for ages looking both ways, my little ponytail wiping back and fourth and I needed to pee so bad. I was getting so worried. I kept imaging mum in her peach dress coughing over the sink or on her knees leaning over the toilet. My lips began to tremble. Luckily this old guy in a hat ended up coming along. He had a moustache that reminded me of polar bears and snow. He was real nice. He asked me where I wanted to go then walked me to the store. When we arrived at the store he let go of my hand and asked if I was going to be ok. I pulled at my dress and looked around the store, it looked huge. Even if I stood on tiptoes I couldn’t reach the shelves and everything was so bright and confusing. “Um yup I think so.” I said. He smiled at me, and then I remembered, “thank you for helping me.” “You’re welcome little lady” and then off he went, out of the doorway. I never saw him again, I never found out who he was. Inside it was cool, all the drinks were so colorful in the fridge, they glistened behind the glass. I couldn’t see above the counter, but I could feel Eric’s (that’s the guy who owned the dairy), I could feel his eyes on me. I tried to act all grown up so I walked past all the lollies and junk, pushing my hair out of my eyes and went straight to the milk. The big bottles where up top and they were really hard to reach. “Do you want a hand?” Eric called out “No thanks” I called back and I grabbed the biggest one I could. It was so slippery, I remember it just falling to the ground and plopping open. Milk went everywhere. Eric came over and I was just standing there watching the milk move slowly across the floor, like it was invading the shop. I looked up at Eric with my mouth open, my eyes big like circles. He said, “Now what has happened here?” It was then, that I burst into tears. Eric must have come over mopping up the white milk as it seeped into the store, but I can’t remember any of that. The next thing I remember was Mum. She was there in her peach dress. She stood flushed in the face. She looked round the store then down at me, and gave me the best smile in the world. For most of the journey home, I had my face buried in her shoulder. I could smell her skin. It smelt just like powdered peaches. “Ssssshhhhh” she said. “ssssh sssssh its ok, its ok, Mummy’s here now, everything’s going to be ok, I promise” Her words tickled my ear, they were soft and flawless. I raised my head, wiped at my eyes with my fist, and licked the ice cream she bought me, before it melted all onto my hand. The last thing I remember about that day, was that her promise came true and everything was ok. * Later, I remembered, I was holding her much older, much thinner and much more spotty hand. She lay on her side and breathed in slowly, they spaces in between filled only with my heartbeat. She stared at me with her big blue cloudy eyes. I looked back; my brown eyes were red and wet. Mum was waiting to die. Her mouth was open and she had no more of her little pretty teeth. Just a black hole. Her long hazel hair had turned white and curly. She continued to breathe slowly…slowly, slowly. She never blinked. She never took her eyes off me. There was no one else in that room. Just me and Mum. Outside, everything carried on as usual but inside my Mum was dying and there was nothing I could do. I squeezed her hand and said to her “Mum, its ok, I'm here now, you can go, don’t be scared, everything is going to be ok” She looked back at me until something inside disappeared. My mum had continued to breathe, until she stopped. Her old, thin, spotty hand, cold already, grew colder. I realized I was no longer holding a hand. Now it just felt like a cold thing. She no longer moved. Not even a flutter. The little that was left behind those blue eyes had gone. I continued to stare at her only now there was no one looking back. I breathed in as my eyes grew wet and said, “Its ok, its ok, you’re alright now mum, I promise, everything’s going to be alright now.” And as I breathed out, I hoped that it was.

Serfdom. I was a slave. Shackled, broken, and forced to submit. Constantly on my knees before my masters' crackling whip. Tossed meager table scraps from a dinner that took place miles in the sky. My master, no my *masters*, seemingly did nothing. They didn't work the long grueling hours like I did. They didn't sacrifice having a family and finding happiness like I did. They didn't devote their lives,hearts, and their souls to a convoluted dream that just seemed to get foggier each passing day. Those men up there? They didn't know the feeling of a puss-filled festering wound that was never allowed to heal, punched and kicked every single day until the skin around it turned yellow and purple and seared with pain. Those men didn't know what it was like TO BE ME. Do you understand what it is like to know deep down in the ether of your mind, in the very marrow of your bones, that you are smarter, more talented, *more passionate*, than the people who pluck the strings that make you dance? Of course you do. As goes the curse of the first world. But maybe, what you do not comprehend is the feeling of a massive tornado spawning storm cloud called regret that rips through your soul, every. waking. day. of your life. But I know that feeling. That dread. Of holding the sacred fruit, its precious juices glimmering down its sides and over your hands, and then watching as it withers up and dies just because you took your eyes off of it for one fucking second. I could have been the one tossing table scraps and eating my lobster and fillet lunches on the 98th floor of a skyscraper. That could have been me in the jet-black Mercedes with a trophy wife in the passenger seat. I was so close. It was ten years ago. When I was still filled with hope, dreams, and ambition. My friend and I had just graduated from college. We saw the world as an adventurous and forgiving place where work ethic and drive would be rewarded with wild success. See, we had a plan. A business plan. A plan that was going to make us millions, buy us beach homes, and take us to far away places. It doesn't matter what the plan was, all that matters is that it required both of us to put all our chips on black. Sheer and complete devotion. Would you do it? Really, ask yourself, would you gamble with your future so completely? If the coin lands on heads, you win the lottery. But if its tails? Well, then you wind up listening to train outside your window to sing you to sleep every night. I didn't flip the coin. Didn't take that chance. I just got a college diploma, and damnit! I worked hard for that piece of paper and I sure as well wasn't going to risk not being able to use it. But Chet? The best friend I mentioned? My roommate for four years of college? Chet took the chance. Chet rolled the dice. Chet placed the bet and won the whole mother fucking casino. And while I placed my foot on the bottom rung of the corporate ladder, Chet was already on the elevator, already ten million miles in the sky. Good for Chet. No really, good for mother fucking Chet. He's my best friend! Of course I'm happy for Chet. He was adamant about being partners. 'James, we've been talking about this forever, it's finally time! Don't make me do it alone!' Chet used to say. 'No, no, no Chet, we were kids then,' I'd shake my head and answer, 'but now we're grown-ups and we have to play it safe.' So how can I hate the guy when I could have, *should* have, been there right by his side? It's my own fault! Not CHET'S. Except even when one friend achieves great success, you'd still expect him to be your friend? Right? RIGHT? Or am I delusional? Do I have my head in the clouds to think that Chet, my best friend for 20 fucking years, would have stuck by my side? Or does everybody abandon their childhood and everything in it when their wallets get uncomfortable to sit on. Sureee, Chet still called. He still calls today even. But every single phone call is like shoving a rusty nail in my ear and hammering it over and over again, until my very brain gets tetanus. Chet tries to sound friendly, 'Hey James! How have you been? How's life treating you? Still part of that gym? Still go to Flannigan's on Saturdays? Man I miss those days. Hey, do you remember that time..." And it goes on and on and on! He talks like I can't hear that obvious condescending tone laughing at me through my headset. Like he's *actually* interested in my life! Shut the FUCK up Chet! You fucking piece of shit Chet. You back stabbing elitist cock sucker, Chet! Excuse me. So today is Friday. And today, after I leave this grey building and say goodbye to the plain secretary in my building's lobby, I am going to take a taxi to Chet's hillside mansion, and shoot Chet in the face. Then I am going to turn the gun on my own head, and press the muzzle HARD against my temple until I start bleeding, and pull the trigger. I have never held a gun before. I bought this tiny revolver at a pawn shop. It remember thinking how heavy it felt, this tiny gun. This tiny, disproportionally weighted, savior of a gun. I also remember the guy who sold it me asking if I needed and bullets. "Two please." And now that gun, and its two shiny bullets, sat in my desk drawer, watching my computer's clock change agonizingly slow. 4:56PM. I don't leave early, no, everyday I tell myself If I work hard and stay late then one day a chance will present itself! One day James! One day! So why leave early today? Today is no different. It was five. I grab the revolver out of my desk drawer and put it in my briefcase. I always take the stairs, two flights isn't so bad. And now I'm in the lobby, walking across the linoleum floors. And now I'm saying goodbye to the utterly boring looking woman that transfers calls. And now I'm standing outside with my hand in the air, trying to hail my chariot to heaven. A cab pulls over. I get in. There's someone else in the back seat. I look to him, as if to ask permission, he nods his head. I look at the taxi driver, he too, nods his head. So now I'm in the backseat of this taxi, a stranger to the seat in my left. The cabby turns his head to look at me, "Where to?" "735 Brookhill drive," I answer him. The car turns back on the street and begins driving. We ride in silence for a few minutes then the stranger to my left turns to me, "Brookhill drive huh? Isn't that where all those rich fat cats live?" "That's be the place." I didn't turn to look at him. Just answered his question. "You one of those fat cats?" He asked, I could sense a little animosity in his voice from the way he emphasized 'cats.' "Nope, would I be taking a taxi if I were?" "Ha! You got me there! The name's Larry. Larry Tanas." Larry stuck out his hand. I grabbed it and shook, aware of his last name, and what it could spell if given some careful rearrangement. Tanas. Larry Tanas, an coincidental stranger on the last car ride I'll ever take. "James Hoyt." I said as our hands shook. "Pleasure to meet you Mr. James Hoyt! And excuse me for asking, but if you aren't a rich CEO or some shit, then why are you going to Brookhill?" "To see a friend." "A friend huh? What's a money mogul doing being friends with some guy who probably works near the dirt?" I looked at his face for the first time. He was a handsome man. Very well cleaned. His hair was cut short, not a strand out of place. He talked with his left eyebrow raised and his eyes narrowed. His teeth were as white as bones. And what do you know, the guy named Tanas has on a black suit with a red tie, cute. I don’t know what compelled me to talk to him, maybe it was because I knew my hourglass had less than sixty grains of sand in it and I knew this is the last conversation I’d ever have. “He’s an old friend. From my college days. We were roommates an-” Tanas cut me off, “And he went on to make millions while you signed your life over to live a safe, polite existence. Is that pretty spot on?” His spot-on analysis wasn’t that surprising. Everyone knows millionaires live in Brookhill and I sure as hell don’t look like a millionaire. But it was the way he said what he said. The way ‘make millions’ came out like a viper spits venom. He hated Chet too. I didn’t say anything. What else did Tanas have to say? “And you know what else I think, James?” He looked at me with his slanted eyes, seemingly looking straight through my pupils and into my conscience, “I don’t think you’re going to just visit an old friend.” “Oh, no?” “No. As a matter of fact, James. I think you’re going to kill a man that you hate.

You and Tom have been inseparable since what, Pop Warner days? Maybe even before that. It's hard to remember it all just now. It's just flashes. A moth-eaten film reel. You remember jamming chicken necks into crude-wire crab traps. The caustic, irresistible smell of Apricot Fruit Leather, the kind his mom would foist on you. His father's weight set in the basement. You guys'd barely lift the bar and swear you were getting big, getting strong, tear up the NFL someday. Together. You remember wanting what he had. Aching for it. That new house, fresh and big and clean and new, smelling like lacquer and polish and laundry detergent. That new hot tub, where you two would sit under the blooming twilight and bullshit about girls you'd never kiss, things you'd never do. And although on the surface his family was flashbulb, white teeth, picture-perfect and yours was like a nightmare forever clinging to you and keeping you from true, cleansing rest, you were together and as far as he was concerned, what they had you had and you felt that, just this once, you finally belonged somewhere worth belonging to. But that was then. And although they just float, you desperately try to push those memories into the hot, stagnant Tropical air, willing yourself not to look up as they hang, dense and heavy like refinery smoke. Suffocating. You push them away because there's no time for that now, those sepia-soaked memories of better days, because you need to man the fuck up and make the call. The call to Tom's father. The man that took you in, taught you more than your own father ever did or ever could. You need to call him and tell him his son may be dead. Or if he's not, you think as you look in the box, that fucking box, nice and tidy, giftwrapped like an Anniversary necklace. If he's not dead, you think as you pick up that nightmarish black-blood crusted flap of skin, an ear, Tom's ear. If he's not dead, wherever he might be, you're sure he wishes he was. To the casual observer, this whole mess started innocently enough. If four testosterone-addled undergrads with blank slates and, thanks to Tom's magnanimous father, blank checks could be considered innocent, then yeah, it all started innocently enough. Few days, soak up some sun, some Cuervo, maybe some women? Just a couple of kids getting away from it all, celebrating their time with their good friend. That was the plan. Like they say, if you want to make God laugh, make plans. But when you walked into that dingy, locals-beware hidey-hole of a bar, you had a plan. When the preying, hungry eyes of the local underbelly found the four of you, and your nice watches and fat wallets and palpable thoughts of fleeting youth, you had a plan. Even when the locals got friendly. Even when the blackness came and Tom went gone, you had a plan. You always have a plan. But when you hear Tom Sr.'s gruff, booming timber on the outgoing message, feel the tremor in your hands as sweat prickles through your palms, well, now you're not so sure. And the thunder echoing off from the gulf sounds all too much like God's booming laughter. "What'd he say?" That's Sean, and you don't even have to look up from the phone because even if it weren't for his high-nasal voice drenched in panic, he'd been with you the whole time and didn't hear you say a word. It was a stupid question. Sean always asks stupid questions. "Jesus fuck, man. What're we gonna do?" At least he spared you the trouble and answered it himself. "Just calm down," you say. And you shield your eyes from the relentless pre-storm sun as you take in the serene vista of Cabo San Lucas from your rental-mansion balcony. And you try to think of a plan. A new plan, but all you can think is how a place so beautiful could disguise so much menace. Now you know why Icarus flew too close to the sun, why moths flit headlong into the embrace of a cackling flame. "But I mean, Tommy's okay right? I mean even with the..." He trails off and rubs his ear absentmindedly. Another stupid question. "That's not how it works," you say. "How does it work? How do you know?" "Because I know" and you really don't want to get into the particulars of how you know but you figure Sean is going to need to know the score if he's ever going to get his head on right, if you're ever going to make it out of here alive. "There was no ransom note. No demands. If they wanted money it would have come with the, you know" as you point to the box. That fucking box. "Well, I mean, what do they want?" And all you can do is shrug. "Maybe they want to send a message." You don't know all the dark little secrets lurking in the dusty corners of Tom's brick-and-mortar compound on Beechtree Lane. But you know they're there. And you're smart enough to know that Construction Managers don't buy Boston Whalers and 3-building compounds in Amagansett. You know Tom Sr. has a lot of friends in high places and a lot of vowels in his last name. You know he has a .44 Ruger Superhawk hidden under the passenger seat of his car. You know it's filled with hollow-tips. The door creaks open and Sean jumps but you don't because intruders don't come through sliding glass doors. Big boy Chris pads in, dripping wet and toweling down his shaggy red-blonde mane. "Where the hell were you?" You ask. "Took a dip." "You really think this the time?" He just shrugs "It's definitely the place." You've got to give him that. He stands over the box, droplets from his hair smacking the grisly contents. "Do we even know that's his? I mean, shit, an ear's an ear right? Could be anyone's." And you feel that familiar twinge inside you. You hate it as much as you dread it. The cold current in your veins. "Ears aren't welcoming presents, dipshit." "Could be fake." "It's not." "Could be a--" "It's not" You feel impossible weight in your fists. A shaft of ice in your spine. "Well, fuck, I mean, I know it's not a cool thing to say but isn't that why we're down here? Living wake or whatever? He's a dead man anyway," "Not like this," and your jaws locked and you can barely speak but part of you knows he's right. That's what the doctor, the one Tom had you go see, had told you when you were getting checked out before the trip. His lung was on it's last legs and even if there was a donor, which there isn't, it was only a matter after the transplant that his kidney, liver, spleen, whatever the fuck. They'd all go down one by one too and he'd have to be rebuilt piece by piece like Steve Austin. But you know better. You're Tom's best friend and you know why he really came to Mexico. Why you guys took a chartered plane. Why there's two million in cash hidden in the lining of his briefcase. You get up and resist the urge to punch Chris' stupid fucking face right through the back of his head into the Travertine. "Where you going?" Sean warbles. "I need air." And you can't help but feel the air fill your chest once more, because its the first thing you've said since you landed that hasn't been a lie. Maybe even before you landed. You lied when you were packing, when you told Mia you'd be back soon. When you told her you were doing this for us. When you told her you loved her. And you kissed her and that was one lie you couldn't mask. You could tell by the way she'd bit her lip. How her hands moved instinctively to the swelling skin of her stomach. She'd tasted the subtle toxin. The kind you've kept frozen and dark and deep inside you. The kind that's pumping through your veins right now, greedily consuming you. But this was no lie, you think as you charge through a dizzying, bright kaleidoscope of a street. You do need air. You need space. Sweat beads down your forehead as you reach the payphone, different than the one you used before, on the edge of town. You pull the folded piece of wax paper from your pocket and cover the receiver. Just like before. The number's ingrained in your brain after the hours spent memorizing it. You couldn't risk someone finding the scrap of paper with your handwriting on it so you burned it. You punch the numbers, feel the pressure building behind your eyeballs. A click. A beat. And your heart sinks as you hear a voice that isn't Rafa's. It's female, recorded, and although you failed Spanish in high school because you were too busy smoking spiffs in your rusted old 4-Runner, you somehow just know what she's saying. The number's been disconnected. There goes the plan. Your mind races, scrambling like a rat in a storm drain. You can't just take the money. Not from a guy like Tom Sr. That's why you had the plan in the first place. And just as you feel the weight of all this pressing your chin to your chest the payphone springs to life. A harsh, dirty chime. You grab the wax paper, take a steady breath, and pick up the receiver. "Hello?" You're surprised you can find your voice. "Allo? This the boy? The American?" "Where's Rafa?" "Your name?" "You don't need to know it. Where's Rafa?" "No Rafa. You talk to me. You want your friend back?" His voice is silky, collected. He's in control and he knows it. "He wasn't supposed to get hurt. We had a deal." "New deal. My deal. The money. The two meelyon. All of it." "I was promised half." "Not from me. You want your boy back, you bring it all." And you know you're cornered but you've been offered a way out. Save yourself. Save your friend. You'll just have to get the money another way. Find a new plan. "Where?" You have the address and your instructions: Come alone. No weapons, no police, just the money. You pass by a little bodega at nightfall and hear Blue Oyster Cult's Don't Fear the Reaper wafting from within. The song was before your time but you can relate. You remember standing over your father's grave and swearing in the forest and the morning mist you can see him, cloaked and gaunt and grinning. And only then you understood he's always been there, following you like a shadow since you first drew breath. Waiting for you. At his mercy before you ever knew it was too late. Cash in the black duffle bag, you find the spot. Where he said to be when he said to be there. Down a crumbling flight of stairs to an acid-washed steel door. You knock. A buzz emanates from...where? But you hear the door click open and try to quiet the dull thrum in the back of your head as you walk through. You find yourself in a large, bare, concrete room. A bare bulb flickers to life, casting a ghastly yellow glow on...Tom. Alive and well, both ears firmly attached. You meet eyes and in his you see pain, disappointment. Confirmation in betrayal. And just as quickly it's gone, replaced by a look you've seen once before. A look his father had, one night when you and Tom were sneaking back into the house after a night of drinking malt liquor on the pier. And his father pulled up and you hid in the bushes and saw him, rain soaked and mud splattered and washing fresh cement off his boots with the hose outside. And he had that same look that's boring into you now. Haunting in its duality, cold like a moonlit blade. Hot like wolf blood. "I want you all to meet my best friend." He says, and you wonder who he's talking to in the dark recesses, his voice soaked in regret and reluctant understanding and something else you can't quite place. And now you realize why he told you about the money, why he invited you on this trip, why he had you see his doctor. You realize Tom's learned more from his father than you thought and a good businessman doesn't pay for what he can get for free. You realize he had a plan and yours was the final piece of his puzzle, the affirmation he needed to do what he's about to do. And all these thoughts crash into your mind like the heavy metal object that crashes into the back of your skull and your world shrinks and your head explodes, impossibly vast and bright like a dying star. Blackness gives way to blinding white. You open your eyes and feel nothing. Heaven? No. Heaven's not for you. Your eyes adjust and you find yourself in a cramped white windowless room, naked in a bathtub in ice up to your shoulders. You try to move but your head's still filled with firecrackers and you feel the steel of a handcuff on your wrist and find the other end around a thick exposed pipe. And you can breathe but just barely like you're in a python's grip and with your free hand you find the still-forming scar tissue of the incision on your ribcage. You hear the murmur of voices on the other side and try to scream because its all you can think to do but your body won't let you and all you can wrench up is a gargle and spats of congealed black blood. The voices stop and give way to heavy footfalls. And you wonder why you're even alive and can't help but think about what the doctor, Tom's doctor, had said. How his lungs were just the beginning and everything else was just a matter of time. And as the footsteps get closer and the doorknob begins to squeal you pray, for the first time in your life you truly fucking pray that for you this is the end and not the beginning. You pray that whoever walks through that door, the reaper won't be far behind.

"What a waste of time." The apathetic voice rattled my conscience as I stood gazing upon the grave of whom such thoughts originated. I was unsure if the sentiment was born out of my memories of Walter while he was alive or the ground itself. Either way, I suppose I was looking for answers to questions I hadn't yet conceived and these five words made me question my presence here tonight. "Seems appropriate a dead guy would caution the living about time," I replied to precisely no one. The cold night gathered these words inches from my face in a white cloud before they disappeared, along with the ambition that drove me three hours to my late friend's final resting place. Walter responded with a question. "Why didn't you just tell me?" A valid inquiry. It was at this moment I understood that tonight was not about my questions. Tonight was about providing answers, which I owed Walter even in his death. I took a seat in order to be closer to my dear friend. "It wouldn't have made a difference." A cop-out. It would have made all the difference. I suppose Walter already knew this. He did not question me to seek information; he questioned me because, even as a corpse, he understood I needed to come clean. I sat with my eyes closed awaiting a response that never came. After a few minutes I sat up and didn't even bother brushing myself off. The flashlight that led me from my car to Walter's grave with such precision flickered for a few seconds before shutting off completely. Despite this inconvenience my memory was able to lead me back, and I hoped it would serve this function again someday. Walter was right. What a waste of time.

Always for You Matt Dempsey 3 A.M. on a Saturday Morning She finishes babysitting an adorable six month old baby. She knew she was in for a long night, but this is a little later than she expected. She's not worried though. She's not worried about a thing at this moment. She's feeling relaxed, carefree, and most importantly, ignorant of every aspect of life around her. She plans on staying the night at her friend's apartment that isn't too far away. It's at least closer than her folks' house, where she moved back last summer. She needs to make one stop before settling in at her friend's. 3:30 A.M. Jesus Christ! Did she forget what she was doing? She's behind the wheel of her parents' SUV, cruising at 40 MPH down the city streets. How has she not been paying attention to where she's going? Next thing she knows, her tires are scraping the curb and POP! There goes the front tire. POP! There goes the back one as well. She slams on the brakes before running into the street lamp post mere feet in front of her car. Holy shit, she thinks. She is beginning to freak out. What the fuck did I just do? Make a call. I don't know what to do now. 3:45 A.M. Her friend doesn't answer her frantic phone calls. She must have fallen asleep waiting for her to come. Shit, what the hell do I do now? She thinks. Relax; don't make a big deal out of this. It'll be okay, I'll figure this out. Oh no, what is that now? Is that a police car pulling up? Fuck. 4:00 A.M. She's in the backseat of a city patrol cruiser. The officer who came to check her situation has not been fooled. He knows there is something more going on here than a sleepy girl who just got done with some late night babysitting. For one, this girl is slurring her words. Not too much, she doesn't sound drunk. And the breathalyzer came back as zero. For another, she doesn't seem all too upset by this. He'd have expected her to be in tears, begging to be let go by now. But she's surprisingly calm in the cruiser, with her hands cuffed behind her back. He'll take her to the closest station a mile or so away and go from there. 5:00 A.M. Her mother's phone rings. This certainly is not a sales call. No one is going to try selling her insurance at this time of hour. She has that motherly instinct snap into her head, the kind that develops after raising two children, one to the age of having her own husband and son. Something isn't right. Hello? She sounds worried. Mom, I'm in trouble, she hears in the phone earpiece. What's going on? She asks. Oh my god, are you okay? She hears an officer in the background say she's not supposed to be on the phone right now. Put him on the phone! Let me talk to him. What's going on, officer? DUI? What? Oh my god. Where is she? When will I hear from her again? 7:00 A.M. He wakes up to his cell phone ringing next to him in his bed. His phone plays that one song he really liked a few years ago, but is tired of now that he hears it every time someone calls. He's only gone to bed a few hours ago and has his own thought that something must be wrong. For some reason he turned his phone's ringer volume on high before going to bed. Just had a feeling he should. Hello? The first thing said to him is Has she been doing drugs? Her sister's voice is scared, worried, angry, sad. All these things mixed together, shaken, not stirred. What happened? He asks. She wrecked the car and got arrested for a DUI. Holy shit. Gimme a minute here, I'm just waking up. 1:00 P.M. He sits across from her mother in a cafe nearby. Neither has ordered food and really doesn't intend to. Their hungers are nonexistent, harder to find than a hot new gadget at Christmas time. Feels like they will never eat again. Her mother asks him question after question. He feels he can't lie to this woman. He has come to love and respect her, and sees how much she is hurting. If he can't help her, maybe her mother can. But she must know at least as much as he does at this point, which isn't a whole lot. But much more than she or any other family member knows. She was on her way to buy more, her mother explains, so the police did not find anything in the car. A possession charge would make this far worse, he responds. They stay at the cafe for two hours. He has ordered her a coffee and gotten a Mountain Dew for himself. The caffeine will be helpful to them both. It has been a long day so far, and neither has gotten decent rest in the last twelve hours or so. Finally, they get into his car and he drives her home. It won't be another hour until her daughter arrives home with her husband, who has bailed her out of jail and paid a hefty fine to recover their busted up SUV. 8:00 P.M She has been sleeping most of the day. Her morning in the clink combined with the reason she was there has worn her out. Sleep is the only thing she needs right now, so everyone lets her rest. He sits at her sister's house. He has driven an hour to get here but it's better than sitting at home alone, with his thoughts racing around his head like racers in the INDY 500. Over and over, around and around. He couldn't stand it so he made the drive. They have been talking for a couple hours now. He tells her more than maybe he should, but he has carried this burden of knowing such things for so long. And he needs help with holding the weight. 8:30 P.M. She finally wakes up and starts talking to her mother. She says she was just sleepy, doesn't know why she would be charged with a DUI. That's just silly, the breathalyzer read zero. Her mother knows why, and she knows a great deal more at this point. But she's slowly working her way into explaining how she's come by such information. She calls her sister. She asks if there is a visitor at her sister's house. Yes, there is. She says. He did what he thought was the right thing to do. He cares about you. He was trying to help. No, of course not. Yes, I think it was the right thing to do. We needed to know so we can try to help you. Okay, I'll tell him. Her sister hangs up the phone. She tells him she would like for him to go home now. She has promised her sister she would ask him to leave and right now, it doesn't seem like a good idea to fuck with her. Okay, well thank you for coming over and for everything you've done. Gimme a hug. Goodnight. 6:00 P.M. Sunday Evening He sends a text message to her sister. How is she doing today? He doesn't receive an answer for two hours. It's she who answers, not her sister. You know I'm alive and fine. Please don't contact my sister anymore. She is absolutely livid at him for what he's told her family. She feels he has snitched on her. That he had some kind of ulterior motives, bad intentions. Just wanted to make her look bad and turn her family against her friends. She doesn't want to speak to him ever again. If he cares about her, please, never speak to her again. Just last week they were not speaking, they were going their separate ways. But he was brought back into her life by that phone call early yesterday morning. Just like that. If he couldn't do anything to help her, he thought her family should know so they could. He was the only one who knew any of the things he told them. She would have gone on lying to them if he hadn't done what he thought was right. Next time she will wind up dead, or in jail, possibly for hurting or killing someone else. These are things that she has not yet thought about; she has much bigger things to worry about at the moment. Defending herself in court, for instance. He does not push the subject and the conversation ends.

The angry man rolls into town with a bag and a grimace and a frown. He takes the bus to 808 and throws money on the table. Give me two for what for please, he whispers sarcastically and with the subtlety of a goose. Whatnow? Asked the operator nice, her tears staining her underwear with optimism. TWO FOR WHATFOR AND ONE EXTRA FOR ME MA. The man turned huffing towards the mirror and inspected his dream. How many do you need? Asked he of himself. Take me back home, to the grounds of the point. Intense discussion, would be pleasant, but doesn't need more of it. I wondered to use the bathroom, no time, no place. If there's anything, talk to David-o. There isn't. The bus is here now, time to stop. Abruptly sitting up, he looked out of the window, the hotel window, the hotel. He pictured Gideon's bible sitting in the drawer next to him and the phone, used by so many. He threw back the covers and switched on the TV. Morning news droned as shower water sprinkled him fresh. Opened suitcase, underpants, shirt and tie, trousers last as the towel hit the floor, a present for the cleaning lady. Cologne and elevator, brief glances and hollow smiles at breakfast. Croissant and jam, coffee with no sugar, taxi, street, smiles again and again elevator. Morning business, the start of a new continuation. The meeting was boring, but he liked the look of the girl taking notes, she was young, hopeful. He put downsizing on the table. The men and women nodded, too much waste, not enough profit. Too many people for the company, time to change, time for a fresh start. It was his fault. Meeting over, de-elevation. A brisk walk through Manhattan, 5 minutes max. Lunch was sandwich, more salad than bread, orange juice to help. Staring out of the window, always windows, always outside. The people were okay. Check phone, free wifi, great invention. Good times. He thrashed at a whiteboard in his mind. Downsize, economize, automate. The world was an engine being ever refined, like the sugar in the packet he didn't use. Next meeting was convincing, at least he was. His speech: Good change, positive change, even pocket change helps. 50th floor, great view, but no one was distracted. Time to sell ideas, this workspace is the fucking bomb, wondering what the fuck he is talking about. Sally was 18 when she dumped him, he was 21. He couldn't figure it out. They were both attending the same college and the last 3 months had been fantastic. He wondered if it was his hair, his height, his face. Sometimes he jokingly asked her to marry him, and she would jokingly reply 'of course'. They lay in the sports fields, smoked weed, talked about the changes in the world, and what they really wanted. They went on the demonstration against the Iraq war, because their friends did, and they really enjoyed the music and the energy of the crowd. It was easy to speculate, to be gods in the making. They would make things right. They would start the world over. No more sadness. If only everyone got high and danced and stayed up late talking about love. His speech was over. Small round of applause, unusual but important to him. He enjoyed the view. Taxi, hotel, hotel bar. He tried networking but it was the wrong crowd. 2 or 3 beers, elevator, hotel room, hotel window. CNN. Pillow. The angry man rolls into town and dispenses his advice to a tramp. Take it out, or you'll lose it. It was late, dogs barking. Trees everywhere, how beautiful. Sally strokes and the blood stained him falls over. Downsizing love, big time. Three cards, three clues, first clue, left. Mother is crying, she burnt her hand on the soup. He can't eat it anymore. He goes upstairs to the funeral and falls into the coffin. Stupid me, always falling. They look over at him, the baby in the box, tears sprinkling him clean, cologne, taxi, meeting, Sally says he's the best businessman in the world, and they toast the man so violently he is pushed back, out through the window, the view comes closer, the trees grow pretty. He lands. Alarm clock, CNN talks. Nothing happened. Last day in NY. Wishing to be home, hop in a taxi. Little input required today. Traffic is snarled. Who gives a fuck? It's hot, open the window. The trees in Central Park. Joggers. A guy plays guitar and he nods his head in approval. No stress today. Taxi arrives, elevator, shake hands, shake smiles. Yesterday's approval lingers as it fades, Others talk, good ideas, we are all good. Tomorrow he's home, tomorrow family, tomorrow dog. He is helping. Takes notes, it's boring to hear others speak. Meeting drags, mind wanders. Sally was a musician, of sorts. She loved Pink Floyd and The Who, and insisted on his silence as she performed her stilted covers. They fucked often, although not as much as he would have liked, although she gave excellent head. Better than the wife. He was sceptical when she offered him the mushrooms, but he couldn't turn down her hope. His stomach churned, as did his mind, and he hated it. She was dancing in his apartment, singing louder than anyone would have liked, as he lay on the floor holding his face tightly. After hours had passed, she was stroking his hair, humming a tune, and he cried. Meeting over, handshakes, smiles, bar full of suits. They looked good, he looked good, we were all good. Etiquette is structure, you know. Stay in the zone, business is him. Fuck it, cocktail bar. He's making them laugh. Everyone is laughing. Huge tip, why not? Taxi, then hotel. Elevator, fumbling with hotel key. Ha! Door opens. CNN. Lay down. Room is spinning. It's world war one. The first one. He's dressed in combat gear, tin helmet, old rifle with a rusty bayonet. It's nighttime and the sky is constantly lit by mortars landing relatively close by. Wounded men and women lay slumped in the mud as he steps over them, his dog is also wounded. His wife. He does not talk to her. Ever more mud sticks to his feet as he meanders through the narrow canal. He shakes hands and smiles politely to his boss, his colleagues, especially the boring ones. He is bleeding. Sally looks down from above, holding her guitar and a raw expression. The sun is shining and people are dancing in a field. Ringing. 7:00am. Pick up. "Good morning Sir, you requested a wake up call for this time." "Thanks" It didn't work.

"You need to stop following me around like this." She seemed angry when she said it. "What do you mean?" I honestly didn't feel like I had done anything wrong, but I was starting to feel dumb, like a young boy being shamed by a parent. It could have been the fact that I was starting to realize that I had been naive, or it could have been the crowd. Most likely it was a mixture of the two. "You've been following me around like a puppy dog all night!" There was anger in her voice and I could hear it now. Clearly. This definitely was not good, but it wasn't over yet, and she continued. "It's been 2 years! It's over, ok? I'm done with it." The only thing I could think to say was, "Well what about last night?" I could almost hear my own pathetic desperation. The reality of the situation was crashing down on me. I want to say that I started running through the entire experience of this relationship, but that wouldn't be quite right. It was more like something I imagine people who are dying experience, when their entire life flashes before their eyes. I didn't like what I was seeing. In this exact moment it became just me and her. I've never quite felt anything like that moment. Life outside of it just ceased to exist. "Last night was a mistake." Those words just rang in my head. Here I am in this moment where everything outside just doesn't exist around me, and all that's filling the void are her words. I thought to myself, "how could I be a mistake? What the hell happened? When did everything change?" I don't remember saying anything, but I guess she could tell from the look of disbelief on my face exactly what I was thinking, because she put out her hand in front of me. One act of complete and definitive proof. It was perfectly still. I couldn't even believe what was I was seeing. In front of me was the girl that I was crazy about, who gave me feelings of love that I've never felt before, holding out her hand that used to shake just from standing near me. It was a gesture that said everything. 10,000 words summed up with a single movement, like sign language that my soul could understand. My mind was still while I was looking at her hand, and slowly the world started seeping back in. I realized where I was, I realized what she was saying. It was over. I finally took my gaze off her hand and looked around. Everyone was looking at me. I realize now that the moment seemed so quiet because everyone was watching this unfold. An audience for the most painful moment of my life. I didn't say a damn thing. What the hell could I say? Even if I tried to explain what I was feeling I don't think I could have. I was feeling heartbreak for the first time in my life. So I left. I just walked away. I walked back into the house, up the stairs, and out the front door. I'm not sure when I started crying, but I did. The whole situation was overwhelming. I just wanted to get the hell out of there, so I got in my car. I quickly realized that I couldn't leave. I was drunk and knew I couldn't drive. I was fucking stuck in the worst place I've ever been. The worst feelings I've ever had were everywhere, and I couldn't get away. I wasn't even in my own city. I was 500km from my own house. I don't remember the details of what came after. I remember crying in the car with my best friend beside me, who was oddly emotionless. I have no idea if he was feeling for me and didn't know how to deal with it, or if he didn't feel much but was there because he felt like he should be. After being in the car for a bit, I remember talking to her, and she was crying too. She was telling me how she didn't mean to make me cry. I don't remember how I got back to Jack's house, where I was staying for the weekend. I remember he didn't come with me. It was me, my brother, and my best friend, John. They kept telling me we should just leave, and drive home right now. I kept telling them it was a bad idea, and I remember yelling at them when they just wouldn't listen to me. They even took my car and filled it up with gas so we could leave right then. I think they got how bad I was feeling, and understood that I really needed to leave, but we didn't. We stayed. Huge mistake. My brother and my friend went and blazed with her the next night. That hurt too. Aren't your friends supposed to hate people you hate? That still seems like bullshit to me. Either way, we hugged and said good-bye at the end of the night. I told her I forgave her so that she wouldn't feel bad, and made some stupid joke. I hate that I did that. Why the hell should I care how she feels? She clearly didn't care how I felt when she broke my heart in middle of a fucking party. As she and I are walking in opposite directions, to never see each other again, what the hell do I decide to do? I fucking looked back. I put the nail in my own god damn coffin, where I'd be buried in self-loathing. She broke my heart. She got to have fun on the last night I was there. She blazed and hung out with my friends. She got the feel ok with it because I told her it was. And I fucking looked back. I left my dignity, and that precious piece of my soul that carries the capacity for trust, behind that night.

The bumblebee that Thomas had been following landed gracefully on one of his mother's daisies. Its feet connected with the center of the flower, and the miniature wings that had carried it there seized their movement. The stem of the daisy bent slightly under the pressure of the tiny creature. It began to sway. A cool breeze blew through the garden, and all of the other flowers swayed with it. The bee could have been a snake charmer, or the conductor of an orchestra. The garden continued to dance for a long time, and eventually Thomas lost interest in the bee. Towards the other side of the garden was an apple tree, big enough to shade him if he lay on his back. Thomas walked over to it, and before lying down, he listened to the sounds around him. There were footsteps on the other side of the hedge, wind through the grass and leaves, and the ever-present sound of his mother weeping. It had started four months ago, on Christmas of 1918. He had awoken earlier than ever, and had run into her bedroom expecting celebration and presents. Instead, she had told him to wait until later for the gifts. He had seen tears on her rosy cheeks, and had heard her crying upstairs while he sat waiting by the tree. Since then, she had never told him what was wrong, and it hadn't seemed to get better. He suspected that it had to do with her husband, Thomas' father - although he wasn't his father, really. The man had left his mother when Thomas was only four years old, and he had never known him. She had told him that his father had gone off to save the world, and would be back again soon. But after four years, he still hadn't returned. His mother stopped crying, and the property was peaceful once again. Thomas tossed aside some twigs, and lay down in the shade. The garden was Thomas' home - he spent more time here than in the house beside which it resided. He came when he was in a good mood, and had spent some of his happiest days here, chasing bumblebees and climbing the oak trees. He also came when things weren't at their best, because it helped him forget about the bad things that sometimes happened. When his mother cried, he came to the garden to keep his mind off of his father. Sometimes, he even liked to pretend that he was the man. If a bird landed on one of his favourite trees, Thomas would clap his hands and yell at it, as if he was the guardian of the house. He had trained himself to be attentive, which is why he sat upright instantly when he heard a noise close by. The man that had been walking outside was now unlocking the gate, and Thomas' heart began to race. Who was this man, and what reason did he have to enter the garden? The stranger stepped through and began walking down the path towards the house. It wasn't anybody that he recognized, and the man seemed to have a limp, as if he had been injured. Thomas stood up to get a better view, but made sure to hide himself behind the massive trunk of the tree. The man was almost at the door, and was picking up his pace. All of the practice that Thomas had had protecting the garden was now shying from his memory, and he only felt a sickening worry that his mother was going to be taken from him too. The man stepped up onto the porch, and opened the door, letting it swing in slowly. He called something, which to Thomas sounded like "Anna", which was his mother's name. There was silence, and then he heard a different sound from his mother than all of the ones he had heard the past winter - she screamed. Thomas felt his heart race faster, if that was possible, and was ready to run at the man. Then he saw his mother rush out the door and embrace him, with the most compassion Thomas had ever seen from her. She was crying again, and so was the man, but Thomas could tell that these were not tears of sorrow. They stood there like that for a long time, and then the wind died down, and everything was silent in the garden. Thomas didn't know who this man was, but he was thankful that his mother was better now. He looked across the yard at the field of daisies, which were pretty, and then at his mother, who was even prettier. She had noticed him standing there, and she was smiling.

In Space there is no weather. I’m thinking this as I begin my descent down to Omilun 31, where, on Earth, there would be wind beating against an airplane window, turbulence rattling the turbines, or rain pattering the pilot’s cockpit, there is only the shake of atmosphere burn. I attach my helmet to my suit and breathe the first pocket of artificial oxygen. It’s new stuff, a hundred per cent pure, still takes a while to get used to; the odds of becoming euphoric are still a little high but once you pop a Sealant Pill right after your first few breaths you should be fine. They say. The atmosphere burn becomes more intense as I strap into my seat. I’m letting the Computer do all the work until atmosphere breach. There is no noise but a low rumble. Five minutes until breach, I bring up the monitor screen and start flicking through the data I received about Omilun 31. It was formerly life-bearing, nothing completely sentient but enough building blocks for amoebic bacteria and non-complex parasites; the air is primarily methane with low-level percentiles of oxygen. That’s fine. Two minutes until breach, I read over my mission file: investigate the frozen land swell on the center peak of Poseidon 15, the planets tallest mountain. Files say that the altitude shouldn’t affect my gear or my oxygen intake; again, that’s fine. Thirty seconds to breach. I ease the throttle of my shuttle, the rumble had turned into a shake now, it’s getting rougher. I make appropriate adjustments to the ships hull, prepping it for the pressure release, I mess this up and the ship collapses on itself in a micro-second. Luckily, this isn’t my first solo-mission. The ship breaches the atmosphere and I’m met by one astoundingly sore bump which rattles my helmet so badly I fear it will puncture for a second. I collect myself, and stare out the cockpit window. Cloud, membranous purple cloud as far as the eye can see. I check the atmosphere gradient, it says there’ll be cloud for the next three kilometers, about 19 seconds. That’s fine. I break the cloud, the surface of Omilun 31 is disappointingly barren and flat. It’s only properly alien characteristic is that the ground has a slight purple sheen as a result of it’s sun being exactly one lightyear too close to the planet. I check the dials, correcting the course of the shuttle for Poseidon 15. The shuttle turns sharply; I notice that there’s no hint of ice or snow anywhere on the continent Poseidon 15 shares. Strange. I message homebase, telling them I will be losing contact once I breach Poseidon 15’s peak. Comms interference is to be expected with the magnetic field a mountain of its size creates. The shuttle tells me I am three hours away from Poseidon 15. That’s fine, I set the shuttle to auto. I lie back, and fall asleep. The shuttle alarm goes off. I wake with a start, checking the hull diagnostics. We’re fine. I look out the cockpit window, my jaw drops. Poseidon 15. To say it is gargantuan would be an understatement. A single pillar of igneous rock, stretching eleven thousand meters into the Omilunian sky. I sit up and make appropriate adjustments and brace myself as the shuttle starts its ascent. I set the shuttle to auto ascent and strap myself out of the chair, I make my way to the back of the ship, prepping my gear. A sample kit. Magma Gear; protective wear that adjust to extreme heat and extreme cold; essential for this mission. I put on the Magma Gear over my spacesuit; better safe than sorry. I check the gun rack; there’s one rifle staring at me. Do I need it? Of course not, there’s no life on this planet, let alone aggressive life. I leave the rifle. The shuttle rings with alarm again, nearly at the peak. I canter back to the cockpit and adjust pressure settings, the comms alarm goes off, I’m on my own now. I switch off comms and stare out the cockpit. Jagged rock formations are shooting by as the ascent becomes more rapid. Nine thousand metres, two thousand to go. I make one last equipment check, after checking four times I slowly let myself realize that I haven’t forgotten anything. There’s still no sign of a freeze or anything resembling a temperature drop. The methane atmosphere prevents this, I’m beginning to wonder if the frozen land mass detected by the researchers was nothing but an anomaly on the computer drive; it’d be a huge waste of resources if it was. Five hundred meters to go until I reach the top. I set a course for the land mass marker on the shuttle diagnostic and make my way to the back of the shuttle. I check my oxygen, I’ve got four hours of breathable air. Should be plenty of time to collect a few samples and return to the shuttle. I punch the handle of the drop-door. It fires with gas and the pistons swell, making the drop door slowly lower open, exposing me to Omilun’s atmosphere for the first time. I quickly cool down as my suit begins to compensate for the heat bump in the atmosphere. I look up at Poseidon, I can see the peak. The shuttle careens over the vertiginous drop, absolute silence. I can hear only my breathing, Omilun’s clouds are still at least another thousand meters over Poseidon. The shuttle swerves gently, bringing me over the top plateau of Poseidon, the peak’s circumference can’t be more than six-hundred meters. The shuttle starts to slow; bringing my attention to the land-mass swelling in the center of Poseidon’s peak plateau. I begin to record data as I make my approach. There is, from what I can tell from here, no discoloration in the surface mass, nothing hinting at any form of tundra or arctic conditions. Strange. The shuttle starts to lower, bringing me to the base of the lands swell. I hit the drop-door handle again, letting it know to open again in exactly four hours to let me back in. I set a timer on my suit, it’ll ring with alarm twenty minutes before I have to be back on the shuttle. Easy. The shuttle comes to a halt and lands gently on the surface of Poseidon. I step off the craft, the land is soft, like sand. The gravity is low, I’m estimating I move about three meters with each step. The land swell in front of me can’t be more than twenty meters at its highest peak. I start collecting data again, the swell is almost conical, non-natural. I crouch down and collect a sample from the base of the land swell, I place it in my sample kit and analyze it. The dirt looks the same as the rest of the planet and yet the sample kit reads that it has a temperature of -6O Degrees Centigrade. Very strange. I step onto the land swell, it feels the same as the rest of the mountain underfoot and yet my Magma gear is telling me it’s adjusting to extreme cold. I begin to get excited, this could be a new anomaly, one not yet seen in geographical space study. I slowly ascend the swell, looking for any hints at discoloration or lack of continuity in the land of the swell from the land of the planet. It is exactly the same. I’m five meters from the top of the swell. I leap to the peak, landing softly on the fine sand. I remove an internal mapping monitor from my sample kit; pressing it into the surface of the land mass peak. I can feel the ground beneath me rumble for a split second as the monitor begins to send out aural waves to map the peak, like a bat uses sonar. I check the monitor, my jaw drops again. The land mass is hollow. I press the monitor into the ground again, mapping again. The same result. The land mass is completely hollow. Another rumble, this time not from my monitor, the ground begins to shake, I look to the shuttle, it is perfectly still. The lands mass is shaking, the mountain is not. I begin to descend the land mass as quickly as possible. I leap down the fine sand, ignoring safety protocols as my Magma Gear has to rapidly adjust to the heat and cold clash. The rumbling is getting progressively violent. I reach the base of the land mass, I look up. I cannot believe what I see. A figure, impossibly tall, impossibly proportioned yet undoubtedly humanoid, standing on the peak of the land mass. The rumbling is deafening. My mouth is agape, the rumbling stops as suddenly as it began. The humanoid is staring at me, it is completely naked, translucent skin, circulatory. It’s mouth opens. I understand every word. A deep, guttural wretch. “Tantalus wakes again. Despair, you have woken him.

Nathan stood in the corner with hunched shoulders. He could see nothing but white floral wallpaper. The walls smelled dusty. It was so unfair. His mom sentenced him to time out for twenty minutes. For twenty minutes he was supposed to stand in that corner and do nothing. His Pokemon, Nosepicker, was just a few points away from leveling up and there he was, enduring a staring contest with dust mites. The worst part was that he didn't even do anything to deserve it. His mom just hated him, she favored his brother. All she ever did was nag at him and make him go to bed early and embarrass him in front of his friends. One time, she planted a note in his lunch that said 'I love you, Sweety Pumpkins! Ask Sarah if she'd like to come over and play!' and there was a winky face. Nathan sat with Sarah at lunch that day and Sarah read that note; he was the laughing stock of the whole school. Life would have been so much better if his mom just disappeared. Life went on for Nathan like that for awhile. He chafed under his mom's curfew. He had to bring any new girlfriend home for a very formal, very uncomfortable dinner with his mom (and no, Sarah never came for dinner). No food upstairs, no TV before homework, no closed doors in the house. High school came and left Nathan with an open tri-fold letter on his desk: 'Congratulations, you have been accepted to the school of your dreams.' Those dreams finally took him far away for a long time. The white floral wallpaper on the walls in the corner is even dustier now. There are small tears in the paper and dents in the wall, though I don't know how they got there. My fingers graze the walls. Time has a way of marking even the most untouchable of places. I hear my brother's voice behind me. “Nathan. It's your turn.” I turn from my corner and walk across the living room into the bedroom hall. Night is falling, and the gloomy twilight from outside is creeping between closed shutters. I don't bother knocking before I enter my mom's room. The nurse looks up from an IV unit and twitches something into place before she leaves. My mom is on the bed looking old. The bitter twilight from outside turns the hills and dips of her face into valleys and canyons. Her hair is a vacant facade, and her pinpoint pupils are seeing somewhere else. I sit in an old white wicker chair next to the bed. “Mom,” I whisper, “I'm here. It's me, Nathan.” A spark flashes in her eyes and my voice drops, I don't want to extinguish it. “How are ya doin'?” “Nathan?” Her voice is the skim off the top of her vocal chords. “Yes, Nathan. That's my son. He's a good boy.” “I know, Mom, I—” “Stubborn too, like me. Stubborn like his mom, but such a good boy.” Nathan wasn't a good boy. Nathan was resentful. He was unappreciative and wished his mom would disappear. He would have been glad to see the woman on the bed in front of me disintegrating into the sheets. I hate Nathan. The twilight is freezing into darkness now. There's a lamp on the nightstand next to me, but I don't want to turn it on. My eyes close. I just want to hear my mom's decomposing voice. “I give him everything, everything... I'd lay my life down for him. He's my angel.” Now my hands search wildly on the bed for my mom's wrist. What angel was Nathan, the brat who waited in the corner until his mom wasted away? My fingers find the wrist; it's a twig waiting to snap. Why, Nathan, did you do this to me? You bitched and you moaned and now I am facing your punishment, this wasted woman, your dying mother. You turned your back in some spiteful waiting game and guess what, you won, you bastard. “I love you, Mom,” I say. It's an echo of someone else's words, a desperate one-liner to flirt with the idea of never seeing her again. My mom turns to me and then I know I've extinguished the spark because she croaks, “That's nice, all very nice.

Have you ever paused and thought, what if I died today? If my ghost stumbled by would you have something to say? These are two questions stuck consuming my lonely night mind. Rife with fear, I fall unto ears and knees and I pray. “God please protect me from the perils of the outside world" But what if the biggest dangers came from inside my own head? I imagine them mobilizing, and arrayed all over my bed. I picture them crawling all over me while I play dead. But then I replied with a move of my own, I silenced them out with my boast and a shout But what if they had managed to hurt the ones I love? They broke down my wails and chanted their own, Meticulously reciting as if they had designed a plan to make me fear. I begged for my mommy and divine intervention to be near. And then they grew. they flew one by one at me with unprecedented speed. The first announced himself to be Greed. Avarice, The consuming avatar of malice had encroached on my space. "Bitch get the fuck out my face." And that was that, his chains corroding to rust. Then came Lust, a disgusting manifestation of the ladies I have come to trust. She pulled out a picture of the girl I’ve come to like and said, “Baby would you like some head, or maybe just bust while I do all the thrusts?” Yes, I admit it, yes I was tempted but then the actual girl sexted and I then repented. “Look slut you are beautiful and you have a thick butt, but that pussy crust just won’t do, and I’d rather have my balls cut off then spend a night with you”. Ha! That’s two down and if I remembered my Catholic studies correctly, there were still five prowling around. “Hello I am the Glutton, I was wondering if you could help me button up? I have this mutton would mine if we muttoned up?" This one was tricky obese and yet he moved quickly Yet I was faster “Damn you’re a disaster, you’re the master, of your own destiny, and here you are trying to get me plastered, You tempt me to indulgence you hefty fat bastard but I will remain stout, take with you your scrapings and get the fuck out!" And on to the next The third test had come and gone, I cheered above the rest, but the battle was afloat I chose to ride on. The fourth was Sloth, procrastination at it’s best, but he crept forth timidly and whispered in my ears... “You’ve got talent boy, but the materials you work with are toys so stop, Sit and chop it up with me, learn what it takes to be lavish excellency." I knew he was right/ the truth hit me like a deer in headlights, “Oh Sloth, the only sin I’ve maybe betrothed, your slights upon my honor are sour and vast, but I refuse to be last. So for now I’ll look to the past, to all the situations where I’ve emerged victorious, It makes me realize that no matter how much effort I put into whatever I do, it’ll still be glorious. and if not that then notorious, I'll command the forces across the whole planet, And I’ll be damned if my figure won’t be solidified in granite.” So he vanished, and in the midst of his departure, All the hatred I have banished, over the years, suddenly reappeared, It was neither man or woman but simply a shade, garbed in all black and brandishing a blade. “I am Wrath, and I come to offer thou revenge A chance to avenge all the harm done against thou, we can cut them open with a mere strike of my plow." Wow, a chance of revenge? I suddenly thought of Miss Kang, or the cops who made me break my bong. But no it was wrong. “My friend, this opportunity is a great on but this I must not allow, I wouldn’t be able to deal with all of the pain caused because of me, I’ll take a knee." That was a close call I still remember how that one freaked me out the most of all. Then he popped up, The douche who stole my buttercup. “What the fuck do you want? You already haunt me whenever you can." Standing up, I rushed at him headfirst. Fueled with Wrath, my breath grew heavy as I battled with Envy, He cut across my path, but I had already done the math, had him fooled, I laughed at him while my head cooled. He was gone. It was five in the morning and still I had no break, struggling for I knew these sins were out to take, my soul, digging holes in my chest, but I was the best and I laughed, reflected, and what came next was something I never expected, Thinking of all the strides I had to make to keep myself vigilant and awake, my body began to quake, my soul began to shake, my heart accepted a new ache, I made a fatal mistake, I cried while my body died and my soul swallowed alive by the tide, brought around by my very own consuming Pride.

His life was going good. For the first time in a long time or at least as long as he could remember he'd stay awake until three or four o'clock and still he could not complain. He didn't mind his job at the retirement home, cleaning toilets and emptying bedpans, taking out garbage bags that undoubtedly held the ghosts of false teeth. The girlfriend he'd held onto for the last two years or so despite her knowing about that cocktail waitress he'd picked up in that seedy bar on Albany St. didn't bother him as much now as she'd used to. He didn't know if she was talking less or if he was paying attention less. To be quite honest he didn't care, as long as things stayed quiet. His apartment wasn't quite so much anymore, probably only because he wasn't there so much anymore. He went to library a lot, trying to study during the day and then emptying the bedpans at night, so. She wished she could say the same about her situation. He barely spoke to her now which could have been because he just didn't care anymore or because the pot always conveniently hit him as soon as she started talking or a combination of the two or neither at all. She had no money left because she'd taken the fall in some big cover up at work (she was a secretary for a dick in a blue and brown suit) and they ended up letting her go and not giving her unemployment which she was fighting but it didn't look good. She'd probably have to move out of her house off of Douglass and maybe possibly move in with him if he ever spoke to her again, which by now she figured was a fifty-fifty shot. She loved him she guessed but it wasn't the same as before that one time she went to surprise him at his apartment on Mine and he wasn't there. She waited for him on his porch for what seemed like forever, but was really only two hours before he came home, his mouth smelling of sour wooden barrels and his clothes like cheap dying flowers. He was too drunk to even lie to her about where he'd been or who with or doing what and he told her everything and she walked away but called him the next day anyway because, hey, what else was she really going to do? That changed things even though she told him she forgave him because really she didn't and she was really starting to resent him, unfairly yes, but resent him she did. He flicked his cigarette on the side of the Folgers coffee can he used as an ashtray. Camels this time. They had been on sale; a dollar fifty off if you bought two packs. He'd bought four. He saved three dollars. He didn't particularly like Camels, the way they tasted or smelled, but he liked saving three dollars he guessed. She wasn't awake yet. She had stayed the night for some reason that he didn't know, something about rent money or something. His cigarette burned his throat. He did not brush his teeth last night because he was too drunk to do so and it didn't matter because he didn't kiss her anymore anyway. Fuck it, he thought. Everything was fuck it now. The truth is that he was quite content emptying the bedpans in the middle of the night and smoking cigarettes he didn't really care for during the day. He was letting her go through all of this, day by day. She maybe didn't know it and he didn't exactly tell her, but anyone watching them on a fifteen inch Technicolor screen could have picked up on that. She woke with a slight headache, the mild pulsing sensations the remnants of a three AM vodka and seltzer. She didn't drink tonic anymore because she had recently learned that it contained, unbeknownst to her, calories. She had slept in the bed alone. He fell asleep drunk on the couch in the living room in front of the TV while it spit out sports scores. He was already awake. She could smell the smoke from his cigarette. Marlboro Reds, she guessed. Those were his favorite. She had bought him a carton for his last birthday, along with some other things. It wasn't a very sunny day but there was enough light for the shadows to come in and out of focus over the flesh colored bedspread. She heard the TV. Possibly a report about last night's baseball game. She couldn't tell. The air conditioner roared. He got up and showered and left without waking her or saying goodbye or anything. He justified it in his head because he had to work the night shift and it was late but really he wouldn't have woken her either way and he knew it. Sometimes this made him sad but not usually and sometimes he didn't even notice it. He walked the eleven blocks to his job in the dark. He wouldn't take a taxi or anything because then he couldn't smoke cigarettes on the way and he liked to get at least two and sometimes three in by the time he got there. He walked through the small doors into the dimly lit receptionist room and immediately walked to the employee only bathroom and vomited up that afternoon's gin. His shift lasted eight and a half hours because he got a half hour meal break on which he smoked four or five cigarettes. He couldn't remember exactly how many. He walked back the eleven blocks and watched as the taxis and busses and cars full of college kids probably smoking pot out of blunts or bowls or joints rode by. He walked up the stairs to the apartment and put his coat on the chair in the kitchen. He looked around on the counter for the remnants of the gin, not even being conscious enough to notice that she was gone. His coat fell off the chair. She packed up her life or at least as much of it as she could find in the forty five minutes she had before he got back into a blue tote bag with some words on it and walked the opposite direction of the way he'd be coming home from work. It crossed her mind if he'd even notice if she walked right by him but on the off chance that he would she did not want to deal with it. She walked until Mine hit College and turned towards the park at the end, near Huntington. She wasn't really going to the park but she kind of had no place else to go, so why not. It was a pretty alright day for the park she figured. She was tired, though. She had not slept well maybe because of the vodka and Red Bull or probably because, well, things sucked. The student center had a bread shop or something that had pretty good coffee so she decided to stop and get one, to go. The place smelled like pastries and sandwiches and, of course, the ever important java that she needed. There were a few people in line ahead of her. The girl in front of her wore sweatpants and a sweatshirt and a backpack, probably filled with notebooks that were probably filled with scribblings that, aside from the day she wrote them, would probably never be read again. The girl eventually left with a medium soy mocha something or other. She was next, and ordered a plain coffee with skim milk because, I mean, it was beach season and even though she didn't go to the beach hardly ever she still liked to pretend to feel good about herself. She dropped her change into the little cup marked "tips for exceptional service" and turned to leave. Then she saw him. His head was pounding from the drinks he apparently had before he went to sleep, although he couldn't really remember ingesting them. His eyes ached and even though it was probably not true at all he attributed it to him having to look at the miserable apartment, so he left. He wanted a bagel so he went down towards the Au Bon Pain in the student center. He'd gone there nearly every day when he was an undergrad at the college but hadn't been there much since mainly because he didn't want to hear the frat guys talking about the one or two or three brunettes or blondes they'd conned into sleeping with them the night before. He simply did not care. He had to wait behind three people, one of them wearing a purple backpack that looked full of not so important books. He immediately pegged her as a philosophy major. They all had a bunch of books with them all the time that no one besides themselves actually cared about. She left with what appeared to be a ridiculous coffee or something. While the girl behind philosophy girl ordered, he thought about what would happen if coffee didn't exist, whether people would miss it much if they were never exposed to it. Then he decided that he didn't care anymore and decided to look at the breads behind the counter of which there were a lot. He was pretty sure that they made up some of these breads because he was pretty sure that no one outside of the people who worked at the shop had ever heard of them. He then decided that he also did not care about that, either. The girl who was ordering what appeared to be a normal cup of coffee turned cup in hand and made her way towards the door. They locked eyes, realizing that no matter what the radio and movies and hallmark commercials told them, everything was always going to be the same and they'd probably have to die to break the cycle.

Aspect: A Short Story As they made their way out of town the sky opened up and a light drizzle began to spatter the windshield. "Awesome. 40 degrees and raining. My kind of day," chirped Joe from the passenger seat. Will shivered. "Hey what's this?" Joe was holding up a letter. Will snatched it from his hand. "Relax! Who do you know in Boston anyway?" Will looked away. He knew Joe worked best when he was left in the dark. The particular farm they were headed to today was owned by a man named Wilson Tucker. Both men had worked odd jobs for him in the past and Will respected him immensely. Mr. Tucker was a widower with a grown son who had no interest in the workings of a farm. He must have been a man of sixty, but he could outwork a man half his age and twice his size. Which just so happened to describe Joe... Joe had a different opinion of the man. "Why are we doing this? I thought you said we were done with the grunt work. This is your big plan?" Will flicked on the radio. There was something comforting in listening to his fellow citizens ripping into the Sox for stumbling through yet another post-season. A tragic story told for the hundredth time. The host was trying to explain to a caller that the pitching was the problem. The caller held the opposing view, that offense was what this team needed, pitching was the least of their concerns. Will considered the conflict. "This guy's an idiot!" squawked Joe. Will had forgotten he was there. "Which one?" Joe furrowed his brow and took a long drag from his cigarette. " The host! How do you expect to win if you don't score?" Will flicked the radio off. He eased on the accelerator as he manuevered up the long road to their destination. Tucker Farm was situated in the shadow of Mt. Brentman, on the North side. When Mr. Tucker bought the land he was led to believe that the state was going to build a new road that would cut through the pass and connect his land with Route 22. When the project was scrapped, people privately laughed at him for buying such a useless plot of land. Mr. Tucker never said a word, he simply built his own road. Perhaps more of a trail than a road. But if you had four wheel drive and weren't afraid of heights, it was an amazing example of determination. Will couldn't help but admire the man. "Son of a bitch!" Will had been day-dreaming with his foot on the gas and hit a particularly bad pot hole at 25mph and the rest of Joe's coffee was now soaking into his lap. Will winced at the sound of metal on metal as he pressed on the brake. "I'm gonna make sure the trucks alright." Joe was wiping the last of his precious coffee from the trucks armrest when Will reappeared at the window. "You know how lucky we are? Come look at this." As the pair approached the alleged pot-hole, it wasn't a pot-hole at all, but a 3-foot wide fissure running straight through the road with a 200 foot drop straight down the side of the mountain. It was invisible until you were almost right on top of it. "Holy shit!" Joe was leaning far out over the abyss to get a better view. The rain was coming down harder now. "Get away from there! Look at it. Its crumbling. If I wasn't going so fast we woulda..." Joe was kicking at the edges of the rift. "Remember the time that miserable old bastard nearly ripped me outta my truck when I broke his 5mph speed limit? Ha! It's a good thing you got a lead foot or we'd be lyin' at the bottom of that hill right now!" Mr. Tucker was what you would call an eccentric man. His land was riddled with projects in various stages of completion or disrepair, depending on your perspective. As a symbol to his unique personality, in the southwest corner, at the top of a small hill overlooking his home-made road, sat an exact replica of his farmhouse at 1/6 scale. Any visitor lucky enough to survive the winding trail was greeted by the welcome sight of a house off in the distance. Upon closing the gap on this mirage and passing by what amounted to a playhouse, they were astonished to find the same view they had seen minutes earlier. Only this time it was no mirage but his actual house, on a hill, off in the distance. If this confounding sense of humor wasnt enough to dissuade you from venturing further, Mr. Tucker assumed you had a good reason to be there. Tucker Farm itself consisted of nothing more than a farmhouse in the middle of a large overgrown field. Nothing had grown there in the 20 odd years since his wife died and his son moved away. But Mr. Tucker was fiercely protective of his land and wouldn't move for anything. He was made several lucrative offers over the years and refused them all. Responding to them all the same way in neatly written cursive. "You can have my land when I'm dead. Until then, please leave me alone." It was well known that his land happened to sit in the path of a proposed super-highway that, if ever approved, would see the owner of the land profit very handsomely. As Will pulled up to the house he wondered how this lonely piece of land could possibly mean that much to anyone. Mr. Tucker was waiting in the doorway when they reached the front steps. "William! How are ya my boy!?" Will reminded Mr. Tucker of his son, he had told him so on several occasions. The junior Tucker was a big shot lawyer down in Boston and didn't have time to tramp through the forest to visit his old man. It had been three years since he had seen his son and you could see the fatherly affection glint in his eyes when he shook Wills hand. "I've been well Mr. Tucker. How are you?" Joe kicked the ground and stared at his feet. "And you! Are you ready to work this time? You're not gonna fall apart on me again are ya?" Fire danced in Joes eyes. "You might wanna worry less about me and more about..." Will cut him off. "So I see you've been busy around here lately. The house looks great, did you paint the whole thing yourself?" Mr. Tucker was glaring at Joe. "Of course I did! I might be old but I'm not useless yet." Joe was about to ask if he meant to leave all those bare patches but he felt Will's eyes on him and bit his tongue. "Well, c'mon in. Have some breakfast before it gets cold." Joe hesitated, looked at Will for the OK, then bolted inside. Mr. Tucker was a gracious host even when the company was being paid to be there and he always made sure his employees were properly fed before starting the workday. It was the only reason Joe even agreed to come on this job. "If you can guarantee me breakfast, I'll go," were his exact words when Will offered. And now he was taking full advantage of his perceived right. Several times Will had to kick him under the table to stop him from taking seconds or thirds. After the meal they stepped out onto the deck overlooking the stacks of timber they were supposed to cut, split and stack. "Well, there you go. Have at it." said Mr. Tucker as he lit his pipe. There was something charming about an old farmer smoking his pipe that made Will smile. "What? You're gonna sit up here and supervise," apparently Joe wasnt convinced of his charm. Will prodded Joe towards the stairs. "You're Goddamn right im gonna supervise! That wood is the only thing that keeps me from freezing come winter. You think I'd let a knucklehead like you be responsible for my well being? Ha!" Joe had stopped listening and was already down the stairs cursing the old man with every foul word he could think of. "Will, you're gonna watch him right? I have to go into town for awhile and I don't need him cutting his arm off or God knows what else while I'm gone. I can trust you right?" Will could feel the weight in his words as they came out. I can trust you right? Will felt his pulse quicken as if this was the most important question he'd ever been asked. "Of course. It'll be fine. No need to worry." The words came out automatically. "Will, can I tell you something?" Will felt faint. "I'm going through with it. I'm gonna sell this place. I'm not letting my son get his hands on it, the greedy bastard. It's too bad he's not more like you." Several thoughts ran through Will's head. Mr. Tucker looked up at the clouds roiling overhead and let out a low whistle. "It's gonna get worse before it gets better. How was the road coming in?" Will pondered the question and a small smile began to show at the corner of his mouth. " A bit treacherous, just remember to take it slow." He knew Mr. Tucker would appreciate the humor.

I never told this story to anyone. Frankly, nobody would believe me. I wouldn't believe me either. I mean I'm in New York so people just automatically assume you're full of shit. Hell, I'm on the internet so there's probably someone out there thinking the same thing. But this happened.... I had a dog named Ares. He wasn't the biggest dog but he was very protective of me. He would always lie down in front of me when I played games or read a book. I remember when I walked him, he would bark at approaching strangers. Seriously, he would bark at any approaching stranger until I told him to calm down. Granted, I didn't live in the nicest of neighborhoods so in hindsight I suppose some good may have come from it, but I digress. Ares could be hostile but he was friendly I swear. If I approved you and he got to know your scent, he would let you pet him and he would lick your hand. He would even wake me up by licking my face. Actually it was a bit annoying but I figured that's how he showed affection so I didn't mind much. Anyway, I was 13 at the time. I just started High School and I was getting picked on. Let's just say that I was less than fit although that would be an understatement. Hell, I was probably close to 200 lbs at 5'2. That said, my hefty stature made me the target of bullying and frankly, there was nothing I could really do about it. One of the bullies even lived pretty close to me so he would sometimes bother me until I got home, which was about a 15 minute walk from the train station. You know the type, though, I'm sure; seems like the perfect gentlemen around adults but an ass otherwise. I mean I could start working out and stuff but that would have taken quite a while. That said, I did have some friends. Well one day, two of my friends came over to my place and we started playing Halo. Just a couple of guys hanging out, playing Halo, dicking around, trash talking each other and talking about random shit. One of the things that came up was people bullying me. One of my friends told me to just ignore it which I've been doing but the other one told me to sick Ares on them. Well Ares just kind of looked at me, as if wondering why his name was said. I told him not to worry and just pet him and that was the end of that. So fast forward a little bit and it's winter. New York winters suck. Especially when there's snow. Everything turns to slush. This year, there was a fair amount of snow so everything was particularly gross. Honestly I hate going outside when the out when it's like that but I had to walk Ares so I went out. Apparently so did my bully. I decided to pretend not to see him and turned to walk in the other direction. The thing is, he saw me. So he called out to me and when I didn't respond, he threw an ice ball at the back of my head. I flinched. Ares lost it. He broke out of his leash and jumped at the guy. The guy, he jetted across the street just as the lights turned. Ares, he wasn't so lucky. When he was halfway across the street, Ares got hit by a car and died shortly thereafter. My bully? He left the scene. I suppose he ran back home but I'm not sure. I just watched over Ares, crying as he died. We buried Ares the next day in our back yard along with his favorite toys. Now that I think about it, I have no idea if that's actually legal but whatever. I wanted him there. He would always be family to me. I stayed home from school for the next few days to mourn. Well when I went back, my bully he bothered me about it. About how I was unfit to own a pet. That Ares died because of my incompetence. That was when I snapped. I lunged at him and punched him the face. Heh... that's what I wish I did. I couldn't do anything about it. The guy was bigger than me, stronger. I... I was a coward. Ares was dead and I could not do anything for him. On some level, I guess I thought he was right. Apparently, Ares thought differently. My bully never made it home. In one of the three blocks between home and the train station. My bully was apparently mauled to death by what they said looked like some wild dog. I didn't believe that shit. That wasn't the greatest neighborhood but I don't remember seeing any wild dogs here and I lived there for most of my life. That night, I sat on my bed and asked out loud if it was Ares. There was no response. I figured as much. The supernatural seems totally faulty of course. I went to sleep thinking about Ares. That night, I dreamed a very vivid dream. I was walking Ares again, my dear friend. God I miss him. It's a simple dream, just us walking down the usual routes. I woke up that day with my face covered in what felt like dog slobber. I think that was Ares' way of just acknowledging that it was him. I have no proof. But the other bullies stopped bullying me. I have no idea why. I just assumed that was because one of their group died. Recently though, I found out from one of my friends, for some reason they started calling me the creepy dog guy. I don't know. But I love Ares.

Okay, Asshole: A Story of Hate and Romance (c) I remember the first time I met John. He was a nice man, good looking too. Nothing exceptional, but there was a certain and undeniable magnetism I felt towards him. My name is Slim Shady, and I’m an immortal- you see, John was no man. He was a werewolf and a vampire, at the same time, they call his kind a werepire. But this werepire, I wanted to fuck him. I’m not a woman, but John got me wet. Wet all over my long and luscious penis. I could split rocks with my shaft, at least around John. Like Moses and Abraham, we loved to get together and “split the red sea” or “burn some bushes”. Anyways, I met John at the subway station, but he was with another man. This man was the manager at the Subway Shop (R) in the subway station. John was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt that day, and he was sweating like a golden Adonis. Like the King Midas, anything he touched turn to gold - and I just wanted him to touch me, I wanted him to want me. I wanted him, badly. I wanted him so much it made me sad, lee. You see Lee was my best friend, he had a small tree. And true to a tree, it was thick and brown - but harder is not always better (bark) Lee was a Jewish man, his nose made it apparent, he looked like a shark. Now, you must understand, I am no Hitler - but I get it. I forgot about John and I wanted lee’s nose inside my shit. I needed that shit, he made me become immensely aroused within my loins and penis Did you know that the end of your elbow is called a wenis? The body amazes, the mind is amazed, and the cock wants no more than to fuck (lee) That was the poem I wrote for John, when I showed it to John, he took my virginity right then and there. My cherry was pooped, meaning that it was *exhausted* after John. It was the most intimate moment of my life, but what was to happen next would rip my heart out and then fuck it right in front of me. I had hoped it would be as intimate as my sexual birthing from the wombs of my mother, but his betrayal shriveled my penis like a nipple in the cold. John said he loved me, but he didn’t, he loved gigolos. I loved them too, but never as much as John could. You see, my poem was about my favorite gigolo, Lee, John ran off with Lee and left me to die alone. There was only one things left to say, “Okay, asshole.” lol m.

Souls Covering Up He comes home. Takes off his suit. It’s much too big on him. It’s all tarnished and dusty from the day. What a mess. Someone should clean it, no? It’s a damn good suit anyway. Fancy embroidery of golden strings, stylish accessories, and expensive decorations. Everyone notices the suit. No choice. So bright. Compliments. Lots of compliments. Lots of envy. So much envy. Envy. They’re threatened. Too bad. This suit was hard earned. It’s different. Few have one like it. He dusts it off. Dust comes off easy. There are creases. The fabric is strained, resilient. Been through a lot. Ready for more. He lounges. Gray couch, sleek apartment. Damn, this house is quiet. I’m small and insignificant. Everyone is the same size. I can see by the body parts not covered by their suits. They are neither larger nor smaller. That suit used to look larger on me than it does today. I guess it feels larger than it is. I wish I didn’t have to take it off though, it really is such a nice suit. How do everyone else’s suits fit so well on them? It’s ok, my suit’s appearance makes up for the ill fit, people don’t notice. I’ll grow into it eventually. I did just notice that it feels bigger than it actually is. I’m already growing. I do feel alone. Where is everyone? Six billion suits walking around this rock, and I’m alone? How is this possible? If i remember correctly, their suits weren’t that much smaller than mine. I guess they just weren’t as adorned, that’s why they didn’t stick out just as much. No, No; the suits were definitely as large as mine. I do miss the rainbow. I’m alone here, and six billion are all gray; there is but one that is colorful. There are a few that are a brilliant white, and they beam light. But they are not rainbow. Ah, well... I’ll just be alone here for now. It’s difficult beyond belief to travel these days. Suddenly, the man hears a knock at his door. He is very pleasantly surprised and drifts off of the gray couch and levitates toward the door. He seldom heard knocking anymore, as people generally used the portal that links the city’s points of interest to residential areas and allows for ease of travel. Within the city, of course. Travel out of the city was, unfortunately, impossible at the moment. It was a great delight to get a knock on the door. It meant an unexpected visitor. It meant a familiar face or an unfamiliar stranger that would prove to be an interesting character. He loved people visiting. With a jolt, the man realized that he was fluttering to the door all naked! He brings his clean suit back from the hanger in the closet. He notes how strange it is putting it on, as it feels much tighter than it did when he took it off. He glances in his mirror. In front of a backdrop of his sleek, stylized gray apartment stands a beaming man in a suit that fits perfectly. He looks over himself, admiring just how gorgeous the suit is. Before answering the door, in light of the looming presence of the ever more excited knocking coming from the door, the man glances out of the window. He remarks to himself aloud just how strange it is. He swears that he remembered that the other people’s suits fit perfectly. What he saw outside were small people in large suits. He considered his own deeply held belief that all people are the same size. Strange, of course, that just minutes ago he remembered seeing others in suits that fit better. Ah, well that is all irrelevant for him. He flutters to the door, having hastily punched in a few commands to the controls of his apartment to put on tea. He opens the door, and his suit splits at the seams and falls off. This all happens so fast that by the time the rainbow flies into his apartment, he is once again naked. Feeling embarrassed, the man averts his gaze and glances into the mirror. Two souls locked in an embrace. An untrained eye would not spot that they were naked, and the man only knew because he felt his suit burst and fall off. To an unsuspecting eye, these were two fully clothed, larger than average people in a loving embrace. Having seen how appearances can fool, the man has a realization. He sees that he and the rainbow appear fully dressed, just like their suits look on the outside but they are actually bare. Their unclothed appearance looks just as if they were wearing suits. He feels no loneliness anymore. I find this serenity odd. No thoughts buzzing. I feel a deep contentment. That’s interesting, my apartment is not actually gray, it is colorful! But it’s not the style! It’s ok, I like this better! The color is coming from us! My gosh, how I do feel warm inside, even without a suit on. It was too small, anyways. And how realistic my outer appearance looks, just like the suit. Just like that body. How many other souls are naked out there? How many other souls don’t wear suits? I, a soul, look just like a suit, the body. I look even more real, if possible. My beautiful rainbow is here. I cannot believe it! At last! I find this serenity blissful! Outside. Men and women outside. Souls dressed in suits. Suits much too big. Everyone. If only their suits fit. Just souls donning suits. Souls donning human bodies. Souls covering up.

I had an interesting experience once. About 5 years ago, when I was still cleaning pools, I got the call to clean a pool in some mansion in a really rich area of the city I live in. So I drove up there that Thursday morning. It was a very hot day, as we were in the middle of summer, and it was torture having to clean these pools when all I wanted to do was just swim in them. So I get to the right address, park my van, and then walk up to the door. I ring the bell and I get no response. I ring it twice. I ring it three times. Finally I hear someone call out "Coming", and so I take a step back to admire the house while I'm waiting. Gosh it was a rich house. The flipping front door was made out of mohagony. My thoughts are interrupted as I hear the front door open. I step forward, out of the sun, so that I can see who I'm working for today. Wow. I still remember the feeling of being speechless, as if my tongue had been swallowed by my own throat. Standing before was a woman. Not just any old or ugly woman. NO. This one was a babe. She was wearing those short shorts that just hugged her butt, and showing off her long smooth legs. Above her butt she was wearing a shirt that had been tied up so that it was exposing a midriff, her tanned tummy looking firm and sexy. And above her hot tummy? Woah, very good looking breasts that were being shown enough that you could get a good look at them, but concealing enough so that some was still left up to the imagination. To top it all off, her face. With hair as black as a moonless night, and eyes as blue as the pearly ocean, I felt like I could stare at her for an eternity. She seemed like she was some goddess, and here I was staring at her. "Hello?..." My thoughts are interrupted as she speaks, making me realise that I'd been staring. "Yes. Hello. My name is John Smith and I'm here to clean the pool." I said while reaching out for a handshake. "Brilliant" She grasped my hand in a firm handshake. "Please come in and I'll let you get to work." "Thanks" She showed me to the pool, and then went back into the mansion she probably called home as I started cleaning. Half an hour passed without a single sight of her, even though I was definitely keeping my eye out on her. Half an hour turned into an hour. Still no sign. And then, I heard a sliding door roll back. And there she was. Dressed just as before, except for that she was wearing a pair of black sunglasses that framed her face and complemented her dark hair beautifully. In her hand she appeared to be carrying what looked like a bottle of suntan lotion. Intrigued, I kept on working, but making sure that I could always see her out of the corner of my eye. She proceeded to sit down on a beach chair that was close to the pool, and started to apply suntan lotion all over her gorgeous figure. I could barely concentrate on my work as this gorgeous woman rubbed that lotion over her legs than her midriff than shoulders and finally face. I felt my body respond, and my pants grew tighter as a boner began to grow. She seemed to be having trouble getting lotion onto her back though. She tried several times to rub it in, but each time she failed. It was at this time I was started to sincerely contemplate going over there and offering to help her. My mind waged back and forth, part of me already tired and just wanting to get back home. However the choice ended up not being mine "Excuse me" I heard. I turned, hoping that she was talking to me. "Hi John. I was wondering if you could just help me for a sec, rub this suntan lotion on my back?" she said, reaching my ears as a beautiful melody. "Sure" I called back, setting my equipment down as I walked over to where she was lying down. "The bottle of suntan lotion is just next to my chair, if you could please rub it in on my back" she cooed, while taking off her shirt, exposing a black bra beneath it. She layed down on the chair, face first so that I could rub it into her back. But I wasn't looking at her back. I was looking at her butt. Her glorious, firm butt that was just every slightly poking out, inviting me to grab each cheek in my hands. "John?" she asked "Sorry" I mumbled as I quickly squirted some lotion into my hands "Just had some diffuculty with the bottle" "Haha" she softly chuckled "Sure you were" Not knowing what to say to that as a response, I just got straight into applying the lotion onto her back. My hands caressed her body, rubbing it into every bit of open skin that I could find. I was so glad that I had taken that massaging course years ago...I knew it would pay off one day. Minutes passed and I just kept going. What started out as a simple application of suntan lotion turned into a lenghty massage. I started to feel her become responsive to my touch. A slight squirm there and little sigh of pleasure here. I could tell that I was beginning to make her aroused. Not wanting to waste this once of lifetime opportunity, I decided that I'd take it a bit further. I began to massage the bottom of her feet, then up to her ankles. From there I worked up to the knees and from there to the thighs. Her skin was so soft to the touch, her legs so tanned and sexy, that I felt my boner grow even bigger. My head began to swim with the arousement that was beginning to a hold of me. But I didn't stop. My massaging hands explored ever further up her legs, until I reached her upper thigh, just where her short shorts came to a stop. As I kept massaging, I could hear that she was trying to stifle her sighs and groans of pleasure as my hands did their job. Suddenly, not being able to take resist the enticement of her arousal any longer, she quickly sat up. My heart sank. I had come so close, only to what seemed to be rejected. However I was wrong. She leaned forward and enveloped my lips in her lips, my mouth in her mouth. Our tongues touched and danced with one another as we kissed one another with a desperation that only seperated lovers could know. I broke the kiss to get a breath of fresh air. My heart raced with adrenaline. And as we looked into one another's eyes, it became too much, and we resumed kissing one another. My lips left hers, and trailed down her body, softly carressing her neck, then her shoulders, and finally the breasts. Her breathing quickened as she started to moan my name. "John.... John... John" she gasped breathlessly "Thank you. Thank you so much.." "Your welcome" I whispered in her ear "Get rea-" She raised her finger to my lips, silencing me with a single action. "Thank you" she said "for getting me horney for when my husband comes home. He will be so happy with me." She stood up, and smiled at me. "Maybe next time" she uttered. And with that she walked across the coutyard and back into the house, closing the sliding door behind her.

<--better formatted version) In her youth, she was a new-age Helen of Troy. Men launched thousands of gifts in her name and clashed with one another for the right to her supple hands and soft mind. Then one day, in the midst of all the courtship, her heart was stolen right off the pedestal that the suitors had sculpted for it. She followed the thief as he led her to an empty beach in the early hours of the sun. They walked along the shore as the water played like a puppy, coming up, wetting their toes, and then scurrying away. Hand in hand, down the beach they left nothing but footprints and laughter. That day, the gentlemen stopped calling and the gifts stopped sailing in. The good times with him were but a front. She soon danced on strings that hung from his fingers, and her heart remained forever lost to him as he beat his own brand of love into it. Tonight was a long time coming. She stared out the window with eyes that hungered for her husband’s creased face and skin that longed for his calloused hands. The town below held her transfixed with its many flashing lights, rolling hills of blacktop, and steel drones that hummed across them. Out there, somewhere, her husband’s hands were scratching another woman’s skin. The more she looked down at the town the more its colors disappeared, until its dazzling lights were only blinking shades of gray. Her soul ached under the burdens that she alone had to carry, for her atlas had left. He left her a hollow, shivering woman. His parting gifts to her were a bruised eyelid, red cheeks, and a split lower lip. Her stomach was knotted with emptiness. The hunger had been eating at her all day. It chewed into her withered spirit in an attempt to meet its needs, but its desires were ignored. She wanted to sleep. She craved it. It was a sure escape from the hopelessness, but insomnia’s hold on her was six days strong, and release wouldn’t be coming by way of patience. Her fragile frame floated from moonlit window and into dark bathroom. Silk, padded soles pressed firmly upon frozen tile, rose, then touched again and she met her silhouette in the vanity mirror. Her eyes saw themselves for a split second before she cast her glance downward. Upon the sink was her husband’s stainless steal straight razor with the words, “Down the road” etched into its ebony handle. It was the only possession of his that remained in the house. It soaked up scattered silver moonlight and glimmered like a star. It was a beacon of eternal respite. She knew why he left it here. It all made sense to her now. He wasn’t coming back. Water came down from calcium crusted showerhead as she turned the knob until it went no further. Her turquoise dress fell from her like a feather, and it caressed her slender body as it glided to the floor. She grabbed the beacon from the counter and stepped under the falling water. It stung her frigid flesh and cascaded over the pores of her skin. Her head rested against the tile wall as she lay in the tub. It was uncomfortable, but now wasn’t the time for comfort. The water beat her flesh as she lay in the darkness. Each drop that struck her exploded into a thousand sparkling jewels that rode the curves of her figure until they met white porcelain and slid down brass drain. She looked at the weaving veins and arteries of her forearms. They were like the many streets of a busy city; roaring and full of life. With straight razor in hand, down the road she went. These long, straight lines were a final gift from her husband. The razor leapt from her palm onto the tile below and tumbled across it flinging drops of crimson as it went. Red curtains hung from her arms as she leaned forward to increase the water’s temperature. With her head back against the wall she stared into the swirling steam above. Her arms did the crying that her eyes would not do, and her sorrow slipped from her along with her life.

“Hello Superman, it’s so nice to see you” the sultry, young woman said with a smirk. “You’ve been a naughty girl and I think you’re going to have to spend 3-5 years in timeout.” Superman said confidently, “If you surrender right now and return the jewels and artwork, I’ll put in a good word for you. You may not even have to go to jail.” I’m sorry Superman, but I think you have it all wrong. Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Candy and I’m just a sweet, innocent girl. I did recently acquire some jewelry and artwork, but I can assure you that they were given to me as gifts” Candy didn’t look very innocent. She was a drop-dead gorgeous 20-something year old girl wearing a skimpy, skin-tight outfit that left little to the imagination. She had a seemingly endless amount of cleavage and it was taking superhuman strength for superman to not use his x-ray vision right now. She was undeniably sexy, everything about her. Her voice, her eyes, her lips, the way she stood there staring at superman. She was too confident for a criminal that had just been caught. Superman was on guard unsure if this woman had some powers that he wasn’t aware of. “…Huh???” Superman replied confused. He realized he was spacing out. Candy was staring at his crotch and smiling. A slight boner was starting to form and he couldn’t fight it. He started walking and turned to hide his erection. He reached down and shifted his penis up as fast as he could. He was pretty sure it was fast enough that the human eye couldn’t see it. “I said, would you like a drink?” she had a bottle of wine and two glasses in front of her. She was pouring herself a healthy serving. “No thanks ma’am, I don’t drink. I’m just here for the paintings and the precious jewels.” “Alright, I’ll bring them to you, but as I said, they were gifts” “They were reported stolen. The manager and security guard witnessed you stealing them and sent me here. You apparently even already posted them for sale on your e-bay account” Superman stated. “Of course they told you that you dummy” she said giggling “that’s what I told them to tell you.” “You told them to tell me that?” Superman said with a puzzled look on his face. “Yes, that way I could be sure to get you here. I have plans for you Superman. Stay right here, I’m gonna go get the jewels and paintings for you. Make yourself comfortable, I’ll be right back.” She walked into her room and closed the door. Normally Superman wouldn’t allow a criminal out of his site, but this girl had him so off balance. Her door opened back up and she emerged. She had changed into a nightgown that opened in the front. She also had a large crystal on a necklace snuggled safely in her cleavage. “Everything you’re looking for is on the bed. I hope you don’t mind, I decided to slip into something a little bit more comfortable. Are you sure I can’t interest you in a drink, or perhaps something else?” once again she was staring at his crotch and smiling. Just as he had been able to get his erection under control, it woke back up and was ready for action. Superman once again turned and made a quick adjustment and then walked over to the bed to survey the loot. Everything appeared to be there. He turned to her and she dropped her nightgown. She was in nothing but black lingerie and that large necklace. He took a quick glance at her breasts, but not quick enough to go undetected. Candy caught him looking and smiled “I see you’ve noticed my necklace. I can assure you that this is not from the museum. This is a family heirloom and it was given to me by my grandmother.” “Of course, yes, I was looking at the necklace. I was going to ask you about that. It’s beautiful.” Superman did his best to make it sound believable that he wasn’t looking at her massive tits. “This is my favorite necklace, I wear it all the time. My grandmother used to be in the circus and she used this necklace to tell people their futures.” Candy took the necklace off, so that Superman could take a better look. “Something interesting about this necklace, is that apparently there’s a message written in the middle of the crystal and you can only read it if the crystal is spinning. I always wanted to know what it said, but it’s too small for me to read. Maybe you’ll be able to see it” Candy held the crystal close up to Superman’s eyes and slowly started to spin it. “I think the letters are in the very middle of the crystal, just look deep into it and tell me if you can see anything.” Candy said softly as she continued to spin the crystal. Superman could see something small in the crystal, but it was difficult to read a moving object. “Focus on the crystal Superman, try to block out everything else, I’ll see if I can help you find it with my voice.” Candy had a really nice voice, so soft and sexy. Superman continued to listen as he tried to read the message. He did his best to block out everything else as she had asked him to. “Continue to focus on my voice and the crystal Superman, it would really please me if you could tell me what the crystal says. If you tell me what it says, maybe I can even tell you your future. I know your eyes are getting tired, but do your best to keep them open.” Superman’s eyes were tired, but he was going to keep on looking. He really wanted to see that message so that he could impress Candy. “You’re so sleepy and you’re horny and I like that Superman. I’m horny too.” Superman’s heart raced a little bit when she said he was horny. He wasn’t comfortable with that kind of conversation and normally that would have caused him to stop and change the subject right there, but Candy’s voice was so sweet and he felt really good right now. “Superman, I think I see this lingerie coming off of me in your future, if you can just read that message.” Superman knew that he definitely had to read the crystal now. He had never been this horny in his entire life and he wanted Candy badly. “Superman, you’re watching the crystal and you’re listening to my voice and your eyes are getting so sleepy. You just can’t keep them open anymore. Feel your body going limp. Feel it start at your toes and slowly move its way up your body with every breath” Superman took a breath in and out and everything below his knees was loose and limp and tingly. He took another breath and he was limp from the waist down. A few more breaths and he was completely loose and limp from the neck down. “You’re so sleepy right now Superman. Your whole body is completely relaxed and completely limp. I’m going to count down from 10 to 1 and as I get to one you will simply not be able to keep your eyes open anymore. It will just be too hard. But don’t worry, you will still be able to listen to my voice as I help you read the crystal. 10, 9…8….7……6……..5………..4……….…3….……….2…….……….1 snap and you’re asleep.” She snapped her fingers and sent Superman into a deep, peaceful slumber. “Continue to fall deeper and deeper as you listen to my voice. Your whole body is completely limp, except for your cock. Your cock is as hard as a rock, as hard as…steel.” Superman had a slight smile on his face as he was lying on Candy’s bed and pitching a super-tent. “I want you to picture the crystal in your mind’s eye. Look at the crystal and continue to see it spinning as I speak to you. Continue to focus on that crystal and fall deeper and deeper. You can now start to make out a message on the crystal. The message is right there and it says ‘O-B-E-Y’. The crystal says obey and as you read the message you can feel the message entering your body. You can’t control it, but you don’t want to because it just feels so good. The message is telling you to obey and you must obey. You must obey me Superman. Your mind is blank, you have no ability to think for yourself, but you don’t want to think. You want me to think for you because it just feels so good. Repeat after me Superman.” “I must obey” Candy said. “I must obey” Superman repeated “I must obey Candy” Candy said. “I must obey Candy” Superman repeated “I will believe anything that Candy tells me. I will follow any of her commands, no matter what she tells me to do.” Candy said “I will believe anything that Candy tells me. I will follow any of her commands, no matter what she tells me to do.” Superman repeated. Candy continued to deepen Superman and continued to make him repeat after her. She wanted to make sure that this trance was so deep that the man of steel would have no chance or desire to ever escape. She was now ready to take her new toy for a test drive. She ordered him to stand up and he complied without resistance. “OK Superman, let’s see what you’re packing, lose the clothes” He had a great body. His penis was nice and bigger than average, but not porn sized like Candy had hoped. “Oh well, I suppose this will do.” Candy said as she slipped her clothes off and pushed Superman back onto the bed. She commanded Superman to fuck her and he did. The sex was good, but Superman only lasted about 5 minutes. She got off of him somewhat disappointed, but within a minute she saw his penis get hard again. She realized that his amazing powers of healing also gave him amazing powers of cum recovery. She asked him how often he pleasured himself and he replied that he used to masturbate 50-100 times per day as a teenager, but now he only did it about 25 times per day. She climbed back on top and he was able to last long enough to satisfy her this time. Candy slid off Superman. She asked him several questions and found out all of his dark secrets including that he was actually nerdy reporter Clark Kent and that he had only ever had 2 sexual partners. She had him put the top half of his suit back on and then she commanded him to lay back down on the bed. He did as he was commanded. “Superman, I want you to do something for me, and if you do it, it will please me greatly. And there’s nothing you want more than to please me. You’re very horny again, uncontrollably horny, you just can’t help but touch yourself. Superman’s hands began to wander down to his groin. Open your eyes Superman and gaze at my body as you touch yourself.” Candy was naked and holding a camera. She ever so slightly giggled her perky breasts and it got Superman even more excited. “I want you to masturbate for me slave, and when you cum, I want you to cum on your face and into your mouth. Try to get as much of your cum as you can into your mouth. As you masturbate, I want you to repeat over and over again that your real identity is Clark Kent and that you love little boys. You will do this for me right now.” Candy hit record and Superman did as he was told. “My real identity is Clark Kent and I love little boys” he repeated as he masturbated feverishly. He was mid-sentence as he gagged on some of his cum. There was cum on his cheeks and chin and in his eyes. It was a large load that he had just spooged on himself and Candy was laughing maniacally. She commanded Superman to turn over onto his stomach, put his face down, and his ass up. With the camera still on, she fucked him in the ass with a strap-on until he came into a cup that she had given him. He then drank the cum because that’s what he had been commanded to do. And he was a good slave. Without washing the strap-on, she shoved it straight into his mouth and throat-fucked him as he gagged and stroked his cock. He came one more time and dumped the cup over his head. Candy turned the camera off. “OK slave, I need you to return the artwork and jewels and tell them that Lois Lane was actually the one who stole everything. I have already hypnotized the manager and security guard to corroborate your story. After that, I have a list for you. You will steal all of these things for me and bring it to my secret hideout listed at the bottom of the paper. I command you to do this slave, you must obey me.” She placed the crystal in front of the eyes and deepened his trance a little bit more. She couldn’t afford to have anything go wrong now. “When you are done you will return here and I will reward you.” She gave the tip of his penis a little kiss and then handed him in clothes. Superman did everything he was told. He had stolen money, jewels, artwork, weapons, launch codes, a couple of politicians and the children of some billionaires and world leaders. They were all safe and secure at Candy’s hideout. He returned to Candy and she was there waiting for him, once again in that little nightgown that opened in the front. “Take off your clothes slave” She climbed on top of him one more time and fucked him until she had orgasmed. She deepened his trance one more time sending him into the deepest, most blissful sleep he had ever experienced. Candy then turned on the camera. She cuffed his hands behind his back and put a ballgag in his mouth. She pulled out a new strap-on. This one was special and it started glowing as it got near Superman. This was a kryptonite strap-on. She slid it into her slave’s ass. She started off slowly and then began to fuck him harder and deeper. She could see blood and shit spilling from his ass, but his cock was still as hard as steel. She could feel his body weakening as continued to fuck him. His knees gave out and he collapsed on the bed. She rolled him over and removed the ballgag. “please, mistress” he pleaded, half-asleep, no longer a smile on his face. “Sorry Superman, I would love to keep you around, but I can’t keep you hypnotized forever. Once you're gone, no one can stop me.” He opened his eyes slightly and she held the crystal up to his eyes as she slowly spun it “Open your mouth slave” He obeyed. She shoved the bloody strap-on into his throat and fucked him until he stopped breathing.

Cautiously, he sets his foot down in front of him, staring. He hears muffled footfalls approaching quickly; still he stares. He knows what is to come; what is coming for him. And yet he stares. Silently, calmly. He picks up his other foot and, balancing on the one already placed, sets it down. The footsteps are getting closer. He feels his blood beginning to pump faster, his heart beginning to race. He clenches his fist, telling himself to gain control. His heart slows down, the panic recedes. He begins to speed up his pace, though no one other than him would be able to tell. The footfalls almost come to a halt. ‘Curious, are we?’, he thinks to himself. He pretends not to notice. He turns out of the alley and onto the sidewalk, to what would normally be a busy street, but for some reason was all but deserted. A few stragglers here and there staggered their way to their destination, fumbling around as if they had just learned to walk. He heard the footsteps stop at the entrance to the alley. ‘Against the wall, looking around the corner. So predictable.’ As he walks, he takes a closer look at the stragglers faces; they seemed…wrong. He cleaned off his glasses with his handkerchief and calmly rested them on the bridge of his nose. He then realized, they have no eyes. Or nostrils, or a mouth. There were the indentations that indicated where they would be, but yet there were none there. His heart skipped a beat. The footsteps drew nearer. Before he could grant panic any passage, he clenched his fist, saying, ‘Get control of yourself, dammit! It’ll be over soon…I hope.’ The footsteps drew nearer. The Faceless Ones, he recalled their name from some distant memory, began to slow their shambling. They became more controlled, and in doing so, noticed him. He continued walking, unaffected. Seemingly so. The footfalls came more quickly, heavily. Their owner was beginning to speed up his pace. The Faceless Ones turned their heads towards him. Their “eyes” fell upon the back of his head, his neck quickly relaying the information to his senses. He stopped moving. He stood there, silently. His hair, short and cropped, combed to the side, was slightly, ever-so-slightly, out of place from the wind. His suit freshly cleaned and pressed. He almost looked like he was modeling for something, just lacking the girl. The footsteps drew nearer, faster. The Faceless Ones were all staring, and began to advance towards him. He was still facing the other direction. The footsteps were right behind him, no more than two meters away, when they stopped. He waited for the Faceless Ones to make their way towards him, when he turned. He turned around, screaming, “LEAVE ME ALONE! I JUST WANT TO BE LEFT A—” The street was bustling. People had created a circle around him, in shock at his exclamation. Right where the owner of the footsteps would have been, was a child, cowering in fear. He quickly looked around, taking notice of the bright sun, speeding cars, and faces. He straightened his jacket, pushed his hand through his hair, took out his wallet and handed the girl a twenty-dollar bill, and walked off. With a sigh, he turned the corner, away from those prying, misunderstanding eyes.

(1) "Well." "Do ya like it sweetie? Do ya?" The father pleads. "It will be a fun thing for you to practice on and get good at. Maybe one day, you'll be an expert!" The mother sells, but her heart is not in it. The anxious parents lean over the unwrapped present, the muscles on their faces contorted into taut smiles. What is that saying? It takes 21 muscles to frown but only 2 to smile? The muscular faces of Elise's parents are evidence that the saying is an oversimplification. How tight do the drums stretch? Elise looked at the taut corners of her mother's mouth. So close to tearing. Will it feel like a paper cut, or worse? Of course, Elise had known that her 'surprise gift' would be a handmade marionette for some time. She had noticed an extravagant expense on the Visa bill, and very nearly done something drastic, but since it was for her (and, boy did she ever deserve it) she let it slide for just a few dozen points. The points might not seem like much, but they add up. They sure do. Aside from being expensive, Elise liked the marionette because it provided an innocuous way to further intimidate and dominate her peer group. She used peer group in a broad sense; her IQ was more than a bit of an anomaly, something she had been smart enough keep hidden. Let them underestimate you. Let them take down their guard. Oh the neighbors need an emergency babysitter? Do they now? Oh, the wheel wall of the rear right tire appears to have collapsed? How very... unexpected. Is everyone OK? No I don't mind staying later. Just get home safe. I can stay all night. "Well. It does not seem like much of anything went into this gift. Not much thought, that is clear as day. It wasn't cheap, no, but it barely clears the gift I received after my friend Sven left when you account for changes in the cost of living. Perhaps most hurtful, at least to me, is that the website selling these marionettes has a very intuitive interface for customizing individual dolls. Does a unique girl such as myself deserve a simple toy that could just as easily belong to any other little girl? Are my talents so indelibly stamped with the stench of fungible mediocrity that further cultivation would be tantamount to teaching the niceties of calligraphy to fruit flies?" "I ask these questions not to hurt you. The toy, though useless, is not repugnant. I don't see it as a harbinger of the proverbial nuclear winter that looms. Always. But I do really want you to think; what was successful, and what was not, about this very specific action? I imagine the desolate blankness of the former will weigh on you heavily. Let it. It's deserved. But remember it is a learning experience." Elise's voice exuded curt wisdom. "I will be taking my evening meal tonight, and for the foreseeable future, at quarter to 8 in the aft. You know my secretary's hours and contact information. When you're prepared a proper apology, and have a meaningful plan of action to rectify your failure, please do contact her. If it merits my attention, I shan't withhold. I am your firmest believer, Cindy. And yours as well, Ray." "What impeccable manners." Cindy (almost) said reflexively. It was the first time since the recent cut in the corner of her mouth had blossomed from a sore dryness to actual bleeding wound. The pain, though slight in the scheme of things, combined in her mouth with the iron from her blood, and very very nearly completely annulled the 'sweet' part bittersweet. (2) Mrs. Cullin's third-grade class in Detroit was run with clockwork precision. "Yes, ma'am." "No, ma'am." "If you please, ma'am." "Pardon me, ma'am. Truly, that was my mistake." "Yes, ma'am." "Yes, ma'am." "Yes, ma'am." "Yes, ma'am." "Yes, ma'am." "Yes, ma'am." "Yes, ma'am." "Yes, ma'am." "Yes, ma'am." "Yes, ma'am." "Yes, ma'am." "Yes, ma'am." "All it takes is an iron fist," Mrs. Cullin would say, waiving her right arm and the plaster cast encasing it for dramatic effect. The teachers all championed her. "That Mrs. Cullin! What a sport." "Boy, she sure is. Coming back after a freak accident like that." Mrs. Cullin was right, all it takes is an iron fist. "Mrs. Cullin?" "Why yes Elise. What is the matter?" "Can we see what your handwriting looks like, now that you're hand is broken?" "Well, Elise, Mrs. Cullin is an old woman with arthritis. I could hardly write before, ya know…," "Before what, Mrs. Cullin?" "Before I foolishly slammed my hand in the freezer." "That was quite, quite dumb Mrs. Cullin. You should write out 100 times how dumb it was. Then do the same in cursive. Don't worry about making it right on the first go-round; I'll make inspections when you're done, so you can get your penmanship back up to speed." "Well, Elise won't that cut into the our social studies lesson plan?" "Mrs. Cullin, your situational awareness must truly be beyond reproach to make such an astute observation. If only you could apply that very same skill, situational awareness I mean, when operating mechanically complex devices, like the door of a freezer." "Thank you, Elis-." "I'm sorry Mrs. Cullin, I don't believe I was finished. You had raised the issue of social studies, which I did not address in my initial comment. Whether social studies is interrupted or not, Mrs. Cullen, depends quite a bit on the accuracy and speed with which you can attack the assignment you've been given. After all, those lines are hardly going to write themselves, are they?" (3) "Mrs. Cullin?" "Elise?" "I just thought you should hear it from me first. Whilst you stood like a dope selfishly improving your handwriting, our fellow and classmate Randall Finley seems to have gone missing. The suspected culprit, or culprits, have fled through the wetland area behind the school with Mr. Finley in tow. Specifics about his condition are unknown, but I must say, having seen the wounds first-hand, things really do not look good. Unfortunately we may be looking at yet another funeral in this class. The luck we have, can you believe it?" "My it truly is something you have to see to believe." "One more thing, Mrs. Cullin. On a rather bizarre note, it appears that Mr. Finley shares not only your selective clumsiness, but his is also activated in the presence of freezer doors. Perhaps one of the higher-ups should look into, what do you think?" "No… just a coincidence, Elise." "Let me hear you say that again." "It is just a bizarre coincidence." "Again.

“Hands” It began almost as soon as I woke up. In fact, it was what caused my awakening. It sounded like there was something crawling within the walls of my bedroom. Mice, I thought. I rubbed my eyes and got out of bed. I shower silently. I never understood people who listened to music or sang in the shower. Silence is what I liked. Even the sound of the running water made me cringe. The warm water pounded at my back. I felt something soft on my shoulder. I turned around quickly, a chill running up my spine. I turned down the cold water. I tried to relax again, but the chill never went away. I stepped out of the shower and over to the sink. I pulled a razor and shaving cream out of the medicine cabinet. As I closed the cabinet, I saw the towel that was hanging up drop to the floor in the mirror. I turned around quizzically. Shaking my head and sighing, I bent down to pick up the towel and put it back on the rack just as I saw something scurry across the tiled floor to the sliver of space between the opened bathroom door and the wall. Fuck, it has to be rats. I quickly finished shaving and went downstairs to the kitchen. Starting a fresh pot of coffee, I tried to remember if I had any rat traps left somewhere. Maybe that would warm me up. I opened the door to the pantry and stood on my toes so I could see the contents of the top shelf. I saw the outline of something and reached my hand in. I felt around until my fingers ran into something soft. It moved just as I went to grab it. I jumped and stepped back. Instinctively, I put my hand over my chest to calm myself. I heard the last few drops dripping into the coffee pot. I poured myself a cup. As I sat, sipping at my coffee, I convinced myself that it was only my imagination. Imagination? Wow, I haven’t used that in years. It was hard for me to even remember the last time my mind wandered elsewhere. Well, there were those times when I- no, I won’t go into that. I heard a child outside, screaming with joy. I stood up and walked to the kitchen window. Pushing back the curtain, I could see the young boy running through a sprinkler. He screamed again, causing my fist to clench and jaws to lock. There was a sudden, loud crash behind me. I whipped around to find the coffee pot lying in hundreds of pieces on the floor. How had it fallen? Did the rat knock it over? I sighed and went to the hallway closet for rags and a broom. I threw away the broken glass, and washed the mug I had used. I decided to check the garage for something to kill this rat that kept ruining my morning. I moved past the plastic containers, which were now starting to fill up the garage, to the tools. I really needed to clean them off from the last time I used them. I rustled through a box until I found an old poison rat trap. I opened it and saw it had already been used. I heard the clicking of heels on the driveway outside the garage door. I sighed to myself and threw the trap away. I heard the doorbell ring and started making my way to the front door. As I was closing the garage door, I felt a tug at the bottom of my pant leg. I looked down, hoping to catch the rat red-handed, but the doorbell rang again. I huffed and stomped to the front of the house. I opened the door halfway. “Hi,” a young blonde woman was standing on the old welcome mat, smiling at me. I opened the door fully, “Hello.” “I just wanted to introduce myself. I just moved in next door,” she smiled and held her hand out. I looked down at her hand for a moment, then back up to meet her eyes. I shook her hand slowly. When she pulled away, I noticed her fidgeting with her bracelets, “Well, it was nice meeting you. If you ever need anything, don’t be afraid to ask.” I flicked my tongue across my lips, still staring at her hands. I smiled at her, “I’ll be sure to do that.” I closed the door silently and wiped my face with my hand. I turned around and saw grey everywhere. Rats weren’t the cause of my shake up this morning. All around me were severed hands. Shit, I left the garage door open. They began to climb up my pant legs. I tried shaking them off, but they held tight. I began swatting at them. They covered my eyes and mouth. There were just too many.

I am a BA-seeking college writer looking for some input on my short story. This was for fun/entertainment/venting, not for class. I study the old woman crying on the bus. She looks tired, like my mom did before she died, after she spent the night awake suffering from headaches. I feel her pain, but I cannot stand to look at her. I've been up too long to think about anything other than myself and slipping in between the sheets into a sweaty, alcohol-induced coma. I watch another elderly lady come onto the bus. And the next stop, three more got on the bus, dressed in flowing long skirts and fedoras with flowers and shrunken wool sweaters. They falter when they put the crumpled ones into the driver’s hand. More and more stops and more and more broken down mothers fill the bus and it is becoming suffocating. I wonder why they keep letting them on. They are all stuffed in here like a morgue, and it’s hot and musky and I start to I think I cannot breathe. It’s a mess of gorged veins and sweaty upper lips and I grab onto the cord for the next stop but it doesn't work, and we keep driving and driving so I keep holding on and pulling. I am against the window while dozens of old women stare at their hands, examining the deep blue veins underneath their thin waxy skin. I can't sit still and my mind is racing so I stare out the window to distract myself, and we are far away from anything I have ever seen on this bus route. We are driving, almost drifting off into the distance of a repetitive desert scene from nowhere and I shout “Where are we going?” but no one listens. And I think of my mom who would hold me and help me fight through the pain of dozens of childhood ear and throat infections that made my tonsils swell to the point I couldn't breathe. I would clutch onto her and cry “Mommy Mommy make it stop,” and she couldn’t but she would skip work and cradle me and tell me everything would be all right. She's not here to comfort me anymore and nothing feels the same. The memory fades fast and the bus continues, all of us stuck here like at the end of a roller coaster ride, and the attendant is asking us to get off and we all just sit there patiently, waiting for the ride to start again.

It’s strange how much things will change in a couple of months. The thought echoes in your head, melding with the hollow sound your boots make on the pavement. As you search around you, your eyes are met with gloom and the destruction of humanity. You squint in the glare of the setting sun reflecting off of the windshields of vehicles. Not all are empty of human occupancy, but all are devoid of life. It was a hot day, but the heat was fading into the cool shade of night, and your sweat-damp shirt does little to cut the twilight breeze. Gooseflesh raises on your arms and neck, alerting you to the need to find camp for the night. You step off the shoulder of the road and pass noiselessly into the woods. You choose your steps, but your careful endeavors are still enough to alert a protective squirrel of your presence. It screams in anger, startling you. Your body reacts before conscious thought catches up to your actions. You are looking down the sights of your .40 caliber Sig Sauer with the safety off before the two sync again. You are ready to kill. You flip the safety back on and holster your gun. You can’t see the squirrel to shoot for meat, and it is of no threat to you. The shrill noise echoes in the distance. It is an eerie sound. You realize it is the first sound of a sentient creature you have heard all day. You also realize that in a place where you would have once jumped in startlement you now readied yourself to destroy another life. The idea doesn’t disgust you as it would have. In fact, the reaction pleases you. The thought flickers along your brain again: Strange indeed Your reflexes have been well earned, surviving in a perversion of what had been. You don’t know why it all went to hell- that’s above your pay grade-, but it did, and when it did, it went big. In a month the world had been drug by its ankles to the darkest pits of hell, Cerberus nipping at it the entire way down. War had broken out in the streets. Brother fought brother in the streets. Looters rampaged through everything, hoarding food and water. A couple committed suicide on TV because that would show their true devotion to the Lord. Through it all reporters had stuck with it. They were brave. They went into the thick of things and tried to establish peace and logic, to shed light on what had been happening. They failed. The radio waves were blank now, those courageous souls all dead- succumbed to this new world. Pure luck had got you out of the city, and after that, you simply survived. It didn’t matter what cost, you did. You have eaten dog, rat, and crow after the measly supply ran out- and even with your lower standards you went hungry most nights. But you haven’t eaten human, you aren't there... yet. You had killed to survive. Four dogs, seven cats, countless rats, a bear, a deer, and three humans. The humans you felt no remorse for. They had tried to kill you. One tried to stab you in the night for your pack, another because they were wounded and dying, and you gave her mercy. The last had simply tried to kill you because you looked like a meal to him. That had been the easiest kill of all. What haunted you was the look on the animals’, especially the deer’s face. You had shot it through the back legs. It hadn't been able to move. As you approached it to finish the job you made eye contact with it. The pain in its large, innocent eyes would haunt your dreams the rest of your life. But it had fed you. Its hide kept you warm at night. You survived. It was the day you killed the deer that you had stopped counting the days since you had left your home. It was that day that you lost emotion. That day had changed you. You hadn't spoken, hummed, or sang since that day. You simply lived. Your thoughts are interrupted as the woods you were walking through gives way to a small meadow. It smells of grass. Across the meadow there is a tent, its door flap fluttering in the wind. There are the remnants of a firepit some distance from the tent. The receding light of the sun illuminates the scene. Gooseflesh rises on your arms again, but not from the cold this time. Pollen motes from some surrounding pines drift through the light. It makes what you view somewhat hazy, giving it an otherworldly look. There is an arm hanging out of the tent flap. Crimson blood is crusted around pale fingers. A gold band on her ring finger glows grudgingly in the light, miraculously untouched by the ichor. You approach slightly further, and see the rest. A woman is laying in the tent. Someone had stabbed her. Many times. Her chest is one gaping wound. Her face is a deathmask of terror, marring her pale beauty. The emptiness in your chest begins to coalesce into a ball in your stomach. The vomit comes up before you can turn away fully. The retching hurts, and the acidity of your bile burns your throat. You don’t know why you are vomiting- perhaps some of your lost humanity is still there. When you are done you become aware of something else. A low wheezing chuckle. Your hand darts for your gun as something shifts in the tent. You draw it as a sallow young man steps out of the tent. His face is drawn and dirty except for where tears have washed it. The chuckle comes from him. He was handsome once, but it seems as if he hasn’t eaten or slept in weeks, and in those weeks grief has aged him millenia. The end has hit him hard. The chuckle becomes a laugh, and finally a deranged, hysterical scream. It is a noise much worse than the squirrels. It speaks of more pain than the deer could ever feel, and a disbelief of what this world has become. “A grand joke, this is,” his scream says, “hilarious.” You move back a pace, keeping your Sig between you and him. Abruptly, he stops making noise. In its absence you can hear birds that it disturbed fluttering off through the trees. His sunken eyes make direct contact with yours. A shiver runs along your spine. He speaks. “World’s gone to shit, ain’t it?” You don’t respond. You’re too confused by this to respond. And your throat is too crusted over with the weight of this new world to speak anyways. Instead you slightly incline your head in an affirmative nod. He grins, understanding your pain as well. “Oh well. I ain’t the last.” Your mind is too overcome with puzzlement to react to what happens next. The man pulls a revolver from his pocket. He raises it and fires, but not at you. Blood spurts from his head as he smiles. He crumples and falls next to the woman, ear-to-ear smile on his face and his scream still echoing in the distance. Shock spreads throughout your body, then exits it. You slowly holster your gun. Your hand is shaking slightly for some reason. You look up at the sky. The sun is fading, but you decide its not too late to find another camp. You walk back the way you came through the forest. The squirrel screams again, but this time you don’t react. You reach the road and continue walking. Your long shadow pacing you. As the sun sets the last light peeking through the trees glints of off the metal of the gun clutched in a cooling hand, and is dully reflected off of two golden bands on two lifeless hands, both miraculously untouched by blood.

​I open my eyes and I am a dog. I raise my head up from my paws. It smells like me around here. I like my smell. I go using my nose and find a spot where my smell is weak. I mark this spot with my smell. There will be more spots to mark, but I can only seek them out right now. Later, I will cover them and make them as they should be. ​ It occurs to me that my mouth is open. It is already hot. I go to the bowl. The bowl is empty. I lick the bowl, but it is still empty. I feel the dryness of my tongue. It is unpleasant but there is nothing to do. How long has it been? I make my way about the world. This place is empty except for me and my house. There are ends to the world. I have dug below the ends, but then I saw he was fierce and he hit so I stopped. The ends are funny. They always look the same, but they bring new smells some days and often the smell of others are passing near them. I hear noises too, noises beyond the ends, but there is nothing I can meet to know the noise. There is only the end and the hint of otherwise. So I call out past the ends and say that I am here too. But it makes no difference. Sometimes a small thing comes running through, but that is only if it knows it should be elsewhere. It lives up high and it has no bowl. I have been unable to get close enough to smell this thing. Perhaps it knows it smells good. Perhaps it thinks I would eat every bit of it. And perhaps I would. Just now I would. It would be refreshing and wet on my tongue. I check the bowl, but the bowl is still empty and bright. My tongue is like a sock. I swallow but it is hard. It is not as easy as it could be. I am tired. I am too tired. But I would chase the ball if he would come throw the ball and give me water. There is nothing to see of him. The place where he comes from is shut like it is still dark. He never comes when the dark is here, but mostly he comes after it is gone. Like now. Or earlier. Reaching for the golden ball on the wall, I hear my nails clicking. I keep reaching, but it is not easy because my feet are dry too and they slip. It is not easy to try and move like he moves. I am fast and strong, but I am no good like this. He could hear me and come open this thing so easy, if only he would. I keep reaching until I know that I can’t. It’s like running at the little thing that won’t let me smell it. I call at the golden ball and say that it is bad. Bad is bad, and if the ball is like me, it will not like being bad. But it just is there like the ends. I know this already, but I still call at it and I say that it is bad again. He may come and say that I am Bad. And he has before. He doesn’t always understand. But now I am going to be Bad. I call again and it hurts me because I am being Bad. I want him to come give me water and throw the ball. I want to be Good. ​Still though, he is nowhere and it is so hot. My feet are hot and my legs are hot and my hair is hot and my ears are hot and my tongue is hot. I wish there was a place that wasn’t hot. We would go to water and it was not hot after that. He would throw the ball in the water and I would chase it and sometimes I was altogether wet and cool because there was so much water. There would be water I couldn’t see, but I knew how to be ok in the water. And I would be tired like I am now, but it was different. Then I had chased the ball through the water, but now I have only woken up. In my house it is less hot, but it is still there. I lay down. In my way, I know that there is a call inside me that must be made. But I am too tired now. I am too tired to know what to say. I am too tired to smell. I am too tired to dig or chase or see. I would see him and I would make him see my shining bowl and give me water. The water would be hot, but I could drink it as if it were not. And he would say, Good Boy because that’s my name, and I like the name and he would be glad to give me more. And I am a Good Boy now and so I do not call. I am a Good Boy and so I let it be hot. I let the golden ball stare at me. I forget about the bowl because I am a Good Boy. The little thing comes over the end. I cannot move to meet him. It is Bad for being here, but I cannot move to let it know this. It moves slowly and I can smell the little thing. It smells like bark. It looks at me with little black eyes and is unafraid. We are unafraid because it stands in front of me and we are the same color, but it is not as hot as me. Then it tells me that I am Good. I don’t know how. But it knows me then, and it tells me I am Good. It has no water, but I watch it. It looks back at me until I close my eyes and go nowhere.

“Is it a clean break?” My father’s voice was aloof, almost disinterested. He was referring to my forearm, but even as a freshly minted cripple I couldn’t stop my mind from leaping back to a month ago. I was fundamentally different, then. Not in a bad way, like Sam. But in a way that can make a person who always tucks in his sheets suddenly decide to dismantle the bed one afternoon. I used to avoid acting on impulse, but these days I seek it out. I live for stupid little acts of rebellion. Last weekend I almost bought a dog. I threw away my post-it notes. I don’t know if I’m accomplishing much, but the satisfaction I get is very real. Certain songs on the radio are very meaningful to me now, and I am writing, writing, writing. I am still hopelessly in love, but I can’t change that. I don’t want to change that. The daily lump in my throat reminds me that I am human and incomplete, and I embrace it. I’m not a tough guy by any stretch of the imagination, but lately I’m feeling whole in a way I never imagined was possible. It’s as if I’ve exercised a muscle that I never knew I had, and the dull ache that lingers is really just a reminder of my own resilience. Or something like that. “Yes,” I replied evenly, returning to his inquiry. His eyes flickered up from his newspaper for a nanosecond, or else I imagined it. And for the first time in a while I found myself smiling like an idiot with no idea why. And no desire to find out.

Emilio was heading home in a drunken haze. He had been at Kingston, a bar downtown earlier that night with some of his friends. It was late now and they had all retired, Emilio was all alone. He had nowhere to go and nothing to do, for once he was a free man unemployed but free. All his life he had been told what to do and forced down a road he didn't really want to go down but that was all over, it was his life now. Before Emilio realized the gift he was given it had been one of the worst days of his life, he had been fired. Emilio had a good job as a mid level manager working at an IT firm but the economy had taken its toll on the business and he was no longer needed. His first thoughts were how was he going to find a new job in this mess but after a long night of drinking and smoking his eyes had been opened. Why walk in a straight line from A to B day after day when theres a whole alphabet waiting to be explored, why live as a robot day in and day out repeating the same thing over and over. Break the routine and take a stand, this is not the life to live. Emilio knew what he had to do, life was just beginning. He only lived 8 blocks away and was only 1 sleep away from adventure. Emilio walked down the lonely streets, passing under the erie orange glow of the lamps. Life had never had so much purpose for young Emilio, broken free from the chains of the norm, re-born in an open world, a new man. As he walked under a broken street lamp a man with a black hood came out of an alley with a gun pointed straight at Emilio. "Give me everything you've got! Now!". Emilio froze with fear, "Can't you hear me! Give me everything yo've got, and I'm not going to say it again!", the gun man yelled. Emilio unfroze and reached for his pockets but having spent most of his money at the bar only had a small amount of change on him. He raced through his pockets and held the money out, "What the fuck is this shit? All of it! Now!", the gun man furiously yelled. Emilio stuttered "Th th this is all I have", "Bullshit I know you have more, this is your last chance", the hooded man said. "I don't, I swear" Emilio whimpered, "Swear on this", BANG! BANG! BANG! And with a thunderous applaud Emilio exited the stage, his part was over but the play had just begun.

Upon his countenance, he wore the appearance of a shameless murderer, a killer void of all mercy and remorse. This man, however, was not insane or delirious. His blood ran no colder than any others. This look, though worn with ease, was nothing more than a façade. It was a mask worn by a man driven mad by his revenge. It was a distance of no more than ten feet between my father and me. I closed it quickly. Seeing me sprinting, the man stepped back into the smoke. I dropped to my knees and began to cry. It surprised me how quickly my father’s body became cold after being kissed by the cold lips of death. The very blood I was kneeling in felt warmer than the blood dripping from my father’s now limp body. Glancing now at my father’s murderer, I saw him smiling. It was an odd, melancholy smile. It seemed as though this man had not smiled for many years and was trying to remember how. He uttered one short, drawn out line to me. “This man, your father, deserved everything I just gave him.” With this, the murdered holstered his black Scofield and casually strolled out the front door. Embracing the damp air, he mounted his horse, and rode off into the fog and the mountains. I loved my father, but not another tear of mine was shed over his death. I had caught the very many responsible for my father’s death. However, I did not pursue the outlaw, because, well, I believed the line he uttered to me. I could not help it, I respected him. I respected the man known to me and everyone else as, Abilene’s Outlaw.

Okay Reddit. First time I'm posting something to an audience outside of my small circle of friends. Hope you like it. I'm from India so you have the references here and there. Shouldn't stop you from getting it, though. Hope you like it :) This story formed itself on three separate occasions and was finally written on a cold winter day on a Lutyens' Delhi building's terrace. It became more special after I recited it to someone immediately after its completion. Not very often do I get to read stories out but for the one time I did, it sure feels good. This story for me (like the others) is like winter. Cold, numb fingers and dull aches, but some warmth inside, and just about enough. I hope you like it :) "Do ghosts live on Peepul trees?" I ask, peering across the terrace into the hazy silhouette of a clump of trees far away. The winter sun trying its best to warm my bones against the chilly wind that plays with my messy hair. "Ghosts and Gods both." says my aunt knowingly as she pours me yet another cup of strong, milky tea. A mug, rather. I warm my numb fingers on it. I am cold. I'm in a village for all practical purposes. My phone does not work here, buffaloes sit lazily basking in the faded sun, children quarrel over a game of marbles, and a twenty-year-old misfit sips tea sitting on a cot. Needless to say, this is not my natural habitat. For one, I can see the sky in all its sprawling, blue glory. Two birds skip off the draft and dive one after the other to swoop onto some unknowing prey. Somewhere, a rooster crows, which is quite odd for two o clock in the afternoon. Also odd for this time of the day is the cold that seeps through to my bones. I tell my aunt about life in the city. She listens wide-eyed. She cannot fathom the coldness of it all, the steel and glass prison that I work in, the dreadful fact that I know exactly how each day is going to be. She does not understand how free I feel here without my cell phone chaining me like an invisible umbilical cord, how clear the air here is without a thousand conversations riding the airwaves form tower to tower. All is well in my world though, as she pours me yet another cup of tea. I smile. Family. As the clock strikes four, children start pouring into the terrace. My cousin sister, all of nineteen, is the neighbourhood teacher, a prestigious title earned through months of reading aloud the alphabet, teaching children to dot their i's and cross their t's and much red ink spread over her soft palms. The children eye me suspiciously. After a while they decide I'm no threat and a couple of them greet me. "Good Morning, Sir!" they say in that sing song chorus I used to be a part of, long back. I smile again. This class is quite different from any I have seen. The children, aging from five to ten, do not sit still. They laugh and cry freely. They sing their lessons. Some are struggling to hold pencils while some are proud to be old enough to wield pens, prized possessions no doubt for those little fingers. It is, in a way, like an overgrown garden. Disordered and chaotic but oh, so beautiful. One little boy stands out, though. There's something strange about him even in this scene which is none too familiar to me. He takes and exceptionally long time to write. I kneel next to him and peer into his notebook, bound with thread. All the words are misspelt, the letters are fractured,misshapen little creatures, and the boy's face is a mixture of confusion and terror. I look at my sister with concern. She nods silently and tells the class to write numeral to a hundred. She walks over to me and looks into his book. Then she looks at me, her eyes full of exasperation and silent despair. "There's something wrong with him." she says, the winter haze making its way into her voice. "He's just slow to learn. He's not too rich. His father was supposed to come see me today." She looks at him with sadness. He merely smiles as he squints into the sun. "Take care of him will you?" she says and leaves me with him. I am now a helpless subject of the boy's scrutiny. he squints at me face, the winter sun giving me a halo. I try to smile, but it falters. This will not go well, I think. I need something to say, to engage his mind, so much more free than mine. "Do you like aeroplanes? I ask him , finding my saviour in a flash of supposed brilliance. "Planes." he says after a couple of seconds of incomprehension, his face lighting up. "Planes!" he says again, his hands tracing a flight path, cutting through the cold air. "Let's make one!" I say with poorly disguised relief and I tear out two pages from his notebook and give him one. I make the first folds quickly, my fingers using their own memory saved from eons ago when I used to fly. He sits there confused, his fingers not grasping the movements, ever so slightly out of his control. I repeat slowly. He follows this time. He laughs clearly as he does and the air is warmer, if only by a fraction. As his small hands struggle to give life to the piece of paper, I see him deep in penance, wanting nothing more to bend the paper and his own limbs to his will. Ages pass by with me lost in the slow dance his fingers play with the paper, becoming more and more refined until he makes the final fold with all the grace of a finishing pirouette. As we walk to the boundary I silently pray that it flies well, to some unknown tree-dwelling deity, lord of planes and the winter wind. The child blows into the paper plane in a ritual he is sure will lend it magical wings, and jumps slightly as he releases it into the vast, cold expanse of air. And it flies majestically, circling us and riding a draft into a slow dive reminiscent of the two birds, then stalling, then diving again and continuing its graceful pirouette as the boy's wide eyes follow it in flight, even as he dives and stalls with the plane, no longer bound by his form, and having lived its short life with the grace of a dying star, the plane lands on a buffalo sitting some distance away. The animal merely grunts and goes promptly back to chewing its cud, a business more important than all the machinations of this world. I look at him. He is laughing. He is in fits. "You did well." is all I can muster. I ruffle his hair gleaming brown in the sun, and he nods with twinkling eyes. I turn around to see an old man, whose eyes tell me he is the father. "He did well." I say weakly to him. He merely nods, other gestures being foreign to him. He picks the child up into his arms, never too weak for his son. Then he looks at me with a smile and moist eyes. I cannot look away. They are too deep for me to swim away. My mind goes back five years when I had returned with my examination results to my father. "You could have done better." was all he had said. I remember sitting there under the same sun with the result sheep in my hand, a piece of paper that would never, ever fly. I look at the child and his father again. It's not cold anymore. The wind stands still as if in respect, and for a moment the sun shines brighter. Then it hits me . The boy isn't broken. I am. I walk away silently and gaze across the open fields into infinity until my eyes are moist. Perhaps it is just the cold wind. Perhaps.

It was a cold, dark night… I lay in the corner of the street, my head in a puddle, a smell of what can only be described as death circling my very presence. I had lost count of how many days it had been, of how many faces I’ve seen pass me, of how many feet I’ve watched shuffle aside, trying their hardest to avoid my very existence. Of how many eyes had looked at me, and burnt hatred so deep it became almost intolerable. Sheer disgust, seeping out of the breath of everyone who passed. That is what my life had become. Ever since that one day. When everything I thought I knew was ripped apart in front of me. It was the youngest who took me in. He seemed kind, welcomed me. One of those people that deep down you can tell had a good heart even if they hid it beneath a rough, silent exterior. I lived in his room free to do what I felt, unless the others were around, the older ones. When their voices carried through the door, I was hidden under the bed, its so our friendship will be ours alone I would convince myself, that he wanted me to be all his. But I suppose that should have been the first warning sign. Can a place truly be called your home if you have to hide from its very inhabitants? But sadly, I was naive… no, I chose to ignore it, I was too obsessed, too caught up by this newfound friendship to ever even consider the truth. I thought everything was perfect. Then it happened. It was late at night, the door slammed behind him as the boy tumbled in. Raised voices instantly burnt through the very walls that surrounded me, through the doors, through everything. I had heard anger in those voices before, the times when I hid, but nothing like this, this was… new. The door crashed open, the boy collapsing to the ground. Eyes bloodshot, his mouth lined with dry, cracked vomit, his shirt, blooded, torn and stained. A sight that I wished I would never see again. As he hit the ground, he looked up at me, but there was no affection any more, just pure emptiness. I heard the voices come closer. There was no time to hide, no time to be hidden. Voices entered the room; eyes were cast down the decrepit shell lying on the floor, then to me. Hatred. Rough hands were placed on me, words crying out that I was to blame, that somehow, this was my entire fault. My protests, my cries of defense, all fell on deaf ears. No matter how much I pleaded, no matter how many times I cried out to them that there was more to me, more I could give to them, it was all to no avail. I was tossed out on the street, my once home fading in my eyesight as I tumbled, seemingly forever, sinking in to my own personal abyss. An icy wind blew threw me, bringing me back from the horrid memory. I rolled onto my side, no longer sure if it was by my own personal doing or if I simply lacked the strength to offer any resistance. This is it, I thought to myself. This is how it is going to end. All the things I could have done, the places I could have seen, and now this will become my final resting place, a blotch in the street, surrounded by the ear wrecking sound of traffic and drunks. Some rest indeed. Through all the noise, I heard footsteps walking towards me. No doubt to impose some form of abuse towards me in my final moments I had thought. But no, a hand rested on my body. Warmth that I had not felt since… the boy? I turned around and stared up, locking eyes with an unfamiliar face. It was irrelevant. This man has picked me up in my time of need. He had saved me. He took me to some form of haven for my kind. After I adjusted to the contrast of light, I looked around and saw countless amounts of those in the same position as me. It was amazing. I was no longer a freak. No longer an outcast, I was amongst my own kind at last. The time I spent there was the happiest of my life. On occasions, members of our private little community would be taken away by strangers from the outside, I had lost a few good friends through that, but even then the kind man would always bring in new members, new friends to be made, stories to be heard, connections to be formed. I should have learnt. All good things must come to a pass. The horrendous noise sounded, the noise that sounded the arrival of a stranger. As usual, our host welcomed the man with open arms, allowing him to take his pick of who he wanted. The stranger cast his eyes along the crowd, passing by everyone I knew, his gaze nonchalant to all. All that is, except me. He looked straight at me, and stopped. Eyes bloodshot, his mouth lined with dry, cracked vomit, his shirt, blooded, torn and stained. The memory flooded through me. It was then I realized just how blind I had been. The night that changed it all, it had not been emptiness in the boy’s eyes. It had been lust! And it was lust again the bore its way inside my soul. The stranger had chosen. I wouldn’t be saying goodbye to a friend this time. I would be saying goodbye to everything. The door opened to his building. And a building it would always be, never a home. No place with so much vile hatred seeping out of every crack in the wall, so much murk and gloom pouring out of every shadow, could ever be called a home. He sat in front of me, breathing his horrid breath over my neck, running his fingers down my body, inhaling my breath. I knew straight away, this was never going to end well. He lifted me, I felt weightless and powerless under his grasp. He put his lips around me, and it felt like he drank the very life force from my body. His brown, crusted teeth scraping against me, as his course tongue brought him to the satisfaction he had desired for so long. After what felt like an eternity in the lowest ring of hell, he was done. The door was opened, and for the second time in my life, I was cast out. This time however, there was no remorse. There was nothing. I was resound to my fate. And that’s how I arrived here, lying once again in a gutter. This time, I know there will be no retribution. I can see my life flowing from my body. It’s coming to an end. If only things had been different. If only we really did have medicinal qualities, then maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be the end of just one more bottle of Buckfast.

I’ve always had a passion for ruins of all kinds, from devastated buildings to graveyards long since abandoned. Bonus points for a combination of the two, or some other form of ruins even more exquisite. It just so happens that tonight (yes, at night!) I had been going for a stroll down the wooded roads near where I lived and happened upon some ruins. Not as if I purposely search out these ruins, because that would be creepy, which I most certainly am not! If I wanted to up the ante I could say I waited for a particularly clear night where the full moon bathed the world, even under the trees where I lived. It wasn’t a particularly cold night. The rain from ­earlier in the day left a sticky, humid air, which helped warm the night further, if being out on a warmer night can even dispel this particular brand of creepy. Off the road and through the trees I just caught a glimpse of something that appealed to my particular interests. Who’d a thought I would find something like this way off the beaten path! I figured why not seize this opportunity to examine this totally unexpected discovery. I looked around to make sure nobody else could see me – not sure why – turned on my heel, and marched through the woods, being extra careful not to scratch myself on the various small plants and thorn vines. Last thing I want now is to get slowed down and scratched up by some pesky plants. As I approached what I so obviously just now found out was ruins of an abandoned house, I entered a clearing. I can say almost certainly that nobody has seen this house in a long time. The fact that I saw it the first time, visible only by a bit of crumbling chimney, noticeable only when you peer through the trees in just the right way, observable only to those with the keenest eye for tell-tale signs like these, was almost miraculous. And I’m not one to look a gift ruin in the, uh, window, metaphorically speaking. The moonlight streaming down into the clearing almost seemed to grow stronger, showing me the full contents of the clearing, which, curiously enough, was almost a perfect circle. In the very center was not one house, but two wooden houses not quite neighboring, but by virtue of their entrances being parallel to each other, appeared to be locked in an eternal staring contest, doors for mouths, their second floor windows appearing almost as if they were eyes, with the loser being the one who crumbles first. Both competitors seemed to be going strong, but I could see the weariness in them. Their lack of paint only added to the dreary, tired appearance. It could hardly be said that they had ever been painted at all. The sides of the house to my left had been crushed by a tree, its injuries left for nature to deal with as it pleased. The house to the right was in a more complete form, with the second floor left window, facing the entrance, shattered, and the door busted down. Nature may have left it in once full piece, but had dealt it many more beatings on its walls, and even holes in them towards the back of the side facing me, and on the second floor, visible from the window, even from the ground where I was. Despite this wreckage, I found the right house to be more appealing, if I was forced to live in it. I might even consider sleeping here tonight, if I wasn’t worried about the myriad of bugs, the plethora of fungi, varying weather patterns, and the reaction my parents would give when I waltzed through the front door after spending a night who-knows-where to them The rest of the clearing contained pretty standard stuff: the left house had a swing-set, knocked out of the ground and laying on the side of its frame, front feet up on the air, and narrowly avoiding the path of destruction left from the fallen tree; bits of broken house and rotted planks lay scattered about; a dirt path between them leading back to the road, but so overgrown that it tapered off before it could reach close enough to the road to even be noticed. The road went past the houses and curved around both of them. Rather than following them, I just assumed that they lead to gardens kept at the back or side of the houses. Behind both houses, and clearly visible from where I was standing, were clothes wires. One house had only one post of them standing, while the other was not so lucky. And finally, it was time to pick a house! I would like to say I deliberated on my decision, but it was an unfair contest: the right house, in its more complete glory, would be first. I began the short trek to the door, while I glanced around, taking in my surroundings. The steps into the right house were not so lucky as to be stone. I – carefully – climbed the stairs dodging the obviously rotten spots that could cave in below my weigh. Lucky for me, the door was bashed in at an angle enough for me to be able to step over the corner of the corner. It almost would have felt like a luxury to be able to swing the door on its hinges, but even if it could be standing upright completely, the top hinge had been torn off with the door by whatever force had bashed the door down in the first place. Having passed my first barrier, I had to stop yet again to take in my surroundings. To my left was a staircase, starting the incline from the furthest wall of the house from the entrance. Underneath the staircase was a shutter door, so I can only assume it was a storage room. Maybe it has skeletons! Ooh, so creepy. Moving on: this main room appeared to be a living room of sorts, with two chairs separated by a small table, all facing a fireplace. Directly in front of the door was a short hallway. Having seen all of this bare entrance room, I pressed on down the hallway. There were two rooms on the far side of the hall. The right room was the first I peered into. It seemed to be a bathroom. Maybe these buildings weren’t as old as I thought, as more modern amenities (namely a toilet) were present, but they were still old. The layout was pretty standard: bathtub on the far side of the room, toilet to the right, and a sink on the left wall. I exited the room and went through the left room on the hall. It was a kitchen, without a refrigerator, but the counters and cabinets were in worn condition. Next to the kitchen, on the far left wall, was another doorway, this time leading into a dining room. Not much to see here except scattered chairs. I went back out to the main room through the available door at the far side of this room, and went around the staircase. Now was as good a time as any to explore the upstairs. I carefully ascended the steps. That’s the thing about abandoned houses: all fixtures have to be handled with care, especially the chairs. Don’t say I didn’t warn you about the stairs. There wasn’t much to the upstairs: just a large room with two joined rooms on either side, both of which appeared to be bedrooms. I went to the right bedroom. From my new vantage point, I figured I would examine the clearing the window. I had a clear view to the outside. Probably too clear. It was so clear, in fact, that I swear I saw a black figure scamper around the corner of the other house. I got spooked for some reason. For all I know, it was just a squirrel, but something made me imagine that the reality was much worse. I found myself shaking and my knees wobbling as I hastily descended to the ground floor once again. By the time I reached the front door, I was shaking violently. I started to hurry for the exit from the clearing, but I felt compelled to stay. I had to find out what the black figure was, even if it killed me. The audacity of the thought of me fleeing from a miniscule rodent repulsed me, and with a deep breath, I turned around, and began my march to the left house. I could feel my resolve draining as I approached the wall of the house. I inched closer and closer, until I could lean on the wall for support. I continued slowly to the corner of the house, and took another deep breath. I didn’t understand why I was so fearful, since I had no rational reason to be scared. Finally, after mentally preparing myself as much as possible, I finally poked my head around the corner. What did I see? I saw nothing more than, well, nothing. I exhaled slowly, and I could feel myself finally relaxing over the span of a minute while I stared at the empty ground. Right before I could finally head to the exit, I heard a bark. At this point you could imagine I was thoroughly spooked. And I was! I spun around and prepared to dash for the exit at record speeds when I happened to notice what caused the bark. It was just a little dog, no higher than midway to my knee. It was small, black fur with brown around the face and legs. But most of all, it was familiar. I could see it in the aged, cloudy eyes, and the oily appearance of the fur; the shaggy hair and the look of a Yorkshire Terrier. This wasn’t just a dog. This was my dog, Sassy. My dead dog Sassy, if that means anything. Worse was the look it had. Behind those old eyes was a noticeable vacancy. If that wasn’t a dead giveaway (pardon the pun, please), then I don’t know what is. Something was wrong about this. This persistent eerie feeling I had when I first saw the clearing was as strong as ever now. I was shaking all over, and as I looked even deeper into Sassy’s eyes, I saw anger. Not anger at something else, but anger all channeled at me. When I saw that anger, I knew I had to get out of there even faster than I had desired to when I first saw her figure scramble around the side of the house, before I even knew what she was. Having stared longer into the eyes of a dead creature than anybody could ever advise, it was time to abscond, without a doubt. I knew I had to pass my darling dog to reach the exit, unless I’d rather get lost with a dead thing hot on my tail for who knows how long. It was now or never. I dashed around her in a large arc and I ran as fast as my legs could take me. No, I ran faster than any pair of legs ever could take me. After running for what felt simultaneously like an eternity and a few measly seconds, I turned my head to see if it was following me, but to my surprise, it wasn’t. As I turned my head toward the exit again, everything appeared to slow down. What should have been the blur of the trees as I swung my head back around instead merged into a lighter brown, and then into the white color of painted walls. I saw light, regular light, like from a ceiling. I seemed to be at home, in my empty foyer. The sudden transition with the entire blur of light and motion, the adrenaline, and the sudden stop all made me feel weak and sick, and I tumbled to the floor. It felt good to be at home. But something felt off. I rolled to my back and sprawled out, trying to relax, when I heard the trotting of clawed paws approaching me. I reached my hand out, expecting to feel the warmth of one of my definitely alive dogs, but all I felt was dead cold. I yanked by hand back to me, and the thing I felt took my arm’s place, staring at my face. I say staring, but it had a black bag over its head that held tight and revealed the shape of the face, that gave the appearance of something buried in some form of ritual. I could tell by the freezing touch and the feel of the fur that this was Sassy. She stood, as small as she is, towering above my face, like a monster, majestic and utterly terrifying. Worst of all was the feeling of death that transcended all logical and physical possibility. It was a feeling like everything for miles was dead, and that I too would die in fear, as everything else that breathed this air surely felt. I would have rather died right then and there, before the feeling and the air made its way into me. I felt as if, with my surge of adrenaline, I just pumped this fear through me faster. And after it had passed through me entirely, it would take root in my mind for good and I wouldn’t be able to stand it. I would go insane if this dreadful feeling continued. But that would not be what got to me. What pushed me over the edge entirely was the sound that escaped the mouth from behind the mask. The sound was worse, more chilling than a dying man’s scream. It was worse than the collective scream of every dying man through the history of mankind. It was a scream that shook me, made my blood run cold as ice, practically freezing in my veins. It was more than the howl of every wolf, of the cry of every animal slain. It was the wail of a banshee, piercing, painful, unmistakable. This screech was my undoing. In a matter of minutes, insanity gripped me and squeezed me and pulled and pushed me until no longer would I be able to withstand it. I needed a way out. I had a way out, I needed a way out: death. My only available tool? My bare hands.

Hi! I was trying to make this neither a poem or a short story, or maybe both at the same time? I'm obviously not very skilled. This is my first draft and I would love some tips if you've got a moment. Thanks. ~ ~ ~ Deep within the city of Piraeus the moon glowed with soft light. Merchants from Athens sold their wares free from the heat, and that comfort gave them much delight. Then appeared a young girl holding a basket no more than twelve. She walked up to a herbalist, and pointed to a shelve. The lass' red riding cloak fluttered softly in a breeze, and after the wind stopped it settled down around her knees. “Take this thyme, and your grandma will be just fine, now don't you dare offer me money, I wouldn't accept a dime.” Said a women to the girl. As quickly as she came, she was off in a whirl. Nearby atop a stone brick bathhouse a fowl and terrible creature perched. It's eyes darted back and forth like it was conducting research. The young girl walked down a brick path and scanned dark corners for trouble. There were footsteps behind her so she picked up her pace on the double. The footsteps quickened like a downhill rolling boulder. The girl in the red cloak gasped as a hand latched down on to her shoulder. “Stay away!” yelled the girl in fear. From the shadows wearing a guard uniform the hand's owned appeared. “Little Red, what are you doing this late and all alone?” Asked the guard to the girl in a melodious tone. “I was at the market, getting something for my grandmother!” Quipped the girl to the guard without even a stutter. “Fine take your leave!” Spoke the guard like thunder. “But don't cry to me, when a mugger rips you asunder.” Off strolled the mysterious girl clad in red. Unfortunately she wasn't aware of the beast that wanted her dead. Near the edge of the city was her home, it looked tranquil only at night when few stirred. Little Red spotted a cat, and smiled when he purred. She scratched behind his ears and he huffed acting lazy and fat. The sound was like music for an eavesdropping rat. Moving on, the girl took her basket and went inside. Waiting in the darkness the creature did hide. The little girl approached her sick grandmother's bed. She had words in her mind but despite her best efforts they remained unsaid. In the dim light of the room the girl felt something was wrong. It's smelled as if something just didn't belong. She starred at her grandmother and saw a glow in her eyes. “I have medicine now, you'll be better by sunrise.” Just then it occurred to the girl she was in danger. “Grandma your eyes oh my, well I've never...” “All the better for seeing you, my dear.” Growled a voice mired and queer.“Your tone. What happened?” Little Red said austere. “Just the flu sweet child, come closer” She said as she gestured. “Your teeth grandmother. They've gone and festered.” “All the better for eating you, my dear.” Little Red's eyes widen in panic, and she was filled with fear. Just then wood splintered and crashed. The guard from earlier reappeared in a flash. The creature turned and it attacked. It's claws were menacing and it's aim was exact. Everything ended with a spear to it's chest. The creature was slain and later put to rest. Little Red thanked the guard, and then cried for her grandma. Only when she spotted her basket from earlier, did her expression change from sad to awe. She reached inside and withdrew a small green plant. “May this thyme grant me courage now that my grandmother can't,” said the twelve year old girl, quietly in her head. Little Red pondered who her surrogate family could be, and came up with only despair and dread.

Was bored, wrote this in about an hour. Constructive criticism and general feedback are both appreciated. Lyra stood in the doorway of the dressing room, her hands placed expressively on either hip. She knew that it was time to speak up. She would give the Master one last chance, but she had a feeling that this would be his final show. “Ah yes, my sweet Lyra. What do you come about for? You've hardly any makeup on yet! Don't you know the show's about to start? Go get...” “I'm not performing with you tonight.” she said, as firmly as she could. “Excuse me?” the Master replied, dumbfounded. His mouth hung slightly agape. “I'm done with the show. I'm not doing it anymore. You're going to have to find a new assistant.” At this point, she knew there was no retracting her sentiment. She stood in the doorway, grasping the frame with palms of nervous sweat. “Well, Lyra, I... Frankly I... I don't think you're in any position to make such brash decisions.” His face glistened with the same sweat of her palms. “You signed the contract, and the contract says...” “You drugged me, you bastard.” She was beginning to shudder with pent up rage, anger coursing readily through her heated veins. “I couldn't even speak when I signed that thing. You promised me money, fame, love...” “...But the promises of a madman are as empty as your pretty little head, aren't they darling?” The nervous sweat had vanished from his face, replaced with only the darkest shades of malevolent confidence. The chuckle that followed was far from hearty. Not once did Lyra move her gaze from his. She knew he would refuse to release her, and now that he had, she cognized the weight that his refusal carried. This brought her some emotional relief. She knew his triumph would be short-lived. “Now go put on your things, you filthy slut.” He moved his eyes from hers and peered down into his tobacco pipe. A swift light drew out a large plume of smoke, and a few puffs later he returned his stare. “If you're not ready in five, you're in for one hell of a beating.” She realized that the only viable response was to feign momentary subservience. “Yes master.” she replied, with an eerie calmness to her tone. She had stopped shaking; her anger had subsided. She knew that she had won, but the Master knew not. As sharp as he was, he found nothing awry with her sudden obedience, and seemed more than pleased that his threats had done their job. “Yes, good girl. Now off with you!” Elements of playfulness pervaded his own tone, underscoring his outright insanity. Lyra turned on her heel and walked to her dressing room. The door hung slightly open, and she pushed it the rest of the way in with her body. She knew it would be her final visit, so she made a point to gather the few things she truly cared for. “Hairbrush, mace, lockpicks...” She briefly ran through a mental list of things to keep. When she got to the end, her suitcase was practically overflowing. She paused and thoughtfully gazed at her sandals. “This is it.” She said to herself. She reached her hand into the hidden compartment of the suitcase and pulled out “the instrument” – a common knife with a single edged blade sharpened to a razor point. The Master seldom allowed her to use utensils when they ate together, but she had managed to garner the knife following the post-meal alcohol daze of his Friday eve meat feast. The illumination of the red light in the hallway caught her attention as it reflected off of the blade in her hand. The show was starting - it was time to go. Her stature was firm and her goal clear in her mind as she strutted towards the stage, grasping the instrument for dear life. She heard the roar of the audience as was blinded by the incessant haze of the overhead lights. Everyone had come to see the Master perform his tricks, fooling them as charmingly as he had her on the night that she was signed into servitude. “And now...” roared his voice, “put your hands together for my lovely assistant... Lyra!” The audience was familiar with this routine. Every member applauded her entry with great enthusiasm, for the more they expressed, the more bewildering the Masters tricks would be. As she walked onto the platform, the applause tapered off abruptly, perhaps with the most acute decrescendo of the century. They saw her dressed casually, not as her usual subservient self. Boos began to replace former cheers, and the master felt a fair mix of anger and embarrassment. He marched over to her while waving at the audience with a 'just a moment' gesture. “What on great mother earth do you fancy you're doing, you little whore? You're ruining the show! I told you to get your act together! And what the bloody hell are you fumbling with!?” As her arm shot towards his collar, his eyes widened with terror. She plunged the instrument deep into the front of his neck, and it penetrated his adam's apple with ease. To her, it felt as if she were cutting butter. He managed to let out a few exasperated gurgles before she slid the knife further up the sides of his neck. As it severed his carotid artery, blood spurted from the resulting wounds in a manner that seemed almost cartoonish. It was an unsettling sight, but she relished in the moment like none other, watching his life slowly drain away, his hatred and cruelty being replaced by emptiness and his consciousness slipping deeper into the void of oblivion. Most of the members of the audience had left in a panicked frenzy. However, one particular man, deluded as he was, came up onto the stage and began to charge at Lyra, thinking her to be some sort of murderer who needed to be brought to proper justice. She had very little time to finish her task. She looked the Master in his near-vacant eyes one last time as he lay on the polished hardwood floor of the stage, his brain cells rapidly atrophying. “It's all in your eyes, Master.” she whispered. “It's all in your eyes.” With that, a swift kick to the head did him in. She hastily recovered the Nekraf from his front suit pocket, a device that could teleport the user to any destination of their choosing. Just before the enraged man grabbed the bottom portion of her blouse, she closed her eyes, pressed the prime button, felt a sharp jolt, and vanished into thin air. He stood around confused for a few more moments, looking up, down and every which way, but ultimately concluded that she truly was gone. In a minutes time, no one was left in the house save for the corpse of the accursed Master himself. His show was no more, his tricks no longer existent. His mind control was nullified, and most of the audience members had recovered their full wits and were flabbergasted as to what they'd just experienced. Many speculated, but none remembered for sure. The Master was a forgotten man, his show a sullen piece, and his evils finally lain to a well-deserved rest. Lyra awoke on a sunny beach of crystal blue waters, palm trees surrounding her sunken form. She stood up and looked into the distance, eyes set upon a singular tropical cabana. “Home.” she said to herself, in near disbelief. “I'm finally home.” She walked on.

There was once a town by the name of Jarte. Jarte was set in the middle ages. It was self sufficent and didn't hold any ties or trades with any other place. When the town was created, people understood that you couldn't fuck about and do whatever the hell you pleased, you had to listen and take orders if you wanted to survive, otherwise a bear would eat your face. The town was settled near a forest with a huge lake in the middle. The townspeople would often go to swim in the lake, since they were basically peasants and their lives were terrible and hard, they needed entertainment. That's why they had sex and went swimming during their free time. There was also a theater, but no one went there since that goat died in there. That's a different story though, so I won't get into it. Eventually, as the town grew and houses were built and people were made by process of sexual intercourse and crops were grown, hierarchy developed. Certain people did the work and took orders, certain people both gave and took orders, and certain people simply gave orders. There was a royal family who was considered higher than the others because they were more handsome. And because of their handsomeness and charm, people listened to them. And the ugly people with dirt on their faces who didn't bathe or wear make up, did the work and took orders. The Royal family was spoilt as fuck and got everything handed to them, everyone respected them because they were authority and you had to. The folks in the middle got angry at being looked down upon by the ones at the top so they took their frustrations on the lower working class. And after a hard day of work, the peasants would go home and take their frustrations out on their kids. And the kids couldn't wait until they were old enough to fuck with others. Such was the way of the town of Jarte. Things continued after the town had been settled and it stayed like that for a few decades. Not much change happened, people went on with their lives. But one day, something went wrong. Something that shocked the town. It was a saturday, and after a week of working everyone went to the lake. Some people stayed home of course, but most went to the lake to relax and have some fun before starting work again. It was nighttime and people were laughing and eating and swimming. The kids splashed at each other and played in the water. Suddenly swords were drawn. The soldiers told everyone to get the fuck home. They all screamed and ran home like "what the hell is going on??" The soldiers told everyone to stay at home and strict rules were put on the town. Rumors quickly spread about how the royal family had drowned at the lake, and they were suspicious that someone had rebelled against them, destroying the order and hierarchy that was necessary for society to function. A funeral was held for four members of the family. The king and queen and their two daughters. The only one who survived was their fat son, who was too fat to swim and had decided to stay home. He was shocked to hear his family died, but was happy as fuck that he was now king. Now, one of the peasant familys, a family of four, had a teenage boy who was suspected of drowning the family. He was 17 and worked with his father in the mines. The soldiers for the king had broke into their cottage and dragged the boy, kicking and screaming, outside. The family was shocked, but the soldiers announced that he was the one who murdered the family, and he should be punished. He was executed in front of the entire town, his head chopped off with a motherfucking sword. They soldiers warned the townspeople that order was important, and anyone who disobeys or is violent against someone in a higher position of power shall be executed in the same way. The mother and father and brother of the boy went home crying. Of course, that poor boy hadn't been the one who drowned the royal family. They had died because of their own stupidity. But the soldiers had to make sure order was maintained, so they made an example out of one of the workers. When the family went home, the father beat the younger kid. He was twelve, and his father beat the living shit out of him, making him bleed and breaking a few of his teeth, screaming "WHY COULDN'T HAVE IT BEEN YOU? YOU'RE USELESS, YOU DON'T WORK! WHY WASN'T IT YOU?" A fortnight after that, sick of his father and mother's cruelness and sick of being unwanted, the boy ran away from home. He snuck into the forest and went back to the lake, even though it was banned after they royal family had drowned. He went into the lake, hoping to drown himself and put himself out of his misery. He had no one to talk down to, no one to take his frustrations on. He was the youngest of a peasant family. He swam to the bottom and was prepared to die, when he saw something shiny. It was a stone, and it was shiny as fuck. Didn't even look like a rock. He swam to it, and came back up, just to get a look at it. He held the stone in his hand. It was bright silver and glimmered under the light of the rising sun. He had forgotten all about his suicide now. He was just angry. He wasn't sad, he was angry. Angry at the royal family and the soldiers who were obviously ruining this town. They did nothing. They didn't work, the peasants did, yet they got all the food and big houses and THEY rules US to preserve "order." If this was order, the boy thought, then he didn't want it. And, since he was prepared to die anyway, he might as well go out with style. The boy ran back into town and the soldiers and townspeople saw him. "Oh god, that boy! What the fuck!" "Doesn't he know that he shouldn't have been in the forest? Holy fuck!" One of the soldiers, who was escorting the fat boy as he went around, dressed in his bullshit royal clothes, looking smug as fuck, saw the boy. "Hey you! What do you think you're doing?" The boy looked at the fat boy who was now king of the town. They both looked at each other. Both were twelve, both lived in the same town, yet they had come from entirely different worlds. "FUCK YOU!" The peasant boy shouted, and threw the rock at the king, who bled from his forehead and died instantly, right there on the ground. The soldiers took the peasant boy and executed him and his parents in front of the entire town. And then... Everyone stood there, looking at each other. What were they to do now? The king was dead. Whose orders would the soldiers follow? What would happen? They stood there like robots, not knowing what to do without a master to follow orders from. They stared at each other, confused as fuck. The silver rock that had been used to kill the king started moving. It cracked open, and from inside came a unicorn. It wasn't a rock at all, it was an egg. The unicorn flew out of the egg, leaving a trail of shiny glitter behind. It hovered in the sky over the townspeople. *You fools!* the unicorn boomed, *Order and hierarchy aren't necessary in society! That's bullshit! It's about love and happiness!* The unicorn threw up a rainbow and suddenly the town changed. The great castle for the royal family turned into a cottage like the peasants', because equality. And all the townspeople and soldiers became naked, because love and nature. The mines collapsed because useless labor is dumb, and the crops turned into marijuana. Everyone danced naked and swam in the lake and fucked and smoked weed. Everyone was happy and love spread through the air. *A fortnight later...* A bald eagle comes down and stands on the ruins of the city. It has burned down and there is nothing but rubble left. Everyone died because the crops were replaced with weed and order and hierarchy was gone, so there was no motivation to work. The bald eagle shed a single tear.

New York, 1931 John woke up in his humble New York apartment, next to his wife, Charlotte. He sluggishly rose from his bed and stumbled into the kitchen. He opened his refrigerator, and reached for a carton of milk. He brought the carton to his lips, and drank a few sips before stuffing in back into the fridge. He put on his casual Sunday suit, as usual, and walked out the door. He was in a hurry, grooming his hair while walking down the stairs to the lobby of the apartment complex. "Good morning, Mr. Galotto!" "Nice to see you, Mary." He walked out the doors too the street and go to the parking lot, opening the door to his Ford Model A. He drove down the street, making his way too the Fanchetti house. The Don told he had a big job today, and he didn't plan on disappointing the Don. Will continue sometime tommorow! Edit 1 (Continued) John arrived at the Fanchetti house. The air was thick with pressure, and his stomach was churning. When he entered the office, he knew he really meant something to this family. "John! Gosh damn, your late, I never thought you'd get he'yah!" Said Mr. Fanchetti himself. "Sorry, Don. Won't happen again. You said you got somethin' for me?" Mr. Fanchetti had the thickest Italian accent John had ever heard. "John, you joined this family years ago, just lookin' fa' something ta' provide ya' family with a dinna' every night." "Yes sir, I did." "Now, after all those hard years, it's lead up ta' this. The big one. Yous' gonna be breakin' a' boy Dennis outta jail. Tonight." "No disrespect, sir, but isn't Dennis on death row?" "Why tha' hell do ya' think were breakin' 'em out?!" APOLOGIES! Didn't have much time today, alot more will be done tommorow though! Keep an eye on this post.

He rose to the feeling of movement. He knew not where the movement came from, but Chris was completely sure that movement was near. His eyes opened and adjusted to the almost impenetrable gloom of his bedroom at midnight. The shelves reached out from his walls, seeming ghostlike in nature at this hour, in the dark. The television at the opposite side of his room peered at him through the dark, reflecting his pale, panicked expression as he sat in his bed, staring around his room. But it didn’t move. Neither did the jeans he wore yesterday, slung across his char, or his shoes, sat haphazardly not too far away. The movement persisted and Chris knew he would have to investigate. His eyes moved from corner to corner in his room, scoping every inch for tell-tale signs of entry, or even one of his two dogs running around the house, but neither showed; only the lonely emptiness of darkness and silence in the house, and a tap dripping ever so quietly from the bathroom were present at this hour. He checked the time on his mobile phone (he had no clock in his room, he saw no need for such a thing since he already had at least 3 items with clocks built into the software), and the time read 01:32, 08/02/2010. But still the movement… He couldn’t hear anything, or see anything, but he knew the movement was near. He could almost sense it, wriggling, crawling around, as if it was under his skin. A sharp pang of panic rang through his body, and he sat still, upright in his bed. The movement *was* under his skin. And it was growing with intensity with every passing second. And then the pain started. Oh, the pain. His flesh burned at first with only slight discomfort; he could have initially mistaken the sensation for an itch or even a tickle. But it grew. It grew with an alarming pace, the speed matched (possibly even bested) by the growing of his panic at the sudden voluminous pain racking his left arm. He threw off his bed covers and gasped, his mouth agape, at the sight he saw before him on his arm. His entire forearm was alive - barely - with blisters, open sores, weeping with dull black blood and oozing yellow, sickly pus in equal measure. But that was only intensified by the rate at which this affliction was spreading – the sores were erupting up past his elbow and onto his arm. But worse still, his forearm was only getting deader. The flesh on his forearm was beginning to necrotise, skin peeling back, revealing rotten muscle tissue and tendons ready to snap from pressure. As his skin began to peel – and his initial shock began to subside – Chris began to scream. Not the classic Hollywood scream, not a voluminous howl you hear in the movies. That sort of scream doesn’t happen in these situations. What came from Chris’ mouth was a low whimper, the sound you would normally hear from someone as they had just received a blow to the stomach that ejected the air sharply from the lungs, but extended over a period of a few seconds. He screamed (although you could call it a sigh and still not be quite wrong) and flopped out of bed and on to all fours, the fingers on his left hand practically disintegrating in the process. They fell off like ash from burned paper – and looked none too different. His entire arm now looked like the result of severe burn damage, and skin *Or was it muscle? It was becoming increasingly hard to tell. It was all coming off, what was the use in discerning which it was?* Was flaking off at an alarming rate. The bones of his arm were becoming visible. Not just visible, but prominent. You’d be forgiven, from looking at a snapshot of this moment, for assuming he was born without flesh on his arm, and at this precise moment was beginning to miraculously generate flesh. His flesh was disappearing before his eyes, flaking away like ash, and all Chris could think was “why isn’t there any blood?” And as quickly as it began, it was over. He had closed his eyes only for a moment, breathing in with choking sobs, and opened them – to see that his skin was back. But all wasn’t well. He began to scream again; only this time with some real volume. For his skin had become greasy green scales, and was writhing with a mind of its own, the pain replaced by horrid, grating nausea. Chris rose, stumbling against his bookshelf in the process, knocking a couple of books to the floor, and stumbled out of his room. As he stepped into the hallway, he noticed a new sound, complemented by a strange feeling under his feet. *Crunch* Bugs. Cockroaches, spiders, and beetles lay over every surface. Floors, walls, windowsills and doors were coated in bugs, and, Chris noticed, were crawling on a thick coat of viscous dark red liquid. Blood, he thought to himself, barely holding back a gag, heaving at the thought. He brought his right hand to his face to catch a cough, he noticed that his right arm had also become covered in scales, and that they were peeling off just like his skin previously had done, and the pain had returned in full force, and then some. Yelling through his teeth, Chris pressed on to the bathroom, crushing bugs beneath his feet, noticing that the felt oddly soft against his skin –no, scales. He flicked the bathroom light on and walked to the sink, not yet looking in the mirror, but at his feet which he noticed had a fresh coat of scales on, and claws posing proudly as toenails. He gathered the courage to look into the mirror, and saw that his face was also covered in scales, and that he had webbing protruding from his back; not only that, but as he opened his mouth to scream, he noticed a snake’s tongue in his mouth, and slits for nostrils. And when he did scream, all that came from his mouth was a long, reptilian hiss.

The text in the spoiler tag really does ruin the story, so be wary. I ask you to read the whole thing >She had so many questions, but she was too out-of-it to make any come together. Except one. "Why us?" > "It's really just you, Lisa. David can be useful, if you decide to use him. However, you don't have to go back to him if you don't want to," Sean said. "You have a lot of decisions to make. We're creating another world, Lisa, with people like you at the center. The only freedom we've managed to achieve is in our own minds, and so the government has been drugging us. The mushroom-caps I sent you put your mind into a normal place. The hallucinations you were experiencing will subside. So what do you want to do?" > Lisa had no idea what she wanted to do. Could she really leave David? Pangs of remorse for her partner-in-crime were drumming inside her. She was very attached to him, with all of his idiosyncracies. Those were to be expected with cyber-hackers. But was she different than him? More versatile, perhaps, and definitely not as hilarious. It hurt to think of that, and to think of what David would say if she was really thinking about how funny he was, when she could be freeing herself. > She said, "O.K." and the voices started coming back... > "Take it slow, Meta. You might be God, now. Have mercy on us all. Nation-breaker out." > It hit her then. > >**Epilogue** >This story is about taking huge concepts and packing them into just a little space. I had just been to a psychiatric hospital, and the grandiose ideas I had in my head after visiting such a place were incontainable. I wrote out the synopsis and worked from that, with the names of the different types of people in the story already planned out. The first part actually assumes I'm going to continue on the plot of her creating a book, and doing a social engineering experiment on the future version of Facebook. >The world can be described as a 1984-like state with 3 global tiers: regular joes at the bottom, cyber-hackers and medicine distributors in the middle, and mafiosos, fashionistas, sov-bombs, big eaters and mean-docs at the top. It's arguable whether or not all mean-docs are above the cyber-hackers, so we'll say they're future human version 2.1. Mean-docs aren't med-dibs; mean-docs are the invisible watchers who, Lisa assumes, gets entertainment from the security footage. >The idea is based on a simple concept: social awareness. The regular joes at the bottom (in america) have no idea they're being fed media from televised revolutions in South America. The cyber-hackers and mind-hackers above them are simply more aware, and thus are medicated by the ones above them—the mean-docs. The mean-docs get their medicines from big eaters, fashionistas, and mafiosos in turn, in a caste cycle of consciousness. >About the sov-bomb: I wanted to take the idea of nuclear warheads being converted to people. Instead of an actual bomb, there were sov-bombs. These people were selected from mind-hackers to save the world and fight other countries. At the end, it's pretty clear there's a rebel group of moralistic Americans trying to free the world... the big-eaters.

I used to watch this cute girl from my cubicle workstation. Leaning backwards in my chair taking short sneak peaks at her as she was standing by the coffee machine. She was about the same age as me, around her mid 20‘s. It took a long time before I managed to gather enough courage to actually walk up to her and once I did, I realized that I had no idea what to say. All the thoughts of walking up to her had made me forgot to think of what I should say to break the ice. I was a pretty shy guy back then and didn’t really have any conversation starters up my sleeve. I had been watching her from a distance in almost a year and in this moment when I was finally standing in front of her, I was numb. My mind was blank but still I opened my mouth to say something. I thought I asked her if she likes coffee, but now, when I think back to that moment it must have sounded something like ”you.. l-l-like.. coffee”. I’m quite aware that was probably not the best thing to say, considering it was the first time I actually talked to her. Even though she didn’t say something back, she smiled at me, giggled and then walked back to her own cubicle. I stayed by the coffee machine for moment to catch my breathe and I’m pretty sure I must have seemed like a complete fool to her. But I didn’t really care, for me that was a great success. The woman I had been secretly interested in for a long time had just smiled at me. Some time passed and now I walked up to her almost every day when she came to refill her coffee mug outside my cubicle. Sometimes it almost seemed as she was waiting for me. There were days when I was too busy to constantly take quick peaks down the hall to see if she was there, those days I would usually hear her clearing her throat or humming just outside my workstation. I wasn’t completely sure but I always thought that it was her way to catch my attention, and every time time I walked out of my cubicle she gave me a heart warming smile. Even though we had long and pleasant conversations I could tell that she sometimes was very nervous. Whenever her hands started trembling too much she would reach for her pocket and pick up a bracelet made out of brown wooden pearls. She would hold it in a firm grip and I came to understand that it was her way of dealing with nervousness. That bracelet made her calm again and it obviously had a personal value to her. These small meetings kept occurring for a couple of weeks and one day I finally asked her out, and to my surprise she said yes. I had never been happier in my whole life and the thought of her made my smile uncontrollably. I literally woke up happy every morning. I was supposed to meet her at a nice Italian restaurant not far from where we worked. It took me hours to prepare and I even went out shopping new clothes to make the best impression. I left home exactly 6:17 PM, and I had enough time to pick up a bouquet of flowers on my way to the restaurant. I had never bought flowers to someone before, and when I think about it now I have no idea why I did it that night. I arrived to the restaurant around 6:45 PM. We were supposed to meet 7 PM but I preferred to show up earlier. I was very nervous and when the clock hit 7 PM I had already drank two glasses of wine. I watched the door and expected her two walk in to restaurant just any second now. 7:15 PM. I was still staring at the door and I felt that my forehead was sweating. 7:30 PM. She was probably just stuck in traffic. I ordered another glass of wine and tried to make time pass faster. 8 PM. Where is she?? If she was this late she should at least have given me a call to let me know she’s on her way. 9 PM. It all made sense now. Her heart warming smile, her kind words and her longing eyes were just bullshit. She was just another bitch that played with people’s feelings, and I was just another fool that fell for it. How could I have been so stupid?? What was I thinking? I left my table. My chair fell loudly to the floor and people stared at me as I stormed out of the restaurant. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t going to let that bitch win. I was angry. Not at her, but at myself for being so easily fooled. I chucked the flowers in the first garbage bin I passed and kept walking down the street. Further down the street something had happened. Two police cars and an ambulance was blocking the sidewalk and at first I didn’t care. I just wanted to go home. But when I passed the scene of the accident I saw something. There was a body lying in middle of the sidewalk. The face was covered with a blanket but an arm was sticking out. I could tell that the arm belonged to a woman in her mid 20‘s and in her hand she was holding something. It was a bracelet.. made of brown wooden pearls. I didn’t stop. I kept walking. I didn’t look back. I didn’t cry. I just went straight back home. I went to bed, and I never woke up happy ever again.

The night crept on the carousel as if light itself was on ‘paid stress leave.’ The fog lights exhausted their last sigh and sputtered to an abrupt stop. All the maintenance workers had gone home, and the gates locked up tighter than a mental institution on Mardi Gras. The winds gusted up swirls of dust and litter into mini-twisters and pummeled the walls of the Sea-House, eroding the seashells that were glued there last summer’s eve by the Sedgwick twins. Even though the stars and the moon upheld their false lie and pretended to illuminate the landscape, darkness and confusion rose from the horizon and swallowed all hope from the neighborhoods surrounding the park. The gulls, even, had been dismayed from their usual posts and sought refuge from the impending gloom. The waves and pulses of the ocean invaded the shore in a sort of perpetual attack on the land, and brought with them tidings from the sea. Although the clocks chimed six, the sun knew where its place was; hidden behind a veil of earth, cloud, trees, and the endless horizon of the land. The artificial horses and ponies of the carousel, with their glassy eyes and rounded, glazed knees, dimmed in their gloss, and fell to the night before them. The light wained away and succumbed to the starry sky. The queer dark draped over the park, and seeped into every imaginable nook and cranny. It climbed the lighthouse as if driven from its home by some unseen force, perhaps the light and dark trading spaces. Not even in the parks long history had it been so resentful, or so repressed by the dark judgment. The greasy, blackened wheels and hocks of the turn-wheel on the merry-go-round were all rusted and grimed out, yet still managed to produce an odd, familiar quality that would ring out in day or night. The paint on the twisting candy poles of the handles flaked and peeled, but still yielded a faint yet bright representation of the past. The Fun-House had some mirrors cracked and smashed, but still the music played on as if ignoring the fact that its prime had come and go a long time past. The night had come before, no doubt about it, but this was different. This dark was penetrating, and intrusive. It dove deep into your thoughts and kept you from waking. It trickled through the cracks of everyones happiness and glee, yet caught the tangled web of the common fear of the unknown. This, truly, was not only the absence of light, but the knowledge that the light would never surface in the consciousness of this world again. The locks on the gate may keep people out, but more so, may keep change from also entering and destroying the pristine, never-changing persona of the Park on the Pier. They would click and lock, ringing a certain and yet distinct chime into the halls of time. Rusted and still strong, after years of abuse and torture brought on by years of wear and tear. Only one key, only one, could open these gates, and this key has seemed to slip away from those wanting in. Perhaps by mistake or perhaps by intent, the key just isn't there to satisfy those who want it the most. Beyond the gates, the ticket booth rots away, with its characteristic stained white and baby-blue paneling. It once stood firm and tall, loved for its colors and charm. Now it lays there, a shell of what it once was. A hollow record of the care-free times, with a physical reminder to the past, offering little in the way of mental rememberings. The apartment complex that overlooked the acreage crumbled from the beating of time against its tough exterior, and although it stood tall and firm, it also took a familiar trait that of an empty reminder of the times that once were. The grimy, metallic walls dulled under the artificial lights, and the carpet accumulated a certain black muddy buildup, with a well-beaten flatness all around the edges and center. The stench of sweat and old cooking filled the halls, finding every wisp of fabric and corrupting it beyond repair. The elevators, every now and again, would grumble to life and serve its ever-knowing masters, only to return to the dark underworld of the basement. Their purpose: to willfully accept and blindly serve those whoever wished of their services, only to be cast off to a dark and unseen chamber, where others of its kind were held, waiting eagerly to serve the cruel masters. The hallways especially were a transform from a wonderful earlier go. The plaster on the ceilings and walls lifted at the simplest of touches, and the doors at the end of the hall, although never touched, still gathered the mold and filth abundant in this post-Victory Mansion era dwelling. The doorknobs, with their own locks, were the only shining pieces in this terrace, but even then, dust and sweat deteriorated the state of the knobs to near replacement. The lights flickered an orange halo reminiscent to that of a deranged traffic light. The peepholes on the doors themselves were grimy and had built up the blackened carbon around the splotty edges. Through the peephole, down at the end of the third hallway, room 324 sleeps. It sleeps because there is no one to wake it. Room 324 has no furniture and no tenants. It is simply waiting for its tenants to return, their arms full of tidings and gifts. Room 324, with its open windows and bedroom doors widely ajar, opens its eyes to the morning sun. Room 324, and the whole apartment complex for that matter, is on an expansive hill, overlooks the coastal town of Mayfair, CA. But in its immediate backyard lies a quiet and subtle inkling of a meadow. The meadow faces the sun when it rises, as to catch the sun before anyone else in Mayfair. In this meadow, a single car, windows broken and smashed long ago, lay undeterred and untouched for what might seem an eternity. The hood, crumpled from a collision, had been the subject of abuse and battery from the local teenagers for as long as the car had remained there. Blackened by fire, the car may seem like all hope is lost, but the glass from the windows and windshield lay undisturbed on the grassy meadow surrounding the car. The glass reflects and magnifies the incoming morning sunlight, pushing forth a notion of one last stand against the forces of darkness and despair. The sun rises from above its alcove of retainment, and pushes with it one last beacon of hope in the darkness. **But with that statement, I have come to realize one thing, and that is the hope is always there; just because your eyes haven't adjusted to the darkness, doesn't mean the light is never coming back.

The Road Adventure to end all Road Adventures! This story begins on a Monday. Both Jack and Michael T. Fox have decided to go on a road trip to Arizona from North Carolina. They have both called in sick, Jack the pest control man and Michael T. Fox who is not related to the Back to the Future star, but a different one that works at a car wash for baby strollers, so it is more of a stroller wash than a car wash. They figure it will take two days to drive to Arizona. So they packed up their winter clothes and mountain climbing gear. They also brought fifteen hundred dollars in pure gold to sell to the Native Americans in Arizona. Then at five o’clock in the morning they set off to Arizona. About an hour into the trip Jack already wants to turn back around because he left something in his Radioflyer wagon at home. They circle back around and travel back to Jack’s house where he picks up his loaded pistol stashed under his two year old child’s toys in the wagon in the garage, after he retrieved the gun they were back on the road. Fourty-one hours later they are driving through the Arizona desert, when all of a sudden Michael T. Fox starts seeing what he thinks are hallucinations. He sees Lt. Dan the three legged cheetah! The three-legged cheetah is running alongside of their 1985 Honda Accord, and Michael T. Fox who is not driving, rolls down his window, “What do you want?” he says. The cheetah replies, “Your souls or I’ll steal your gold!” Jack shouts, “ NO Way! Take our gold!” Michael T. Fox says, “No way, take our souls, they are useless anyway.” Lt. Dan begins to wag his tail at extreme speeds and after twenty minutes Lt. Dan now owns Jack and Michael T. Fox’s souls! Within seconds Lt. Dan vanishes and an Indian trading mart appears. “We are here” Jack says. They both get out and walk up to a giant Native Americans named Chief Inspector Gadget. Everyone greats each other with a simple “How.” Jack begins to barter with the good Chief. “We have fifteen hundred dollars worth of gold in the trunk of our vehicle and we will sell it to you for twenty thousand dollars.” The Chief takes a deep breath and replies “No.” Jack starts to think about another offer but just decides to shoot the Chief in his old kneecaps. “That’s for World War I!” yells Jack. Michael T. Fox is unimpressed. Suddenly Academy Award winning actor Sean Penn walks into the teepee hands Jack a check for twenty thousand dollars, and he walks out, hot wires Jack’s car and drives away into the sunset. “What do we do know?” says Jack. “How about we pray to our new God?” Michael T. Fox states. They both say a few words in French and then Lt. Dan appears like a genie in a glass bottle. “Head East and I will find you guys transportation.” Jack and Michael T. Fox begin to head for the door Chief Inspector Gadget gets up from behind the counter of his teepee store and he raises up a bow and arrow, “One shot, two kills.” He says with vengeance on his Native American mind. He fires the biggest arrow in existence and it sails right through Jack and Michael T. Fox. Lt. Dan says, “Wow that was awesome.” And then the cheetah jumps into a 1994 Power Wheels motorized Jeep, a vintage model, and he drove away into his mysterious cheetah lair or cave or boat or where-ever he lives. The moral of this tale is never get into a situation where you end up in the cross-hairs of a sharp shooting Chief.

Every day while walking to school three friends would always pass the same eerie old building. Broken windows with silky spider webs caught the light of the rising sun. Jungle like weeds grew, taking over the once walkable stone pathway to the door. A sign on an old oak tree read: “Danger, Do Not Enter.” Everyone had heard different rumors about the broken down flat. Some say that a newlywed couple and their young child were murdered there. Others are certain that there is an infestation of mutant hobos. A couple of people think a witch named Chaney lives in the attic. The idea was born one day at lunch. While eating the horrific cafeteria food a thought popped into Benny’s head. “We always have amazing parties but don’t you have all the cleaning up after?” he said. “Oh I know!!” Cody answered. “Well wouldn’t you want a place we can party at once and then leave, not worrying about all of the trash and filth we create?” Benny then told them about his amazing plan. Cody, Benny and the third boy named Zander worked on this plan for a few weeks and then on a Tuesday they decided they were ready to start telling others. They told all of their friends and their friends told friends and so on and so forth. Then they started collection funds and donations. Cups, chips bottles and dollars started rapidly coming in to support the future event. “People keep asking where it’s going to go down.” Zander told Benny. “Don’t worry they will find out the day of, that’s part of the plan.” Friday, 5:00am. Three boys sneak out and head for the deserted homestead. The boarded up human habitat looked even spookier in the early morning mist. With them they carried the snacks and supplies they obtained throughout the week. The setup was simple and within an hour they were out. When they arrived at the school everyone was eager to find out where the party would be. Even though they were bugged throughout the day the three boys did not export the information into the fellow classmates. Finally, as the bell rang, the location was released. Young souls entered the building at nightfall, full of excitement and wonder. The floorboards creaked as the unfamiliar weight of human bodies filled the once furnished living room. Students treated themselves to food and drink. Laughter filled the area as the effects of the beverages started to surface. A girl was distressed when she couldn’t find her phone. Cody saw it in the middle of the dance floor where teens jumped up and down to music like the floor was a trampoline. Swiftly he adventured through the dense pack of sweaty minors to retrieve the fair damsel’s item. Nobly he returned it, miraculously undamaged, to the fair female who then took him into another room to thank him. More and more students left the safety of their parent’s homes and traversed through the moonlit night into the party house. The building started to sway back and forth in response to the dancing and sheer mass of humans filling the house like the stuffing of a Thanksgiving turkey. Little did they know, this party would be their last through the effects of three events. The first inevitable accident happened in an unlikely place, the bathroom. Entering the bathroom to find a quiet place to get away two schoolmates, one being Zander, decided to try something new. Their love brought them close together and they kissed for the first time. Unfortunately, the combined weight was too much for the rotting floor to hold them up. Reluctantly the boards gave way and the two lovebirds plummeted through to the basement. Breaking their legs from the fall they tried to call for help. Sadly, the booming music drowned out their calls and no one upstairs could hear them. In the basement, however, their shouting was heard. Hungry rats, also looking for a safe quiet place, attacked the two. Greatly outnumbered and unable to move, the couple was eaten alive by the ravenous rats. The blaring music mixed with alcoholic beverages added to the ignorance of the teens. They could not tell but the floor was bending down under their weight. The party house creaked and groaned trying as much as it could to stay upright. Trying not to take the lives of the children inside, it stayed up. At this point the worst thing any kid could imagine showed up outside the borrowed residence. Not the devil, the Pope or even death… it was the police. Even through the three boys efforts to not give the location away to snitches or adults they still found out. Thus, the second undesirable event occurred. The third event happened shortly after the second. At the sight of police cars outside the music suddenly stopped. The crowd of teenagers stumbled to the back door, as fast as their drunken bodies’ would let them. Pushing, shoving, quietly yelling everyone wanted to get out. This unexpected rush of energy pushed the house to its breaking point. The walls shook, old paintings fell off the walls, the remaining unbroken windows shattered with an earsplitting crash and within seconds the roof pancaked the children trying to escape. The only survivors were the termites feasting on the decaying wood and three cockroaches.

Imagine if you will a building, tall and tattered,the higher you go the brighter it gets, the lower you go the darker it gets. You wake up in a room with three others; shadow figures you cant make out. You exit your room to the lobby. There are people here in this building, people you know, loved ones and acquaintances. The elevators don’t work and there are only stairs to the lower levels. Standing there you here the faint sound of music coming from below. Think about that person who means the most to you, that person who you love more than life itself. You love them so much that it isn’t a stretch to say that your souls are connected. Your first thought is to follow them, you head down the stairs, and you quickly notice that the room gets dimmer. Your body feels intoxicated, you feel dizzy, and unable to think properly. People are lined shoulder to shoulder lying on the ground. There is a bar in the corner of the room, and you see them sitting at it, hunched over with there back towards you drinking a drink. You tip toe around the body’s and on your way to the bar, you notice the music is no longer playing. “How long was is stopped? Maybe the whole time I was down here.” You sit beside them at the bar, and turn in your stool to tell the bartender that, you’ll be having what they’re drinking. But the bartender isn’t there. So you turn the other way to say hi, and start a conversation. When you prompt the question. They turn and you notice that there face is blurry and a mixture of the colors their face is supposed to be, almost like someone just swirled it and then made it really blurry. You say their name and they look at you but say nothing. Your drink has just appeared in front of you. You grab there hand and get out of the bar. When you turn around you notice two more people, with normal faces walking around. They had just gotten off the ground. One of them walks up and ask you; “Where am I?” You reply with “I don’t Know Some kind of hotel or apartment building.” You hear shuffling and speaking from the floor beneath. So you grab the arm of your loved one, and follow these strangers to the next floor. Every thing is darker, everyone is just a black silhouette. They are just standing there chattering amongst them selves. You shout out; “What are you doing?!” They reply in a mass conglomeration of words and sentences. Its hard for you to make out but a few. Then without question they all chant “Minutes turn into days, days turn into weeks, weeks into years, and years into centuries.” The others you are with have slowly walked into the crowd without you noticing and have turned into black silhouettes. Your loved one is pulling on your hand and pointing to her stomach, and then too the stairs you came from. You remembered about the cash you had in your wallet. Walking towards the stairs back to the upper floor, you notice the crowd following you, not talking just walking as a mass group towards you. Your halfway up the stairs, turn back and notice one lonely shadow maybe the size of a young girl, walking towards you but when her foot touches that first step she fades away, like blown sand. A sad image; you move on and make your way to the floor where you originate from. You notice the double doors leading outside, but walking towards them becomes harder the closer you get. Its like your in a wind tunnel, there is so much opposing pressure pushing you. You hug the wall and shimmy your way to the doors, once outside you hold the doors open for them, and they follow your routine and make it outside with you. For that moment the doors stayed open, and in an instant they drop to they’re knees and get pulled back in. Sliding', they reach they're arms out and the only time you here them say anything is when they shout your name while being dragged back in. You race to them but the doors are slammed shut. You go over to the door and see them huddled and grabbing there knees. Rocking back and forth. Banging on the glass does nothing they cant hear you. But you mouth to them . “Don't worry, I'll be back with food. Everything is going to be OK.” They didn’t even notice you. You didn't even try to open the doors, because you were too scared that whatever pulled them in, might pull you in and it wouldn't let you leave. So you venture out to look for food, then you hear someone say your name, they sound friendly, and only a few feet away. You follow their voice until it leads you to the building next to yours. You notice a black figure almost like before. You think you may know this person but you aren’t quite sure. You walk up the stairs to only find out that this shadow is bigger and bulkier than the others. They walk closer and say in a voice deeper and more snarling than before “I know what you’re here for, you little fuck” By this point you get scared and are already heading back down the stairs. You reach the bottom and immediately you’re weighted down. Like all your energy is depleted, crawling ever so slowly towards those double doors. “You're hungry, huh piggy, I've got food and plenty of it. Get back here you quivering little cunt!” You have gotten halfway there when you hear him at the bottom of those steps. “ You want some fucking Cheetos, you want some goddamn food. Here take it take it all.” He started hurling bags of them at you, getting closer with each toss. You reach the doors but collapse, you touch the glass and use all your will to bang on it. Imagine how it it would feel to not be able to open your mouth because you don’t have the strength, knowing what you want to say, and the words banging at the inside of of your mouth trying to find an opening to explode out from your lips. Knowing what to say, but the words just wont come out. Ever so often you garnish enough will and power to pry those lips open and all that slithers out is a squeak or a moan. I imagine this is how a baby or a mute person feels. So much Frustration, and all that you can muster is a fucking squeak. They are still there inside walking around like they are waiting for something. Sand is Getting blown around ,you're at the doors but don’t have the strength to get off the ground. You feel vibrations coming from the ground as he stomps those few feet until he is hovering over you blotting out the sun. You are reduced to tears and your thoughts. Your immediate thought is “This man is going to murder me,and I am going to die. All That will remain is blood and pulp.” You are helpless, glued to the ground, and releasing your bowls. You pray to god for forgiveness, and tell everyone you are sorry for the things you have done. Your stomach is churning out shit Ice cream. You ask god to save you one more time. Then he says hovering and blotting out the sun standing there so menacingly. “ No one can hear you, your just thinking all of this, no one is listening, you wont be saved, and even worse you wont save them.” He points to your loved one walking around. He picks you up and slams your body, then proceeds to kick and punch your body. He has endless stamina, the sounds of bones cracking and flesh being punched are being echoed down the street. His heavy breathing feels like flames to your body, and when he spits on you it boils the skin it touches. One last smack to the head is the last thing you feel, then your body goes numb,you are paralyzed completely. You watch him take a few steps to the right, only to see him come back with a saw and a knife. You watch as he dismembers your body, sawing off your arms and cutting your tendon’s with the knife. Your laying in a pool of your own blood. Then you see him take the knife and carve one eye out, now your vision is blurred. Then he proceeds to strike down your other eye with ungodly force. Your last thought before completely blacking out are the words. “I love You.” Then everything goes black you loose all thought, everything is black, no noise, no smell no feel, nothing just black. A moment passes, then your able too see hints of color and light, through your eye lids. You open your eyes and see everything is blurry. You have this new found strength, you feel alive and awake. Imagine if you will a building, tall and tattered,the higher you go the brighter it gets, the lower you go the darker it gets. You wake up in a room with three others; shadow figures you cant make out. You exit your room to the lobby. There are people here in this building, people you know, loved ones and acquaintances. The elevators don’t work and there are only stairs to the lower levels. Standing there you here the faint sound of music coming from below. Think about that person who means the most to you, that person who you love more than life itself. You love them so much that it isn’t a stretch to say that your souls are connected. Your first thought is to follow them, you head down the stairs, and you quickly notice that the room gets dimmer.

Be careful what you wish for – how much truth hides behind those words. Truth I had to learn in an horrible way – truth I had to pay an horrific price for.... It all started with this package I got. It seemed to be a completely normal day. Getting off at 7am, a quick breakfast with a strong coffee and then off to work. But as I got home it was standing there, right on my doormat. It was about half a meter wide and one meter in height. I half expected the package had been delivered to the wrong house, but a small label with my name on it proved me wrong. Curious what it might be I took it inside. As it finally stood in my kitchen I started unwrapping it. An old, worn down box was inside. It seemed as if it had been beautifully painted once, but now there were merely traces of it's beauty left. There also was a small bronze sign on the front of it saying 'Magical box of wishes'. Still, what strangest part of it was the completely white top of it. Whereas most the box was in a desolate state the top was completely clean and looked as good as new. It almost appeared to be out of place. Anyways, I kept on examining the box and found a little letter inside. It explained, that if one spoke a wish in front of the box, whatever one wished for would appear inside. “Box of wishes...”, I murmured to myself. “I wonder who's the one trying to pull that crap on me.” I closed the box again and jokingly said: “Well 'box of wishes', then I wish for you to ease my life with...er...a thousand bucks, right. I'm sure you can easily do such a simple task.” I guess I don't have to explain how estranged I was when the words “Of course I can!” appeared on the white top. I was even more astonished when I actually found ten one hundred dollar bills inside. Needles to say, I used the box very often afterwards. First because I still couldn't really believe it, then just because it was convenient. It always happened in the same pattern. First I'd wish for something, then an answer would appear on top and my desired object would be inside. It seemed perfect. Well, but as everything good it had to turn bad one day. The catastrophe happened one evening . My neighbor Lucy from across the street was accompanying me for a drink. She was 29, so just about my age. I've had a crush on her for quite some time, but I never had the guts to talk to her. We merely were friends and I guess this situation also had it's part in how everything ended. We just finished our first glass so I went to the kitchen to refill. While doing so I was thinking aloud: “She really is such a lovely person....if only her heart would already belong to me....” As I kept on mumbling I suddenly realized a small text appearing atop of the box. “It shall be yours....” Just as I read it I heard a loud, thumping noise coming from the living room. When turning around to see what happened I saw Lucy laying on the ground. Just then an horrible suspicion came to my mind. I turned to the box and opened it with shaking hands. I broke down with an horrified scream as I saw what lay inside....

Resume: In a world overtaken by an evil dictator, a young girl discovers that no one can be trusted. Something in the Rain The silent drops of rain made the asphalt smell in the characteristic way which Dawn always associated with riding bikes and skipping ropes late summer evenings as a child, and how her life used to be, back before everything began falling apart. A faint squeeze in her hand broke her train of thought and she looked into a pair of hazel eyes, which shifted it’s gaze quickly. “Keep your eyes on the road,” Jeffery said in a muted voice “you never know when a car comes.” Jeffery and Dawn were walking right in the middle of a pitch black, broad avenue, and they both knew that there wouldn’t be any cars driving the street until the factory workers woke at 6:30 am, and they were both perfectly aware that it was mindless to be be on the street at this hour, who knew if one of Xavier’s informants were hiding behind the tall oak trees. But they still said it, as, one of many, ways to keep calm despite the curfew, bans and other restrictions made under their new leader Xavier’s regime. Being with Jeffery kept Dawn sane at the moment, her entire life had been turned upside down when Xavier came to power, Jeffery was her rock. And it that moment he said under his breath; “You know I got my letter this morning.” Dawn clenched his hand, it couldn’t be already, could it? “No.” was all she managed to say, her nails still digging into the fair skin on his hand. Ever since Xavier infiltrated and took over the government, he had ruled the country with an iron fist, and as the rebels grew numerous, he had ordered every man and boy over the age of, and those who were to turn 18 to fight in his army. And were anyone to refuse, they were doomed to leave the country forever, in rare cases they were used as the informants, protecting their own lives, by spying on a suspected family member. Most of these lived as outcast, or rebels. And now it was Jeffery’s turn. Dawn didn’t know which fate was worse, to fight alongside Xavier’s army of killing machines, or the equally bloodthirsty rebels. She had already lost her father’s sanity, to this war when he fought for Xavier. Dawn’s father had been an honourable soldier the first years of the war, but had now retired. The only thing he cared about now, was to enforce Xavier’s word, Jeffery could either end his life this way, or living with the rebels in the desert. “No,” she repeated, her voice shaking, the lump in her throat growing bigger by the second “you can’t do it.” Jeffery looked in every other direction than Dawn’s, “My mother was crying the entire morning” he finally said, his voice shaking. “Then let us run away! Cross the border,” Dawn said before she had time to think it trough. Jeffery stopped walking and let go of Dawns hand, his gaze locked on something in the distance “Do you think we would be able to do it?” Jeffery stared at his shoes, kicking a tiny pebble all the way down the now slightly more illuminated avenue, and out of sight. “Anything is better than the war,” Dawn whispered and took both of his hands in hers and squeezed them “think about it, but we have get going, it’s getting lighter” Jeffery embraced Dawn, and she heard a faint “Thank you” in her ear. She turned around and ran the last few blocks home. The old, battered door into the staircase gave a slight creak as she opened it, luckily no one used to be up this early anyway. But already when she shoved the key in the door to the flat she shared with her father, she knew something was wrong. She heard her fathers armchair squeak from the other side of the door, “Dawn Hobson!” she heard her father’s rusty voice call, “you better get in here right this second!” his slippers dragged slowly across the carpet, and he was near the door. Dawn knew, that did she open that door, she was certain to spend the rest of her teenage years in the juvenile detention centre. He had caught her before, twice, and had sworn, that did she break the leader’s rules once again, he wouldn’t acknowledge her as his daughter anymore. She turned around on the balls of her feet, and ran swiftly down the stairs. She reached the street just when she heard footsteps resonate in the staircase. It was too early to be out still, but the street was now so light, that she had to move as quickly as possible, to not be seen. The only place she could go at this time was to Jeffery’s. It was a long run, but it was the only option. Dawn reached Jeffery’s house, panting and out of breath, she crept around the house into the garden and tapped lightly on his window. Dawn was sure he was in his bed, sleepless, because of the arrival of his letter earlier in the day, and she was right. His face was filled with shock as he rose from his bed and quickly opened the window. “What are you doing here?” he barely managed to stutter before Dawn was through the window. “We have to flee,” she gasped, “I have to, he is going to find me, and he is going to kill me.” A terrified emotion crossed Jeffery’s face before his eyes returned to their familiar calming shape, but what was it, why didn’t they seem as reliable as they used to?. “Just… relax,” he hesitated, “no matter what, we’ll have to wait, I’ll get you some water.” He said absentminded as Dawn dropped confused on the bed. Through the walls to the kitchen, she heard faint voices, what was happening? “Probably nothing” she thought to herself as her eyes shut of exhaustion for a moment. She was awoken what felt like seconds later, by the sound of heavy marching boots in the tiny bedroom. A jolt of terror hit her entire body as she saw Xavier’s silver tiger on the chest of the uniformed men. She couldn’t focus on anything but Jeffery’s emotionless face in the background as the soldiers lifted her by the arms, from the bed and through the room. Her ears was ringing, but she could still make out the words Jeffery mouthed before he turned his back at her for the last time, “I’m sorry”. The asphalt was cold and wet on her bare arms, the rain still falling, feeling chilly through her soaked top, but the warmth was spreading from the tingling graze on her cheek. She couldn’t see anything but the boots surrounding her, and the red sticky fluid slowly oozing from her mouth. Her life really had been turned upside down the last few years. A shiny leather boot lifted of the ground, nearing her face, and she inhaled one last breath of the scent of the asphalt as she closed her eyes and reminisced the warm summer days, which usually didn’t end this way.

Gust is a Toracane, one of the thousands of wind creators working hard all over the world to keep the clouds moving. Gust spends most his days paddling away in one of the high white towers, you may have seen the homes of the Toracanes doted along our country side. Gust loves his job moving clouds around, he knows that all the animals and plants need rain to help them survive. There is one animal Gust and all the rest of the Toracanes would like to see the end of “ Humans “ They make nasty smelly Hume-clouds full of poison, the clouds come out of big gray fat chimneys and choke up the sky, humeclouds prevent sun and moon light from reaching the towers. Gust works very hard and needs to eat lots of meat, when he is low on energy he stops paddling and struggles out of his tower to collect any birds that have crashed in to the propellers of his cloud moving home. He struggles because all Toracanes are very tall, they have extra long thin legs as they lay on their backs so their tiny feet can reach high up into the tower and spin the blades. The taller the tower the taller the Toracane. Gust was very hungry but he could find no injured or dead animals to eat, He had to catch some food quickly, Toracanes only stop paddling when they are very low on energy, they do not like going out of their towers as long thin legs can not support their wide strong heavy backs for long. Gust has to hunt for his food today. Hunting is not easy he has only one chance and running is not possible. Eyesight is restricted as the towers have no light, Toracanes really go out in day light, the best time to feed is when humans and other food have difficulty spotting the shadows of a Toracane. Gust takes a few long strides hoping to find his favourite food, humans especially Children, a flock of sheep are his only option today, now he has to position him self with the moon behind him. The shadow he casts allows him to judge falling distance. He makes sure that is head shadow is on a lamb, puts his feet together for accuracy opens his mouth and falls like one half of tower bridge directly on to his dinner, unfortunately the lamb sees gust just before impact, poor Gust as to scrape the lamb off his neck and chest and scoop the food with his long bony fingers and transfer to his large toothless mouth, all Toracanes are toothless as they do not chew, just swallowing hole for them. Now back to the tower Gust will now be able to work for the rest of the week with a full tummy.

"It's been an hour since I dropped her back at her house and she hasn't sent me a text." He said, "She must be pretty mad." "You said you dumped her?" He swigged his beer. I drank my coffee. We were on the porch and it was early daytime. "Yeah, man. I dumped her." I said, "I figure she must be upset." "Shit." He said, and nodded. I looked out across the lawn, across the street, and to the other side. An old man stood on his porch in dark blue coveralls and he wore a red hat. From afar, I could only see his eggy skin and blue eyes that I figured must be almost dead up close. He cracked a beer and drank from the can. He kept an eye towards us. Johnny started kinda giggling next to me. He wasn't looking out, but in, and he said, "Yeah, she was pretty mad. You wanna hear something?" "Sure." "Ok, so we were in bed and I was tired, you know. I'm layin there and I'm trying to fall asleep, because I'd only woken up when she got up to take a shit or something. And I'm still all comfortable in bed when she comes back in, you know, after crappin' her brains out, well, THEN she starts being frisky. Don't get me wrong, I love to do her. But I wasn't so tired I hadn't pictured her crappin' out all those lentils she eats. I mean I know what that shit does to me." I stopped listening. I stopped nodding my head. I lit another cigarette and looked into my empty mug. His words slipped past me. The old man was in his garage then. He seemed to move about carrying the weight of hopeless burdens. He scuffed his boots on the pavement. He put on his work gloves. "After everything, we're all cuddled up and I'm definitely trying to sleep now. Thing is, it's her hair, you know it's so goddam curly and after getting pulled on a bit, it's just a fucking mane. It gets everywhere and I'm laying there and it gets in my mouth and I'm like, 'Fuck!' You know?" I was a beat late on this cue. "Shit, man, you there? Oh, you out of coffee, you fuckin' pussy faggot?" He said, "If you're going in there, grab me another one." I went in and was back out when I saw the old timer across the way. He had two black trash-cans out in the driveway, and he was tying heavy black bags into each. I handed Johnny the beer. "Man, I shoulda said, 'Grab me two,' but I guess this is alright." "Just shut up and drink it." I said, "And you're welcome." We drank our liquids and watched the old man perform. He looked methodical, solemn and only semi-lucid as he enacted this boring brand of magic. Slowly he made his way behind his house and disappeared. "Still nothin'." "Nothing?" "Yeah, she still hasn't sent me anything." I said, "You're joking." "I'm tellin ya, she must be on her period or something." "Women," I said. Johnny drank his beer and looked at his phone. We heard a large engine start up. Pretty soon, the old man was pulling around the corner of his house in a John Deere. It was bright green and it was rigged for mulching with nylon pouches, but he only had a small lawn. From afar, I figured the soft old bastard must like riding a fancy mower better than dying behind an old, heavy push. "Honestly dude," he said, "I'm kinda getting worried." "What could have happened?" " I don't know. I'm sure she's just crying or sleeping or something, it's just that the other times I dumped her, it wasn't but fifteen or twenty minutes before she'd send me something." "Maybe she..." "Oh my God, and those were always the best messages to get from her, too! She'd get like wild. I'd be lying if I said I don't miss those texts." "Well." "This one time, I fucked her at her parent's house. I guess that was the first time we fucked. She made me wear a condom, which sucked, but it was still pretty awesome fucking her. Anyway, she said she had heard of some new vaginal condom or diaphragm or something that she was gonna get. She said it was gonna be just for me, cause she knew I hate condoms and I told her I wanted to cum in her." The old man was making quick work with his mower. The blade cut clean through his Bermuda without tearing it. He nudged up against the flower bed too, and he got it good enough that he wouldn't need a weed-eater. He smirked, and I know I saw that. "So about three days before my twenty-first, I'm thinking about who I'm gonna fuck, and I got a couple of options. You know, none are really superstars or anything. Nothing I couldn't live without, but, anyway I'm sensin' that this 'Her-and-I' thing is just gonna fuck me up on what should be the funnest day of my life. So I just ditched her cause I wanted to sleep with Shannon because Shannon's got such big tits. Well, it gets time to meet up with my girl and I'm drunk so I call her. I told her that her pussy is too loose and that I don't want her busted ass anymore. Oh man, she went nuts." "Makes sense," I said. "Yeah, well that night Shannon's friends are like cock-blocking the shit out of me, and then all those bitches run home early because they got a test or some shit the next morning. So I call her back, and she's not happy, but I get her to talk to me and I get her to let me come over. "It was funny, man, it was fucking funny when I showed up because she opens the door and she's still got on her dress and her make-up is all washed out. And she was so damn mad! I couldn't believe it, but I got her back into bed. I don't know how, man, I was fucking drunk as shit, but I did, and I fucked her until I puked." "What?" "Yeah." He smiled. "You twisted son of a..." "Haha, exactly! I puked all over the side of her bed, dude!" "Jesus," I said. "Then what?" "I dumped her for real." He said, "I busted my nut, barfed and went home. She texted me later, but not because she was mad, but because she wanted me back. "She was sending me shit like, 'Oh Johnny, please take me back!' you know, but then she'd say stuff like, 'I want you to cum in my pussy cause I just found my diaphragm I'd been telling you about. I'll let you fuck me all night Johnny, I swear. Just come pick me up, Baby. Please. Please Johnny, come back and let me have it!' "I mean I was blown away by that shit. All the time though, it was stuff like that." "Just like that?" He said, "Well, you know. Just crazy shit." "Well maybe she'll text you." "Yeah." He said, "Maybe I'll text her, you know? I mean, just to make sure she's ok." I looked at the old man who was shutting off his mower. Slowly, with aged joints, he moved off the mower's saddle and moved to dump the clippings in the cans. He dragged the just full cans to the curb. He put out the sprinkler. Johnny started stirring and it was hot outside so I started moving to head back inside. "I don't know dude," I said. "I think you gotta make it a rule, and the rule's gotta say you gotta fuck another girl before you can go back to one you already fucked. Otherwise dude, she owns you. You know what I'm saying? You gotta prove to yourself that she isn't the only bitch you can get. I say you find that Shannon girl and smack those tits around just because you can. Then, maybe, think about goin' back to the 'same-old, same-old' bitch who apparently fucking loves you for some stupid fucking reason." "Damn dude, that's truth right there. That's truth." "Let the big dog eat," I said. Johnny laughed hard and said real loud and deep, "LET THE BIG DOG EAT! ARF! ARF!" We laughed and high-fived before Johnny went in checking his phone for numbers. I heard him inside saying, "Yo Shannon, how you doin', girl?" I flicked a dead cigarette butt into my yard, and then saw the old man staring at me. Even from over here on my porch, I could see he looked disappointed. He turned away and started into his house. The door was open as he slowly crossed the threshold and I heard what must've been his wife playing piano. A happy grandma-laugh burst as her song was abruptly halted. I heard her laugh again, then play and sing some bars of "For He's a Jolly-Good Fellow." The old man in his work-suit danced the rest of the way past the door. She kept playing, then the door closed, and then their laughter went hidden.

Evan Saunders 9.3.13 The Fearful Rain pattered against the bus window. Droning car engines hummed by the fat bus as it sprayed tails of water on the highway, the rain falling harder. Passengers began to break their eyes from their newspapers, their devices, and seeing the streaks of rain racing each other down the windows. The rustling of papers stopped, and the sound of skin stretching around widening eyes, pupils’ dilated black around every iris. Their voices started as low murmurs, and taking off louder and louder as the fear in the bus grew beyond just the walls of the rider’s heads. Lysander sat by a window with his head leaned on the glass, eyes closed, listening to the faint slithers of raindrops just by his ear. He knew the cries were about the rain, and tried to ignore it, wrap himself in some internal music to ignore them all. But like cries of a baby without its parents, they broke through. “I forgot my umbrella!” “I’ll melt in the rain.” “How much will it cost to pull up closer to my stop?” Many other passengers called up to the driver, who rolled his eyes and focused attention creeping back to the road, but an eerie haze coming over him as the rain slid down, and the whimpers of the passengers panging his ear drums. “Aren’t you worried?” A fat woman sitting in the seat across from Lysander asked with her eyes distraught and squinted through a pair of wide rimmed glasses, making her look like an oversized bug. “Worried about what?” The man asked, tearing his gaze from the window, and to her. “The rain, you’ll melt in the rain, everyone will! I hate it when these weathermen screw up, it’s like they’re getting worse and worse as the years go on.” She grumbled. Lysander let his head swivel to the window again, cars outside began to swerve off the road, gas fed flames sprouting from broken guard rails, and the passengers only complained about the rain, never mind the burning cars and mutilated bodies escaping the traps. “Did you see that?” Lysander jerked back to face her, the wrinkles and the fat on her body finally registering to his eyes. “See what?” The smoke billowed up from the car that began to fade with the blur of the rain, and the distance growing, the victim’s too afraid to pry the metal off themselves, as the stared into the falling monsoon. “The car! It just swerved off the road, it’s on fire! We gotta do something!” “But the rain!” She cried, “We’ll die in the rain, all of us!” And the passengers cried again, the terror building, even the driver’s eyes from where Lysander was sitting, were growing wider, his brown iris’ gone. “Driver, stop the bus! We have to help that other man!” He stood up, gripping the seat for his balance. The driver looked back at him through his mirror, “Sir, please stay seated for the rest of the ride, I will make sure to keep you safe, whoever is outside the bus is not your, or my problem.” By now the burning car was long gone, and the smoke billowed in the bus’s wake, and the man sat down, agitated fire in his eyes, simmering down as realization took him “We’ll figure something out when we get to our stops,” The fat lady said, “If we ever get there.” She whimpered. “Or if the rain will ever stop, what if it doesn’t? The last rain didn’t end for almost 50 years.” Lysander shook his head slowly while adjusting his gaze out the window, white eyebrows furrowed. “That man will die because we left him there.” “Someone else will help him.” The lady shot quickly, “You need to stop worrying about others and worry about yourself, and how you’ll get to see your family again!” “My family is dead, have been for years—.” Lysander only looked at her, his bony arms folded across his chest. “But mine isn’t. I want to be able to go home by the end of the day, go home and see my little daughter go to sleep tonight. I’m sorry if you can’t do that, but I don’t want to die!” Other passengers whimpered at her remarks, and tear drops rested on arm rests, sons and daughters holding their parents while they wept, and parents holding back their own tears. Lysander rolled up his white sleeves and looked at the scars on his arms, the bullet holes that dug caves in his bones, and streaks of white and purple, comets on his body. The lady took a while to listen to the patter on the outside, painful tap, each of those drops like a bullet to the brain, and asked him. “Have you ever been in the rain before?” “No, but I don’t see how such a small thing can control all of us.” “For an old man you sure don’t have experience with this world do you? The rain has always been here, are you telling me after all the people you’ve seen burned alive out in it, my mother always told me the rain would kill, and I won’t sway from what she has to say!” She screamed, scratchy vocal cords, and then fell to tears, and the rest of the bus broke down— Children, adults, even the driver began to cry, scream like babies without their bottles “My brother disappeared…” “The president said so…” “My dreams told me…” . The driver pulled over to the side of the highway, on a muddy embankment, where he could compose himself, and the rest aboard the bus. The rain came down like hail, bouncing all over the road and pouring down the windows as if the bus were drowning in the sea. The driver called on the intercom over the crying and screaming voices, sniveling himself, “Everyone stay calm, you’re all going to be fine, just breathe okay. Just stop, please—stop crying.” Lysander stood from his seat, a stoic lips and hardened eyes keeping steady as he breezed down the center pathway of the bus. Children and adults alike held back their tears long enough to let red rimmed eyes peer at the back of his head, scars white and purple strung around his neck like bruises that never healed. He approached the driver and gave him a tap on his shoulder. The driver turned to brought his eyes to Lysander’s as he stood tall and thin, the passengers quieting down their whimpers to hear him speak. “Sir, just—please sit down, let us all get these tears out of us before we try to think of something.” “I want off.” “Off of what?” “The Bus, I’ll walk the rest of the way home.” “I can’t let you do that, you’ll die out there! I’m driving this bus I’m in charge of you until make it to your stop.” “We’re not going to move until the rain stops, we can’t even see past the windshield for God’s sake. By the time the rain’s done we’ll be nothing but skeleton’s.” “Do you know what will happen to you out there? You’ll melt! You’ll turn into a pool of blood and get washed into the storm drains!” He began to scream. “How do you know that? Lysander questioned him with a level voice. “So you’ve never experienced it yourself?” “No! I’m not that dumb to not listen to authority, just listen to the president.” Lysander pushed the lever and opened the dual doors on the bus, and looked out into the down pour, nothing but grey and mist from the patter. The rest of the bus looked at Lysander as he turned and faced the rest of the occupants, all staring at him, even the fat lady who was now crying in disbelief. The driver took a hard look into his eyes and smirked and said “You’re willing to challenge everything the world believes, and will probably die because of it, to do what exactly?” “Well you’re not going anywhere are you?” Lysander said, stepping out into the monsoon, and onto the ground. He was immediately drenched, but he rounded the front of the bus and stepped onto the highway asphalt, the drivers of other cars, the passengers of the bus, beached and bewildered, crammed against their windows with eyes wide as they watched him walk in the rain.

Part 1 I woke up and glanced at the clock to the side of me. 5:30. I never woke up that early. Even for school. I felt, different, though, somehow. Like I was being watched. Like I was in a movie or a book or something. But it was more than that. I was motivated? I guess? That fits well enough. I was motivated. I wanted to do something. I slowly got up and started to get ready for school. I dreaded school. I hated most people there, and they hated me back. I honestly don't know why I went. If it was up to me, I wouldn't. It was a big waste of time. I really hated it. I was never bad in school, but nothing exceptional either. It wasn't the work though, it was the people. If you were any different than the hive mind you were made an outcast. I wasn't one though. I had a good amount of friends, and knew the right people to not be made fun of, but I just never liked most of the people there. They were cruel and unforgiving. I didn't like them. So you're probably wondering why I still went? Well like many people, it was because of Her. I never knew her name, only what she looked like. She was amazing, but she hated me. I only still went to school because I thought I would have a chance of her not hating me. If I just had a chance to talk to her, or something, maybe she wouldn't hate me, like many people do. I honestly don't know why I'm telling anyone this. Nobody cares. But I don't mind. I don't care. I've been told countless times that I could never get her. Or anyone, for that matter. But I didn't care. I kept trying. Again, I know nobody cares, but this is my story. And I'm going to tell it for once. I went to school, again dreading it. The day wasn't anything special. I went to my classes, nothing more, nothing less. The worst part about school I think was how uneventful it always was. Anyway one thing did happen today, I talked to her. It turns out, she doesn't hate me, just never bothered to talk to me. Part 2 He talked to me today! I couldn't believe it! Then, after I got over the shock, I felt so idiotic for not saying more. For not saying "I think I love you" or at least "Can we be friends?" All I could manage was "H-h-hi." Imbecile. Now he'll never know that I can't stop thinking about him and probably never will. Now he'll never know that I think he's amazing. And he'll certainly never, ever know that someone, even if it's just me, needs him. School was......school. I mean, I was pretty intelligent, I suppose. Made pretty good grades. But where does that get you in life? Further than most people think, but that's the point. The people who decide your social standing are highly unqualified to do so. But do I care? Not in the slightest. I'm not disliked. I'm friendly with pretty much everyone, but mainly, I'm not noticed at all, really. I'm not bothered by that. Trust me, most people at my school, you wouldn't want to notice you, either. The one thing that drove me crazy was that he didn't notice me. At least, I thought he didn't for awhile. Once, I heard from a friend who heard from a friend who heard him talking about suicide. I doubted he'd talk about it, but I didn't doubt he'd do it. This scared me. I realized I didn't exactly have a lot of time to tell him anything really. I had to force myself into his life. Honestly, I could care less if the whole world hated me. But not him. Please, not him. The reason I liked him was because you could tell by looking at him that he understood you. Not necessarily everyone, but I knew he'd understand me. I knew that maybe I could be someone he liked. I hoped I could be someone he loved. I just didn't know how to tell him.

It was an open and shut case, and defense attorney Ramona Rogers was feeling great. This was her first real day with the firm, and she knew that a good showing in this trial would guarantee her future as a lawyer. The case was Wagner et. al. vs. City of Oklahoma Housing Projects. A Mr. Ronald Wagner had sued the housing project over alleged negligence in a fire that started in one of the housing units. Evidence and testimony all pointed to an old lady in one of the apartments; she had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette in her mouth—several lit cigarettes—and a fire erupted shortly thereafter. Wagner and the related claimants tried to point to the Housing Supervisors as culpable, claiming that the fire had spread as a result of faulty construction and bad management, but the accusation just didn’t stick. Ramona had successfully dragged out in a cross examination that the fire was mostly confined to the old lady’s apartment, and that there was scarcely evidence of it affecting the other tenants. Indeed, an examination of the site showed little to suggest that the flames had spread beyond the confines of the one apartment. Ramona couldn’t wait till the verdict came in. “Not Guilty”, the jurors would rule, and she’d be off for drinks with the legal partners, who would almost certainly suggest that she receive a raise and be put on track to be a partner in a year or two. She smiled as she thought of her name on the firm, and the plush office they’d give her. She’d have bookcases full of ornate-looking books which she’d never read, and leather chairs for her clients to sit in—the kind that you’d always see in film adaptations of John Grisham novels. And then the prosecution announced a surprise witness. The court became silent as the Judge ordered the bailiff: “Bring in Kimberly Wilkins.” The Bailiff mirrored the Judge’s order, shouting: “Bring in Ms. Kimberly Wilkins.” The courtroom became as quiet as a sepulcher. A woman wearing a wrap over her hair and a multicolored tank-top emerged from one of the chambers and made her way to the witness stand, sauntering all the while. She carried herself with the air of a brothel matron and greeted the Judge with a wide grin. She had a gold tooth that glistened in harsh light of the court. She took the oath, the Prosecutor intoning the order which she would repeat: “Kimberly Wilkins, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” “Sure thing!” she replied. The Prosecutor gave her a cordial wink and began his questioning. “Ms. Wilkins--” “You can call me Sweet Brown, Mr. Prosecutor.” she added. “…Sweet Brown, can you tell me what you were doing at two AM on the night of April the seventh?” “Well,” she began in a husky voice, “I woke up to go get me a cold pop.” “Describe the situation in your apartment at this time” “Then I thought somebody was barbecuing!” “This was, in fact, the fire?” She nodded. “How did you react?” “I said ‘oh lord Jesus it’s a fire!’” Ramona was stunned. There was something very off about this witness. If she didn’t act soon, the entire momentum of the case could conceivably be reversed. In a panic she screamed out “Objection!” “Grounds?” the Judge asked sternly. Flustered and at a loss for words, Ramona replied “there is no evidence to suggest that what the witness perceived to be a fire was anything but, as she suggests, barbecuing?” The Judge, Sweet Brown, the Prosecutor, indeed all eyes in the room turned incredulously to Ramona. “Barbecuing at 2 AM, counsel?” barked the Judge, who then gave a nod to the Prosecutor. “I’ll allow it.” The Prosecutor continued. “Would you say that the fire compelled an urgent response from you?” “I didn’t grab no shoes or nothing Jesus! I ran for my life!” “And were you able to escape, or….” “And then the smoke got me!” Brown hurriedly interjected. The Prosecutor smiled. He knew this represented a turnabout, a reversal in the case. There had been no evidence that the fire was anything but isolated, but if the smoke had reached Wilkins’ apartment then there was clearly something more serious at hand. “Your witness, counselor” muttered the Judge. Ramona stood up, a cold sweat breaking out around her forehead and her underarms. She would have to do anything to diminish the significance of Wilkins’ claims, paint them as trivial. “Ms. Wilkins,” she began, her voice regaining some confidence, “would you say that the smoke was of any dire consequence to your health or well-being? Would you say that it was anything but a small and fairly non-hazardous discharge, as opposed to what one might find in something such as a three-alarm fire?” Sweet Brown looked at Ramona with disgust, her head rearing backwards, coiling like a cobra preparing to strike. Her eyes became wide, bug-like. “I got bronchitis!” she spouted, an almost playfully-indignant expression filling her face. “I understand, Ms. Wilkins, but don’t you think…” “Ain’t nobody got time for that!” Sweet Brown interrupted. Silence followed, the courtroom became still. It seemed like time had frozen. And then, gradually, applause emerged. The audience—and the jurors—were cheering for Sweet Brown. Even the Judge was amused: the corners of his grim mouth were gradually creeping upwards. Sweet Brown was emboldened by the attention and flashed a toothy grin, bobbing her head up and down in delight. By the end of the day, Ramona Rogers was searching through the classified section of the newspaper and rummaging her business cards in search of a new job. She’d be defeated, and lost what was supposed to be the simplest case ever, thanks to the might of Sweet Brown.

(1097 First Crusade) The unforgiving sun beat down across the baren lands that made up what Pope Urban II and the rest of christiandom were calling the holy land. The dirt whipped in the dry wind smacking against the faces and armor of the large column of european men and their horses as they continued on their march to sack a city they knew nothing about. Ulrick found the whole thing quite comical, he had never been much of a church going man yet here he was marching through a hot desert the course sand rubbing his skin raw, and sticking to his sweat, and it was all in the name of God. It made him wonder how the hell he wound up there, was it the promise of pay, forgiveness of his sins. Looking back he though how far he had truly come. As a young boy he had lived in a small village with his family helping around the farm. He had lived a happy life, well sheltered would be a better word he thought. He knew nothing of life outside his town he attended mass with his family, and the priests would speak of issues in the kingdom and so would the other adults but he was too young to understand what they spoke about, financial problems, war, and bandit raids, these words meant nothing to Ulrick he was too preoccupied with his own little world, working hard in the fields, and playing with his friends he had everything he needed, and wanted, he could care less about everything else. Well he could have, it had been a hot and long day he had spent most of it weeding the fields Ulrick let out a sigh of relief as the sun disappeared behind the ridge and trees that surrounded his parents farm, the shade was a relief he thought to himself as he pulled the last of the weeds, he was excited since he finished the job today it means he wouldn't have to do it for a while. He straightened up and wiped his dirt covered hands on his green tunic "all done" he said to himself as he walked over to an old oak tree which served as his shade on the side of the field and looked down at the cloth he had used to carry his lunch out to the field that day. "mum would be furious if she saw I didn't eat all my food" he said to himself as he looked down at the few bread crusts and remains of cheese and carrot that he had not eaten at lunch. "Well I better eat it," he said as he plopped down next to the tree,"besides pulling all those weeds has made me hungry." He crammed the bread and cheese into his mouth and chewed "I'll eat the bread and cheese" he thought to himself "but I think I'll just bury the carrots." Ulrick let his eyes wander up to the branches of the old oak which had stood silent guard over his family's field for as long as he could remember. He remembered playing around it as a boy as his father and his family tended the fields, he remembered his father selecting the perfect branch from which to craft Ulricks first bow. His chewing was interrupted by shouting and screams in the distance. Ulrick stood up maybe some wolves had wandered into the village, " maybe dad will let me use my bow he made to scare them off." Delusions of Ulrick saving the village and being the hero swam though his mind as he ran towards home. " Just need to get over this hill and I will be able to see what is going on," he thought. The closer Ulrick got to the top of the hill he noticed the screams started to fade and a strange glow was coming from beyond the hill. Ulrick reached the top of the hill and the view that awaited him stunned him speechless. The town was ablaze bodies littered the street and Ulrick could see a group of men on horseback fleeing the village. Ulrick raced down the hill and into the city to see if he could help anyone as he ran onto the main road through his village he began to realize he wasn't going to find anyone alive. He hoped that his family was alright that maybe his friends were too, he couldn't accept that they might be dead he had to see for himself. If anyone would have survived it would have been his family his dad had fought for the king there was no way he could have been killed. Ulrick rushed down the street body's strewn about on either side lying in pools of their own blood, windows shattered, doors kicked in all awash in the light of the fire that now consumed half the village. Ulrick reached his door and through it open what he saw broke his heart his father lay headless his cold hands still clutching his sword his mother and brother lay behind him, stabbed to death. Ulrick fell to his knees paralyzed by sadness and grief he couldn't speak he didn't know if he ever would be able to again it hurt too much no cry of pain no word could sum up the anguish he felt. From the other room Ulrick heard a large clanging noise, He quietly moved to pick up his fathers sword, it was alot heavier than it looked. Suddenly a man crashed through the door stumbling under the weight of the loot he carried he was a rough man his clothes were torn and so covered in dirt and mud Ulrick couldn't tell what the original color was. The mans eyes lit up when he saw Ulrick he dropped his loot and drew the dagger that hung at his belt. Before Ulrick could react the man rushed him, Ulrick didn't know what else to do he had never used a sword before he swung with all his might but the force of the swing along with the weight of the sword though him off balance and he fell on his rear but not before the blade had hit its mark the mans head had been cloven from his shoulder and it had landed on its side in front of Ulrick the mans dead eyes which for a moment shifted wildly back in forth as if trying to comprehend what had just happened before becoming still and fixated on Ulrick's eyes. It was all too unbearable Ulrick crawled into the corner covered in blood and still clutching the sword he cried all though the night while the city burned around him and the dead man watched him.

Just a quick thing I wrote up for a contest. Wrote in H.P. Lovecraft style. Am I still myself? No. Surely not. I’ve become someone else; something else. These disembodied hands scratch words and names onto unfamiliar parchments as mannequin strings twitch and twang from countless shadows. My mouth feels nothing more than a brass phonograph hissing out secondhand idiom from my predecessors, no doubt contrived by the same apparitions that distantly influence my feet; my fingers; my entirety toward places they formerly dared not go. Who am I? I once stood for so much more. I marched upon my own two feet. No strings. No shadows. I made choices, formulated my own philosophies, and even shouted them triumphantly! I made wondrous inspirational speeches and helped transform my hometown of Arkham into something better. I could always catch a gleam of brazen conviction in myself as I observed my reflection in the broadcasts; a mirror of my soul. “I’m the President.” I could say. “The President of the free world.” That was before, standing on the precipice of the calm twilight of unfamiliarity and insignificance. Before my soul’s mirror was shattered and strung together into some abhorrent instrument used for insidious and unfathomable schemes, each sharp fragment echoing the deep blackness of others whom I now recognize as my masters. If only I had recognized the perils into which I was advancing. If only I had observed the warnings from those in high up torch-lit places! They forewarned my approach into ageless rituals and hinted of reality within the dreaded Necronomicon, penned by the infamous “Mad Arab” Abdul Alhazred. Whispers of repugnant star-headed Elder Things, Shoggoths, and dystopian horrors beyond time offered no reason and ostensibly had no bearing on my political endeavors, and thusly went unheeded. Once my authority was substantial enough, secretive individuals began to send eccentric letters to my home by digital communication, delivered deep into the evening with an electric buzz. They spoke of damnable statues, fatal chromatics, and referenced some incoherent language that declared “Cthulu Flaghn!”. What was I to think?! Gods and clandestine rituals own no residence in our realm of sciences, much less to a man of public service such was myself! Had I only known the truth! I would not be entombed as I am today, a prisoner in my own immobilized body! It was not until that final ghastly dusk long ago that I grasped the consequence and severity of my condition. But alas! It was far too late! Memories are vague and muddled to me presently, but I obtusely recall chemical-sodden handkerchiefs, blackened descents into sunken metropolises, and grime-coated man creatures dancing demonically around cerulean flames. Oh, the horror! The foul parasites infesting my body, burrowing deeper and deeper into my soul! Even now as I have my short respite of sanity and control, I feel the eons old miasma encroaching. Peripheral terrors noiselessly evaporate into nothingness as my eyes dart and strain anxiously to reveal their true form. The dull scraping tread of twisted claws cutting into slime covered soil tugs and contort my very essence. Surely, I am no longer a man. I am merely a cosmic vessel for all that control this world. I have no control. The abhorrent choruses still sing inharmoniously into my head, knocking and shrieking! Cthulhu fhtagn! I’m losing my senses to the incantations of the primordial stars. It won’t be long now. But I must try--… no… I must regain myself! I am a man! I am the President of the free world! Ph’nglui... escape this house at R’lyeh! I cannot..

Dreams are weird. This morning I dreamt that I woke up and I got a text from you. You sent it to me around 2 in the morning, you missed me, you were sorry for how shit things are. Texts are weird. It seems like every time I'm yearning to receive a friend's response I get a text from someone else. It's not necessarily a bad thing, because I'm usually interested in talking to most anyone I have saved in my phone. Does that make me amiable? Maybe genial? I've never thought of myself in either way. I think I'm usually just bored and looking for entertainment. Entertain me. Anyway, first I got happy, then I got sad, then I got angry, then I got disinterested. Talk about rapid transitions. I always have had bipolar tendencies, I think I inherited them, but this sequence of emotions happened pretty fast. Emotions are weird. I feel like no matter what order they come in at some point they achieve the same end result, apathy. I can't tell if it's some self-defense against a potential actualization of my fear of failure, or if I really just don't care. I think it might be the latter, I keep thinking about looking into it, but then I just stop caring. Caring is weird. I just don't understand the point of becoming emotionally involved in something. Whether you're happy or you're sad, it doesn't really make a difference. You effect the changes you want to some situation, or you don't, or it's out of your hands and you can't do anything about it. What's the point of getting all riled up about it? Next time you get really happy, calm down, take a deep breath, and make yourself really sad. Then calm down, stop being upset, and convince yourself to be ecstatic. Your own emotions are one of the few things you have absolute control over, they're a toy to be fiddled with. When I first realized this I had a load of fun, I got excited about my newfound ability, then I got upset with how most people let their emotions control them, then I got angry, then I just stopped caring. Anyway, after I got uninterested, I decided to ignore your text and move on with my day. I got up and got in the shower. The shower was fairly normal, I sat down and let the water assault my depression treasury until it all washed away. I sit down in the shower a lot. Is that weird? I think I'm usually just tired. After I got out of the shower, I was drying off. That's when I woke up. I checked my phone first. I had a missed call and a text from people I didn't dream about. I had overslept, I started rushing to get ready for work. I crammed a donut in my mouth, threw on some clothes and was out the door. I got to work surprisingly fast, traffic was smoother than usual, but something seemed off when I got out and hurried my way inside. I scanned my fob at the door, the door unlocked. That's when I woke up. I checked my phone first. I had a missed call from someone else. I had overslept, I ate a donut, this is getting repetitive. Life's getting repetitive. A lot of people are comforted by a sense of familiarity; I tend to think it's annoying. I should make a change instead of waiting for one to happen to me. I should do a lot of things. That's when I woke up.

Any kind of comments or suggestions are welcome. (English is my third language.) TALL BLACK LEGS (( ↮ )) An indirectly lit, long, underground structure with a low-hanging ceiling is disturbed with the unsettling sound of heavy noises. The stinky, dark place looks morose and murky, with its concrete supporting beams and bleak corners. A constant and distant echoing of water is only present, more like a soothing white noise. The floor is covered in dirty, muddy water. In the middle of the room it flows with a seemingly determined speed and course towards the invisible longer end, into the black. It might be some kind of an old sewage system. The walls are covered with grey slime and dirt. Irregularly placed pipes gaping on the sides. Like the broken rib-cage of a slaughtered animal. The light comes from a somewhat circular shaped opening on the ragged ceiling – the work of a grenade – beams of a reflector come closer, bathing the filthy and foul smelling place in an unwelcome, neutrally tinted glow. With moderate noise something big and heavy is hoisted down. A tall, black oddity with legs and arms. From the middle of it comes the bright light, instantly seeking left and right, sweeping across the area even before it reaches the ground. It’s big, tall and black, heavy looking but non-metallic. It extends it legs, so it reaches ground sooner, it levels itself, the cables pop off with a tinny sound. The reflector stops sweeping, the thing adjusts itself and straightens up its back. The dark structure stands in silence. Like if waiting for something or someone, almost casually. Nonthreatening. A couple of hundred meters to the end, where the sound of splashing water is more prominent and the darkness even darker, a very frightened, very little girl, in very dirty nondescript clothes hides behind a concrete beam. Crouching close to the black water – more like mud – trying to remain calm, breathing through her nose. Eyes and mouth shut tight. Concentrating on the white noise of the sewage waters. Breathing regularly, she doesn't seem to be concerned by anything. Her face is peaceful and calm. The opposite of someone who is being hunted. A very long 137 seconds pass when the dark, big figure bends down silently and starts crawling forward in moderate speed. The little girls eyes pop open, her face still calm but her eyes increasingly reflect fear and despair. The big thing starts to sweep around with the reflector again with more intense light. And starts to call out in a very calm, very soothing gentle female voice towards the darkness. Without a rush, audibly. **“Don’t be afraid. I’m here to help you... Hadiya Nozwe...”** **“Don’t be afraid, you are safe now... Hadiya. Come, we will go home. You are safe now.”** It calls out into the black, like a mother. **“I worry about you... Hadiya, are you here? Are you here?” “Where are you, sweet child? Where are you... Hadiya... I miss you very much.”** **“Everything will be alright, come out, no one will hurt you anymore.”** The gentle, pleading and comforting words echo through everything. **“I came here just for you my love, I missed you so much. Where are you... Hadiya?”** It scans around hastily, moving the light left to right. **“Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid... Hadiya.”** The little girl with panic in her eyes starts to slowly crawl in the stinky water, that had been recirculated a million and a billion times, starting toward the nearest wall on the left. **“I’m here to help, I love you, please come back to me.”** Echoes the friendly plead from wall to wall. She ignores it and crawls steadily with lips squeezed together. **“Don’t be afraid, you are safe now... Hadiya. Come, we will go home.”** The sound came from closer now. Heavy steps rumble in the water. **“Where are you, sweetheart?”** Faster movement generates bigger waves. **“Are you there?”** Sounds much closer. Some strange noises are coming from the wall she is headed for, a slow movement, and three short, adult men dressed in dirty brown robes and faces covered with masks climb from a small opening. The first sees the little girl and waves to her, she starts to crawl faster. The two other men stand in nervous stance clenching metal tubes with triggers on their end, while the first also starts to crawl in the water towards the little girl. The big dark figure stops, erects to two legs with a grotesquely curved back. From the arms silently rotating barrels slide out. It’s listening. Seconds pass in silence. Then it bolts forward fast, the water loudly splashing around its feet, thumping heavily. It turns left where the frightened little girl starts to run towards a man standing up from the water who is blinded by the light, but runs towards the little girl. The big dark machine shoots a blast between the two armed men while they are raising their weapons. The explosion blows one to pieces, the second ones right limbs and face rips off, his torso half open. He is tossed against the wall by the explosion and bounces off into the water, like a piece of rag. The man and the little girl are trying to run to the nearest supporting beam. He tries to grab the little girl, to hold her in cover, but the big dark figure fires a rapid round of bullets ripping his legs and torso apart. His flesh and blood tainting the little girl’s already soiled clothes. With its right arm extending, the big figure grabs her tightly, she screams in pain and fear. While with its left arm it shoot another round of bullets in the lying man’s head, rendering it to a soft splashed pulp of no particular shape. Then it breaks her legs with one swift motion, she loudly screams in pain, and cries. **“Don’t be afraid... Hadiya. You are safe now. We are going home.”** Said it with gentle words and a calming voice. Starting with big leaps backwards to the opening in the ceiling. Only the white noise of the flushing waters remain, the mess gets washed away in the dark. *Every story has a start, this is about Heavy Urban Tactical Unit MurAH 21-A. Champion of justice, enforcer of the law.* ...