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Allura 23

You could always find him there under the pavilion. He branded it with only his presence and it seemed no one dared to encroach into his domain. He was not violent or cruel, and no part of him seemed physically menacing. That was not the aspect of his persona that allowed him his solidarity. He was a singular entity, a loner, but it was hard to tell if he was alone, or rather if he felt that he was alone. He seemed content, and he sang mostly when no one was listening. His only possessions in the world consisted of the clothes he wore on his back, an old guitar strung with classical nylon strings, a bongo of which had been fixed with duct tape, and three or four blankets that he kept for the coldest of Florida nights. Every day, he laid his possessions out on the concrete bench for the world to see and the world looked upon them; shamefully or shamelessly, it is hard to tell which. His province, his watch tower so to speak, was strategically placed at the foot of the boardwalk and he resided upon his post, taking surveillance of those walking by. His motive was not vindictive and his surveillance was not judgmental or nosey. Most of all it was empty. He saw as a parrot speaks, he watched, he memorized and he sang. He sang out the events that he saw and he strummed his guitar to the rhythm of the memory. That was his day life. At night he could be found at a similar post further down the beach, next to Hummingston Park. He had found for himself there a place to sing and play upon the grand entrance of stone and marble that separated the street from green lawns of meticulously maintained suburban excess. This spectacle of squandered city funds was fit to be a stage for the most talented of street performers. However, even during the waking hours of the town the audience was sparse and his variety of entertainment seemed the incoherent mutterings of riff raff upon their unwelcoming ears. Vagabonds excluded, this audience could clap and cheer for the marble of the wall fortressing suburbia against ill maintenance and neglected shrubbery. Maybe it was the sparkle in the eye of the audience at the grand entrance that kept him away during the day, further down the beach in the safety of his pavilion. It had to have been that jealousy that he must have felt, that repelled him, when his audience looked upon the sights of his stage and praised it for its beauty, its stateliness, its stark serenity, arrogant enough to shun him when the world looked on. I always fashioned him to have come to entertain, to bring joy and inspire some greater meaning, some truth that he had found and wanted, needed to share with someone, everyone. But he was cut off and booed of stage because the very people he had such enthusiasm in reaching were so deaf to his wisdom that they would rather sit silently and admire the lights and shadows of the theatre apart from the theatrics. To him that victory of suburbia, that wall, must have appeared made of gold bricks, winking the Florida sun into his eyes with an unrelenting, apathetic glare. But it is doubtful that he had such sentiments. The truth of his inner struggle was easy enough to decipher if you listened to him. He sang songs of the things he saw, the things he surveyed, like Jim Morrison but without even the slight shimmer of ambiguous meaning that the latter achieved. I’ve listened to him, I’ve sat with him upon his post under the shade of his pavilion, and I’ve spoken words to him that were reverberated back in the songs he sang and I can tell you I’ve listened to nothing, I’ve sat alone next to the surveyor, and I’ve spoken words that fell upon a parrot’s ears. If you were to have looked into his eyes you have could seen in an instant how empty he was. However, he led a life that was interesting to me. I was not so enthralled or lost in any intrigue of idealism as to throw my life down and follow in discipleship, but there was an aspect of his persona, some shimmer of simplicity, that struck me. I saw him first at night, rotely performing, singing to the stars perhaps. I was running, because at that time I was a runner and it seemed my obligation to fill out my station to society as such. I wondered at that time who he was singing to, and in reflection he most likely wondered who I was running from. As a general answer, he was singing to no one and there wasn’t anyone that I was running from, and so in that instant of time we might have been shaded with the same strokes of insanity had it not been for the fact that I had a destination and a goal in the mechanics of activity that I was performing. I was running towards a finish line, at some later date, at the beginning of some hazy morning. I would eventually finish and attain something, but he would always continue to sing, until some later date, until some lazy morning, and maybe he might break the song with a breathe, final but empty, silent and forgotten. It is only consequential to mention that I saw him for the first time while I was on a run, because it was because of this detail, that I first saw him at such a time in my life, that he peaked my interest. Running represents a primordial kind of motion for mankind. We are built for it, for the nomad life, the hunting of game, the constant movement as we stalk our prey hiding in the brush, in wait, watching. Flight is our best option; if we were meant to fight we would have claws, and sharp teeth to gnash. That is the sense of it that you get as a runner, at least if you keep at it avidly and in fear of competition as was the nature of my personal experience of the motion. And when you do not run for the hunt, and there is no danger, no fight or flight reaction, such primordial incentives are channeled, as it is against our biology to waste any resource of energy or faculty of mind, into other facets of biology, foremost in this case being intensified observation and calculation, characterized by a slight inkling of empathy. Running makes you think. His aura became apparent to me as I was gliding along the city street. It was dull, his presence, but it was captivating enough. He was captivating enough for me to wonder at his life story. Any other night I may have wrote him off as an obscurity, obviously insane to sing alone there on that stage off his with no audience, in this town. But instead, in that profane sense of mind that I was in, I became interested. And so I kept post with him when I found the time. Sometimes I would drum alongside him to keep the beat for the resonations of his soul, always to the tempo of the crash of the waves on the shore. Mostly I would sit in the warmth of summer and wonder if the shell of a man who made such a mellow, lifeless companion might have at one point have had goals, or had ever sang songs of meaning. I would wonder at his past; he seemed maybe to have been a soldier at one point who had seen too much of the darkness in the world to bear to continue watching. Maybe he had character back then, maybe he had sentiments and strong emotions, and maybe he had stood for something. I imagined he was worn down by the abrasiveness of his own empathy against his humanity and others sharp-edged apathy, so much so to be blank. Stark white to the relentless sun, beaten down as a mental patient lobotomized, turned into a vegetable. I might ask him where he was going, and he might tell me home, wherever it was that he made it. As I continued to sit with him, I became cognizant after a time that a story was forming. The authorship I believe was a joint effort. He sang and I imagined, and the sun beat down and the waves crashed into the shore, and his memories melded into his strumming, the guitar matching closely to a joint heartbeat. It came upon us slowly, the story, but there was no rush about it. I don’t believe he was aware of it, how could he be? It might have been totally his though, and my part in it was limited. I was only there to recognize it, grope for the pieces of meaning and string them together, and when there were holes, links to be strengthened, I do believe I filled them in. But it was his story through and through, so much so that I imagined it among his sparse possessions, its pages worn-out and yellowed, forgotten in disuse as he carried it tucked into his blankets, away down the beach, his heart beating with the surf, towards home.

She was a beautiful woman, though most might have thought she was plain. They simply didn't see her with the same eyes that he did. Raven black hair accentuated kind eyes that were as blue as the waters of the lake by where he was born. The lightest of creases, the sign of someone who frequently wore a smile, highlighted wonderful, kissable lips. Even the way she carried herself, her light step, the sway of her hips when she walked. She stood tall and straight, her shoulders not proud, but confident. Comfortable. He couldn't help but feel a sense of fulfillment when he saw her. She gasped quietly, noticing him. Her eyes were angry, still somehow beautiful even then, but he didn't blame her. Noone like to be caught off their guard, but it was something he did playfully, feeling like a little boy again. He rushed to her, to take her in loving embrace. She had managed no more than half of her question, which would go unanswered. "What are you d-" She tried to ask, but he had already scooped her up, and regrettably, with a little more force than he intended: her question tapered off with a squeak as he carried her to her bed. He lay her down delicately, holding her with a firm but gentle grasp. She even played at struggling, the way he so loved. His face close to her own, he took in her breath, so sweet, and comming in rushed, clipped little gasps. Her eyes were wild, urgent, waiting. Her mouth opened to speak, but lovingly he placed a hand over it. This was a moment where words were unneccesary, even unwanted. And besides, he was a little shy, and preferred this forbidden act be quiet. This was a moment between the two of them, and meant for them alone. With the words aside, if you are quiet and listen, the body can speak volumes. The physical manifestation of feelings that simply cannot be expressed with words. Her shallowing, rushed breaths, the way her heartbeat sped up at his touch, the urgency, the longing, the need. He would drink it all in greedily, this was his ambrosia. A happily occupied hand made its way down, caressing as it went. Feeling every dip and curve. She was a beautiful creature, the dress that concealed her body suddenly seemed a hateful thing. He put that aside though, his hand still moving to a happier, lower place. It didn't matter anyway, her garb wouldn't keep him from what he wanted. She inhaled sharply, and with a jolt. The sudden movement succedded only in drawing her closer to him as he entered her. Warmth rushed over his fingers. She moaned, the sound muffled by his hand. She still played at struggling, but it was lessening now. her hand reaches out, grabbing forcefully at his vest. The other hand, with no clear goal, simply grabbed the bedsheets with a white-knuckled grip. Her eyes close in a wince, and beneath his hand, he can feel her jaws clench together. The motions are repeated on both sides, again and again. He enters, and she shudders against him. She seemed to slow, however, the time between her struggled breaths longer and longer. She was comming close, and he had no intentions of stopping now. One final motion, every muscle in her body contracting, one last forced breath, drawn out longer than all the others, a deep, slow exhale. She lay back, now very still. Quiet, and her eyes still shut from her previous exertion. He lay his forhead against her own, and slowly withdrew his hand from her mouth, listening to the quiet. The only sound was his own labored breathing. The silence that came after had its own sort of beauty, and he took the time to appreciate it. After a long moment, he withdrew. The delicate, curved dagger he held slid silently from her ruined belly. He stepped back, surveying this now grisly scene with a distant, emotionless gaze. She had grown pale, her skin now nearly as colorless as the blood soaked sheets on her bed. Her leg hung awkwardly off the side of her mattress, but she gave no indication of discomfort. Her face had settled into a terribly familiar expression, that wonderful, horrible peace one only felt in their final moment in the world. Her eyes bothered him, though, dispelling the peaceful expression with a half lidded squint. He almost reached out, wanting to close those eyes... almost. But that wouldn't be right. His senses, still heightened, picked up the delicate rattle of keys from just outside. He made his way quickly across the house, to the window he had entered, and was outside, quiet as a ghost. He strode casually into the alley, without even a glance back. Noone paid him any heed as he went, something else had everyones attention. A mans anguished cry filled the air, and something in the sound seemed to reverberate among the people: a collective shudder filled everyone walking by, as though someone had run a nail down a chalk-board. Cutting the corner into the alley did nothing to lessen the sound for him, nor did it shield him from the sound that accompanied it, the sound of crying children. He stepped out of the alley, and into a waiting carriage. "Lets go. I have an appointment to keep." He scarecly heard the drivers reply, he wasn't listening. It was the sound of horses hooves and the darkness of the carriage that dominated his attention, the sensations coaxing him into the familiar, dark places in the back of his mind. He dreamed his dreams, and sat silently in the darkness, waiting for his chance. He waited... and waited... And waited.

There once was a turkey. It got invited to a fancy party once. At this fancy party, this Turkey, named Ted, found something that changed his life forever. He found the buffet table. Or, more specifically, he found the shrimp on that table. This shrimp happened to be so good that it changed Ted's life forever. In Ted's mind, it was a positive change because it meant that he got to enjoy a food he really liked all the time. In his body however, the change was bad. Mainly because he was a couch turkey. So of course, eating shrimp 24/7 with hardly any excercise, Ted slowly began gaining weight. This set off a series of events in Ted's life that would also change his life forever. The first of these events was directly correlated to his weight gain. Because of Ted's new weight, his gas mileage plummeted. Which means also that he had to buy more gas. Because of all the extra gas he was buying, the price of gas went up since resources were running out. Soon, Ted was practically bankrupt. Which meant that Ted could no longer afford to buy any more shrimp to eat. So Ted now had a rather large problem on his hands. He could either stop eating shrimp so that he could get more money and buy more gas, or he could keep eating whatever shrimp he could get and stay bankrupt and hardly ever eat shrimp. Both options were pretty gruesome to him. So he decided to get a second and third opinion. So he went and found two of his turkey friends. He asked them about his predicament, and together they brainstormed. Eventually, they came to a decision. They would teach Ted to swim so that instead of wasting gas, he could just use the energy from the shrimp to travel, and he would get skinnier in the bargain. But first, they had to find him a way to get money to buy the shrimp. So they brainstormed yet again. Soon, the brainstorm became a hurricane. This hurricane destroyed all the gas stations in the state, so their plan became even more necessary for Ted. But, during the eye of the storm, they finally came to a conclusion. They could teach Ted to swim and raise money in one stroke. They decided to hold a galactic undersea music festival and use the proceeds from that to start a fishing company that would catch the shrimp for Ted and also make him money to buy even more shrimp. But although the name of their fundraiser said galactic, they didn't expect any aliens to show up, since turkeys obviously don't believe in aliens. But as aliens always do, they noticed the advertisements for the Galactic Undersea Music Festival and decided to show up. They decided that they would finally announce their presence to the humans with the release of the new album "Aliens are Friends, not Martians". So they showed up to the fundraiser and caused quite a stir among humans and turkeys everywhere. By the time pretty much everyone had gotten the news about aliens, they had integrated themselves into the societies of Earth. This took about an hour, which is apparently how long it takes for people to accept the presence of aliens in their world. And of course, the fundraiser was wildly successful. So wildly successful in fact, that Ted was able to buy all the shrimp companies in the world. And the main indication of wild success of course was all the random wild animals that kept spontaneously appearing in Atlantis, the location of the fundraiser. So Ted decided to go thank the leader of the aliens. So he stepped into the tent that housed their leader. A few hours later, the alien leader emerged and presented the citizens of Earth a gift of thanks for their hospitality and acceptance. This gift was a turkey dinner. Henceforth, that day was officially known as Thanksgiving...

Cancer, an unwelcome house guest. When you are at your happiest moment, everything in life is where it should be. After years of work and struggle, your ducks are finally in a row. You've been preparing a meal the entire day. It actually started the day before with a trip to the butcher to get the perfect cut of meat. Next, you let it marinate over night to make sure it is just right. Today was spent cleaning and tidying making sure the house was in order, creating an atmosphere to allow you to truly enjoy your meal. It is essential that nothing is out of place just to ensure that there are no distractions. When things feel right, the perfect playlist fills the airwaves as you begin to prep the rest of the meal, everything needs to be done ahead of time to make sure all cooking times are precise and all components of the meal are ready to plate at the same time. The vegetables are cut and ready to be put on the barbecue, the salad awaits its dressing, and the barbecue is warming. This is when things start to change for the worse, the doorbell rings. You don't have time to visit with guests, nor do you have enough food to invite them to stay, the only option is forcing them to go. The mistake has already been made though, the moment you put down the tongs and move toward the door, you have gone too far, past the point of no return so to speak. The door opens and before waiting to hear if they are welcome, your new guest steps into the house. They don't bother with formal greetings, they simply sit down and start introducing themselves. No concern for what you were previously doing, or what plans you may have for the balance of the evening. They make themselves at home and spread out, not realizing that their comfort directly diminishes your own. You entertain your guest, let them feel welcome for a moment but knowing they can't stay. You decide the best option is to start serving cocktails, hoping maybe their stomach will become upset and they will leave on their own. When this doesn't work, the radio gets turned up a little louder in an effort to to make their stay less enjoyable, you want to disrupt their stay. In order to be effective. You must turn up the radio so that it becomes uncomfortable, even for yourself. Your entire body aches, nothing seems better than your bed. But, your memory and thoughts of the food you have waiting keep you on track, keep you fighting and pushing, pushing your guest out the door. Then, just when you think you could not possibly survive another minute of the throbbing, your guest realizes you're a hard sell. They pack up their belongings, gather their coat and their shoes and they are off, they're gone. As quickly as the guest arrived, they have departed. Leaving nothing but a sour taste from the cocktails and a throbbing headache from the radio. You're ready though, the food has been waiting, it hasn't spoiled the wait has made the flavours stronger. The food goes onto the barbecue and it cooks. While it does, you laugh and share stories of your odd guest with your loved ones. Your resilience has made you stronger, the experience has brought you closer, you are ready for an even more intimate evening with your family after the intrusion of the unwanted guest. The timer goes off, the propane is shut down. The meat is cut, the veggies are spread, and the food is ready to be plated. The family has sat down and they are ready for the meal and what lies ahead. The first bite is glorious, everything you expected it to be and more. The long wait makes you appreciate everything more. You learn to savour every bite. It's time for dessert, as you get up to retrieve it, the doorbell rings, you walk to the door, open it with a smile, basking in the light of the time you have spent with your loved ones. As the door opens, you see the familiar shadow. The guest has returned, they forgot something. It doesn't matter what, they are already in your home. The smells that fill the house have intrigued them, they want a taste of what you have. Demand that you share your spoils with them. You give, and you give, and you give, but nothing seems to appease your guest's appetite. They will take everything you have. Exhausted, you take a nap, you promise yourself it won't be long but you know when you wake the guest will be gone and all will be right. As you sleep, your loved ones thank you for trying your best to oust that unwelcome guest. They tuck you in, tell you they love you. Promise they will see you in the morning. Your morning doesn't come though. But their's does, the morning comes, it is darker than usual, there is a mess to clean up. But it's ok, the meal was worth it, they are happy to wash every dish, clean up every crumb. They will spend the following days talking about that ungrateful guest, talk about the struggle of getting the guest to leave. But, those conversations will end. As the days fade into weeks, and weeks into months, then into years, the conversation will change. It will no longer be about the guest, but rather the meal, the meal they were so happy to eat, they will talk about its preparation and what it meant. They will remember the chef, the time, the care, and the patience that went into that evening and many more before it. They will be thankful for that night, they know they were part of something special and lucky to know such a chef, who even at their worst, was a gracious host.

November 16, 2010 I saw the whole thing and I’m the only one who knows what happened. I followed those two inside that house, saw the ungodly thing first hand and ran out screaming like a bat outta hell. I haven’t written in here in a while but I need to get this out and write it down before I go crazy. Something like this needs to be communicated whether it be through word of mouth or written in a personal diary like this. I’m afraid that what I saw last week may haunt me for the rest of my life. I knew Alex and Julius from our ninth grade Algebra class we had together last year. They used to cheat off of each other during the weekly quizzes. They both lived a couple blocks away from me in our neighborhood, Willow Springs. Now and again I would see them riding their bikes down the street as they always did. One time they even invited me to play with them when they needed more people for their impromptu soccer game. It was then that I realized that they were really good friends. I had just parked my car in front of my house and was getting ready to get out of it and head inside when I saw the two of them biking down the street on Friday night. They were wearing all black outfits. I thought that perhaps they were headed to the park or to the 7-11 to get a snack. But then I saw them stop just feet away from my car and get off their bikes. They then hid their bikes in the bushes in the lawn of the big house across the street from mine. They didn’t realize I was watching them from my car window as they then began to walk up towards the house. The house that they were walking towards used to belong to a family that was made up of Mr. and Mrs. McKinley and their two children. The McKinley’s had lived there until the mother, who was a beautiful lady, committed suicide inside the home. I had to look at my diary entry from three years ago to remember the details of that day. <Diary entry for October 5, 2008> I was outside playing basketball in the driveway when Mr. McKinley had just come home from work around 6:00p.m. He tried to open the garage door from the remote in his car as he always did but the garage door was stuck and would not open. He got out of his car and slowly pulled up the handle on the garage door. This grabbed my attention because I remember that as he pulled up the garage door, I heard large clacking noises as if the garage door gears were grinding against something. As I watched Mr McKinley slowly pull up the door, I noticed there were two things dangling from above that were moving towards the back of the garage. Mr. McKinley continued to lift the door and it wasn’t until I saw the waste line of the woman that I realized it was a body hanging from the garage track on the ceiling. I wasn’t sure if her feet were moving because the suicide had just happened and she was still alive or if the opening of the garage was pushing her noose on the track towards the back of the garage. When the Garage was about three quarters of the way up, Mr. McKinley realized there was a hanging body in the garage and ran inside it and started screaming. I ran over to the bottom of their driveway. I saw the face of the lady and realized that it was Mrs. McKinley’s. <End diary entry> A couple of weeks after the suicide happened, my neighbor Jim Odessa was walking past my house while I was getting the mail for my mom. Jim was a good friend of Mr and Mrs. McKinley. We began to talk about the suicide and he told me that Mrs. McKinley had gone crazy living in that house. She was a stay at home mom that had a lot of time on her hands as her kids got older. She started to hear voices coming from inside the home. She had gone through therapy but it didn’t seem to help. Jim said that he thought it was the voices that told her to kill herself. A few weeks later, the rest of the McKinley family had packed up and moved a few towns away to get a fresh start. The home had been vacant ever since the suicide and I had only seen one person go inside, a realtor about a year ago. I had been very curious about what it was like inside that home since the suicide had happened. The first thing that Alex and Julius did was go up to the door leading into the garage. I thought that perhaps they were aware of what Mrs. McKinley did in there and wanted to get in to see where it had happened first hand. It appeared that they were fiddling with the lock and trying to open the door when they heard a bird and jumped behind a couple of bushes. They then wandered back behind the home with the moonlight guiding their way. That’s when I decided to follow them to see what they were doing. I waited about five minutes in my car and figured that they had made it inside when I didn’t see them come back for their bikes. I got out of my car and ran back behind the big house just as they had moments earlier. I jumped the fence leading to the back yard and landed in some weeds that were about as tall as me. That and the darkness made it nearly impossible to figure out where I was going. I slowly walked along the back of the home looking for a back door entrance. I had arrived at the door. At first I didn’t notice anything weird but after a closer inspection, I realized that the screen door had been cut open and the back door lock must have been picked because the door was ajar. At that moment I had to stop and think if this was really something that I wanted to go through with. If I turned around right then and there and pretended that nothing had happened, I could just go home, watch TV and enjoy my night. But something inside me told me to continue to go inside that house. I did. Once I stepped inside the house, it became pitch black with just the light from the door behind me shining in. I took a deep breath and inhaled a smell of must. I took about two steps forward and instantly felt a pain in my right thigh. I put my hand down to feel what I had run into. It was a table with some chairs surrounding it. I realized that I must have been in the kitchen but then I thought that it was strange that there would be furniture in the home. When the McKinley’s had moved, I remembered that they hired a moving company that spent an entire day moving furniture and big boxes into a large truck. Then I heard a noise that sounded like it came from upstairs. It sounded like a leaf blower or some sort of lawn equipment. The noise lasted about twenty seconds and then I heard silence again. I figured it was Alex and Julius and wanted to go investigate further. I pulled out a little flashlight attached to my keychain from my pocket and turned it on. I located a hallway that would perhaps thought lead towards the stairs and proceeded to walk forward. When I reached the bottom of the stairwell, it felt like I had stepped in something wet and slippery. I shined my flashlight lower, towards the ground, and noticed it was what looked to be a puddle of blood. I screamed so loud that anyone inside of that house would have heard me and if Alex and Julius were just upstairs, they would have heard it for sure. I paused and just stood completely still, listening for movement. It had only been about a minute but it felt like an eternity. Then I heard the blower noise start again coming from upstairs so I started to go up them. The first few steps didn’t make any noise but around the fifth or sixth step, there was a creaking sound coming from the stairs underneath my feet as I climbed them. I continued up towards what I thought was the top. Stair twelve, stair thirteen, stair fourteen, I counted as I heard every creek, taking into account the first few steps that didn’t make any noise. I made it up to about stair twenty and thought that by then I should have definitely made it to the next floor. I shined my weakly dimmed flashlight up towards the top and saw about five more stairs and then a sea of darkness. Five stairs was about as far as my flashlight would shine. As I continued up about twenty more stairs, there was that odd blower noise again. It was louder this time and felt more like it was coming from around me and not above me. This made me think that the top of the stairs were getting close now. There were about ten more stairs I climbed before I had reached the top. There was a hallway going left and right. At this point I was very frightened but didn’t want to turn around. I whispered Alex’s and Julius’ name but didn’t hear anything so I turned left towards what looked to be a bedroom. I looked around and saw a bed and dresser. The dresser had a pile of clothes on it as if someone had been living there. I turned back out of the bedroom and walked down the hallway, passing the long staircase on the right. Walking down the hallway I heard what sounded like whispers. I couldn’t make out what they were saying but they were coming from above me. I shined my flashlight up and saw an attic door on the ceiling. I decided to continue forward and the hallway split again and I had the option to go either straight or right. I went right and heard the blower noise again. This time it was louder than ever. It was coming from behind a closed door at the end of the hallway. I could tell that there was a light on in the room because I saw it coming through the crack below the door. I got close to the door and put my ear up against it. There was really not much to hear until the blower noise started yet again. I slowly put my hand on the cold doorknob and began to turn it. I was doing a great job of not making any noise as I turned the knob. My heart was beating like a drum. As I slowly pushed open the door, the light from inside the room began to light up the entire hallway. I could tell from the size of the room that this was the master bedroom. The door was now open all the way. I walked in and looked to the left and saw a person wearing what looked to be a wig sitting down at a desk beside the bed. They were wearing an old red night gown and had black gloves on, covering their hands. They were holding a hair dryer in one hand and brushing their wig on their head with the other. I moved a little closer to see who they were. They hadn’t yet heard me because they were still brushing their hair as they looked into a mirror sitting on the desk in front of them. I was nervously shaking and felt a bead sweat drip down my forehead and onto my arm. As I continued to walk towards them, I began to get a glimpse of their wig in the mirror. Then I saw part of their forehead. Only it wasn’t really a forehead at all but what looked to be more like bone. I continued further when then realized that it was a human skull with a wig on it. My eyes made contact with the skulls eye sockets in the mirror. The person with the skull face flung around in the swivel chair and was staring right at me. The person flung up real quick and their nightgown flung open to reveal a complete skeleton. They opened their mouth and made a loud, slow groaning noise. That was all I needed to hear before I ran out of the door and down the hallway as fast as I could. I turned left and started down the stairs. I remembered how many stairs there were going up but now there seemed like there were even more, maybe 100 or so. I never once turned around but continued down as fast as I could. When I finally made it to the bottom of the stairs, I heard my feet splash in the puddle of blood. Using the dim flashlight, I turned left and went through a room that I hadn’t been in before. I was too discombobulated to remember the way I came into the house at the time and I needed to get out of there as quickly as possible. There was a door straight ahead and I opened it. It had a window in it and it looked like a laundry room. I ran through that and opened the next door that was locked from the inside. The moonlight was a little bit brighter in this next room. I then realized from the line of horizontal windows that I wasn’t in a room at all, but a garage. Quickly, I felt the wall for the garage door opener, found it, and slapped it as hard as I could. Instantly the garage light came on and that’s when I saw Alex and Julius. They were hanging from the track on the ceiling of the garage in the same spot Mrs. McKinley was two years earlier. They were hanging there lifeless, with nooses around their necks. I heard that same grinding noise that I had heard when Mr. McKinley had just got home to discover his wife. The garage wouldn’t open. The loud groaning noise could be heard from behind me and I felt warm air run down my back. I ran towards the garage door, pulled it open just enough for me to slide underneath and ran down the driveway as fast as I could. I then ran and into my house and locked the door behind me. I was contemplating calling the police but thought that if I did, they would think that I was somehow involved with their death. I also knew that no one would believe me if I told them what I had seen. I spent the entire night in my room with the light on thinking about the skeleton and poor Alex and Julius. I peeked out of the window every few minutes at the big house across the street but the lights were all turned off. The next morning, when dawn broke, I went downstairs and looked across the street. I could see into the garage through the horizontal windows. There were no bodies hanging from the ceiling in the garage and all the house window curtains were pulled shut as they had been for the past couple of years. A day later, on Sunday, Alex and Julius were reported missing. I am going to keep the secret of what I saw inside that home forever. I’m afraid that what I saw last week may haunt me for the rest of my life.

A man walks into a bar. He approaches the bartender and takes a seat on the stool, “3 tequilas”. Liquid flows from the bottle into the cups, one at a time; *tap, tap, tap*. “Enjoy” she says, he won’t though. They seem as though they are the bottomless abyss, gazing into the drinks he wonders where things went wrong, how everything got so fucked up. “Happy birthday Johann, are you going to open your present?” excited laughter fills the air as the small boy frantically rips the paper and reveals a toy train set. “Oh wow, look at that! Do you like it?” the boy laughs and claps his hands as his mother opens the train set for him. “Choo choo, all aboard!” He’s mesmerized by it, grabbing his favourite toy truck he plays with the toy train, chasing it with the truck and crashing them together. *Gulp, gulp, gulp*. “2 more, please”. “Come on Johann! We all did it.” Johann pedals on his older brothers bike, it was the older, BMX kind of bike when you would pedal backwards to brake. He pedals like a madman, wind rushing past his face as his peripherals turn to a blur, the view getting steeper and steeper as he goes downhill. As the ground begins to level out he sees the jump ahead, won’t be long now. A dirt mound lies ahead, might as well be a mountain. Freedom, sweet release. Soaring through the air the feeling is as close as he can find to freedom. “Come on, stick the landing you got this” he thinks to himself. Hitting the flat ground was always a hard landing but he pulled it off, he knew he could. “Ok guys I have to go home for dinner” said Johann. As he pulls into the driveway and puts his bike in the garage he sees his father looking out the front window as usual; just watching. *Gulp.* Steak and potatoes for dinner, dad cooked the steak and mom made the potatoes. The food was great as always but there was something wrong, the stench of spiced rum was in the air. “You been out with your friends all day? You better grow up to be something, I don’t want some 30 year old loser living here. You’ll be sitting there hanging your head between your legs when your 35 because you never amounted to anything” said his father. Angry, Johann runs upstairs to his room. His safe haven, the only place he can find solace in this house. “Don, why do you drink so much? That was a really mean thing to say he never even said anything.” “Oh shut up, you’re a fucking slug. Lost your job because you’re incompetent and now you collect disability, all I do is work and deal with fucking assholes all day.” 6 years it’s been like this, he hears the yelling from downstairs and doesn’t know how to make it stop. *Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump* he hears as his father makes his way up the stairs in his drunken state, he knows what’s coming, the inevitable. He’s coming into his room, his safe place, he doesn’t know why, he prays he would go anywhere but here. He wants his father to die. The door swings open and he knows what’s going to happen. First he would start by bashing his mother, then he would go through all the problems life has provided for him, then they would argue into the night and he would be, once again, late for school. He’s 18 years old now, a legal adult. “My dad’s drunk as hell man, can I come over?” he says to his friend. “Sure, I got a bottle here we can have a few drinks before the party.” They drink, rum and coke is their drink of choice. They go to the house party, friends, girls, booze and cocaine; none in short supply. Drink after drink and line after line they party until the sun comes up. Johann, in college now is working towards his diploma. Such is the way things are when you’re that age partying and college seem to go together nicely. 3 years go by and with great satisfaction and pride, at the age of 21 he receives his diploma. *Gulp*, “Another 2”. He comes home to see a note on the kitchen table *“Had to take your father to the hospital”*. This is strange, why? He goes to bed and early in the morning his parents finally come back from the hospital. “Your father has pancreatitis” said his mother “From the drinking?” she doesn’t answer, but he knows. His father can’t drink anymore, he’s happy about this. “I’m going to take care of some things in the back yard” said Johann’s father. After an hour or so Johann goes to see if he needs help, but something is different about his dad. He’s drunk *“What an idiot”* he thinks to himself as he’s walking away in disappointment. He leaves soon after to go and party with his friends, alcohol and cocaine once again. For the next 2 weeks his father is in searing pain because of the drinking. This is the way things are for the next year with his father, pain, then recovery then alcohol, then pain. It stops eventually though. For Johann the partying continues, he works but is late sometimes, hungover other times. Every weekend there is a party, alcohol and cocaine. Sometimes it’s only alcohol or cocaine, sometimes both. *Gulp.* Since he was 18 he’s been drinking and staying out on weekends, 21 years old nothing has changed. 23 years old still, alcohol and cocaine on the weekends. Even during the week doesn’t seem to be a problem for him. At 25 it’s mostly just drinking, he doesn’t know anyone to get cocaine from but every weekend the partying continues day drinking is ever more prevalent. *26 years old, 27 years old, 28 years old, 29 years old, 30 years…* *Gulp.* “Thanks, keep the change.” He walks into his apartment, this is it; 4 more tequilas should do the trick. Head between his legs all he can see in his mind is his father’s face. Freedom, sweet release. *Click, click, click.* **Bang.

So the other day I was at home, bored, and the phone rings, I'm pretty sure it's a telemarketer so before I answer the phone, I decide I'm going to have a bit of fun. I answer, sure enough, it's Rex Williams, telemarketer. I let him sell me his speel, but after a while I start to give him the wrap up, in the nicest way possible. But he's consistent, so I start my fun. We get into a conversation about living life on a minimum wage as a telemarketer, and I give him advice, "To get a new job with better pay, and that God will be with him". The conversation goes for about 10 minutes and I leave him on his way, telling him I'm not interested. Next day I get home, and there is a message on my answering machine. It's Rex Williams! He informs me that he has quit his previous job and has got a new one, which pays much more; all thanks to me! Not two seconds after finishing the message the phone rings.

His name was Steve, and he couldn’t take it anymore. He pictured himself growing old with her, while she grew old with him too. But he couldn’t grow old. Being immortal had its downsides. Now was his seven hundred years birthday and he was staring at her picture. He begged her to come back. He thought he heard her voice when he shed a single tear and a slight breeze called him from the sea. **Two** He thought he heard her voice when he shed a single tear and a slight breeze called him from the sea. The windows of the room were open, and it would be a beautiful sight if he weren’t dying. But he was dying. He was alone in the room, with wires spread all along his arms, and needles through his skin. He had that heart surgery, but apparently that new heart wasn’t working either and no doctor was able to tell the reason. The heart was beating irregularly, like a disabled man trying to walk. The heart was broken, so they tossed it out. The man watched the sun go down as he breathed his last breath. **Three** The man watched the sun go down as he breathed his last breath. He woke up and the room was full of light. There was something unrecognizably fluffy under his feet, like he was walking on cotton. A woman dressed in white was staring at him. “Is she here?” he asked. “No, she’s not”. “Where is she?” “She’s never been around.” “I’m coming back.” “You can’t go back.” “I can’t stay here either. I have to go back to her. I have to go home.” She smiled. “Don’t be silly” she said. “Home is where your heart is.” **Four** “Don’t be silly” she said. “Home is where your heart is.” He smiled to her, remembering an old song from U2 that had a verse somewhat like that one. He was holding his sweatshirt – which he didn’t even recall having. It had been with her for months. -You sure you can’t stay with this? – He asked, shaking the sweatshirt stupidly – I won’t ever be able to use it again. -I haven’t stretched it that much. – She said, pretending to be offended and repressing a smile, which he noticed. -It’s not about that. There’s your perfume all over it. She blushed and her eyes filled with tears. -Nah, you’re gonna work it out. – Now she pretended to smile, repressing a tear. Which he noticed. -Yeah, you’re right. See you later. – He said unleashing a smirk. Once she turned her back, he started crying. **Five** Once she turned her back, he started crying. He couldn’t let her leave like that. He wouldn’t let her leave like that. -Please, please. – He yelled, running after her and grabbing her suitcases. – Stay. Please. -Not anymore, Henry. I can’t do this anymore. -I’ll change. -You can’t – She turned to him, picking up her baggage. – Neither can I. I’m sorry. – Her voice was hurt, and that was what truly hurt him. It cut his heart and soul and left him stranded by the door while she got in the cab and left. He would never see her again. **Six** He would never see her again, and that was why he was holding her so tight. -Do you swear you’ll come back? – She wouldn’t. -I do, honey. It’s only for six months. – It wasn’t. -Do you promise to remember me every day? – She wouldn’t. -Of course I do. There’s nothing or anyone who can get you outta my head. – There was. -No French guy? – No. -No, you silly, no French guy, or American guy or any other kind of guy. – Yes. -I’ll miss you. – True. -I’ll miss you too. – True. She had a nice life in Paris. **Seven** She had a nice life in Paris. She had a boyfriend and a dog; she was living with her parents and hanging around with good friends. Nothing could go wrong and she would never get hurt because she couldn’t feel anything. Till a night a guy came along, and he had a broken heart. She realized she also had a heart, and her heart didn’t fit in Paris. Then her heart didn’t fit in the world. But her heart fit on his. But he was broken, then so got she. Then he left her back in Paris, and she hoped Paris would be enough again someday. He left back to the world, wandering brokenly ever after.

On the other side of our Human World, there was a Monster World. There was a young monster named Davi. Davi was a lonely boy. He had seven brothers, but he always stayed home alone. Davi cried everyday. He wanted to make friends. Davi went to talk to his grandfather, who was the guard of the gate which connects Human World and Monster World. Davi asked his grandfather, "I want to go to Human World. I don't have any friends here. Maybe I can make friends over there." Gradfather said "No, it's too dangerous. No one in Human World likes Monsters. You won't make any friends there." But Davi went "Nobody in Monster World likes me anyway. I want to at least try making friends in Human World!" Grandfather decided to allow Davi 3 days in Human World, and gave Davi 3 gold coins, and told him "These coins may help you when you are in trouble." Davi thanked his grandfather, and went through the gate. Davi walked through the dark... Davi landed on the street. He was amazed at the sun, the sky, the tall trees, and the houses! Davi saw a college dormitory in which college girls were petting a cat. Davi sneaked into the dormitory and talked to the cat. "Mr!" said Davi. "How can I make friends with humans?" " Meow! " answered Mr. Cat. "I am not going to tell you because you are a Monster. We don't like monsters. But I see you have three gold coins in your pocket. If you give me one coin, I'll answer your question." Davi gave him one gold coin. Then Mr. Cat went "Ok! All I do is mew and purr at people's feet." Davi said "Thank you, Mr. Cat!" Davi approached the college girls, who were busy chattering with each other, and purred and mewed at their feet. The college girls turned around, and... "AAARRRGGGHHH!!! Monster!!!" The college girls screamed in horror, and ran out of the building! Davi was left alone in the dormitory. He walked out on the street, and he cried and cried and cried all night long. On the second day, Davi saw two young boys playing with a dog in a house. Davi sneaked into the house, and talked to the Dog. "Mr!" said Davi. "How can I make friends with Humans?" " Arf!" answers Mr. Dog. "I am not going to tell you because you are a monster. We don't monsters. But I see you have two gold coins in your pocket. If you give me one coin, I'll be happy to answer your question." So Davi gave him one coin. Then Mr. Dog went "Okay! All I do is bow-wow, and lick people's faces." "Thank you, Mr. Dog!" said Davi. Davi approached the two young boys, and suddenly licked their faces and BOW-WOWED!! "AAARRRGGGHHH!!! MONSTER!!" cried the two young boys. They screamed in horror and ran out of the building! Davi was left alone in the house. He walked out on the street, and he cried and cried and cried all night long. On the third day, Davi saw a huge house in which an old blind lady was feeding a small bird in a cage. Davi sneaked into the house, and talked to the bird. "Mrs!" said Davi. "How can I make friends with humans?" "Chirp!" answered Mrs. Bird. "I am not going to tell you because you are a Monster. We don't Monsters. But I see you have one gold coin in your pocket. If you give me the coin, I'll be happy to answer your question." So Davi gave her his last gold coin. Then Mrs. Bird says "Okay! All I do is chirp and sing a song!" Davi started singing a song. Then... "Where does this come from?" the old blind lady approached Davi. Davi was so happy. "This is the most beautiful song I have ever heard,"said Old Blind Lady. Then she touched Davi's face. "Who are you? What is this? Could this be a... AAARRRGGGHHH!!! Monster!!!!" The Old Blind Lady screamed in horror, and fainted dead! Davi was left alone once again. He walked out on the street, and he cried and cried and cried all night long. Davi went back to the gate. He was very sad. The trees, the sun, the sky didn't amaze Davi anymore. Davi met his grandfather at the gate. Grandfather went "Why are you crying?" Then Davi answered "I tried really hard to make friends with humans, and asked Mr. Cat, Mr. Dog and Mrs. Bird for advise, and I followed their good advice, but nobody liked me. Nobody cared about me anywhere. I'll be alone for the rest of my life. Nobody likes me!" Then grandfather answered "It takes so much courage just to go to Human World. And you were on your own Davi. You are the most courageous Monster I have ever seen. Everytime you cried, you learned to be stronger. You don't need anyone else." Davi listened to his grandfather. "Now go home, Davi," said grandfather. Davi walked back to his house, and opened the door, then... Davi's seven brothers rushed to Davi, cheering "We've heard you were in Human World by yourself?!" "I wish I can be like you!" "You are so brave!" Davi finally smiled. From that day on, Davi played with his brothers everyday, and lived happily ever after.

While I was sitting outside the coffee shop across from the theater, I overheard a woman’s conversation with what appeared to be her boyfriend. I was waiting for my ride home, so I decided to people watch to pass the time. This woman’s conversation kept catching my ear, however, and I decided to listen for a bit. The woman spoke to her boyfriend about her children, telling him how one of them is just so funny when you get him talking about something he’s interested in, and how smart her daughter is. She told him about how her children were doing in school, how she loved them so much, and how they were growing up so fast. The man laughed along and nodded in all the right places, and they seemed to be having a nice time together. Having heard enough of their conversation to satisfy my curiosity, I looked over at the theater. I admired all the arches and pillars and lights that made up the face of the building, and warmly remembered the theater’s opening week. People crowded the stairs, cars filled the parking lot and the outer walls were immaculate white, red letters shining from above the crystal clear glass of the windows that lined the massive, shining glass doors. Now, looking at the theater, I notices streaks of gray stained down the tops of the walls and dull spots on the windows, dimmed lights where the theater’s name used to shine so brightly. Although it was a warm June day, the sky was filled with clouds and there was a strong wind. Gulls stood on the light fixtures above the flapping movie banners that hung on the theater’s wall, watching the occasional car meander through the parking lot. Other birds flew through the sky, catching the wind when they could and diving down to the ground before rising back into the sky. I watched them flying and felt happy that birds could be so happily excited by something that they were given by nature. In our own way, humans aren’t so different from the birds. Birds were naturally given flight, and humans were naturally given the tools to create. I saw a group of children playing on a horizontal column of basalt, playing chicken and pretending the ground was lava. They laughed and smiled, having fun in the warm wind as I observed from a distance. The children were supervised by one of their fathers, and although there was so much fun being had around him, he looked bored as he sat watching on the bench carved from basalt across from them. I looked back at the chatting couple sitting near me and found them kissing. In the moment before I shifted my gaze back to the theater, I caught a flash of gold from the woman’s hand. The ring on her hand had no gem, and was dulled with age. Despite the fact that I didn’t have all of the background on their story, my heart sank at this small detail. I had felt joy at watching a woman who was, to the extent of my knowledge, having an affair with this man. I glanced back to the theater, gloomily looking at the grayed stairs, disenchanted from the realization that the happy couple was really just a display of infidelity. I saw that the escalators I had once ridden to the gleaming glass doors of the theater were now blocked by yellow tape and perfectly still. The glass roof over the escalators was dulled by rain and sun over the years, making its slow journey to opaqueness. The walls were spotted with brightness in places that were once covered by light fixtures that had long fallen off of it. My eyes slowly rose to the top of the building, where two metal spires reached into the sky, holding in place a great metal circle through which the spot of sun in the clouds shone. I realized at that moment that I was seeing the building exactly how its imaginer had intended it to be seen, with the sun shining through the centerpiece of his wall. I widened my view to see the whole face of the building as one, rather than as individual, flawed pieces. I was amazed to see how beautiful the building I had been looking at was, and how all of the flaws disappeared when you looked at it all together. Momentarily in awe, I looked around at all of the people around me. I caught a glimpse of the couple holding hands, and noticed that the man had a ring to match the woman’s. Along with that, I heard the woman say with a shaky voice how sad she would be when he had to return to serve in the military. When I looked over to the group of children, I saw the man supervising them smiling and laughing with the children while rounding them up and taking them to his vehicle. I saw the van pull away, carrying the group of children to their little league game. Then, I heard a tapping sound to my right and saw that a gull had landed on the table next to mine. He pecked up the crumbs left over from the coffee shop’s earlier customers, and flew off again, dipping and rising in the wind. My ride pulled up in front of the theater and I began walking toward it. I then caught another glimpse of the theater, and was happy to see that it was still as beautiful as it had been during its opening week. My eyes drifted higher and I saw that the sun had slipped from its socket atop the theater, and I smiled, feeling like I had shared a secret with the person who had envisioned the theater. Although I only rarely see the theater now, I always remember how I felt when I stepped back and saw it for what it really was. I now realize that everything is worth looking at more than once, and that the way you first see things isn’t always how they truly are.

Took Dad to the doctor’s office this morning. Routine screening. He hasn’t looked good in a while. But he’s just getting older. Granted, he never took care of himself. 6 pack a day, 20 True Green. Bacon. He coughed at night. It kept me up as a child on the stairs. I always cried. Thought he was dying. I made him pick me up to touch the ceiling. I wanted to be tall. Like him. Turns out, he really loved doing that. I wrote him birthday cards reflecting his encouragement. ‘You can do it, buddy’ made him cry. As I got older, I became embarrassed of him. He was unemployed a bit. Sometime came to soccer games drunk. But he showed up. His father died at 53. Was his idol. Defining moment of his life. Still cries when speaking of him. That was 1965. He no longer planned. Lived for now. Not the best idea with a wife and 3 kids. I became angry at him. Wouldn’t stop drinking even though we all hated it. Like his father, he would never meet his grandchildren. So selfish. Told him how I felt. So angry. I cried. Nothing changed but I felt relief. Can’t change others. Only accept. I was 20 years old. Defining moment of my life. Shortly thereafter, I met my wife. Started my career. Moved out. Saw dad less. My drinking problem surfaced. Then fully submerged. I feared death. Feared life. Noticed I looked more like him. He made more sense. I am just like him. I love him. I forgive him. Truly forgive him. AA helped me do that. Now I see how much love he has to give. He is so beautifully unique. I admire that. He’s taught me so much, good and bad. I love seeing him on Sundays. I love him so much. I move away. Far, far away. He comes to visit. He has lost weight. A lot of weight. He’s just getting older... I come home to visit. Dad looks grey. Rest of family notices too. Mom finds blood stained underwear. Confronts Dad. He hates doctors. Killed his parents and want him dead too. Was pissing blood for months. Then not at all. Kidney’s failing. Succumbs to fear, sets up physical. Blood taken. Hour later - emergency room. Your father is very sick. Don’t go too far. I am the little boy on the stairs again. I feel nothing. I know it’s coming, but I can’t see it. I won’t see it. I’m so scared. I’m not ready for this. The seas are receding, I know it. I feel the pull but can’t look to the horizon. It’s just too much. The first swell arrives but I have to go back home. To where I live now. To my life. And to my wife. I can ignore it so easily - to my peril. Try as I may, it’s coming.

I knew the location of every gun in my father’s house. I knew the rifle, concealed innocently in a long, red case with a thick black strap that might belong to a guitar or a golf caddy, was lodged in the left-hand corner of the closet in our spare bedroom. I knew the handgun, the infamous Walther PPK, was stored in a locked box in the closet of my parents’ bedroom, placed innocuously beside shoeboxes and old electronics cases. I spent most of my childhood in my own mind, grandmother strewn across our sofas, hand upon her head, sighing theatrically as if she had just been in a freak car accident that landed her perfectly across the couches in front of the “As the World Turns”. Her house was located directly next to mine and she would often walk back and forth between them to the point where she beat a trail through both of our lawns, leaving me to eat 84 spoonfuls of sugar and bolt around the house, opening each drawer, closet, and box hoping to find *something*. I could not be blessed enough in that I never found my parents’ 1973 pornos or anything remotely close to that, but I did find many a pair of ridiculously over-sized glasses and a single pair of the most amusing wine-cork-looking clog/platform shoe-embodiment-of-the-70’s that I have ever seen. My father never talked much about his guns other than to show me what they looked like. I must have been 14 or 15, right about the time my depression hit full force. Perhaps he caught on to this, as we always seemed to have a silent understanding of each other, and perhaps this is why he declined when I asked if he would show me how to shoot a gun, you know, for self-defense. I tried to have this conversation again at 18, leaving for college with the scars now mostly faded across my arms, wrists, hips, legs, and shoulders. I was turned down again, though my mother backed me up this time, saying I SHOULD know how to use a gun should an intruder take flight and suddenly burst his way through my 4th floor window. Five more years have passed since then and I have self-destructed in a number of ways, but I am drawn back to the same allure, the same pining curiosity I felt when I saw the deep red rifle bag as a child. Pills crushed and insufflated into my right nostril, more swallowed, and more chewed, I type out a suicide note on my iPhone 5 and can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of what I am actually doing. The horrible, childish font trying so hard to convey the racing thoughts and the complexities of my mind, framed by the obnoxious lined yellow paper pad template, as if anybody uses those in real life anymore. I revised it a few times, cried until I dry heaved and passed out. This morning, I woke up crying. I scoured the house that isn’t mine, hoping to find my uncle’s guns – if I was lucky, I could finally hold the same Walther that my father has. I opened drawers to auntie’s panties, assorted junk (though I did score a sweet watch and $100), and more church pamphlets than Fred Phelps has on hand, but I finally see a black locked box in the corner of the closet. I skid on my knees and rip the dusty box out of its home and tug it into my bedroom, where I gingerly place it on my desk and look for any markings that might tell me what’s inside, and how to crack it open. I see the word “Gerlach” on the bottom right corner. Sounds sort of German, hopefully it’ll be a finely crafted handgun.

Blackness greeted me when I woke. It took me a few more seconds to realize that the darkness was probably attributed to the fact that my eyes were closed. There was no improvement upon opening them, however, and I grew more and more concerned. I seemed to be in a box of some kind. I knew not where I was, or how I had gotten there. After a moment of panic I noticed a gentle soothing sound, almost similar to the sound of water rushing along rocks. I listened to it for a few more seconds, attempting to gain control of my mounting panic. The control failed and my imagination took over. The sound began to seem more and more like the sound of dirt falling slowly onto a coffin. Was I being buried alive? My body stiffened at the thought. My hands ran over the inside of my box, searching for a way out. I would dig out if I had to. The air seemed to becoming thinner. How long would it be before I suffocated completely? I strained against the walls. I kicked the roof. I scratched the floor. Everything was smooth and metallic in texture except the soft memory-foam like material that I was resting on. Then, my fingers caught on a depression in the metal, just above my chest. I brought both of my hands up to try and figure out what it was. A click and a soft hissing noise filled my small enclosure as I pushed the button. Light spilled in from the sides, as the lid of what I had thought was my casket began to open automatically. I sat up slowly, blinking away the spots that had showed up in response to the light. The sight that greeted me was hardly the dark gloomy setting of a cemetery. I seemed to be in a long white hallway. What looked like windows on the walls were made from one-way glass, blocking my view of what was outside of my mysterious hallway. All around me were more of the coffin-shaped boxes, although I could see now that they were very modern in their design. They were made of the same white plastic material that made up the rest of the hallway and each had a gently glowing blue light on the end. Upon closer examination I realized that my light had turned to a harsh red. I began to try and stand up when a screen suddenly came to life on the wall across from mine and a thin, almost fake-looking woman’s face appeared in the center. Her voice rang through the halls with a short message: “Hello, and welcome to the future! It is very possible that you are experiencing momentary memory loss. We apologize for the inconvenience, but we assure you that it is only temporary. To help your memory recover, please watch the following film summarizing your own history and that of the others around you. Enjoy!” The screen flickered and images began to run across the screen of what I assumed were important events in the past. I saw ruined cities, flooded plains, dried-out farms, and homes on fire. A new, gentler voice began to narrate the images. “In the past, it became clear to us that history was repeating itself over and over again. The same problems were reccurring every few hundred years, sometimes with disastrous consequences. After going through the same types of issues many times, it became obvious that the outcomes of those events were based mainly on the leading people of the nations involved. Environmental problems were best addressed when someone with the correct motivation and personality was able to come out and lead others away from destructive tendencies. Social problems were an enigma to those who did not have an intuitive sense of how to deal with them. Wars were lost without leaders who truly understood the principles or war. That is why we developed a way to keep those types of people in reserve for a rainy day. You are aboard the product of that research right now. You are on the Starship Ares.” Once the video stopped, all that remained was the strange watery sound that I had heard before. I figured now that it was the sound of some sort of machinery aboard the ship, but it still made me somewhat nervous. I had never been aboard a spaceship that I could remember, no matter what the lady in the television was telling me. Then again, I couldn’t remember much of anything. I began to try and stand up, but just as I started to move, a door opened at the end of the corridor and an extremely pale man walked through. I tried to rise faster, but found that my legs were almost completely useless. I could barely move them. “Just a moment, master. I’ll be right there,” said the pale man as he came towards me. “Your leg muscles have atrophied a bit, I imagine. It has been a long time since you were last woken.” I didn’t respond, but stared warily at the stranger. He seemed to know me, and yet his face was not familiar. He came up to the side of my box and knelt beside it. He was very tall, and even on his knees he towered over me. He wore a flowing robe of white, with four separate pockets sewed in to the sides. Out of one he pulled what looked like a gun. I strained my legs in trying to rise and defend myself, but he pushed me gently back down onto the foam beneath me. “Relax, master. It will help you to move your legs and the rest of your body. It is a drug that will stimulate growth in your muscles. You have been in one position for a very long time, and though the ship has done its best to care for you, there are some side-effects. This will counter them.” Realizing that I didn’t have much of a choice, I relaxed my body back down and allowed him to inject me with whatever it was. He applied it to each separate major muscle in my legs, and I could feel a cool soothing feeling travelling up my legs. I found I could move my toes and eventually I was able to shift my legs. He continued with the same process around the rest of my body. I had been very sore initially, and this brought great relief. “Who are you?” I asked. “What am I doing here?” He looked at me with an almost bemused look. His face was long and his eyes were an almost luminous blue. He had no hair or eyebrows, and when he opened his mouth, I could see that it was almost black. Even with this somewhat alarming combination of facial features, he had a kind face. “I am hurt, master. You do not remember me? I have served by your side for many years, and in many battles. I am Frederick, but you usually call me Fred unless you are angry at me,” he said, smiling. “As for what you are doing here, the video explained that. You are here to save the world,” he continued, before saying finally, “again.

To Hatch From a Broken Egg I was sitting in the living room with my arms crossed when Grandpa gathered the family around the dining room table. Grandpa was a giant of a man, with thighs like redwoods and hands like plains. I was the last to stand up when I began to walk over to the circle that had formed around the table. “I would like to see,” Grandpa began, with big pauses between each phrase, “someone attempt to balance this egg upright, without using any tools to hold it up.” The whiteness of the egg stood out in Grandpa’s wrinkled and purple spotted hands. It seemed so small. I studied the egg while my family began to buzz. My older cousin smirked and whispered something in my Dad’s ears that made him laugh. Uncle Joe was doing one of his James Cagney impressions to my brother and cousin. Aunt Anna had walked in the room from cooking and chuckled when she saw my grandpa holding the egg. I was the only one paying attention, focusing on how you could possibly make a small oval stand. No one else was going to complete this challenge but me. When my Mom put her arms around my chest, and gave me a kiss on the cheek I pushed her away and said, “I can do it!” My grandpa’s heavy eyes shifted to me and his lips peeled into a grin, revealing yellow stained crooked teeth. His hands, like a giant compared to mine, handed me the egg. I began working right away. I made quick glances to Grandpa as I tried to balance it, hoping his gray eyes would light up at a correct attempt or that his white eyebrows would raise at a sign of progress, but he remained unemotional and still. I tried to ignore the commentary of my family at first. Dad said, “oh so close,” several times with a laugh while Uncle David commentated like a sports announcer, “Jacob Lans. Balancing the egg. Can he do it? Ah, keeps missing.” After several minutes my older cousin said, “Come on, Jake. Give it back to Grandpa.” I ignored him but when my Mom stepped in saying, “Hun, you can try later, it’s fine,” the doubt became harder to ignore. “Let me just try!” I said, trying not to sound upset. Eventually my Uncle Joe stopped impersonating James Cagney. My father raised his eye brows and stood up from the table and my brother began to attack me. “Jacob you can’t do it.” “Don’t worry, Jakey. It’s impossible,” someone else said. I wanted to shut my family up and make them see that I could do it. I wanted them to know that just I could complete a task that was impossible for most. And I did. I finally stood the egg up right. It wasn’t balancing against anything; it was just standing up on its own. All because of me. I looked up in amazement, hoping to see my family enthusiastic with my accomplishment, but instead, half of them were gone and the other half had already moved on to new conversations. Only my cousin Rachel said, “Wow! Look guys! Jake did it!” As Rachel began to get my family’s attention I looked to Grandpa who was not grinning but seemed thrown by the egg standing up. As I waited for a response from Grandpa, the whole family began to circle back around the table. Before they could all see what I had done, Grandpa snagged the egg off the table, smashed it lightly against a plate, leaving the egg’s bottom flat surfaced with a crack, placed the it on the table, and forced a chuckle as everyone watched the egg stand up on its own. He said, “That is how you make an egg stand.” I quickly looked at my Grandpa, who avoided eye contact with me and laughed deliberately with the older cousins. My head spun to my parents, who had acknowledged Grandpa’s quaint gag but not my success and then it spun back to my Grandpa who was still ignoring me. I darted out of living room and up to my room. I dove into my bed, grabbed my Teddy and belted a long hard cry into my pillow. No one came up to check on me until after they had lit the candles.

I am half-awake with my back to you on your bed while you sit at your instrument and tuck into your black and white keys deft and handsome; your hands curl and splay and the sound is switched off so all I hear is that fine collapse of plastic, chord roll and fingers tumbling across octaves. You end with an unknown cadence then stop. “Are you actually asleep?” You want me to be facing you, to watch you be deft and handsome for my benefit. I mutter and pull your white sheets up to my ears. You want to impress me. I am already there, but you don’t know this, couldn’t know this; I can say nothing to you. The second time we met you held up my chin and whispered *you’re really quiet, aren’t you?* You are not the first to say this and you will not be the last. I am new to you but not for long. I wish you didn’t long to be poignant because really I know this is all false. Really I imagined a boy fondling my hair, always pictured him maybe like you, pictured him thumbing my cheek bone smiling slyly; you tell me my eyes are huge and I think yes, I know. I think, where were you when I was unaware of these things. You seem confounded every time you stroke my leg and it is smooth. I am a mystery to you somehow, in my wordlessness and alien lack of stubble. I feel like I am tricking you but I think maybe you want to be tricked. I lay in your bed like an invalid and I can feel on my back your amusement, feel your brow crumple up, feel your hands graze the keys thoughtfully. Feel your mind maybe somewhere else. Briefly, sometimes, I feel your attention like something charging at me and it is all I can do to disappear before impact. Mostly, though, you say you don’t know any poetry but you write it maybe without considering it like this; when you sing it is poetic. You are a poetic liar. Your truths are less truthful. Your truths are stale before they leave your mouth when you are staring at me with frightening concentration and you say things like *wow, there are probably 9 different colours in your hair right now* because the sun is illuminating the white-blond wisps at my temples and here right now at the beach I feel beautiful in spite of you. I don’t know why you say these things, maybe because you think this way, because you feel them keenly. Maybe they are for my benefit because how could you know I am not this girl with huge eyes, with nine different colours in my hair. How could you know these things when I can say nothing to you. When I can say nothing to you and you feel me deeply enough to not think to ask. Once at a concert a man brushed past me quickly, grazed my shoulder with the back of his wrist. I could not see his face when he whispered *you are beautiful*. He did not stop and I did not turn around. Once at a party a boy wrote in blue pen on a napkin *you look like sun-drenched orchards, like cherry blossoms* and handed it to me, tall and sheepish. You are the fourth one I’ve kissed, I want to tell you. You know you were my first but I have not told you you were my fourth. Are my fourth. That you are my hundredth, maybe my thousandth. That you are not alone in thinking my face profound. So I know without you. When you sit perched like a bird at your computer and play halting seconds from your disarray of sound files and I kiss the back of your neck you do not turn around because you need these moments, need this falseness. I want to give it to you like an unwrapped gift. I want you to revel in your own unassuming insincerity because of the reasons I like you that you do not know about because I have not told you. *You’re really quiet, aren’t you?* It is one thing to be pretty and something else entirely to feel like it belongs to you.

You dream of things because it is easier than living them. Living is hard. It requires actions and plans, a degree of ambition that you do not have and other things that you are too lazy to work upon. You would rather think of possibilities and live within their fantastical confines. It's easier that way. It's more comfortable. And plus, you are good with excuses and excuses are much easier than the alternative. Excuses only require words and thinking. Not even great thinking, only lazy half-assed thoughts are allowance enough to keep you from doing anything that you should be doing. And, really, fuck, "should." What is "should?" It's nothing. You *shouldn't* have to be doing anything that you don't want to and, dammit it all, there's nothing that you really "should" be doing anyway. It's not a "have to," it's not a "must." And even if it were a "must," it wouldn't really be a "must." There are very few "musts" in life and all the "musts" that you must do, you've already done, so there's nothing really to worry about. So just sit there. Just sit there and read and write and do nothing. Live in your mind, where all the potential for your greatness is already realized and your fidelity to perfection is never sacrificed. Nobody knows how great you really are. They will never know and it's their loss, really. If someone was able to read your mind and your thoughts, know your emotions, know your opinion on certain matters and everything else you know in your mind, they would see how truly wonderful you really are. Because you really are. If only they could know how wonderful your dreams are. Because that is where you live. Inside your dreams where the world really does revolve around you. Where nothing else matters except you. There really is nothing more important than you. Everyone else just doesn't know it yet. So sit there, continue dreaming. Continue in your fantasy. If they only knew, they would never leave either.

The flower that grew up from the top of her head was small and funny shaped, like a lazy ballerina who didn't care enough to raise her legs or was too tired from staying up late the night before, it leaned over to her left with one petal hanging limply to her right. It was purple sometimes, usually in the mornings, but she didn't know this because she usually woke up around noon, when the flower was yellow. She would lie in bed with the flower hanging limply over her forehead and stare at it's oddly shaped figure. She would wonder if maybe it had come loose during the night, that maybe during her sleep she had some how slept in such a way as to damage it enough so that it would come off, but the flower was always okay, misshapen as it had always been. She would then lie in bed for an hour thinking about the same thoughts she usually thought, nothing particularly grand or special. Sometimes thinking that she must change and that today she is going to do something and work on her life. She thought all the thoughts on how to become a better person, how to become more ambitious. She knew exactly what she needed to do, she had thought about it all before, but soon, those thoughts would drift away and she would find her self masturbating for ten minutes before cumming in a mediocre splat of pleasure and continue lying in her bed. When she came, the flower would give off an aroma. It wasn't something offensive, but not pleasing either. It was neither this nor that; a ubiquitous scent that was a cross between warm sand and chives left on a kitchen counter. This is usually when she thought that she should brush her teeth. Another healthy and good thing that she knew that she should do, her hand wiping away her sploosh juice onto her panties, and continue to lie in bed. Eventually, she would get up from bed walk to her bathroom to pee with the door open. With her legs resting on the top of her ties, she would stare at the shadow her head flower made on the floor between her feet. When she farted, she could see the flower shiver. This made her smile. It's her fart flower. A flowering fart. Wipe. Flush. Looking at herself in the mirror, the flower would limp between the space of her left ear and eye. I have a limp penis on my head. A penis with petals. penis petals. She had tried to pull the flower out when she noticed it growing. It had frightened her. This was not normal, to have flowers growing out of one's head. When it was very small, just budding, she had tugged at it and felt something pull at the center of her brain. She never knew she could feel her brain and it frightened her. She had tried to cut it, using a pair of kitchen knives, but the stem, as limp as it was, was actually quite strong. She had only managed to scratch it and saw that it created welts that spotted blood. Her blood. Her brain blood. This flower is from my brain.

0640 this morning. After being up all night I've had two hours of sleep and those were spent Having a nightmare about christine (recently separated wife)having some new boyfriend and them doing family stuff with kids / cuddling my baby in front of me but acting if I'm invisible or not there and i had my .40 cal and was debating pulling it (dont call me crazy this was a dream) when i get woken up for "MEDIC 115 respond to CPR in progress at the nursing home. " " F#%k " I mutter as I groggily stumble around trying to get dressed. I'm so tired I can't see straight or think. I rub my eyes hard but still have blurred vision. Climbing into the ambulance a small amount of adrenalin puts me in game mode. I know what I have to do. What I've been trained to do. What I'm good at. I run through some acls protocols in my head on the hectic early morning code 3 commute to our destination. My green EMT partner is driving like a mad woman. Prolly all hopped up on the idea of saving someone's life. Heh' Rookie. Had worked guy for about 30 min put large bore iv into his neck ( external jugular, very few people can do these as good as me and it makes a few green medics here think im some kinda badass) and start pushing the EPI. 3 unsuccessful intubation attempts and i still have no airway. (Dude has huge fat tongue/face and no neck = a nightmare intubation. ) Worked him hard for 20 min/ four rounds of epi. Im like the conductor of an orchestra. I direct resuscitation in a flat monotone voice and have to fight back a yawn at one point. Other than his extremely difficult airway management things go as smooth as something as chaotic as working a code can go. ( if you've ever seen one you'd know what I mean by "chaotic") I have had no response. Patient remains in asystole confirmed in 3 leads. (This guys toast) Then decided to call time of death on scene. And you should have seen the nasty looks those cna's (certified nursing assistant=medical peon) We're giving me. Like I was worse than hitler. No one said anything to me. As i thanked them for their help and told them they did excellent CPR. They get attached to them old coots in those nursing home working with them day after day. They all leave the room and I call for coroner on the radio. My partner and I collect our gear and cover dude in a sheet. I close his eyes with my fingers. " see you on the other side buddy, ...or not." I murmur. About to walk out of the room when I spontaneously make the catholic cross thingy over dude in sheet. My partner sees this and is looking at me with a strange half smirk/ amused look. "I dunno why I did that. I'm an Atheist" I say and chuckle feeling silly. Waiting for coroner. "I guess we don't need to baby sit him let's get some fresh air. I need food and coffee. " I say as we exit to await the coroner in the parking lot. still have blurred vision. "I dunno why I did that.

"I'm not *gorging*. I'm simply asking to dive *deeper*." "You do realize that diving into a rift at these depths is practically suicide. The pressure from the hydrothermal vents will crush your organs Kyle, not to mention the risk of being ambushed by..." "Okay, okay, I won't go into the rift, I promise Orna. I went to school, I know. Fuck.” Orna grunted in his breathing apparatus. “Five minutes max. You hear me? "Capisce Doc!" Kyle glided down into the kelp forest, just next to the rift, a gateway to the abyss. *We are in kraken territory, Kyle. I hope you understand that.* Orna's flashlight flickered. His spine vibrated. The new diving suits issued by the company were tested a few days before this dive, and nothing more. Anything past the deadline meant closure, and they couldn't risk losing this client. *Archetypes are always flawed, bound to Murphy’s law. Focus.* "We have to dive today! They expect samples by next week!" said his boss during this morning's phone call. Orna tried to convince his boss it was mating season, and although rare in the wild, no dive team ever would compensate for the risks held by encountering one. Not even SEALs. "They don't even prey on humans Orna!" *Money first I guess though.* Countless dives under the ocean, this place was Orna's second home, a haven to him. He lost sight of Kyle in the kelp bed. The flashlight flickered again. *It won't happen to me.* He recalled those memories. How his former master convulsed in front of him, lapsing into a state of undeniable, pure and utter delirium after her lights relinquished, finalizing her into a state similar to schizophrenia. He closed his eyes. He saw the shore, his wife, his daughters. He took a staccato-type-breathe. Orna's light finally died isolating him three-thousand fathoms under the ocean in complete darkness. *You got your test. Get us out of here now.* "Kyle, my light just died. You have to abort. It's too dangerous." he said over the radio. Orna heard a whisper in the distance, a deranged voice. A woman. "Kyle do you read me?" He began to panic. Silence. "Kyle!" The voice became louder. The water displaced around him. Orna Piccardo recalled was this morning's call with his boss. *They don't even prey on humans.

Shapes in the night. You know those nights you're deep asleep then suddenly you're not. There's no loud noise or anything, your just wide awake. Something isn't right, you can always tell. Your eyes, wide open, straining in the darkness to see something in the dim light oozing round the edge of the curtains from the street. You're being perfectly still, if someone or something is there you don't want them to know you're awake just yet. Then you see it, an outline in the darkness, black on black but definitely there. Your heart stops as you freeze. Don't look away. It hasn't seen you're awake yet. Just get ready to move, go for the bedside lamp and your swiss army knife on the table. Don't look away. You make your move, swinging up and out of bed in one motion, the light is on and you can see, it's just a jacket on the back of the door. Monsters aren't real. We've all had those nights. Nights where dream and reality blurs together just enough to scare the shit out of you as your imagination, unbound by the normal constraints of waking life, is allowed to run free. It can take even a few minutes for reality to assert itself and logic to prevail, after all, why would someone be staring in your bedroom window at night? When I have these nights I try to remind myself that it's my mind playing tricks on me and that there's nothing in the room with me. I roll over, making noises like I'm asleep just in case, but I can't forget it. I need to check. Despite thinking things over it's hard to apply logic to something from an illogical realm of existence. Sure enough, it's a shadow or something making me scared over nothing once more. Monsters aren't real. I don't know what causes this in me but it happens once every month or so, it's not a schedule or anything, it just seems to happen from time to time. Most of the time I can't even remember my dreams. I sleep soundly from when I nod off to when I wake. Tonight, I'm exhausted, it was a long day at work. I was tired from the moment I came home but I'm not great at napping so I don't bother. I either sleep for too long and can't sleep at night or just can't sleep because I'm tired but not sleepy. I must have drifted off about 1am. It's definitely later now and I'm suddenly awake once again. I can feel my heart racing in my chest and the hair on the back of my neck is on edge. Something isn't right. I'm facing the wall. I can't let whatever it is know I'm awake. I grunt a bit as I roll over, it's dark. I can see the sliver of light from the top of the curtains and I can make out some shapes in blackness of the room. My desk, my wardrobe. There's an outline. Something is definitely there. Don't look away. Remember to breath, sleeping people breath. Get ready to go for the light and your knife, it's on the desk. Don't look away. I make my move, eyes locked on the shape as I flick the light and grab my knife, the light is on and I can see. It seems I was wrong.

Hey readers (and writers) of Short Stories! This is my first post, and frankly, my first piece of writing (other than school) that I put a decent amount of time into. I'm just wondering what you guys think! Be honest, I want to improve. And yes, for the record, this is all true. EDIT: Sorry for my title being so similar to another post from a few hours earlier, I didn't even realize until after I posted! The Midst of the Night As one slowly fades to two, my mind runs a marathon. As with a marathon, it is both painful and rewarding; remembering what was, imagining what could have been. A bittersweet river of emotions that I wish would end, but know will run on. Why must you do this to me? The end is no fault of yours, really. Just fate. A cruel hand was dealt, and I had already pushed all my chips to the center. Did you? I long to know the answer, but also hope to never know. If you feel like I do, just show me a sign. Anything. But you won’t. Who’s to say you don’t have the same sleepless nights? You might. But my suspicion is you don’t. And knowing that for sure is a thousand times worse than not knowing. I try to recreate the past- mostly arguments. Why couldn’t they have ended better? Either way, they mean little that isn’t why it’s over. They are just a painful remainder of a mostly happy time. I was always the bad guy, you never did any wrong, yet I always just agreed. I was blinded by love. Now that the rose colored glasses are gone, I realize that isn’t true. My feelings are equal to those of everyone else. I create future conversations knowing all too well that they will never occur. Or if they do, not as well as in my head. I’m not as smooth a talker as I am a thinker, and while I know you well, you responses are unpredictable. The rational majority of my mind knows this needs to happen, and better now than later. Yet the small romantic area still aches. Each day I try to convince myself it’s fine. It’s an argument I have trouble winning. Must you convince yourself? Or had you long ago conquered that small voice of anti-reason lurking through your consciousness? That’s another thing it might be better not to know. Do you even care about me? Your words sound so, but your actions reek with apathy. If actions speak louder than words, your sentence of investment has been drowned out by the manifesto of disregard. I’m but an old newspaper: interesting at one time, now tossed in the corner, only to be glanced at occasionally. I pray that it is but a figment of my negative imagination. I know in time, all this will fade just as two now fades to three. It will be a black and white scene in a long film of technicolor. I only wish it could fade sooner. But time is a merciless warden, imprisoning you in the present, only allowing you to leave when he sees fit. The mind is a complex thing. It almost enjoys the pain. I am far simpler, and I don’t.

"He Was There..." He laid there. Time seemed to stop. He looked into the sky, knowing it would be the last time he would. He examined the thick, puffy clouds and their beauty. They looked so soft. So peaceful. He saw the birds, flying in their formation. They had no care in the world. They were free. He wished he was. He wished that the beauty and peace of the clouds and the birds was his world. Where there was evil and hatred. He wanted to feel the love of his family one more time. All he wanted was to be free. Like the birds. But he was there. He was there where men killed each other. Where men fought. But he did realize that is was not for nothing, It was for what was right. Those men were evil, and he was there to stop them. He did all he could, but then he was put there. He was there, on the ground, covered in his own blood and tears, looking at the natural beauty of the heavens while time stopped. But then he saw his reality. He knew that this was his end. He knew it was time to go. He was going to be with the birds and the clouds and his new world would be filled with peace and wonder. He picked up the handgun and fired the last shot. Not on himself, or another man, but into the sky, as if to say “here I come...” Then, he was there.

Though the showers predicted by the forecast were worse than mentioned, Sir Kingston still expected Allen to show up on time. The "Franklin Temple," where Kingston planned to meet Allen, was a hell hole and the last place to plan a meeting at. Kingston, however, was no new-comer and was well aware of its rowdiness and danger. A fight near the poker table was the main attraction at the present moment, but Kingston and a couple of other people kept to their own well being. The front door swung open, but it was the coming in rain and cold air that brought the peoples attention to it. It was only a person to the people, but for Kingston it was Allen. " Here boy," Kingston exclaimed to the bright-eyed teen, and Allen made his way quickly to the table. Allen sat and drew in some air, " I almost drowned out in that weather," he said. Before Kingston could get in a word, three hefty men in grey and blue rammed their way through the doors, it was the authority. People took to the exits in hoping they won't be caught as the authorities made their way towards the brawlers near the pool table. Kingston motioned towards Allen to head for the doors and got up. As they made way for the exit a pair of arms grabbed the two men and stopped them in their tracks. " Strangers," exclaimed the authority "You are to remain silent and resist any temptations to struggle." Allen exchanged a worried glance at Kingston, but he seemed to not be troubled. " You are arrested for engaging in illegal conduct," said the man. The two of them were quickly escorted outside the pub and into the open doors of an authority vehicle. Inside it they were greeted by the two brawlers, now bloody and bruised, and sat down facing each other. Their hands were tied and they were strapped to their seats. As expected the young, worried Allen struggled in his present state, but not Kingston." There is no use in struggling, just sit and do as instructed," commanded Kingston. With that Allen sat still, not saying a word as the doors on the vehicle closed. Allen looked out the little window next to his head and saw the pub grow shorter and shorter in the distance. Kingston sat with his quiet manner like he did in the pub.

On the eleventh day of June in the year 2013, a young girl by the name of Annabelle sat in her bed thinking. Her best friend, Macy, was texting her the usual amusing conversations that arose between them. Her younger sister laid in her bed, probably asleep, but Annabelle had no way of knowing for sure. Her parents were in their bedroom, watching TV. Annabelle was alone. The air conditioning was on; it had been a hot day. Annabelle pulled the comforter up around her and shot her friend a quick text; she hadn't responded in a while. Annabelle was alone emotionally. Music drifted through Annabelle's head, a symphany of symphanies. She could almost feel the pull of her alto saxophone strap on her neck and the smooth metal keys under her fingers. Annabelle yawned, it had been a dull day. A dull day stacked upon dull days. Summer stretched on forever, with no end in sight. Annabelle glanced around her room. Hanging on her white walls were pictures and drawings and letters and posters. Some of it had been given to her by her friends and family, and some she had made herself. Someday she was going to run out of space, but for now the cluttered wall made Annabelle feel at home in her small room. Closing her eyes for a second, Annabelle imagined how her life could be different. It could be worse- seperated parents, no house, no food, no money. But it could also be better: more friends. No matter how many or how good, Annabelle never felt like it was enough. She didn't necessarily want to be *popular*, but she wanted people from all different groups to like her for who she was. A lot of times Annabelle felt like her intelligence created a barrier between her and other people. People would hear about her grades or her "good girl" aura before they actually talked to her. She didn't really have any proof, but it was Annabelle's best guess. Annabelle was shy, but only sometimes. As much as Annabelle tried not to fit into a stereotype, she sometimes held herself to it. She would dance in math class with Macy to music inside her head, but when there was an oportunity to dance on camera in band, she was one of only 5 people who refused. Annabelle wasn't sure if she was pretty or not. Sometimes, she looked in the mirror and really felt good about herself. But othertimes, sometimes later in the day or in a different light, Annabelle thought she was plain. She was pretty convinced this was the truth, and the way everyone saw her. Annabelle didn't think that anyone was beautiful, because to her that was someone with no flaws. Annabelle knew her definition of beautiful was wrong, but she knew she couldn't change it. Annabelle didn't know what it meant to be beautiful on the inside. A beautiful soul must be pink and rosy, but everyone had flaws, little black edges. Annabelle wasn't sure if black could be beautiful, or even if black wanted to be beautiful. Maybe black loved to be the other side of the coin. Love wasn't something Annabelle felt sure about, but I guess if we are being truthful, she wasn't sure about anything. She didn't know if love was possible at 13 or 14, or even 20. She didn't know what love was. Anyone can find a list of "symptoms" of love on the internet, but Annabelle didn't really believe any of it. Was true love even possible? Annabelle stared up at the ceiling fan and watched it spin. It had such a wonderfly boring life. It spun and spun, and when it was cold outside it was stopped. No independent thought or worries or obligations of any kind. It was a ceiling fan and no one expected it to be or do anything extrordinary. What a life. **TL;DR** A young girl thinks about her life and eventually it all boils down to a ceiling fan.

My sleep is useless to me now, so I keep placing them in sandwich bags. It's comforting to me. It's familiar. But it doesn't help me any. I stop using sandwich baggies and start to use baby food jars instead. For some reason that I can't explain to myself, it's all that I've been eating: baby food. Maybe it's because it's easy on my stomach. Maybe it's because the jars are cute. Maybe it's because cute things remind me of her. Maybe it's because I keep thinking that she'd be the mother of my kids. Maybe it's because I was mourning our non-existent family. I don't really know. It's been a three weeks since we had broken up and I started eating baby food so now I have several dozens of these jars lying around my apartment. When I had first put my sleep in them, I didn't bother washing them out. I figured that my sleep would benefit from having a little "mashed-peas" flavoring to them, or maybe a little hint of "mashed bananas and strawberries." Clearly, clarity of thought wasn't my strong suit at this point. Doesn't sleep with a hint of kiwi sound good? Six to Eight hours of restful sleep, now in tropical flavors. We were supposed to go on a tropical vacation together. If not, maybe just up to Vancouver. I've never been there before, but she told me that it was a real clean city. "It'll be so much fun!" she said. I believed her too. Still do. But I can't do that now and I think I hate Vancouver. It doesn't matter anyway. I have my sleep to pack. So much sleep to pack. What's worse is that the dream penguins are starting to become permanent. Well, at least one anyway. I've named him Bear and he's been following me for the last two days. The weird thing is that he listens to me and can actually fetch me things. "Can you bring me that bag over there, Bear?"I ask. He looks around and somehow I know that he doesn't see any. "We've ran out?" Bear nods. "Hmm.. " I say. But I see Bear shuffle around and walk into my room. I hear some ruckus and then he's back bringing me a baby-food jar. "For my sleep?" Bear doesn't even need to nod. Our thoughts, they're one. I notice that he's cleaned out the jar. I don't know how how's managed to do it, but I take it in my hand and hold it up to the light. It's very clean. I wonder if it smells so I bring it up to my nose and, to my surprise, find that it has a very pleasing scent. A sort of airy, sunny-day type scent. "How'd you-" I start, but the look he gives me tells me to stop. "Ok, that's fine." I imagine that I've somehow deluded myself into believing that Bear really exists and that I actually cleaned the jar out by myself, but I'm so tired that I don't give it anymore thought than that and accept Bear is real. Bear is my only friend. I have two boxes of sleep saved up. Because the baby food jars are smaller than the sandwich baggies, I only manage to fit in about 4 maybe for hours worth. I haven't really figured out how to measure my sleep yet, so I'm guessing at the amount. I'm assuming that because I'm managing only to fit half as much sleep into the jars that the amount of rest would be half. Half is an approximation as well because sometimes I have extra left over and sometimes I'm unable to fill two jars with one night of sleep. God, I'm tired. Bear nudges me. Right, Right. I have to fill this jar. I have to fill this jar.

All the world is silent. The streets outside of the window groan with each passing car, but none make noise. They are all distant, many miles away. Inside, there is more silence. A world of non-existent sounds and forever stillness. The laptop, set aside, shares nothing but the sheen of a blank screen. The cellphone is only a quiet piece of metal and plastic. There is no object that can penetrate the silence. There is no outside. There is only here, there is only now. And now is a time for sitting. For quietly taking in what's before her. A bed sheet, a blanket, two pillows, and her feet. I like this, she thinks, but the registration of her thought disturbs her silence, so she pushes them back down and merely looks. She looks upon them, on the hardwood floor of her studio, and silently expresses satisfaction for herself, for her will to push past where she'd been, and where she is at now. All quietly, all without a thought. Loneliness introduces itself with a whisper, but it knows its place and its place is far away. It merely notifies her of its presence and that is enough. She acknowledges it for that's all that it needs, and continues on with what's before her. Mine, she thinks. The thought is firm and it creates ripples across her studio. It is not a disturbance, but a natural part of the world. There has never been anything more natural than a thought that is secure and definite and at this moment. I made this. This is mine. And I like it. And, hearing the conviction in her thought, far and away, Doubt rose and looked her way. And doubt was far. Very far. But there is a certain quality of Doubt that allows it to travel with a speed not limited by distance or time. And Doubt is not an impatient thing, it is one that is content to wait, and linger, and haunt, like Lonliness. Together, they are powerful forces that do not need to be near to be known. So Doubt rose and looked out at her and she felt it. Even from that distance, and with all the conviction she had within her, she felt Doubt. It was not a good feeling, but she didn't have time to worry about Doubt now. The silent world was starting to murmur and she would not have it. Not tonight. Not while she had created her retreat in the middle of her living room. Not tonight. Not ever. So she stayed where she was and looked at her pillows, and blankets, and bed sheets and felt satisfied. But there was more to do. She needed string to suspend the sheets. She needed to get up to tie the string to her window blinds and across the room to her kitchen cabinet doors. She needed to make those secure so that her bed sheets would be able to hang from them and create the tent that she had in her mind. And then she needed to light it. She needed to create the atmosphere that would make her tent living room perfect. She needed her retreat and she needed it to be perfect. And so, that's what she did. She laid down her blankets, creating a soft bedding in the middle of her open living room. Above it, she suspended string reaching across the entirety of her studio, from the window blinds to the open kitchen cabinets, securing them tightly at each end, making them perfect for the exact tent shape that she wanted. A small pride grew within her as she started to see her creation take shape. She viewed it as herself and as an observer watching herself create and then be within the space she saw she was creating, and a small seed of accomplishment sprouted within her alongside her pride. All it needed now were some books to hold the sides of the suspended sheets down to create the proper shape of a tent and then some lights to - and Lonliness comes again. A quick step closer than where it was before. It is pushed back by her will, but its step into her territory was a message: I am always here. I am always close. She stands at this and closes her eyes. There are no sights, there are no sounds, there is only me. There is only my wants and my desires and that is all. There is nothing else. There is only what I want. Lights. I want light. And the lights she has in mind are perfect. Small electric diodes taped to the inner lids of mason jars. Simply made and, when their wires are touched to a battery, emitting a warm light, they look to be the glow of small fireflies. Magic in a jar. Magic in a living room. It's beautifully cinematic and it's perfect.

This is only a part of either a short story, or a novel i have recently started working on. I hope you enjoy, and i love criticism, hit me with it :D The cave was full of darkness. It clung to every crack and crevice. Black shadows upon black stones. Ériu did not think that this obscure darkness could be any colder, any more uninviting. But it was. It tore into her skin with a terrifying velocity, like black tendrils lashing her skin. Ériu was out picking vegetables and fruit like she had always done. Basket in hand and off she would trot, the gentle warmth of summer springing her step as she filled her basket with juicy strawberries and those sweet, crunchy apples mother would sometimes bake into apple pies. But there was no apple pie here, no warmth, no light, only darkness and her sad thoughts to keep her company. How could this happen to her, it was a normal day, only she had wandered into this cave. She had never seen it before and wanted to explore the inside. She cursed her stupid curiosity, because of it, she was lost. From what she could remember, she was deep inside the cave, having slid her way down a hill of muck and tumbling rocks when the sensation began to overcome her. It stiffened her entire body and crept along her skin, slicing into her muscles and tendons, instantly rendering her nothing more than a conscious rock, much like the cold, hard rock walls that surrounded her. Only they were inanimate and dead. Before she completely blacked out, the manipulative effect had invaded her nerves, sending millions of tiny electric shocks all over her body. Every toe, every finger vibrated with a burning intensity. Tears fell from her twinkling eyes, splashing her knees as she thought about the feeling. No, she thought, this is not the end. She grabbed one of the soggy apples that scattered the cave floor and took a huge bite out of it, ripping it almost in half. Juice dribbled down her chin. If it was to be her demise, she would not die hungry. She devoured three more apples greedily before taking many deep breaths to calm her quivering torso. Ériu felt her way up the spiky rock wall, hand pushed hard into the slick rock to steady her own legs, still weak from the shocks that had made her pass out. She yearned for her own bed, and the soft kisses her mother would place on her forehead every night. That thought seemed to instil hope in the young girl, but Ériu knew better than to hope. Hope wouldn’t save her life, only action would. What need her of hope when she was encased in this black prison. This abyss was terminal. There was no way of telling where she was going; she had no sense of direction or position. She could not even tell which way was forward, and which way was back. Soon, she let the darkness guide her, trusting in her instincts rather than letting fear grip hold of her, exactly what mother had always taught her to do. The sweeping abyss seemed to swallow her more as she edged her way along the cold crevice, opening up unto a beyond which seemed to swallow her more the further she walked. By now, she had quickened her pace, and was no longer scurrying along the wall like some terrified beetle. Her fingers brushed against the cave wall as she moved briskly through the darkness. She felt as if she was going to slam face first into a wall at any second, but she kept on moving, she had no intention of stopping, the only thing she had left was her ability to move and she put it to good use, walking in a straight line, seeking an end that was no more in sight than her own hand in front of her face. Then she saw it… A dim orange glow flickered in the distance. In the darkness, it looked like Ériu was peering at lava through the tip of a needle, for some reason, she smiled when she gazed upon it. The light flickered and danced in her vision, being the first thing to tickle her senses, it sent her brain into overdrive, causing the strange hue to morph and grow, igniting into colours she never seen before. Her vision seemed to swarm with dancing images and shapes inconceivable to her young mind. Quickly, her eyes began to adjust to the warm glow of the mesmerising light and she became obsessed with it. Ériu was drawn towards not only the light, but the company light brings in the lonely despair of darkness. Suddenly, she felt hopeful again, this light would bring her home, back to mother and the warm log fire that Ériu loved nothing more than to curl up beside, feeling the warm tickle of the flame on her feet. The ember glow was not far, and the next thing she knew, she was sprinting towards it, her face etched with a lolling smile. Her smile melted into a wide-eyed gape when she saw what was producing the light. A small, burning orb, about the size of a large orange hung low in the murky air. It seemed to emanate with moxie and an animated vigour as Ériu gazed, awestruck at the sight before her. She had never seen anything like this before, nor could she ever hope to again, surely she was the first person to see something like this? “Hello,” whispered Ériu in her soft rural tone. Soft as her voice was, it was not strong, and strength is what she needed right now. “Hello!” she repeated. This time however, her voice was loud and clear, cutting through the shuddersome silence that engulfed the cave. “Can you help me get home?” Ériu nearly jumped twenty feet in the air when she heard the orb exhale with a low humming noise. Almost like a sighing bear, nestling in to hibernate out the winter. Her heart pounded even harder in her chest when the orb began to slowly drift forward. Ériu followed dutifully, her eyes fixed on the effervescent sphere of energy. Both orb and girl quickened their pace, until Ériu was tearing after the leering ball, like a child after sweets. This time, she did not care about what was ahead, or behind her, only the light and comforting heat of the xanthic orb. Ériu let out an ear-piercing wail as colour and light exploded upon her vision. She was brought to her knees by a relentless barrage of senses the moment she emerged from the void of the hollow. She could not believe her own two eyes as to what she was seeing before her. This was not home…This was nowhere she had ever seen before.

This is a strange land. The days that are not scorched under the burning sun are usually sultry under the oppressive humidity of rain bearing clouds. When it rains, it does not rain in drops – like it should, but in sheets of impenetrable water. In the creeks and waterways lurk predators unchanged for eons. The dry land holds no reprieve as it is replete with venomous critters, unseen and unheard harbingers of death. It’s not surprising then, that it is but a wasteland for the peoples populating the more hospitable lands to the south. Neither is it surprising that this land is devoid of humanity. It’s not that this land is without a strange, almost ancient, kind of beauty. However, it’s not, obviously, something that beckoned visitors or would-be residents with open arms. This is why it was so weird that they had left their cozy homes and comfortable jobs in the anonymous suburbia to move here. Mat & Sid’s parents had always romanticized this land. Their youth and naivety had misled them into a notion of freedom in the life off the land under this harsh sun. It would have been ironic, had it not been such a tragedy, that they had far too soon lost their lives to this unforgiving land. The twins were at the tender age of five or thereabouts. It was a matter of tremendous luck then, that in such a tenuously populated area the twins had found a caretaker. Bigg was a recluse, probably a felon and most definitely a maniac with delusions of grandeur. In his mind, he was the king of this realm. No animal could harm him. The shining bright sun that made tinder out of living trees was powerless to make him sweat and the venomous critters were but vermin to be squashed underneath his bare feet. But that is what made him special and especially suitable to live off this land. He was fearless in the face of danger which lurked paralyzingly close. This, in turn, made him able to fetch food, water and shelter at will. It didn’t come as surprise to Mat that they had a very unusual childhood. They didn’t learn about the world or math or culture, no, they learnt about the greatness of Bigg. They learnt how he could bend the land to his will. When not learning how else to exalt Bigg, they learnt to kill animals that could kill them and eat the rest. They also learnt to stalk and hunt, to grovel and beg before Bigg for more ideas and when all else failed, to steal – from each other, from other, more formidable, critters. Mat never liked this life and yearned to escape. It’s not that he was ever prevented from escaping, it’s just that he knew, even as a child, separation from Bigg meant death in this unyielding landscape and that tormented him. Sid, on the other hand, while never deriving sadistic pleasure out of any of this, was, for the lack of a better word, content. This annoyed Mat, it did as child and it did now. Despite all his vagaries, Bigg was a father figure for the twins. He valued the stories of their exploits in the land more than the spoils. He had, for instance, no interest in the meat that took a great deal of effort on the part of twins to hunt, but he had great interest in their story of the hunt, and the fact that they did it. While he enjoyed some of the fruits of his own toils, he never grew attached to them, neither did he place a great deal of value in things the twins had obtained at great effort. He was too attached to himself, perhaps. This was another thing that Mat never understood; to him, something that took effort to procure was valuable, it’d even more valuable if others valued it too, of course, but they didn’t. Mat would often remind himself that Bigg was a maniac, that would explain everything. But what annoyed Mat was the fact that Sid would nonchalantly let their spoils go to waste were Mat not to take notice. When the twins were not much more than fifteen, they were “discovered” by some hardy travelers passing through. Child protection services had put them up in a care center and eventually a foster home. The date they were brought to the foster home was celebrated as their birthday ever since. Mat loved his brother, and he was sure Sid loved him back, in as much as he could be said to love anything. But they had increasingly grown distant despite their physical proximity. Mat remembered their first “birthday” in the foster home vividly. They had a hastily baked strawberry shortcake presented to them by their foster family. Sid’s advice was “Mat, enjoy the cake, really taste every bit of it and enjoy it when it’s available. But don’t get addicted to it, don’t remember it and yearn for it. Expectation only brings misery.” This and other such strange things is what made Mat grow tired of his brother. Initially, they were ill adjusted to the life in the City. They were, after all, feral children – they didn’t belong in civilization. Their history notwithstanding, Mat did remarkably well at school. Sid seem disinterested in what civilization had to teach them. Mat even went to a prestigious college. In college fell in love with a girl and they got married by the time he was in his early twenties. Post education, he took up a job, not much different, perhaps, from his parents’ anonymous vocation. Mat and his wife lived in a suburb, had a pet dog for company and generally led a life that society had taught them would bring happiness, or at least this is how they were to pursue that elusive emotion. In all the years since Mat went off to college, however, he had hardly met Sid. Sid had come to Mat’s wedding, but that was about all they had seen of each other during all these years. Their foster family was not much close to them, for they were rebellious, not to mention feral, teenagers when they were brought there and by the time they could appreciate what that family had done for them it had grown dysfunctional. Last year, however, Sid had called on Mat to meet him. It startled Mat, for, in all these years he couldn’t remember a single instance where Sid had asked him for anything, not even to meet him! The conversation they had then was exceedingly strange to Mat, even by the standards of his conversations with Sid. Mat recalled the conversation in his mind. “How have you been, my brother?” “I’m alright Sid. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever been happier. What are you doing these days?” “Oh, it’s not much, I just bring people to our land and show them its beauty. Can you believe they pay me to do that? They pay me good money – just to show them something that could harm them!” “I’m glad to hear that, are you happy?” “I’m content, brother. I heard you bought a house?” “Yes, Bigg would’ve been proud!” “Indeed, say, do you ever wonder… never mind…” “What is it?” “It’s just that, do you ever wonder… you were so distraught at our parents’ sudden demise and so suddenly we find Bigg… or that he never provided us with anything, nothing physical, just… comfort… or that the social services never found anyone else where we lived…?” “Well, it was providential that we found him. I don’t find it hard to believe that no one found him, remember he was a master of disguise and he’d lived off the land for god knows how long.” “Yes, never mind. The reason I called, my… err… business is doing rather well… too well in fact. But I don’t want it. I want you to have it” “What? I have my job here, my life here, I don’t want to go back to the land” “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. You can sell it. I have other people who guide people in the land as well, you could just manage it” “Are you serious?!” “Yes. Here are the papers.” “And… what.. what will you do?” “Oh, I’m off to explore places, experiences and the world…” “You know you are giving up lots of things. You can have a good life here, a family perhaps… You can be happy!” “Ah, but that’s not what I’m after!” “What ARE you after?” “Well… nothing” “You are crazy” “So are you, my brother” It turned out that Sid’s business was worth millions. Mat would’ve been a fool to not keep it. It annoyed him that Sid didn’t want to be happy, it annoyed him that he had to be back in the land he detested. But it meant money. So he was back, he was guiding a few folks in the area, showing them the ropes of surviving the land.

Mike started the worm selling business back before the fishing craze made anybody any money. He made good money off lots of other things and you only needed a certain amount of money anyway. Most everything was grown around these parts and his job was really just facilitating trade. Mike watched with delightful wonder as the boys argued at the counter. The younger, whining, while the older, hushed him. “We'll just get one!” Bobby held his squiggly worm, shaped like a note and then twisting into an 'S' up at his little brother's nose. “I want one too,” His little brother's nose twitched in disgust. He took a step back, holding his little worm up to his wide open eyes. Mike, knew the conversation well and almost hated the kids who didn't have it. He thought of the times he was young and things were so much bigger, especially held up to the eyes like that. “Shh, you get the milk.” Bobby was stern enough that his little brother went to the beverage cooler and reached way up for the glass bottle of milk, almost too high for him to reach. The milk bottle teetered, Bobby watched in horror, even Mike ran out from his position, behind the counter, but the little boy was just competent enough to catch it before it crashed. Mike "phewed", as he grabbed the bottle from the little brother and brought it to the counter and got back in his place. He knew a family's spilt milk got more than a 'licking' in these parts. The shop's door's bells rang as a man in a white corn hat appeared pinker than the sun around here allowed. “Mr.Splatter! How are you today? Mike made to help him, started a jerking gait, but stayed behind the counter in a retrospect that took him too long to realize. He quickly got back into his position and smiled sincerely. “Oh, knock it off Mike we've been to the fishing hole together enough. Call me Ralph or nothing at all.” “Ha! Ralph how are ya? The bean counters up at the Leg got you too busy to fish?” “Shh, I said just the one.” The men looked over at the boys. Boddy was mad. His little brother had grabbed another worm and was playing with it, on the floor. The boy watched it squirm to each of his fingering probes. Bobby walked closer to him. Kids never were good at quiet talk and his voice sneaked through his whispers. “We'll split it later, and then you get one and I get one and we can still get milk.” Mr. Wood or Mike, as he was known in these parts didn't make a fuss about it, after all they were just worms, he got such an awful lot of them next to free, there were no taxes on worms at that time. and these kids were no different then he was, poor, but with a little extra money for a worm, they could split in two, they could split it in four for all he cared. Ralph, sweating pink as a pig, thought nothing of it. “Yeah those bean counters always need support. It's my job to get it for them.” His well rehearsed voice didn't match his bodies reaction to the summer day. And then the fishing craze hit.

He slowly walked down the street plastered with posters. Head down in his jacket covered by an old baseball cap. He was wearing a long black trench coat. Heavy wool. It was the end of winter but there were no signs of spring to be found. 7 long years. It had been 7 years since the last spring. The man remembered back to when he was a child. Playing in the warm sun was all but a distant memory. It was only cold and black now. Humanity had done itself in. A dark smog cloud covered the western part of the Rockies. The streetlights were now on 24/7 trying to provide some sort of light on that dark depressing city. New Brooklyn they called it. Trying to model after the old cities after their destruction in the Great Western War. It was to little use. He knew and everybody else did. This city was slipping. It was the end. Soon another Great Migration and when all of those resources were used up another and another until there was nothing left. Humans. The great mighty humans wouldn’t go out with a great loud bang for the universe to hear but a soft sad whimper as industries kept pumping out more and more pollutants. It wasn’t disease or natural disasters killing us, it was our greed and god complexes that did us in. This is the end. We did nothing to prevent it and it can’t be stopped.

This is not for you. This is for myself. My psychiatrist told me it would be good for me to put my thoughts down on paper. Well, I don't have any paper. I guess this will have to do. It's hard to imagine the feeling of coming home from a long day of work, opening the front door and finding your only son hanging from the upstairs banister. Blue in the face and cold to the touch. A chair knocked on its side under his dangling feet. He had worn the suit his father had given him before he passed away. Cancer. He was never the same after that. I suppose he wanted to make a good impression, wherever he may end up. The EMTs would later find the letter he had written stashed away in his breast pocket. Coincidentally, the suit he was wearing at his death would be the same suit he would be buried in. He wanted an end to his suffering, and he found his cure. His suffering had ended, but in doing so he piled more onto his mother. I hadn't talked to Robert in some time before his passing, and for that I blame myself. Things had changed between him and I, but I couldn't point my finger on exactly *what.* His father had passed away 4 months prior, and at the time he seemed more into isolation than anything else. In hindsight I should have known exactly what was going on in his head. How obvious it is now - years later - having thought about it day after day. What I should have done differently... Blame. Guilt. Robert and I used to be inseparable, and his mother revered me as her other son. It was nice having a motherly figure in my life. My family life hadn't been stable for as long as I could remember, and often times we were left to fend for ourselves. I would come over and eat dinner with Robert and his Mother and Father nearly everyday, and for that hour or so at a time I felt like I actually had a family that loved me. There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about Robert's funeral. He was a fairly popular kid, and nearly our entire 8th grade class was there. Friends would take turns sharing anecdotes from times spent with Robert, laughing and crying all the while. Robert's mother had sat in the front row of the church, and there wasn't a single break in her sobs. I had tried to console her at one point, but she brushed me off. I was taken aback, but I figured she just needed her space. She composed herself momentarily and addressed the audience, thanking us for attending. She told us it meant a lot to her and that she had something to share with us. It was the note Robert had left. Through broken tears, this is what she read: *Lately life hasn't been what it used to be. I don't find joy in anything I once did and everyday is a constant struggle. If you're reading this right now, I've lost that struggle. I'm sorry for the pain that I've caused you, and I hope that you can be strong without me. I've gone to be with Dad, and I hope to see you all when you get here. Love, Robert.* She put the note down on the podium and reached for her purse. Pulling the metallic object and placing it to her head. *Click* *Boom* Her last words, "I'm coming home." I don't blame you for what you did. You found your peace, but you put your suffering onto me.

You can't take something from the sea. Put it in a box and make it stare at nothing all day. "I have this dream every night. Not every night but most nights. I'm under water swimming breathing. I feel pressure behind me pushing me forward. I break through the top of the water. The light is too bright. I can’t see anything. I'm awake."-Life Birth Death Planting the first seed turned a bad relationship into a REALLY bad one. A turning point that can never be reversed. The punishment is a trip back to the ocean. Words. Old words in neat books written by dead men about dead men read by old men to young men who believe what the old men say about what the dead men said some other dead men wrote about what some other dead men said or did. Sexual desire. Necessary driving force behind nearly everything that's ever happened or will happen. Squares. Boxes. Four right angles. Ignoring differences Ignoring history being Ignorant Suicide. Is acceptable under certain circumstances.

The Lizard by skin-suit A witch makes a bet with a young Tiny. He must go into the cave and retrieve the diamond of youth. If he wins, she will give him eternal youth. However, at some point he will encounter the horrible cave wizard, and he must slay it or it will kill him. So the Tiny agrees to the bet. He wonders into the cave, leaving breadcrumbs as his trail. He finds it is a long and windy cave. When he gets to the end of the cave, his torchlight reveals the diamond of youth... grasped in the arms of a skeleton. He looks high and low for the cave lizard and sees none, so he grabs the diamond from its arms. The witch says, "You failed to slay the lizard!" "What?" says the Tiny. "But I didn't even see the lizard!" The witch says, "The lizard doesn't eat Tinies. He eats bread.

Lubulo, the ruler of the city, was to be found by his farm patch on the southern slope of the Tall Vent. Relu approached him from above, rolling lazily as he did so to take in the heat. “Word has come from Kallcho,” he said. “They’ve begun evacuating. Even the deepest parts are no longer safe from the burning water.” Lubulo, who had been tending the thin film of bacteria, looked up and flashed in mild alarm. He pulsated nervously backwards and forwards, before settling down once again. “They couldn’t have waited a little while longer?” he queried. “We might have been able to at least save part of the city.” “There was nothing they could do,” replied Relu. “The people on the outskirts were starting to die, and even those by the vents were acquiring burns. They reckon it will only be about a month before Kallcho is entirely uninhabitable. Our own city is now the last one left.” “Our defences will hold,” said Lubulo. “They *must*.” Above them, vast nets hung between the walls of the canyon, blotting out the dim light from above. The organisms that grew on them provided a refuge for the city of Yoshlulo from the burning water. There had always been burning water, as far back as the historians could recall. But where once it had kept near the bright surface waters, it had gradually crept deeper and deeper as did the Green. The higher cities went silent first, many centuries ago. Now they stood deserted. No one had been near them for generations. The bright, warm waters where once one could live without ever going near a lava flow were flooded with the Green, living off the light of the sun, absorbing otherwise useless nutrients and pumping out their toxic gas, dissolving it into the surrounding ocean. The refugees had come to the deeper waters first in their hundreds, then thousands, then millions as the burning water choked city after city. After the survivors of the journey from Kallcho arrived, there would be no more refugees. It had been scientists in Kallcho that first bred the organisms that now protected Yoshlulo, the last bastion of civilisation in the world. These gas-eaters not only consumed the burning water, they actively *needed* it in order to survive. Thus far they had been successful, and Yoshlulo had survived. “Kallcho’s have not,” Relu pointed out, his luminescent cysts sparking and shifting nervously. “Kallcho is not in a location like Yoshlulo,” replied Lubulo. “They are, or rather *were*, on a volcanic slope. If they had waited for our engineers to arrive, they might have been able to erect better defences. With us, the canyon walls allow us to hang the nets around the entire city. A complete border of protection.” “And how long will that protect us?” asked Relu. “What do you mean?” “I mean that we’re sitting on a vent. The city rises by a limb-span every year. The canyon roof is only fifty thousand limb-spans above us. That gives us only a few generations. Eventually we will be too high. The burning water will seep through and the city will die.” “We will have to leave that to those who follow us,” replied Lubulo mildly. “We have done what we can. The nets are not the only defence. The gas-eaters are also being spread around waters higher up. I have people going on expeditions to plant colonies of them, and to record the progress of existing colonies. They’re doing well. It may be that they are enough to stem the harm done by the Green.” Time continued its ceaseless march. Yoshlulo was destroyed and the last light of intelligence on Earth went out. The tectonic plates shifted, and all trace of civilisation was swallowed by subduction. Eventually, no evidence remained that it had ever existed at all. The distant descendants of the gas-eaters eventually looked back into the geological past of their planet and found no trace that they were anything but the first.

The waiting room is full now. 360 degrees, squalid smoke-colored walls. Fat rivulets of grease dripping down the walls, from the crusty ceiling to the filthy floor. People cramped in a tiny room like slippery sardines. Scaly creatures breathing each other's air, greedily gulping it down, I want it all for me! No! You beast! You can't have any! Get back in line! A mass of heads, shoulders, knees and toes, but this isn't a little boy's birthday party. This isn't your daughter's stupid-song-of-the-day-time in kindergarten. This room is a single organism, a frenzy of limbs, an *orgy* of body parts! It's hard to distinguish an "individual" within the slimy mass of flesh. Some faces stand out every now and then, only to be englobed by the collective. The hive-mind. The sheepish mass of sheep, docile and obedient sheep sheepishly following orders. Fingers wrapped around the rusty chain of command. The chain of blind obedience. Yessir, sir! I will believe everything you say sir! Do everything you ask me to do sir! I shall never question anything either sir! Some of them sheared their fluff, donated it to charity, sent it to some remote country in OuagaBongo, or maybe they made cozy bonfires with it, sat around it, playing an acoustic guitar while screaming beautiful songs. That made everything absolutely fine. They were against the system! They had cleansed their soul, and were ready for the prize! The final big prize sitting somewhere above this waiting room, on the higher floors, where the ever-so-close bright beams of light, blinding pillars descending from the heavens, were nowhere to be found. Oh, on the higher floors, rooms are not cramped. The walls breathe. The *rooms* breathe. They inhale fresh clean air which only gold can buy, holding it in, passionately savoring it, like a sacred elixir that grants eternal life. Then... they calmly exhale. Breathing radioactive clouds into the scraper's skeleton, into the core of the steel frame supporting this decaying structure. This decadent world. Stratospheres below, in the squalid, greasy room, the mass of flesh keeps on moving and morphing. The faces that stood out, they popped out like mushrooms in autumn, devouring the stagnant air, stealing it from other starving mouths. All of them, waiting. (Relatively) eternally waiting. Waiting for what? Waiting for something magical to happen. Waiting for Nora Helmer's "miracle" to happen. Waiting for a great plateau. The peak of their meagre existence. Once they reached the summit, their personal Mount Everest, with all the unholy crosses and sacred duties weighted on their weak shoulders, then they plummeted down the other side. With the blink of an eye, they simply plunged into a black abyss. *The black abyss.* The one and only! The one we *aaaaall* stumble into eventually. Maybe tomorrow, maybe in a month, or maybe in 10 years. In the end, we all turn grey, like old family pictures in an old family book. In the end, we all fade away. But not *them.* They're here to stay. They're so far away, their fingers can touch the sky; they can grab the stars with their bare hands and extinguish them with their toxic breath. They don't occupy the rooms, they *are* the rooms. They're omniscient beings, their eyes open, blood-red cracks in the smoked walls. The devilish eyes pulse in the darkness. If you listen, you can hear a soft whisper. Many whispers. Coming from every side. Every corner. Gentle murmurs fill up the room like tiny little bugs, *tick ticking* across the room with their vast assortment of tiny prickly legs. If you close your eyes, their secret buzzing starts crawling along your spine, lifting every little hair along the way. If you're lucky, you can feel the whispers writhing under your tender skin. Little bumps filled with unutterable secrets appear and disappear on your body. The bugs cannot be deciphered, their whispers just linger in the room, floating in the damp air. With every pulse, the cracks in the wall seem to charge with energy. With every pulse, low tones make the walls vibrate. Dust particles are shaken off. A thick bass lets blood seep through the cracks in the wall, through the all-seeing eyes of this room. *This entity.* The Big Big Brothers and Big Sisters of the monolithic structure. They're always watching. Through kilometers and kilometers of invisible cobwebs, they can see all. They can *feel* all. They crawl around like sneaky tarantulas or mighty goliath bird-eaters. They find a nice spot, and then they simply wait. And wait. Waiting for the best moment to strike. To sink their poison-filled fangs into their prey. To devour. To consume. To feed on the sorrow of the weak, of the lesser beings. Of those who are (relatively) patiently waiting below. Faaaaar far below. In the catacombs of this *depravingly* gigantic structure.

I can’t keep living like this. And it’s not your fault—it’s mine. I’m living for you when I should be living for myself, for evenings with friends and holidays with family. Because there isn’t a we. I have to live my own life. And it isn’t you. I’ve been living in a fantasy, that’s the problem, a fantasy of you and me. I keep thinking that one day you’ll wake up and see me waiting here for you and everything will be like it’s supposed to. You’ll say hi and I’ll say hi and you’ll run your hand through your hair and the spikes will flip back up and I’ll laugh cause it’s cute and you’ll tell me I have a nice smile cause you like the way I squint and my freckles squish around my eyes. We’ll go to the docks, like we always do, and I’ll say the sea smells nice and you’ll say it looks a bit green like its sick and I’ll say that’s the way it’s supposed to look cause this isn’t Hawaii and you’ll say well it doesn’t look good for swimming and I’ll tell you of course it’s good for swimming and we should go sometime and you’ll promise we will someday. Someday isn’t going to come though. You’ll never get to read the notes or see the orange roses with the peeling petals I bought you. I wrote them every day, you know, little haikus and couplets. I thought you’d like that. They’re all stacked on the nightstand under the roses with wilting petals. I guess we’re just not meant to be. I was so sure we were, yet here we are. Here I am, spilling my guts. Honestly, I can’t stand that we aren’t meant to be. It’s like losing faith. But I guess I have to let go of that the way I have to let go of you. You know, every day I dream about you and me. And you and me don’t exist. At least, not like that. I have to shake that out of my head. So it’s me. It’s my problem. I can’t forget that time we stayed on the phone till two in the morning, just talking, and the way you laughed at my crappy jokes. That was wonderful. I won’t forget that. I was the most in love with you in those moments. Those were the moments you could have asked me to do anything for you and I would have said yes without hesitation. I was too afraid to tell you this before, but you left me breathless. I should have told you sooner. I guess I’m telling you now, though, and that must count for something. But I can’t help but feel like it’s too late. It’s so hard to find that place between too soon and too late. I’m not sure it exists, really, if there’s a right time to say I love you. I haven’t found it anyway. I know this is terrible timing but I have to tell you that I love you. But I have to stop thinking about it, because it won’t bring you to me. So I’m going to try to forget how it felt when you smiled at me and how it felt when we spoke in unison. I have to move on, even if it’s without you, even if it hurts. I have to move on. I’m sorry I’m telling you all this, but I feel like I should explain myself. I need to tell you why I can’t see you anymore. We’ll meet again someday, I’m sure, but at least for now I need to let you go. I don’t know if I can forgive myself for letting you go, but I have to try to live my own life. I hope you can forgive me. I love you, but it’s not enough. Sometimes love doesn’t conquer. Sometimes it dies. And I’m going to let it, because we can’t save it. I can’t save it. So I’m going to let them unplug you now. They said you’ll stop breathing and your heart will stop beating and it will be slow, but you won’t feel a thing. I’m glad. I wonder if you can even feel this right now. If you can feel me leaving you. Well, in case you can, here’s the ring. I can’t keep it. Not if I’m going to keep going. Not if I’m going to live. I’ve stayed with you through everything—rich and poor, sickness and health—but I can’t watch you die. I’m not going to stay, so this is goodbye. See you later, love.

This is just a story idea based off of a few reoccurring dreams I've had in the last, plus whatever my minds decided to add. Please excuse any grammar or spelling mistakes, they're not my strong suit. Read, hopefully enjoy and if it gets enough hits, I have more coming. It's a wall of text, but if anyone happens to read the entire thing I'd be more than grateful. Enjoy! Light slid through the blinds of the window to my right and the faint noise of cars whizzing by accompanied it. My eyes began to adjust to the confined room I was in, and I out stretched my arm off the right side of the bed and was surprised not to feel the familiar feeling of my night stand and the bottle of water I usually leave on it when I go to bed. My neck ached, and pain stifled down my back when I began to lean forward like someone had been thrashing me. As my arms guided me forward into an upright position it hit me, I wasn't in my bed, I wasn't even in my own room. Sweat slid down my back and I could feel my shirt sticking to my spine as I started to panic. I put my hands tightly against my face, clenching my teeth and trying to wake up, thinking this was a dream, it had to be, right? I fumbled the sheets and comforter off my legs and stumbled out of the bed I was in and fell to the floor. Light passing in from the window dimly illuminated the silhouette of furniture around me. I staggered towards the wall the window rested on and found what felt like a light switch and slid my hand over it. The room lit up, and it definitely wasn't mine. It looked to be a motel room of some sort, with basic arrangements including a TV stand and a small 13 inch television in front of the bed held up tightly against the wall, a night stand on the left side of the bed with a single lamp and what looked to be a local attractions and sightseeing guide, and then a door cracked open far enough to see a toilet on further down the wall showing me the bathroom. My senses started to return to me, only this time they were heightened. I could smell filth and grime that littered the inside of the bathroom and the edges of this motel room, and looking at the carpet I could tell the brown stains were from some sort of caffeinated beverage. I looked closely at the walls and ceiling and could tell that wallpaper had been painted over several times, and it looked like some sort of floral pattern was still sneaking its way through the layers of paint. I felt some sort of fibers slipping between my toes as I took steps further around the room and the prick of something sharp lightly dug into my heel. I looked down and lifted my foot to face me and a small red drip was right in the center on the ball of my foot. I heard the distant noise of tires squealing and dragging across the road as some sort of vehicle took a sudden turn and the smell of burning rubber started getting stronger, and the engines roar louder. Something took over me, and I sprung towards the light fixture on the wall and slammed my hand against it. The illumination in the room dimmed and I slid my body across the carpeted floor, sliding myself underneath the bed. I could see rays from headlights blast between the blinds on the window and curve across the walls behind me inside the room. It sounded like two.. no it was three pairs of footsteps getting outside of a vehicle and booming towards the door. I heard a disgruntled noise as whoever was outside the door struggled to slide the key into the locking mechanism and get inside. Who was coming in? Why had I woken up in this place? And why did I feel like hiding? Before I could come up with an answer to my own thoughts, I heard the motel room door creak open and the eerie noise rang through one ear and out the other. “Where is he? You told me he’d be right here,” said one of the voices. “I was told he’d be here, so long as we showed up at this address at this time, he’s supposed to be here,” said another with a panic. Who were these men? Why were they here looking for me more importantly. I could feel a strong, uneasy feeling building in my chest, a feeling that started to rise ever since I heard the tires squeal before the men got here. A noise echoed through the dark room, metal sliding back and forth across metal and the small flick of a safety clicked. How did I know that noise was a hand gun? It had to be small caliber, 9mm almost without any doubts. “You two wait outside, this isn’t going to take long. Keep the van running,” said one of the voices. He sounded like he was the one in charge, but in charge of what? I heard two pairs of footsteps leave the room and crunch on top of gravel in the parking lot. The other pair was still inside the room, brushing against the fiber carpet, checking the few nooks and crannies the room provided. I heard the bathroom door boom open and hit the tile wall, breaking pieces to the bathroom floor below. A light switch flipped up and flipped back down after the one in charge realized I wasn’t in there. His footsteps got closer to the bed, and I could hear his knees pop as he leaned down to look underneath where I lay. I rolled out quickly and quietly and got to my feet right as he kneeled, but I wasn’t quite enough. I had alerted him, but he moved slow, almost to where I could count the seconds it took him to raise his gun to waist level. His hand got caught on the fabric belt of his coat, and it ran down to his knees. It was dark in the room, but the light creeping in from the door gleaming bright enough to see a gray tint to the jacket. The shadows feel right across his face from his nose up, but I could see a gruff beard covering his cheeks and chin, and a tattoo below his bottom lip. A chrome lined 9mm berretta was clutched tightly inside his fingers, and I turned for the door. I heard his finger cramp down on the trigger and something wizzed passed my face by inches, and hit one of the men standing outside the door right in the back of the neck. A red mist fogged onto my arm as I threw it up as a shield and ran straight into the other man standing outside my door. Both had been wearing the same gray coat as the one in charge. We stumbled down onto the cement, gravel carved into my chest and forearms as I slid over him, and his gun flew out in front of us. I picked myself up, faster than him, sprung out and grabbed the weapon and proceeded to sprint across the lot. There was more pops and I could see windows from other motel rooms breaking to pieces around me. Sparks lit up the ground beneath my feet from missed shots, “get up you piece of shit, get after him!” I rounded the corner of the motel complex and ran through the recreational area. There was a pool, and the reflection of lights in the area shining into the water. I vaulted over several lounging chairs and stumbled over a small bundle of towels that must have been left out by another guest. I regained my balance though, and rounded another corner. I waited and listened. I heard commotion in the distance, but I’d bought myself at least a few moments to catch my breath. What was going on? How had this happened to me? But more importantly, what was my name? In reality, I’d only probably been thinking about it for a few seconds, but in my mind the question bounced back and forth for a quick hour. Who was I? Before I could come up with an answer, I realized I’d distracted myself too long and one of the gunmen was staring at me, gun raised and ready to silence any questions before I could answer them. “Over here sir, he’s over here,” he yelled. I watched the sweat drip down my brow and down my nose, it slowed down and I could see the man in front of me shutter his lips. His eyes seemed to stop as they reached a blink and I jumped forward. My hands clutched his and his gun pointed towards the night sky. Shots rang out, and I could hear a ricochet off some kind of metal as it chimed. The man shook me off and dropped his gun in the process and it slid into the pool. He grabbed my throat and managed to mount himself on top of me. I felt my throat tighten, and his nails dig into the sides of my neck. I could see his cold blue eyes start to shine when he leaned back, and a scar creasing down the side of his face from his eye brow to chin. He smiled, and started to slobber in excitement. I closed my eyes and everything stopped. For a moment I felt no pain and the digging fingers against my neck and throat dissipated. The weight of his body on my chest, and legs holding my arms at my side all just stopped and I felt a surge of strength course in my body. The darkness from my closed eyes started to fill with the night light and I threw my arms out from my side, and the assailant stumbled from my side, sliding his nails across my color bones trying desperately to hold on. I leaned forward and spun around to pick myself up. I slid my hands up and wiped the sweat from my brow and some excess gravel from my stumble just a few minutes before. The coated man stared at me, wide eyed and stunned that I had over powered him when after a closer look, he towered over me. He must have been at least 6 and a half feet tall and a solid 220lbs if I had to guess. In fact, I don’t even know how I threw him off. He charged me, and I reacted. I side stepped and he stumbled, falling over his own feet and crashed into the ground from the carefully placed foot I’d left in front of him. I examined him carefully, and noticed same tattoo below his lips as the man in the room before. He pushed himself up and before he could make it entirely upright, I plunged my fist into his throat. He coughed and wheezed, and gasped for air as he fell back. I stood above him and he started to cough up blood. How had I done this? More important then that, how did I know how to? My heart started pumping, it was the first time I’d felt it during this entire ordeal. I swore my chest was moving so clearly I could have been pointed out in a crowd. I headed back towards the motel room I’d woken in and saw the same man originally pointing the gun at me standing with his front to the back door of the van he’d arrived in. Something snapped in my head and I started sprinting towards him. I must have been quieter this time because he hadn’t heard a single one of my pounding steps as I kicked up the gravel from the parking lot with each of my bare feet. I collided with him, right into the back of the van, but things started to once again slow before we smashed into the back window. I saw my face, and it had felt like the first time I’d ever seen it. I had deep brown eyes, and creases on my forehead. My cheeks were lightly stained with dirt and my nappy brown hair stuck up in one side from laying in the bed. My shirt was torn on both sleeves and a flannel pattern with a pocket stretched across it. Then we hit the van, the glass from the back window shattered and the bald head of the one in charge went head first into things. I clenched onto his jacket and ripped him down to the ground. He looked up at me and laughed. His eyes were white, no pupils looked back at me, just a pale, ghostly set of eyes stared back at me. He had the same scar as the other man who’d attacked me by the pool, only his was worn and faded. He didn’t have any hair on his eye brows, and I felt the same gut wrenching feeling that had been building, intensify. “You weren’t supposed to be easy,” he said. “You seem to have proven yourself to be far from the usual resident we deal with.” Resident? I wasn’t the first person they’d done this to, or at least tried. “What is this?” I demanded. “You really don’t know do you? You’re already too late, and we’re already spreading,” as he began to chuckle. I saw the same 9mm berretta he’d used to fire at me before on the ground at his feet. I leaned down without any struggle from him and picked it up. He didn’t seem worried at all. “We’ve already spread, don’t you get it? He said. “You’re only buying yourself time now.” Time? Time for what? I had questions, so many that I could have written a book of them, but for a moment, my questions didn’t seem necessary, and I squeezed the trigger. A pool of blood started to puddle up underneath my assailant and the crease of his smile finally evened out on his cheeks. I heard a faint ring of a phone. It was coming from the coat pocket of the dead man laying before me. I leaned down and rifled into his pockets. The ringing became louder and I pulled out a cell phone with the number 327-3663 on the screen. I clicked the answer key and held the phone up to my head. “Congratulations Desmond, you’ve survived Fase One.

Husna Mazari has always been in the spotlight, since high school his fellow classmates would stare in awe, his parents would display their pride and his teachers would brag about their teaching skills. But to Husna his incredible mathematic skill was just apart of his life that he took for granted day by day. At school Husna may be the closest thing to a Hollywood actor the local Punjabi boys would see in their lives and at home it was very much the same. He lived in a small hut 10 minutes walk from the school, in his house lived his parents and close family friends; a couple called Ayesha and Ibrahim. Ayesha would help Husna’s Mother with the cooking while Ibrahim was away 11 months of the year teaching in America, but for Husna it saddened him that all they saw in him was a genius mathematician, no one cared if he liked sports, if he liked music or if he even liked mathematics. His life consisted of prayer to Allah, Math, Math, Math and prayer, and he was not content. It wasn’t until Husna was 20 when he received a letter from the University of Memphis. Mr. Mazari, We are pleased to inform you that we would like to offer you a Scholarship to a course of your choice. You shall be given a room to board and an English as a second language tutor. Dean Roberts The plane trip amazed Husna never had he dreamed that he would ever be on one, let alone be travelling to America to study in college. The plane flight went fast, Husna had his head pressed against the window the whole time, the passenger next to him, an American with a strong southern accent would occasionally glance over and comment “Alright there fella”, Husna, understanding the tiniest amount of English would say “Yes… the clouds… so high”. He would feel like an idiot because of his lack of knowledge on the English language even though he could solve any equation in his head in the click of a finger. Husna arrived at the University in the dark of night, everything from the car that picked him up to his 4 metre by 8 metre bedroom he would stare wide eyed and smiling. This has been the best day of his life, only if the rest of his time in America was like this day. Husna attended his first class in Advanced Mathematics, of course, for every question his professor wrote down he knew the answer but he wouldn’t dare put his hand up to answer. The first few days were like this; eventually Husna had the courage to answer the question the professor had asked “48” Husna mumbled, “I’m sorry what was your answer” the professor stated, “48” Husna said again quietly, there was a shout across the lecture hall “Speak up towel head!” the whole hall giggle and laughed. This was the first time Husna felt afraid. It had been two weeks and Husna still refused to meet his English tutor, the constant and now effective racist insults started hitting him hard. Now he always thought to himself “What is wrong with my religion?” “What is wrong with my country?” but the question that pressed him the most “What is wrong with these people?” Even though he didn’t dare put his hand up in class again this didn’t stop people from bumping into him on his way to classes, or muttering disgusting insults under their breath loud enough for Husna to hear. The worst thing was, Husna had no one to talk to, and this is what hurt him the most. Husna had begun to stop eating; he lost weight rapidly and started to skip class. This was unlike him and he began to feel like a stranger to himself. One night in his room he reminisced of his life back in the Punjab province in Pakistan, how people in his school looked at him in awe and respect, this made him sad. After hours of self-mourning he became sick of it, sick of how low he has gotten, sick of how people treated him. He decided to visit his English tutor. The hallway to the tutor was long and daunting, Husna thought to himself why he had put this off, it was because he was afraid to talk to someone one on one. He reached the door; the sign read “Mr. I. Janwari, ESL Tutor”. With a sigh Husna opened the door, his head hung how until he heard a familiar voice, “Husna what has taken you so long” Husna threw his head up to see the single most satisfying thing he has seen since America, a familiar face, a friend. Ibrahim.

I've a pocket of prose for a little cunnilingus exchange. Over by the bass pounded walls, the ones timidly welded to the exit, they are the target. They aren't here of their own, nope, they’re the coerced coins in a roll. I’m making my journey to the center of them, but let’s face it; I am not a bad person…just honest. Like everyone around, I am here for one thing; I am here for what’s mine. I blend between their congregated misfortunes, and grin cautiously with a slight lip quiver. I am now one of them. “You reckon there’s enough seizure lights in here” I lowly snicker out. They chuckle in unison, mostly forced, but one is sincere. “Nope!“ I line myself with her, and leave a trail. I am sincere and I am taking what is mine.

It’s a muggy summer night in Treewell, North Carolina. Nobody really comes to this sleepy town of maybe two hundred. To be honest, most people fear the town, well, except for those who want to explore the possibilities of their desires. Legend has it that if you have cash and a request, your life can change forever. You just have to go to the cabin on the lake and call for one of them. “How can I help you?” The strange woman asked Marla in a voice apparently made of gravel. The room they sit in is dark with a single lantern by the door. “I’m sorry I’ve never been to a witch before. I, I don’t know how to ask.” Marla said sheepishly. The lady lifts a wrinkled finger and says with authority, “First, we aren’t witches and haven’t called ourselves such since the persecution. We are 'Artists'. Ask us how you would ask any other person.” “I’m so sorry. I’m in love with my male roommate, his name is Charlie. I’m nothing but a friend to him and I’d like for him to love me back.” The old Artist flips her long, salt and pepper hair back and laughs, “Girl, a person can only love what it shares flesh with. You can love your father and your mother, you can love your siblings, you can love your child, but you can never truly love someone outside of that connection.” The young lady is taken back by that statement. “Yes I can love him and I do.” “Then what do you love so much about him?” “He’s kind. He has the most beautiful smile. He works out so he has an amazing body...” “Stop right there”, the Artist interrupts “What you have just described to me are physical traits and surface behavior. You’re naturally in love with his genes rather than him as a person. You've only succumbed to his mating call. A call that he isn't even aware he's made.” “Are you here to judge? I’m paying you for a service.” “Now that money has changed hands, I am working for you. I just want to warn you.” Just as the artist made that statement the lantern flickered, even with the absence of wind. “You’re asking me to make someone do something that isn’t naturally possible.” “Do it anyway.” The woman has a belly laugh, shoots back in her chair, and stands up to walk to the other side of the room. “I have to warn you that our powers are a lot more mundane than the stories say. It will take me three days to make a love elixir. Until then, you can stay at the Inn in town. You can meet some of the others there” Marla walks toward the door. “Thank you.” “Don’t thank me child. After I finish this, he will love you. The manner in which he will love you is the mystery.

Suzy sat at her grandmother's lap, in the old house that her grandmother had lived in for many years now. She loved nights like these, where her grandmother would tell her stories. To her eight year old eyes, grandma was the wisest person in the whole city... no... the whole world. As her eyes scanned the room as her grandmother told her about how in her days they used to catch dragonflies and tie them on string, something glistened softly on the mantelpiece where the fireplace was. Upon closer inspection, she saw that it was a red stone set in what seemed to be a crude flower frame, no larger than her thumb. Curious about the object she turned and asked her grandmother, who had the answer to everything "Gramma, what's that?". Anna was taken by surprise, because Suzy had been quiet all the while. She looked in the direction that her granddaughter was pointing, and saw the little brooch on the mantelpiece. "Why Suzy, you mean the little flower brooch over there? The red one?" said Anna. Suzy looked confused. "Gramma... what's a broooch?" she asked. Anna laughed and said as simply as she could "Well, it's a shiny thing just like that one, which we sometimes use to pin to clothes". "ohh..." said Suzy, and she got up to take a closer look. Her grandmother motioned to her to bring it closer, and Suzy sat in her lap once more, this time with brooch in hand. "Where did you get it from gramma? Did grampa give it to you?" asked Suzy. Anna laughed again, then with a slightly more solemn expression said "No, not from grampa. It was a present from someone else, when I was very young. In fact, I think I was just about your age". "Wow... who was it?" asked Suzy, filled with curiousity. Anna smiled gently at her granddaughter, and told her story just as she remembered it... Anna was playing in the snow then, something she had always loved. Her father had been gone for 2 years at that point, and her mother was busy at work as usual. Her brother was in the house, studying furiously as he had been for some time, and he was never any fun. So she had gone to her secret spot in the hilltop where she could see the whole town and where the air was fresher. There she observed the hustle and bustle as the people went about their day in the city below, and she drew circles in the snow. Ah... bliss. Not long after she had begun to build a tiny snowman army, she heard footsteps coming up the pathway. Turning around, she saw a man dressed in a winter coat walking up the path. When he caught sight of her, he smiled and winked at her. "Ah, so my secret place isn't so secret after all, is it?" he said. Anna frowned and said "Nuh uh, this is my secret place! I came here first! It's mine, mister!". "Ah, you must be right! My mistake. Well, it's been a tough day, so would you mind sharing your special spot with me for awhile so I can catch my breath?" said the man playfully. Anna inspected him from head to toe before finally saying "Well... you look you're not a bad guy, so I guess I'll let you. But just this once!". The man smiled, and thanked her graciously. He sat there in the snow watching the city, while she continued building the snowman army. Once that was complete, she started work on the bad guys, big monstrous creatures. Of course, they would still be no match for her army, because the bad guys always lose in the end. All of the stories her mother told her ended that way. After he had sat there for a long time, he came over to her to see what she had made. "So... what do have here, little one?" he asked again. "These" she said, pointing to the snowman army "are the good guys and they will fight against" then she pointed to the monsters she had made out of snow "these baddies here. And they'll win of course!". The man smiled, a little sadly. "Do the good guys always win?" he asked weakly. "Yes! Of course they do!" said Anna confidently. The man fell silent for a short while. Then he said "I wish I had your conviction little one, but sometimes it feels as though no matter what I do, no matter how hard we fight, the bad guys won't give in". "Don't worry mister" said Anna, "as long as you're a good guy you have nothing to fear, right?". He smiled, and then nodded. "You're right, little one." he said. "It's hard sometimes. I'm sure even for a little one like you this war has been hard. So many of our people are suffering because of it. Yet it is a necessary suffering, because we have to win against the bad guys. We have to do what is right." he said with a steely resolve in his voice. "I promise you little one, when this war is over, things will be good again. We will have won against the bad guys, and things will be good" he said. Anna jumped excitedly upon hearing this, and danced in the snow. "You better win against the baddies mister!" she said. the man simply nodded in response. They heard footsteps walking up the hill, and a soldier dressed in full military regalia walked towards them. The man smiled and said "looks like I have to go little one. You have been good company, and I feel refreshed. Thank you for sharing your spot with me". He pulled out a brooch from his coat pocket, shaped like a flower and with a ruby in the middle and handed it to her. "This I bought for someone else, but I think it is better left with you". Anna stared at the shiny brooch, and beamed with excitement upon receiving something so beautiful. She hugged him in gratitude. Then the soldier spoke "Fuhrer, it is time for us to go". The man smiled at Anna once more, and he left with the soldier. That was the first and last time she ever saw the man in person. "Why do you keep it gramma?" asked Suzy. "Well..." said Anna, "I used to believe, just like that man that evil and good were two easily distinguishable things. That there were the good guys and the bad guys, and the purpose of the good guys was to make sure the bad guys were defeated at all costs. People will tell you this Suzy, that this man is bad, or that man is good. In reality I think that it isn't anywhere near that simple." She held her granddaughter close. " I guess the reason I keep it Suzy, is to remind myself to never lose sight of the humanity that is in us all".

The cartographer sighed. A vast emptiness lay spread out before him. An infinite amount of space to be found and recorded. The cartographer glanced lazily at the ship’s console. The console was a complicated looking collection of screens, dials, buttons, joysticks and lights. To an ordinary person merely looking at the console would be enough to give him a week long headache. To the cartographer the console was simply a part of his life, as was the boundless swirling space through which he traveled. The brilliance of the stars and the awe-inspiring shooting stars did not faze the cartographer. To think that he had once wanted this job! This demanding job which required endless hours to be spent sitting in the cockpit, steering the ship and recording the cultures of each planet day after day, year after year. After the establishment of the Federation, world peace was achieved on Earth. The Federation decided to create a map of the vast and infinite space, to record what was there in the seemingly empty void. At the same time, it was realized that for all the humans on other planets a different culture may have evolved. A culture different from Earth’s, with food which can’t be tasted on earth, languages and traditions completely alien to those seen on earth. To record all this information, cartographers of space were born. Each cartographer would travel around space in a ship which would automatically map the space around itself. The cartographers were equipped which special devices which functioned as cameras, which could also record textures, smells and tastes. They also had a microphone which allowed them to speak and understand what was being said, even in alien languages. This functioned by scanning and comparing speech patterns across all of earth’s languages, which was enabled by connecting to a database using ethereal waves, a very high speed beam of information containing highly energized particles. The cartographer’s ships worked in the same way and allowed the cartographers to sync their maps and information to form one giant map of the universe. Many young people signed up to travel around the universe and enjoy the sights. However, this cartographer was tired of it all. He no longer wanted to try new food, or to see new things. He was free to go anywhere in the whole universe, and yet there was nowhere he wanted to go. He couldn’t even resign and go home. After all, how could he return to an ordinary life after has witnessed the extraordinary? To the cartographer space was not a mysterious and inviting world. It wasn’t an exotic ocean with something new to be seen at each and every turn. It was simply a vast collection of repetitive patterns, and infinitely iterated fractal, an art exhibition containing the same painting over and over again, with only a different use of color to differentiate between each painting. Suddenly the sharp voice of the ship’s navigation system cut through the lamenting thoughts of the cartographer. “Sir, we are approaching a high energy field. The space around it appears warped. What are your instructions?” The cartographer thought deeply. What would he have to lose? What would he stand to gain? Would the warp field be a harmless fluctuation in space? Or was it something grander? Perhaps it was sign of the end of the world, or maybe even the edge of space and time itself. The cartographer decided that any excitement would be worth it, even if it meant risking his life. After so many days of boredom, the cartographer was looking for any chance to escape his routine life. “Proceed straight ahead” Commanded the cartographer. The ship headed directly for the center of the fluctuation. The cartographer moved forward in his seat, he had a feeling that things were about to become interesting. A bright light exploded out from the center of the warped field. Time and space began to unravel around the cartographer as he watched the dazzling fireworks. The cartographer felt a strange feeling as if he was able to view the universe in its entirety spread out before him. He watched the brilliant stars float beyond him, and a myriad variety of planets whizz past. The cartographer looked down and realized that his ship was no longer around him, his clothes no longer on him and that he was floating through the depths of space unaided. The cartographer suddenly felt a jolt, as if he had been hit by a tremendous force. He was then unconscious. When he came to, the cartographer lay in an empty white room that contained a humungous sign with a silver lining. In the center of the sign there were brilliant letters shone which read, “WELCOME TO THE OUTSIDE”. As he read and examined the sign, a man wearing a brightly colored robe entered the room. The cartographer looked at the man, aware of his own expression of confusion. He thought he had seen everything in the galaxy, but this was new to him. The man smiled at the cartographer. “Welcome to the outside of the universe.” “The outside?” Asked the cartographer. “Yes. However you’ll find that there isn’t much difference from the outside and the inside. With one exception.” The cartographer felt a sudden sting of dismay. He was hoping for something which would defy the confines of the knowledge he owned. He was seeking something beyond the ordinary, something which was unprecedented, something unseen. He hoped that at least the exception mentioned would be of some interest to him. “An exception?” “Yes, here on the outside, we have the ability to simulate universes, to create an infinitely vast space and then define the physical rules of the said space. In order to solve problems of overpopulation we have sent the excess of our people to these simulations. This is the outside, all of the simulations are the various insides. Currently we have 1,485,295 simulated worlds active. However, we sent those people to the simulated worlds long ago, and they seemed to have blended in with the indigenous species in each universe. Now, the people of the outside wish to have greater understanding of our own simulations. They wish to obtain knowledge about the various cultures present. It has come to my attention that you were hired to create a map of your world. I request you to aid in creation of map of all the worlds.” “Are you trying to say, you want me to explore a large number of universes each with an infinite amount and catalogue every of each of these universes in order to create this map? That would take all of eternity.” “No, no. There are already people who have begun cataloguing some of the other worlds. Besides, you don’t need to travel through the entire universe, after how much variation can any species produce? Anyways, all the data collected by each one of the data collectors is transferred back to us via high energy particle transmissions.” “Ethereal waves?” “Yes, I do believe it was called so in your simulation.” The cartographer was reminded of the day he first became a cartographer brimming with excitement of the prospect of travelling the universe. Now he would get to see an infinite amount of infinite variation. The cartographer let out a satisfied sigh. There was much to explore, and much to be seen.

It was indeed, a very peculiar kingdom. Treacherous stretches of undulating bog are said to constitute the entirety of the outlands, as far as the great clay wall. However, no inquisitive fellow has yet been bold to the task of confirming this. Tales of folk law speak of monstrous creatures beneath the surface of the outlands, from the massive Lalistrus that tunnels through the ground, propelling it’s self by waves of muscular contraction along its extensive body; to the wandering Tumptundron, that edges its way through deep ridges in the ground, avoiding the light, as if it would burn through the segments of heavy armour that shell its many legs. Nothing but folk law, of course. However, the careful musings of the old and wise assure the people of Eudora that none should risk venturing far, due to the monsoons that perverse the outlands, as and when they please. The people of Eudora, as they are known only to themselves, have made their homes and lived their lives within the great tree Eudora, for as long as their people have existed. During the long warm days, the people of Eudora gather in the shade of the great tree and tell tales, passed down through generations, of how their lives came to be. Gazing up, they speak of how, in its youth, Eudora was but a single stem, bitter at the world for making it alone, with no other of its kind. When the people of Eudora arrived, they soothed the tree with their gentle ways and carefree merriment. The tree did so love the people of Eudora that it grew branches for them to make their homes on and leaves to give them shade. Similar wonderfully whimsical stories were eagerly shared that very day, zealously conducted by eccentric gesticulations. The sun glistened through the leaves, flickering through faces of mirth and wonder that were scattered among the mossy roots of Eudora. Their minds seemed to willingly drift between thoughts abstracted from their surroundings and thoughts of the fantastic mythologies of their people; sometimes marrying the two in a fantasy of pride. “Well don’t just fucking stand there, get on with it.” The peculiar kingdom suddenly unravelled its self and a man found himself staring blankly at a potted plant. “Sorry” He picked up the insect repellent and sprayed the plant.

Liquid I woke up this morning on an unfamiliar couch clutching a peppergrinder in one hand and a Red Bull in the other. An angry, turgid sensation inside my mouth reminded me that I had been drinking last night; I sat up to get my bearings both my head and my gut rebelled in memory of just how much. I eased back into the couch, which I now noticed to be in a state that only added fuel to my stomach's disobedience. I woke up a second time this morning with my face pressed to the musty upholstery of a vaguely familiar couch. From my awkward vantage point, I gazed over a landscape of matted greens, ranging from apple to zucchini. The thought of food reminded me of the burgeoning revolution in my stomach, which, having caught my attention once again, chose that particular moment to mount its final offensive and break free of the injustices that I had so thoughtlessly imposed upon my body the previous night. As I lay incapacitated by the uncontrollable heaving in my diaphragm, I recalled the objects that I clutched in either hand, and the more pressing matter of where the fuck I was. Laboriously, I raised my head for a second time this morning, and, for a second time this morning, I regretted it deeply. However, spurred on by the powerful demons of shame and despair, I stood up unsteadily and plodded off in search of cleaning facilities. The first thing I found was a coffee table. Rather, my left foot found it. I found a carpet whose must made a fresh meadow of my green friend. After some half-hearted struggling, I stood up again. This time, accounting for the noticeable spin of the world, I made my way to the nearest door, pausing only to pocket the peppergrinder in order to free the requisite appendages to open said door. In retrospect, I might have gleaned some clues as to the identity of my unfortunate host by the clothes strewn across the floor, or the pictures on the wall, or even by approaching the snoring occupant of the bed in the far corner of the room. However, I had already relieved one of three plumbing urges in an inappropriate place and I was determined that the other two would be dealt with in a more orderly fashion in a more suitable location. As I stumbled through the crass early afternoon sun, I regretted every decision that I had made last night on the simple principle of the matter. Marks on the back of my hand told me that I had frequented not one, but five fine, upstanding establishments of varying degrees of debauchery and a distinct lightness in my backpocket informed me that I was most likely in all sorts of financial trouble. The optimist in me commanded that I look on the bright side of things, but my eyes screamed in protest at every flash and glare they met with so I compromised and continued on without looking at all. To passers-by I must have been a sight. The stride of my left leg was by far outpaced by that of my right, resulting in a stagger fit for a peg-legged pirate. My lips were ashen with dehydration, but a suspiciously chunky smudge on chin and black tshirt informed any observer plainly that I must have expelled some precious fluid recently. Fortunately, my hairstyle was pristine, but that was only the intentional byproduct of a carefully maintained lack thereof. I easily feigned a tired and vacant expression on my face and studiously avoided eyecontact with my silent judges by staring at my untied shoelaces until I reached my front door. There are few pleasures in life that outweigh that of a cold glass of water when your mouth is so dry you cannot move your tongue. However, the pleasure is soon diluted when you reflect upon the series of events that have led to this eventuality. Particularly, when the events are at best mere logical conclusions rather than an firm memory. I take another deep draught of water and realize that instead of feeling more refreshed, I feel the momentum of the liquid in my stomach with every motion of my body, accompanied by splashing sounds which herald yet another act of excess. My body is bloated by rash decisions which I suspect outline some form of avoidance behaviour, but I can't for the life of me pinpoint the exact cause thereof. I put my moka on the stove and begin to brew a strong cup of coffee and retire to the shower to wash away any remnants of the night and my shameful start to the day. I fumble with the dial and am immediately punished with a barrage of ice cold needles which bite my skin, but that lasts for only a moment before the needles turn to fiery arrows that melt my already soft flesh. The rapid turn of events disorients me further and I struggle to stand up straight. The half dozen half empty bottles of formulaicly scented body wash are not so fortunate and raucously tumble about in the halfpipe of my bathtub. After a few more adjustments of the dial, I return my attention to the disarray at my feet and slowly return them to their places, opening only the last bottle to squeeze out a few drops of civilization to rub onto my body so that I can convince myself that I am presentable. I stand, face down, letting the water flow down my back contemplating an image of myself deep in pithy contemplation, conjuring a fantasy of reaching some yet unrevealed philosophical realization. Finally, I realize that my coffee is burning. The sickly sweet smell of burnt coffee will penetrate every conceivable corner of my apartment, so I open few windows, grab a cigarette and step outside. My clothes are decent but unremarkable, fashionable, but not avant garde, and spotless but not clean. Between my formulaic bodywash and run of the mill deodorant, there is no evidence that I haven't done the laundry in weeks, but the ever so slight dullness in my clothes establishes an aura of mediocrity and shabbiness to my appearance. Not so far as to imitate the trainwreck that I was this morning, far enough for me to feel as unimpressive as my shirt. A few dark smudges on the backs of my hands are all the evidence I have left of the previous night. Those, and my missing wallet and two souvenirs. I crack open the Red Bull, even though my obnoxiously strong coffee has already made me mildly giddy and apprehensive. It is in this unremarkable state that I begin another dull Wednesday at 4PM. You see, being above average intelligence is a curse in this world. I wish so dearly I could be as fullfilled as the average plebe by the wonders of popculture and consumer products. That Hollywood movies could both emulate blowing my mind and opening my eyes and that I could aspire to a 9 to 5 at the local grocery store, settle for a bitchy wife with no particular function in society, and dream about women whose conversational abilities would overwhelm only the most naive of teacups. Unfortunate me, I see the world through a finer lens at a higher resolution than most. I am capable of great feats in the realms of art and science. Should I put my mind to it, I can understand the currents of politics or the fundamental shifts in societal values at a level worthy of my education. My motivation is absent due to a lack of circumstance, not by any fault of my own. There are those who are blessed with this obscene drive to do things. I am, unfortunately, not one of those people. I something or someone to come by and start my engine and keep it running, but when that happens, I will achieve something great. I get flashes of inspiration that others dream of, you see. I see that life is not worth living, but I'm not quite ready to disappear just yet, so I simply exist, floating. This is what I tell myself as I reach my office. This what I tell myself to make everything seem ok. The hollow caffiene rush from the coffee and Red Bull makes it impossible to sleep at my desk, but the lack of energy and food makes it impossible for me to work, so instead, I surf the internet searching for that elusive flash of inspiration that will motivate me to achieve my potential. After a few hours, I prepare to leave. It didn't happen today, but I only need that one in my lifetime, after all. Tomorrow, I will wake up in my bed at 1pm with a splitting headache, nauseated by the smell of burning coffee, throat parched and unable to hold a thought in my head until 4pm. Tomorrow, I will wonder about what will have happened tonight and finally give up. Tomorrow, I will come to the philosophical realization that nearly washes over me every day in the shower. Tomorrow, I will have a flash of inspiration that will motivate me to get myself moving to the ultimate achievement which will justify the life I live. Tomorrow, today will no longer matter and I will no longer have to feel unremarkable in the mirror. Tomorrow, I will no longer forget the precise point of my actions midway. Tonight, I need another drink.

There is a girl who leads a quiet wall-flower life in her high school. She never knew her father, and her mother is off in Antarctica absorbed in a career as an anthropologist. A series of freakish events in the school have her on the verge of being expelled. Out of the blue, the boy she might be in love with invites her into his family to stay until her mom returns. There she finds warm and loving parents even if they are a bit strange -- professor father with profound arcane knowledge and a psychic mother who reads minds and casts spells. They believe that the vestiges of some inherited power is starting to emerge from her. They caution her that high school is a hormonal time. If she wishes to remain at the height of her power, she must retain her chastity. Meanwhile, a mad artist is spontaneously producing paintings of the girl that have become a focus of worship for a gang of crazed meth-dealing bikers. They believe she is the descendant of Inanna, an ancient Sumerian goddess from the lost planet Nibiru. The gang leader is a former professor with a murderous thirst for vengeance against those who drove him out of the profession. He believes in the girl’s magical descent and her link to a planet with a 3,600 year orbit that will bring it smashing through the earth’s solar system. He wants her and intends to possess her, no matter who he has to kill. Quinn Shaw parked his Harley with fourteen others in front of the motorcycle club out in the ratty rural area of a neighboring county. Junk cars on blocks. Hogs rooting in garbage piles. Feral chickens up in the trees. Metal Butler building with a front porch where Squirt, just out of the state prison for armed robbery, was grilling bratwurst. In his navy blazer, faded designer jeans and Gucci loafers, Quinn was not like the rest of the club. Quinn had walked in one day with a death wish. He had been denied tenure at the university, and his wife had left him. “Your life is a quilt of contradictions,” she had snarled. “I suppose that’s an honest appraisal,” he had replied. “I was always a deeply divided personality.” “Fuck you,” she said. Not with great originality. A third of his adult life trashed. Why not go out with a bang? He had expected to be crucified or dragged behind a motorcycle. But oddly, they had all been quite amiable. Sensed he was a lost renegade looking for family. They didn’t even laugh when he said he was a professor of ancient Middle Eastern history. “Hey,” said one. “You like books? I read one once. Forty Yard Dash to the Johnny House by Will E. Makeit and Betty Don’t.” They all howled with laugher at the sixth grade joke. Quinn gave them a saturnine smile, knowing that they were virtually retarded. Like a pack of pitbulls all were just teeth, appetite and pea-brains. They thought he had come to score dope and were quite up front about the fact they dealt methamphetamine, muled it over four states. Over time he gained their complete trust, showed them how to keep account books, transformed them into a purely wholesale business, holding the retailers at a distance out there dealing at the truck stops, risking it all with the cops. When Quinn arrived, leaning against a post was Jude somebody, the emaciated geek who cooked the meth for them. Clutching a beer. Shivering and shaking. The fumes had melted his brain. One more educated drop-out in the town. A children’s librarian of all things, fired because he did something nasty to a young boy in the restroom. He babbled lines from Treasure Island. “Bring aft the rum, Darby McGraw.” He might have been Long John Silver’s parrot. Inside, four of the bikers were shooting pool. Another eight or so sat on high stools at the bar or around tables. One slept in a corner of the floor. For them, this was domesticity. Their home away from the hours of open road where the wolves run free. To them with its setting among sighing pines, it was somehow darkly magnificent. Hog Man saluted with his pool cue. Cut-off sleeves on his denim jacket, biker colors on the back. Skull and crossed cam-shafts. He was like an aging Tyrannosaurus, slow but brute deadly. The first thing Quinn had gotten them to do was change their club name from Satan’s Scum to Lucifer’s Legion. It almost made them sound literate. Rebels to a man, yet there was a yearning in them for obedience to some supreme authority. Now he was their leader. Rather like Captain Hook – the Old Etonian who went bad in Peter Pan. Dealing meth didn’t bother him. People destroyed themselves with it. But people also destroyed themselves with booze and cigarettes and white sugar. Hollywood always showed gangsters as kind of perverse capitalists supplying desired goods and services. Skeeter, the skinny one with the full body tattoo, popped the top on a Blue Ribbon, and Quinn sucked it down two inches. Skeeter filled the vacant space with Wild Turkey. A cocktail Quinn had invented. Sometimes Quinn would stretch and yawn and imagine he’d been asleep for eight years. Three years for his doctorate at Brown. A near record. Not good enough for them to ask him to stay on the faculty. No, you have to come down to the big state university level. And spend five years grinding out learned articles here to convince the swine he was worthy to be among them. Death and the denial of tenure. Funny how similar the two seemed. Condemned to some boondocks college where they’d put you through the same mill. Forced down still lower to a technical college. “I was brave and true to my craft, and they pissed on me,” he frequently said. Such simpletons these bikers. It was so easy to dominate them. Get their smuggling on a business footing so the money was actually stacking up. It used to run through their fingers, leading to nasty arguments and knifings. Not good for maintaining the personnel roster. Walking back to the porch, he laid an iron glove on the fire right over the white coals. It was from a suit of 14th century armor. He had stolen it from a museum at Brown when drunk after his dissertation got passed and he thought the academic world was his for the plucking. The gang exchanged vaguely uneasy glances. This was what made him the natural leader of a pack of killers. They knew he would heat the glove to cherry red and make a major point. Hog Man looked at him anxiously, wanting to be in on the secret. Pouched pig eyes, big round bristly jowls with a fastidious mouth in the middle. He would kill instantly and without question. And there was killing to be done. Quinn had had his rogue reputation in academia. Didn’t like intellectual fads or ass-kissing the senior faculty. His very existence a red rag before the pompous old fart bulls. Drip, drip, drip they dinked acid on his work. Re-write this. Re-do that. Come at it from another angle. What a dry, antiseptic world, he thought. The total absence of beauty, of laughter and joy. Gerbils rattling on their wheels. Article after article he churned out. Published in class-A refereed journals. The crème-de-la-crème. And then he did one negligent thing. He needed fifteen-hundred dollars. That was all. His wife racked up a little credit card debt. That ridiculous time-share she nagged at him to buy on Hilton Head Island. Fifteen-hundred dollars. That’s what they paid in the UFO magazine. So he wrote about the Planet Nibiru. How it orbited past the earth every 3,600 years. The Sumerians had named it. Carved it into diagrams of the solar system. The Annunaki came down from Nibiru in space ships. Culture bringers. Teaching an ignorant people architecture and astronomy. And they found the daughters’ of men fair and bred with them. They worked their way into the Bible as the Nifilim, “those who have fallen from heaven.” He wrote it in academic jargon. Footnotes. Obtuse language. The editor went ape-shit over it. Included his academic credentials. It got on the internet minus the name of the UFO journal. And damn if the New York Times didn’t pick up on it and treat it seriously. And every other newspaper in America trailed right along behind them. And that was what they used against him. Talks of Quinn’s utter unprofessionalism. Bringing disrepute on the institution. As if he had single-handedly kept them from “reaching the next level.” He could still hear them spluttering. Quinn watched the iron glove heat on the coals and heard the pick-up truck roll up. Rust all over it. Busted muffler. Oddball bumper stickers. “Keep It Weird.” “I Brake For Boiled Peanuts.” A man with wild hair like a mad scientist climbed out. Jake Milroy, the crazed artist in his uniform of brogans and paint-splattered coveralls. Lantern jawed. Bulbous nose and ears sprouting hair. A studio art professor at the university, Jake was a man of remarkable gifts. Naturally he was hated by the talentless drones of his department with their daubs flung at canvases. The man was into hallucinogens and when in a trance, he painted scenes not of this world. The bar was decorated with his paintings of the cosmos. Infinite space and night with zillions of glittering stars. The filthy room seemed to accept the presence of high art. Hanging them was part of Quinn’s program of cultural uplift for his hoodlums. Bringing a vein of fantasy, a power of enchantment. And a lurking fear of what was to come. “Welcome to our barbarous locale,” laughed Quinn. “Airy vistas and green pleasaunces,” Jake said in a fake British accent. “You mean a pustule that will soon be lanced.” “Should be smashed with a hammer.” Quinn asked the important question. “Is it complete?” “You bet your sweet ass. The final revelation.” Jake had sought Quinn out one night in a saloon while a summer storm raged outside. Pulled up a stool beside him at the bar. “Every sham shows there is a reality,” he had said cryptically. Quinn was in the early flush of his meth money. His cut of loot for one month was greater than a professor’s annual salary. He had had no problem buying drinks for an already drunk Milroy as the rain pounded the windows and gusted through the open door. They talked of their hatred of toadying careerist professors. Killjoys and spoilsports. Eunuch men and the screeching harpies who had gelded them. Drinks followed drinks. Jake’s voice became slurred to the point of incoherence. Until he quite clearly said: “We sensitives know what’s about to come down. Even if science is coldly ignoring it.” “And what’s that?” “Nibiru.” Then lay his head on the bar and passed out. They had been friends ever since. Jake fought with his creditors, lived off whisky and fried chicken skins, named his daughter Cressida Moon Child Milroy. She was something of a piece of teenage tail, all molten eyes and that emerging teenage sense of woman’s elemental power. But of no interest to Quinn. She stared at crystals, did Zen meditation and hatha yoga, talked to disembodied spirits. Besides, Quinn knew his intended bride was nearby. A woman of cosmic consequence. Jake said he had known her personally since she was a little kid. Jake hauled a big tarp-covered painting inside. The gang of bikers actually drew back from the fixity of his crazed stare. They knew him and didn’t know him. A friend of Quinn’s. The one with the paintings of stellar explosions and black holes. A mushroom eater and glue sniffer. Out of his mind talking in tongues. Jake chalked a big circle on the floor, a perfect circle, yet done free-hand. A mystic circle to guard against the riff-raff. In the middle he set up an easel. Placed a frame upon it and unwrapped the canvas. Such a painting. A work of human genius. The adolescent girl stood in perfect elegance. You could see the silkiness of her flesh. The long slender neck. Mouth like a pink bow. A royal blue background deepened the richness of the flesh tones, giving it a perfect three-dimensional look. Eight-pointed star behind her russet head, the symbol of the Sumerian goddess Inanna. The morning and evening star. Ishtar to the Assyrians. One hand lifted a breast. The offering of milk. The other fist was closed about a knot of reeds. Circular. Almost like a quoit. It symbolized the doorpost to the storehouse of life. Fertility and fruitfulness. She was a prophesying priestess. A volcano about to erupt. And at the cleft of her thighs, woman’s cosmic sexual power. The delta shape of hair. The entry to the cave of fertility. Occult symbols were carved into the golden frame. The signs of the Zodiac. Framing woman in all her lunar phases. Was there a faint glint of amusement in the girl’s eyes? Like she knew her superiority? A long shivering thrill went through Quinn as though he were having an orgasm. Filled with an overwhelming wanting. How her slim body would tremble to his touch. She was his queen and his destiny, and he would worship at the shrine of her body. The bike gang stood in a kind of catatonia, eyes haunted, unable to move or make a gesture. A rapt, reverent silence. Jude the meth cook, lips flecked with foam, began barking like a dog. The others joined in, overtaken, sliding into howls as at the moon. Perspiration beaded Hog Man’s upper lip. “They’s comin’ back, ain’t they? Jes like you said.” “They’re coming back alright,” said Quinn. “And she’s their queen, ain’t she?” “Yes. And I will breed with her. Only I am worthy.” Quinn took off his blazer and hung it on the back of a chair. Rolled up his sleeve. And slid his hand into the red hot steel glove. Held it trembling aloft. Feeling no pain. The men gasped in awe as ever. Stunned by the gulf that separated them, by his mystical powers over burning pain and mutilation. Quinn placed his trust in this gang of cut-throats because they feared him. They were his wolf pack, his motorized Mongol Horde. Milroy flinched as Quinn shoved the glove towards his face. “How the fuck do you do that?” he gasped. “Tell me her name. It is time I knew.” “Samantha … Samantha Fitzhugh.” Quinn rolled the name on his tongue. She would taste of the sweetness of wild honey. And Quinn would kill anyone who got in his way.

The day was very sunny, not that I like the sun much, and the girl, whose name was Becky, was simply walking down a very dusty road. As she made her way down the road, she spotted a most beautiful cupcake, but it was not like any cupcake she had seen before, for it was blue and glittery, an edible type of glittery, not the crafting kind. Becky slowly walked up to the cupcake, not too slow and not too fast so as not to alert her neighbors, whose names were George and Harriet Franklin. They were very strange people, avoiding regular humans at all cost. Becky got quite close to the cupcake, marveling at how wondrous a cupcake it was. Most cupcakes are wondrous things, but this one was exceptionally so. Since she was quite close to the windowsill, she could hear inside the house. "Oh George, I am most glad we traded our children for that wondrous magic blue cupcake that is unguarded and sitting on our windowsill." "I am most glad as well, for with that cupcake we can take over the entire world." Once she had heard these things, Becky was most quick to snatch the cupcake from the windowsill. She planned not to take over the world, but more simply just take over her town, for it was a mighty big town full of very kind people, and she wished to be in charge of them all. Becky ran home, and got very sweaty, and once she got home, she ran into her rather small room, it was not an actual room, you see, it was a closet, for Becky's parents had died when she was young and she was made to live with her Aunt Peggy and Uncle Vernon, both of whom did not like Becky, for they were very strange people, you see, very strange indeed, for they did not like Becky for she was not their actual child, their actual child being named Aaron. Anyways, once she got in her room/closet, she sat down on her bed, which wasn't much of a bed, more like two pillows stacked atop each other, and she closely observed the cupcake. She cautiously put her tongue on the cupcake and tasted it. It was absolutely delicious, the best cupcake she had ever tasted! And she had tasted some very good cupcakes in her lifetime. The cupcake was so good, in fact, that she stuffed the entire thing in her mouth, scarfing it down quickly, for she was a starving child and was always hungry. The cupcake, having been stolen, was not to cause good effects for Becky, for the wizard that had enchanted the cupcake had put a curse on it for anyone who ate it that was not George or Harriet Franklin. Poor Becky had no idea until she suddenly started to feel dizzy and confused, and so she tried very hard to open her door, but she could not get the door opened for she had locked it. Her airway started to close up and she saw a bright light.... Weeks have passed since the cupcake was stolen, and it was just yesterday that her Aunt Peggy and Uncle Vernon discovered her dead body in the closet. They have not mourned for her, and never will, for they did not like Becky, and were slightly happy to see her gone.

The setting is a medium sized room in what could be a hospice, or maybe a nursing home. The room is sparsely furnished, without anything uunnecessary giving the room an empty feeling. On one side of the room there is a Queen sized bed, the sheets are made perfectly, with what could only be practiced methodicism. On the other side of the room there are some bay windows, the windows are closed and the light curtains are drawn letting in little light, outside it is twilight, giving the room a dark yellow tinge . In one corner there is a dresser, the dresser top has been organized in such a way to draw the observer's attention to one picture in specific. The majority of the light from the window hangs on the top of the dresser, which is filled with picture frames and pictures from what seems like another universe, next to the pictures are letters and medals for honor and bravery. Next to the dresser is a rocking chair with an old man sitting in it. His frame is well built, with broad shoulders and a thick neck. The Man's best years behind him, his skin now hangs off of him much like the drapes from the top of the bay window. The Man is slowly rocking back and forth muttering truths the world has long forgotten, but remain true to him. His face looks as though he just swallowed something very bitter, a grimace of sorts. The door to the rest of the building slowly creaks open and The Lawyer walks in. The Lawyer is a skinny man, with pale, almost transparent skin. His suit is unimpressive, the most interesting accessory is his tortoise rimmed glasses, which frame his empty pale eyes. The Lawyer's face is devoid of any wrinkles, much like that of a baby, and if he wasn't fully grown it wouldn't surprise The Man if he started crying and asking for his mother's breast. When The Lawyer shuts the door quietly behind him the room takes on a cool eerie feeling, much as if it had transformed from a home to a cold, damp graveyard. The light from the window seems to bend towards The Lawyer, and the dresser top dims noticeably as The Lawyer takes a seat near the door. There is a moment of silence before The Man begins, with a voice that needs convincing: The Man: It's not so bad, you know. The Lawyer says nothing, just giving the same unblinking stare as before. The Man: At first I was worried, scared even. It isn't everyday that I have been so closely acquainted with my mortality. I can count the number of times on one hand, in fact... But this time I don't think they'll give me a metal hahaha! The Lawyer remains motionless, simply watching the man. The Lawyer is so still to the audience it would seem he isn't even breathing. Clearly unsettled the man argumentatively continues: The Man: Not much of a talker, are you? Well, that's alright. I don't feel like having a conversation anyway. There is a silence for a while before The Man shifts uncomfortably in his seat. It is clear that The Man does want a conversation. The Man by turns takes glances at the dresser top and The Lawyer before continuing: The Man: It really isn't so bad... It's Father's day, if you don't already know. I am a father myself. I have two boys, well, they were boys. It seems silly calling them that now, they could toss me over their shoulders if they chose to. (The Man laughs a little, not robustly like before, but knowingly. Confidently.) Yeah, they've grown up... I won't pretend I was the perfect father, in some ways I was the worst. I look at all these pictures and I noticed something, would you like to know what I noticed? The Lawyer moves for the first time, slowly dropping his head into a nod. The Lawyer's hair doesn't move, his suit doesn't crinkle, almost as if he were a plastic replica of a real man. The Man: Alright, I noticed that, in all these pictures everyone is always smiling. No one ever takes pictures of the times when no one is smiling. But that isn't the truth, is it? (The Man clears his throat awkwardly it is clear that he isn't used to talking about something so personal) No. No one takes pictures of the bad times, only the good times. Why should that be? It should be easy to remember the good... It seems to me, that the good always fades behind the bad, it's easier to remember the hard stuff. There's some irony in that. And now here I sit, close to the end, and all I feel is regret. All the bad sticks out in my mind and the voices of the mistakes I made call out to me across the years, but then, I look at these pictures, and I remember the good stuff. Like, like this one (The Man enthusiastically points to the picture in the middle of the dresser, the picture is faded, but four figures can be made out. Three men and a Woman) That's my family, or, it was before my wife died. And then I just couldn't keep them together. I just had too many expectations. I wanted something else for my sons, and all they wanted was to be their own men. I regret that I hadn't let them live their own lives I thought I knew what they wanted, but my desire for them overrode what I should have been doing: let them grow on their own. That's what I am doing now though, right? (The Man's eyes haven't left the picture, a pause) I lived my dream. Now they live theirs. I'm passing the torch. When I realize that, I know the only truth: I lived the dream. It's time for them to do it on their own. I think that, and I can only be happy. This is one of those times that a picture should be taken. So people can remember the happy time. The Man's face curls into a smile, a genuine smile. The Man kept rocking, but the rocking was less lively. Next to him the heart monitor goes dead. A monotone beep is heard throughout the room, and nurses rush in to see if they can save The Man. They pay no attention to The Lawyer, almost as if he isn't there, going around him like a large rock in a river. The Lawyer gets up and looks more closely at the picture on the dresser. The four people are smiling, everyone is happy, like the best kind dream you could have. The corner of The Lawyer's mouth curled up into a whimsical smirk before he left to a room just down the hall.

: A girl Sandy writes a recount of one memorable summers day. The word summer doesn't necessarily make me think of the season, but of many fond memories growing up. I've always considered myself a lucky person although some who know me may disagree. The difference between their opinion and mine is that mine counts. The first memory that grabs me took place in primary school, grade six. I think of that time in my life where the world suddenly got a whole lot bigger and complicated, which is amusing really because looking back on it at twenty-six I was only feeling a fraction of what that even meant. I was dressed for school and left the house on my bike to stop by at my best friends house who lived around the corner from me. I remember being let in and I sat down in the kitchen, waiting for Jasmine who hadn't even dressed yet. Was I surprised? Not really. She was the kind of girl who was always late. "Ready?" I asked her when she came in. She headed straight for the fridge. "I haven't eaten." That, to me, was obvious. She always got super grumpy when she was hungry. I got up to help her put something together to save some time. We eventually left with five minutes to get to school. To be honest, I started to panic because there was no way we'd make it in time and I didn't want to be told off. The details of who talked who into just skipping school altogether isn't clear in my memory. What I can tell you is we were both capable of fitting that role so what did it matter? The last thing I remember is both of us turning our bikes around on tiptoe and heading for the bike track that ran along the end of the street. The funny thing about memories are visual details aren't always clear, but I do remember certain feelings, even smells when I think about that day. There was a certain tree that used to grow everywhere with millions of tiny, vibrant yellow cotton balls on them and it gave off a smell of hay. I remember them well because the blossoms would stick to you like glue, in your hair and on your clothes. The trail we took led us to ride under a dozen of them, I even braved riding straight into some of its branches and probably came out wearing more blossoms than clothes. There was a place we liked to go to at that age (I want to say I was twelve). The bike track is really nice, and still is to this day. The paths are lined with tree's on one side and follows a creek on the other. You always had the wind and sound of water to listen to. There was a certain tree we were drawn to; it took us about thirty minutes on bike. Believe it or not, a bunch of us picked this tree to practice magic. Why? Because it had a groove at it's base where you can light candles in. Which isn't the smartest idea but truthfully the thought of possibly setting the bike track on fire never crossed my mind. All this witchcraft business started from the movie, The Craft. Jasmine and I were past the idea of being witches by that stage but we continued to visit the tree for the nostalgia. There was a branch on this tree that stood above the creek and was the perfect place to eat lunch. I carefully climbed up the trunk to the branch and began to crawl the rest of the way across like a frog; arms and legs clinging to the width of it and stopped when I was perfectly centre of the water flow below. I really wish I could remember exactly what happened next, that had me hanging on for dear life. I want to say that I slipped under with enough force that my legs lost grip and just my hands held me above water. In reality, it might've been a three meter drop, but when you're small it feels like the length of a ravine. Have you ever had a dream where you're falling, and this is it? You reached the glorious age of pick-a-number, next chapter please? I was feeling all those things. Not to sound like a drama-queen, but I believed I was going to die that day. I was crying out to be saved; I wish it was video taped and shown to actors/actress' of how desperation is meant to look. I would've won all the movie awards. "Sandy, grab my hand," Jasmine said, sounding firm and in control. I doubt that's actually how she felt but I don't remember any dramatic facial expressions, she just appeared collected about the situation. I managed to grab her hand, and then when we got the next opportunity, I held both of her hands. That's when I noticed her struggling to hold my weight, let alone pull me up. And that's when I realised she was going to let go before she even said anything. "I don't want to die," I yelled at her. What now seems like such a corny line in the movies, something you just cringe at and say 'really?'... couldn't think of anything better to say? Honest truth? Nope. I really couldn't think of anything else but that I didn't want to not exist. At this point, she was tearing up. "I'm sorry, Sandy." And let go. I'm not talking about I slipped out of her hands either. She released her grip and I fell. I was possibly about to overdose on naturally produced adrenaline and endorphins that I did not even feel the impact, even though I landed on my arse. I was no longer crying. I might have stopped the second my friend let go. I just sat there in the middle of the shallow creek (you heard me, I said shallow), letting the cold water rush over my legs and my submerged hands. Utterly shocked and completely void of thought. Eventually I had enough sense to pull myself up and slush my way to the bank, where there were some well placed rocks I had to climb over. I looked up at my friend who had already climbed down and was waiting for me. I don't think we said anything to each other, if we did I don't remember what we said. All I knew is I was cold and wet and wanted to go home. We walked with our bikes instinctively towards home, even though going home wasn't an option. We were meant to be in school, but I was stubborn and crying again. I refused to stay in my wet school uniform. On the way, Jasmine might've apologised for letting go of my hands but I had mixed feelings about it at the time. Apart of me was angry she let go, but I was also angry at myself for saying 'I don't want to die'. I knew even as a kid, I put a seed of guilt on her. If I had seriously injured myself or died, I would've left her with those words and memory that it was her fault. And that is something valuable I learnt. To this day, I always think about how words can impact other people. When common sense re-entered my brain (and at this point I'd stopped crying), I noticed some people on the same trail as us walking the opposite way would stare at us strangely. I realised even before my friend spoke that we were in school uniform which wasn't smart. "Shit," Jasmine said. I looked at her. "What?" Jasmine glanced over her shoulder again at the two women who had just past us. "That was Renee's mum." "Really? Oh well." "You don't understand, she'll dob on us for sure. She's like that. If my mum finds out I missed school, she'll kill me." That surprised me. How'd she know that a friend of hers mum would tell the school we were not at home. I couldn't comprehend such a nosey person. "She probably won't, you know. Worst comes to worst, she'll tell Renee not to hang around us anymore." I didn't like Renee anyway. "Trust me." We crossed an old wooden bridge. Right across from it, the bike track connected back to my street. "Don't," Jasmine was saying. "If you go home, you'll get busted. What am I supposed to do if you get busted?" She was referring to the spare time we had left until school was over. "I won't get busted. Trust me. I'm just going to take a quick shower, change clothes and come back. Just wait around here for me." "Your brother and sister are home, and that guy, remember?" she reminded me, doubtful I would make it back. "I'll be fine." Let me just say that all her points were valid and that I wasn't willing to see reason whilst I was still soaking wet. I left my bike with her. You'll be amazed to know, that I came in through the front door, had a shower, changed, sneaked into the kitchen to grab an apple whilst someone was in the pantry, and left without getting caught. I have no idea how, but I did. I noticed my sister's rollerblades on the front porch as I left the house and continued down the street where I left my friend. From a distance, she was riding around in circles idly. When she noticed me, she rode to meet me but by then my sudden urge to go back for the roller blades was cemented and I just had to go back for them. I really annoyed my friend by going back, maybe because she was amazed I actually came back and this time, I definitely would not be. I felt a surge of invincibility, a real ninja. I was approaching the finish line (the line being my friend) in rollerblades; in style. Which is laughable because I was no good at rollerblading then and I'm not now. I could not glide. It looked like I was taking tiny steps in boots twice the size of my feet. Think of Sideshow Bob from the Simpsons and that might paint a better picture. But I was grinning from ear to ear at my friend, cause I'd come back undetected and feeling smug. That was when I heard my name. And I knew that voice. And I turned around. And I waved back at my sister like it was nothing... Damn. Let me just say that, even though they were my sister's rollerblades, she never used them! And today, of all days, she suddenly does. Funny how that happens. My sister met us at the end of the street, amused that she'd caught us... in fact, apparently everyone at the house felt my presence, hadn't exactly seen me but I had left trails. I was relieved to have her laugh about it all instead of yell. My sister convinced us to go back to the house but Jasmine and I were met with a different reception. My brother was waiting out the front and the first thing he did was yell and say how stupid we were. That's my brother for you... But what I wasn't expecting was how the adult in the house would react. His name was Fred, he was a friend of my parents and was there working on the kitchen renovations. He gave us a huge lecture and sent us back to school. Strange how we've come full circle. This morning we were worried about being late to school. And now we're worried about being late to school... We were back where we started. Fred was sending us to our graves. But I had an idea. "It's almost 3," I said to my friend. "What's the point in going back and giving ourselves away? Fred will never know if we went back or not, we just have to pretend we did. Besides, I need to stick around to pick up my brother." "Bobby?" "Yeah." My younger brother Bobby and I always went home together. There was an alleyway that began at the end of one street and cut across to the highway; directly across from that was the school. "Let's just wait in the alleyway until the bell rings and wait at the school gates for him." My friend smiled at me. You don't need to tell me, I know I'm a genius. We approached the end of the alleyway when we heard the intercom of the school come on and make some announcement. "Would Sandy Morrison and Jasmine Lee come to the school office, please." And repeated. I stared at my friend. "What the hell? How did they know? Do you think Fred rang them to make sure we actually went in? What a douche bag!" Jasmine shrugged with a sigh. "My parents are going to freak." We were utterly defeated and had no choice but to give ourselves up. We crossed the road and went to the school office, where to our surprise Renee's mum was standing there expectantly. I liked Fred a little more that day and Renee's mum a little less. You can guess how the rest of my day ended.

Can a stranger make a difference in your life? I was wondering as I was looking at the only other passenger sitting two rows down from me. He was sitting in one of those rows with a table between them, facing towards me. So I got a good look at him. His brown eyes were scanning the newspaper in his hands which was quivering with the vibrations of the train. He had a window cracked, and the breeze was blowing through his medium length gray hair. He was wearing an old fashioned suit, and with his mustache and spectacles, he was the spitting image of the kind of stereotype you might imagine when you hear 'elderly gentleman'. Was that a bowler hat on the seat next to him? Damn. Although this guy did have that sort of friendly vibe going for him. Old people seem to swing to one of two extremes: those defeated by the struggles of their lives, viewing everything as nothing more than another obstacle to overcome; and those that have transcended the concerns and burdens that life brings with it, radiating an indefatigable happiness. Something told me this guy belonged to the latter group. Maybe it was the kindly wrinkles around his eyes, or the slight curving of his mouth and dimples that hinted at a face that liked to smile. Suddenly he put the paper down. He cocked his head slightly as he met my gaze. Then he winked, and smiled. I could feel the color shoot to my face. Oh man, that was embarrassing! “I'm sorry, I-I didn't mean to stare”, I stuttered. It was fairly loud in the train, but I was sure I could hear a soft chuckling waft towards me. I spent the next few minutes pointedly looking anywhere but in his direction, and was pretty grateful when we hit a tunnel. At least now he couldn't see my face, which, I was sure, was still beet red. Thankfully the lights inside the train were not lit, either. Truthfully, there wasn't much point anyway. The sun was just dancing through a cloudless sky – it was one of those perfect summer days you hear about, that, when it finally arrives, turns out to be way too hot. Was the tunnel already ending? Ugh, that was too short for my liking. Alright, this time I definitely did hear something. It sounded like a heavy sigh. “Young lady, if yer gunnae act like that, yer making it very awkward fer the two of us. C'mere, have a sit down.” He was gesturing emphatically, smiling at me. I couldn't help but grin at his genuine manner. “Jes dinnae sit on ma hat.” Well, what was I gonna do? Avoid looking at the guy for the rest of the ride? I shook my head to myself and got up to join him. He rose slightly out of his seat and bowed to me as I sat down. “Now you needn't feel bad, fair few girls fall fer ma irresistible goo' looks.” He said this so earnestly that I couldn't help but grin at him again. “I'm sorry about earlier, I didn't mean to stare.” “Don' worry lass. Like I said, I'm used to the admirin' stares. Tell me, what brings you into this drab train on such a beau'iful dey?” I smiled at him. “What brings anyone into a Train? I'm going to visit some relatives that I haven't seen in a while. They insisted that I come by.” His bushy eyebrows drew down in mock sorrow. “Och, lass, the dey is much too nice to go spendin' it with relatives” I laughed, but he continued, pointing out the window. “Look, look! Nary a cloud in sigh'.” “Well then, what about you?” I asked, “Where are you going?” “See, I'm doin' it righ'. I outlived most o' ma relatives. And now,” he leaned forward conspiratorially, “now, I go where I please.” “Well, that does sound exciting. I'm Lisa, by the way.” and I offered my hand. Instead of shaking it, he stood up, awkwardly wedged between the table and the seat. Bending down, he slowly planted a kiss on my hand. A sudden lurch of the train caused him to lose his balance and sit back down with a grunt. “Och, they don' make trains like they used ta...” he mumbled to himself. But he quickly recovered, and gestured grandly, continuing as if nothing happened. “It's a pleasure to make yer acquaintance. I am Earl Buchanan.” There was something in the way he inflected “Earl”. I cocked my head and looked at him questioningly. “So... you're royalty?” He returned my gaze very seriously. The reflection on his spectacles mirrored the trees that were passing by outside. Not even the breeze dared ruffle his hair. He frowned slightly, his bushy eyebrows drawing down, giving him a very stern look. He looked down over his spectacles at me and, in an anticlimactic baritone, said “No.” I was somewhat taken aback, thinking I might have offended him. But, he immediately smiled at me once more, and I concluded that it must simply be his strange sense of humor. “No, me name is Earl. I'm nae royalty but.. I can see how you would think that.” At least, I thought to myself, this wouldn't be a boring ride. Earl spent the next few hours telling me about his life. He had some exciting stories to share. He told about growing up in the Scottish Highlands, herding sheep with his dogs Ernest and Hemmingway. He told me of the Highland cows, that apparently looked like “someone gave an oversized mop two sets o' legs”. He spoke to me of his difficulties in school, and how he left his home in search of opportunities overseas with the economic upswing following the second World War. “I missed me father terribly. Bu', I think I woulda missed the opportunity to take me life into me own hands even more,” he said, running two wrinkly fingers over his mustache. “And,” he continued with enthusiasm, “what tales would I have shared with you on this train then? Bovine ma'ing season?” He spoke about finding employment in a small bakery in North Carolina, how his hard work and dedication earned him the trust of the owner. He told me how he declined taking over the bakery, instead electing to travel the country, taking jobs of opportunity while he traveled through the United States. “You see, I kinnae sit still. I was always lookin' fer somethin' that I gave up when I left home.” He told me about making his way to Washington, where he witnessed the now famous speech my Martin Luther King. It gave him renewed strength to follow a dream of his own. He started a business, and I couldn't help but chuckle when I heard what it was: custom tailored suits and fashionable men's wear. He cocked his head at me and smiled when he heard my chuckle, saying “I take pride in me work. Jes don' ask me where I learned it.” He spent the next few decades expanding his brand, dealing with apathetic partners, loan sharks and crooked con artists. I never realized the intricacies and pitfalls of self-employment. “But,” he said, “I am now a rich man. I've reached the goal I set fer meself all those years ago.” “So, you asked me where I was goin'? I'm goin' home, lass. I've seen all I was meant to see, and the bones of me father are callin' to me.” His expression turned sombre, and for a moment I could feel a hint of the longing this man must experience. It tore at my heart. “And, you know,” he continued, his usual smiling self, “they dinnae understand me here enyway”. “And you,” he said, suddenly, jabbing his finger in my direction, “You should consider spending yer summer at home. Summer is a long time to be away from yer fam'ly. And,” he leaned forward, “take it from me... relatives are a poor excuse.” He smiled at me once more. But this time there was an urgency in his eyes that hadn't been there before. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it... at that moment, we entered another tunnel, and everything went dark. I opened my eyes. Or, I tried to. Only one seemed to respond. There was a dull throbbing that defied my attempts at identifying its origin or cause. My vision gradually found focus, and I was able to discern what I was looking at. It was a beautiful summer sky. Utterly cloudless and the most perfect shade of blue. I tried drawing a deep breath, but a sharp stabbing in my chest drew that short. A gasp of pain escaped by dry throat. I tried sitting up, but my arms wouldn't respond. All I could do was feel the gravelly surface of the asphalt beneath my fingers. The same surface, I realized, that was painfully digging into the back of my head. And then a shadow moved across my eyes. I flinched, but a gentle hand reached out and prevented me from moving. My head was killing me. I didn't have the energy to fight it. The shadow was hovering in front of me, its outline flickering and slowly solidifying. I could make out bushy eyebrows under a swath of gray hair that was slowly wafting in the breeze. Sweat was glistening on a wrinkly brow and kindly brown eyes were gazing into my own. I remembered. A flashback, but it was real. I was there, again. I could feel the impact ripping the bike out from under me. I could feel my left leg bending, ligaments tearing, bone breaking. I heard the screeching of tires and the acidic scraping of metal. I could see the horizon shift, and I knew my head was approaching the windshield again... I was bracing for the impact that I knew was inevitable. “Hoo there. Easy, lass.” A genuine smile flickered through a face well suited for it. “You gave me quite a scare. You'll be a'righ now. Easy.” Can a stranger make a difference in your life? I looked into the face and felt a tear roll down my cheek.

The Good Soldier All around the Good Soldier were ruins. Not sun-bleached, weather-worn ruins like the ones he had seen in Greece. The Greek ruins had reminded him of the time-polished bones of dead cattle on the ranch back home; white, perfect bones jutting up from the earth and basking in the hot sun. The ruins he now walked among were not like that. These burned-out, pockmarked, structures were newly dead carcasses. The organs and hide were still intact, rotting on the bones. Smoke drifted from some of the buildings. The streets were empty. The Good Soldier looked as shoddy as the destroyed buildings around him. His uniform was a disgrace, filthy and torn. At some point, the left lapel of his jacket had been ripped away. He realized that somehow he had lost his dog-tags. He had no name now, he couldn’t remember if he had ever had a name. He had lost his helmet. It made him feel naked, worse than naked. He felt stripped and hung out on display like a newly butchered cow. His close-cropped dark hair was blanched with dust and sand. His face was encrusted with a powder that had turned to clay after mixing with his sweat. His blue eyes peered out through a colorless mask. The Good Soldier kept going, because that’s what good soldiers do. He had his gun, but his amo was spent. He still carried the gun, for appearances. He had a long knife on his belt, which was his only real weapon. He met no one as he crept down the street among the ruined buildings. His throat was dry. For what may have been the thousandth time that day, he glanced down at his watch. The hour didn’t matter anymore but he glanced at his watch out of habit. He looked up at the sky. The time his watch gave didn’t seem to match the sky. Could it really be mid-day? The sky wasn’t bright; it was a sickly, yellowish-brown. Probably it was approaching evening. The air wasn’t quite as hot. The Good Soldier wiped his forehead. This too, was habit, since he wasn’t sweating. He was thirsty but there was no sign of water anywhere. He didn’t see a market among the buildings that lined the street. There was no public fountain, and not even a dirty canal. He wasn’t desperately thirsty, yet. He walked on. An explosion had blanketed the street with a tawny layer of dust. The Good Soldier’s boots made the first marks in the flawless surface. Further on, he noticed the footprints of dogs, but there were no human or vehicle tracks. He kept going and walked so far that he realized suddenly that he had reached the outskirts of the ruined town. He walked further onto an open road. He stopped and looked back, little wisps of smoke rose from the battered structures which now crouched in the distance, yellowish plaster and concrete against yellowish sky. It was certainly evening now, he thought. The road he walked on was gravel and extremely straight and flat. It led out from the town and onward until it reached the horizon. There were fields on either side of the road but they were brown and desolate. They weren’t green like fields in East Texas, he thought. He followed the road. He was completely vulnerable now, out in open terrain with a gun he couldn’t fire. The sun fell hot on the back of his neck. There was no reason to keep walking. There was also no reason to turn back since he felt no fear. He had never considered himself brave and his lack of fear wasn’t courage. He followed the road a long distance and the scenery didn’t change: dry, flat fields, a few distant structures where gunmen might hide. The town fell further away behind him. Though he didn’t know why, he had decided to follow the road all the way to the horizon. Then he spotted a dun-colored cloud in the distance ahead of him. It was either a dust-devil or a vehicle traveling along the road. He watched with a detached expression as the dust-cloud grew closer. It seemed to take quite a long time to make its way. The topography was very flat and the horizon was very far away. Finally he could make out the truck, it was a MRAP, an armored fighting vehicle. A huge cloud of dust followed behind. The roaring of the engine and the noise of the tires grew louder. The Good Soldier stepped to the side of the road and waved his arm as the vehicle approached. It came to a halt thirty feet away from him. The dust-cloud that trailed the MRAP overtook it when it stopped and engulfed the MRAP and the Good Soldier. He coughed. The dust began to clear. He walked toward the MRAP. The door opposite him, the passenger side door, opened. An arm slung over the open door and a helmeted head popped up. A man stared at the Good Soldier out of dark eyes. “What are you doing?” the man said. “Walking. I’m lost” “You can ride with us if you know the password” the other man said. His face was young and still childishly round but his mouth and eyes were tightened in a harsh expression. The Good Soldier thought for a moment. He couldn’t remember any passwords. He tried to think back to recent training. He couldn’t remember anything about passwords. He felt baffled and very lost. “I don’t know any password, sir” The other soldier stared for a couple of seconds through the waning cloud of dust, now the air was almost clear again. The Good Soldier stared back with a blank expression. The dust made little dunes above his eyelashes and had formed crusts at the corners of his blue eyes. Then the man’s head disappeared from above the door and the door banged shut. A moment later the MRAP was rolling forward again. The Good Soldier watched as it began to move, then he turned away to avoid the wake of dust. A new coating of powder was added to the back of his uniform as he heard the noise of the engine and the grind of the tires fading gradually into the distance behind him. He continued walking in the opposite direction. Soon, the road was quiet again. The Good Soldier continued forward along the road. He got thirstier as he went and his boots got heavier. He saw some dry ditches long the roadside but no water. Time passed but the undefined sun didn’t seem to change its position in the sky. The heat felt the same on the back of his neck. The Good Soldier tried to unknow things as he walked. He had learned too much. "Thinking themselves wise they have become fools" was his mother's favorite Bible verse. The Good Soldier had become the biggest fool he could imagine. He thought about praying, more out of habit than anything. He could pray for water like Elijah, or for another MRAP to come along, he could pray for his buddies in combat or his friends at home, for himself, for his parents, for world peace. He smiled to himself and the clay mask around his lips was full of cracks. He had prayed too much before, there were no prayers left in him. Praying brought no comfort, only a sickening sensation. He knew how pathetic he was when he prayed. He was selfish and only thought about himself. He glanced at his watch. The numbers had disappeared. The watch was dead. He shook his arm and tapped on the smooth, glass face of the watch. He kept walking. He remembered how it was back at base. He imagined himself in his bunk. There was a box fan that one of the guys turned on at night. The sound was mesmerizing. He loved the vacant, white noise of the humming fan. It was so soft and comforting. He missed the fan. Then he felt a bit nauseous that he had found comfort in the thought of a humming fan. The Good Soldier perceived something ahead of him on the road. It was a figure. The outlines were blurred by heat waves, he hadn’t realized how hot it still was. He kept walking. As they approached each other, the figure became more defined. It was a man in a dark robe. The man had a gray beard. Some sort of cleric, the Good Soldier thought. He kept walking and he didn’t feel nervous. As the figure approached, the Good Soldier waved to him. The man waved back and then they were close to each other and their eyes met. The robed man’s eyes were dark but his complexion was fair. His robe was black and he wore a hood over his gray hair. His long beard now seemed less like a cleric and more like a wizard. The Good Soldier had read a lot of Harry Potter when he was a kid. “Hello” the wizard said in a plain American accent. “Hello. Who are you, sir?” The Good Soldier asked. “Who are you?” the wizard retorted. “I don’t know, sir” the Good Soldier glanced down at the torn and stained lapel of his jacket. There was no name there. He reached into the collar of his shirt and remembered he had lost his dog tags. “I guess I’m nobody” he said. “It would be far more fortunate if you believed that” the wizard said. His voice was matter of fact. “You’re not lucky enough to be nobody” “Who are you?” the Good Soldier asked. “Why are you out here by yourself?” The wizard didn’t answer. “We will walk together” he said and gestured with a long arm for the Good Soldier to proceed forward. “Talking is best while walking” The Good soldier didn’t question his new companion any further; he felt somehow that questions were pointless now. They walked along in silence for a good space. The road was deserted and the horizon hadn’t moved, the topography was very flat. The sun was hot on the back of the Good Soldier’s neck. “Why are your eyes full of despair?” The wizard asked. The Good Soldier glanced over and saw that the man was peering at him closely out of his large, wrinkle-enwrapped eyes. There was a long pause, with just the sound of their footsteps crunching on the gravel. The Good Soldier’s eyes were directed at the ground before his olive-green boots. He looked over and saw that his companion wore sandals and the hem of his black robe was tattered and dirty from the road. “Some things happened back there” the Good Soldier said at last, taking his hand off his gun to gesture toward the town, now far off in the distance behind them. “No justice for your friends, no justice for you” The wizard said simply as if reading the Good Soldier’s thoughts. “Where do I put all this injustice?” the Good Soldier was surprised to hear his own voice rise, almost crack, there was a sudden knot in his throat. “You have swallowed the injustice. You will carry it around inside your body forever” The wizard said. There was a long pause. “I got an email” The Good Soldier said abruptly, and then he trailed off. The clay around his mouth cracked into a frown. “The only person I ever loved doesn’t love me anymore” He was looking past the wizard at a place where the sky met the flat earth. The sky was yellowish-brown, the earth was yellowish-brown. They blended together. The wizard still peered at him intently, not watching the road in front of him as they walked. “Biology” the wizard said. "Only matter, matters" “Yeah, Biology” the Good Soldier said, looking at the wizard. His eyes returned to the road. He wasn’t sure what the wizard meant but he presumed a meaning of his own. “What will you do without this person?” The wizard asked. “Suffer” “What did you do when you had her?” “I suffered. But it was different; it was suffering with a purpose and a hope at the end and little gaps in the suffering that were full of beauty” “Now it’s just suffering” the wizard said, shaking his head. “What will become of you?” “I don’t know. I guess there’s nothing I can do” “I'm afraid, the more you look at it, the more you will see that you are right” “Life is meaningless” the Good Soldier said, that was why he had been so fearless the last few weeks, it wasn’t courage. “If only that were so!” The wizard said, his voice sharp. He raised his hands toward the sky as if supplicating. The sleeves of his dark robe rustled with the movement of his forward steps. “Fools comfort themselves in that. Or worse they say 'only what doesn't matter, matters'. Unfortunately, life is utterly meaningful. That is why the injustice aches and festers in your belly. Some are lucky because they believe life is meaningless, but you know better. The truth has imprisoned you just as truth always imprisons those who find it” The Good Soldier’s blue eyes lingered on the man’s face. It wasn’t a kind face, it was cruel, but not hateful. He didn’t much like the man. “At least life is short” “Don’t speak nonsense. You know very well that life is long” “I don’t see how you mean. I’ve seen lives end, they were too short” “What happens when you die, answer honestly as a man. Don’t give me bookish answers from your childhood” The Good Soldier thought for a while. The crunching of their feet on the road was the only sound. “Well, nothing I guess. To all appearances, nothing happens when you die“ “And what does one know when one is dead?” “Nothing” “Therefore” the wizard’s voice took on an authoritative ring, “To be, is to be alive. I AM equals I AM alive. There is no such thing as I AM DEAD. To be dead is to not know life and non-life. That is why life is infinite. As long as you know anything, you will know that you are alive” “That’s not very good news” the Good Soldier said. “No. Not to one with a belly full of injustice” The Good Soldier was quiet for a moment. He wasn’t sure if the wizard was correct. “What can I do to stop this feeling?” The Good Soldier said at last. “Nothing” The Good Soldier wiped his forehead, he dislodged some of the hardened dust but there was no sweat to wipe away. “What about love?” The Good Soldier asked. “Love is a constellation of traits inherited from others….Love is also the Great Alchemy, the Alchemy that transmutes Biology into Paradise....where only what matters, matters" The Good Soldier nodded. “Sadly, for you, you’ve inherited a poor collection of traits. Many of the inherited features that compose you have united for your torment” “What do I do?” The Good Soldier said. “What does a good soldier do?” the wizard asked, his lips curled back from around his sharp teeth. The Good Soldier winced at the sight of the ugly smile. Then, without warning the wizard was gone and the Good Soldier found himself walking alone on the dusty road. The sky was very yellow and the sun was hot on the back of his neck. His mouth was dry and his boots felt like lead. He kept walking toward the horizon.

Grey haired with mutton-chops, a face of well beaten work boot leather (not to mention a steel tipped jaw), sour and cantankerous, angry and smelled like Irish boiled dinner, and malt vinegar piss. Drunk in the morning, and hung over at lunch, a mean old Mic’ and a foul-mouthed prick. But that angry old pickled piece of shit sure could weld steel. This is the story of Bootstraps. As a union iron worker in Boston, Massachusetts, he got his name by constantly yelling at his co-workers to "Pull yourself up by your fuckin' bootstraps and do something, will ya?!". A grizzled old loser who had spent every new day, and every hard earned dollar playing Keno and slamming Budweiser at the same old shit hole dive bar in South Boston. "Mc'Hales" was once a happening local pub where you might bump into any old neighborhood townie, but the place had turned into a piss smelling toilet after being bought out by a family of Turkish immigrants. Now a Mecca for all of the worst stank ass winos and crack-heads you could imagine. Bootstraps only kind-of fit into this category, sure he was a hopeless drunk and he smoked crack, but the dude worked his ass off every day, forty hours a week. He paid his taxes and always had his rent in on time (for his one bedroom apartment on the third floor of a triple decker that was leaning toward, and ready to collapse into a busy street: $480.00 a month). He was a scumbag yeah,…but I think that shit should go on the record. In 98' Bootstraps did six years in Cedar Junction for an assault and battery on a prominent and wealthy local business woman. What happened was: He had way too much to drink at Mc'Hales, and had been smoking bad crack. While he was meandering home down Old Colony Ave. punching street signs, he noticed an "elite be-jeweled pig of a woman" calling the authorities on him. So what he did was, (in a mindless, blind, alcohol and crack fueled rage), he grab her by the hair and put her head through the drivers side window of her silver Lexus. As it turned out she was in pretty rough shape after that, and was hospitalized. The victim chose to remain anonymous, and Bootstraps had not one solitary fuck to give in the courtroom. When the judge convicted him he said: "Bootstraps, I'm giving you the maximum sentence not because of the vileness of your crime, but for the foul, poisonous fog of piss stench you have filled our courtroom with." Anyway, six years later old Bootstraps was turned loose from the joint. Being full of piss and vinegar, and having not learned a fucking thing from his time spent in prison, he went straight back to his old ways. He was released at 8:00AM Monday morning and was at Mc'Hales by 9:14AM. Four regulars (already shit faced by the time he got there) took care of him and kept the whiskey shots a'flowin. Around 2:00pm old Bootstraps was hammered and was looking for a good time. Him and his buddy "Tacklebox" went for a walk down E. 8th St. to score a huge rock. They did well for them self's too. Instead of a rock they ended up with a 1/2 gram of killer powder coke. Old Bootstraps and Tacklebox soon found a dumpster behind Burger King and cooked up a couple of big chunks. The two scum-fucks then smoked the whole damn thing in one setting and went about the town shouting nonsense and punching street signs. They finally found their way back to Mc'Hales but as they entered the front door two cops busted in behind them yelling: "Get on the floor NOW!… Get on the fucking floor NOW scum-bags!" Old Bootstraps went haulin' ass out the back door as Tacklebox was being handcuffed. After hopping fences, punching street signs, and running for his life, old Bootstraps found himself back at the Burger King dumpster, only a few hundred yards from where the assault of 98' took place. This sad, lonely, disgusting place on our fair planet is where old Bootstraps exhaled his last piss & shit smelling breath. The police found his battered, bloody ruin kicked tightly between the corner of a dumpster and the pavement. A forensic autopsy later revealed the boots used in his brutal stomping where of a strange brand. Puncture holes in his skull where positively matched to the heels from a pair of $2000.00 designer Prada boots hand made in Italy. His case to this day remains unsolved.

Fishermen's Isle A short story By Young Fury Once upon a time on the far Indian coast, there was a village of fishermen who lived in harmony with the spirit of the Ocean called "Varuna". Together with their families they lived happily and on the first week of every Spring they would let the Ocean rest. Celebrating its blessings in the center of their village with music, dance, lights and pleanty of food. Unfortunately, this year fishing had been difficult for some of the members of the village and many families were starting to become ill from not getting enough food. A fisherman spoke to his childhood companion about his troubles, and together they decided to set sail in order to bring food for their children, taking advantage of the fact that no one else would be out fishing during the celebrations. On the first night of the celebrations, they left the villagers and secretly headed to the beach and set sail with their nets, spears and oars in hopes to bring a fine catch back to feed their families. But soon after they had left the shore, they looked back and saw that a mysterious and cold mist had begun to surround them. They could no longer see the village and the Ocean started to become uneasy. They tried as hard as they could to row their way back to the coast but as more time passed, the more the Ocean began to roar with ferocious anger. Fear and hopelessness began to fill their hearts, and in a cry for help they began to pray to Varuna. "Forgive us Varuna, for our intentions were pure and we only wish to return back to our wives and children. Have pity on us and please grant us safe sail back to our village." As soon as they had finished their prayers, the moon and stars disappeared behind the mist and the deepest darkness of the Ocean swallowed them underneath its roaring waves. With sand in their mouths and pain shooting through their muscles, the fishermen awoke on the lonely beach of a small island. On their feeble legs, they stood up; looking at their surroundings and feeling lost. They did not recognise where they were and knew not how they had gotten to this place. A voice began to sing in the wind and the fishermen turned towards the horizon. "Hear me my children, " Said the mysterious voice "I am Varuna, why is it that you have disgraced my time of rest?" "Forgive us Varuna for we only wished to bring food back to our starving children for they are weak and in pain. Please, let us return to our families." Varuna became angry at hearing the plea of the fishermen. "Why is their doubt and fear in my people? Do you not trust me to provide for my children? It is unforgivable what you have done and for this you will both recieve the most severe of punishments" "Please, oh Varuna, have pity on us! Is there nothing that we can do to please you? Our intentions were pure and we only wished to feed our village." Varuna, at hearing their cry for their people, became silent for a moment. The fishermen stood their ground and faced the horizon waiting for their lives and that of their people to come to an end. "Listen to me." They voiced returned in the breeze "Your intentions may have been pure, but you have forgotten your faith. I will grant you safe passage back to your village and you must tell the villagers of my anger, but only one may return and the other must suffer the fate that awaits him on this island." The fishermens' hearts sunk under the ocean as their ship had done. They looked at their surroundings and then at each other. How were they going to decide who was to stay and who was to leave? Never had either of them lived a day without each others company and this punishment seemed too severe for them to endure alone. Together they faced the horizon once more . "Varuna, we will not leave this island. If you are to punish one of us, you must punish both of us. For I will never leave my companion's side and let him endure this alone" The wind blew with such strength that the strongest sails would have broken under its force, and the waves became restless and roared like thunder as the voice became as piercing as fisherman's spear. "Then you are both to live on this island until the end of your days!" After a time the air became calm and the fishermen looked at each other in disbelief. Together they had set sail and together they would live out their fate on this deserted island. Slowly they got back to their feet and explored the island in hopes of finding some shelter for the night that was coming. The island was full of strange vines and bushes that surrounded the colourful rocks and beaches. In the center of the island was a small tree of silver bark and blue leaves that seemed to glisten under the sunlight. Mystical birds with soothing songs nested here and they could see from the plants that enough rain would come for them to survive. They picked some berries from the bushes and began to make nets from the vines as they headed towards the center of the island. The first cold night came upon them and as they made a fire. They could see how the tree that stood by them began to glimmer like the stars. The fishermen were entranced by the island, but it's beauty could not help them forget their fate. As they sat next to the campfire they looked up towards the sky and sung songs for their children who they would never see again. What would they think happened to them once their families returned home after the night's celebrations? It was a question they knew would haunt them to the end. The nights became months and the months became years. Slowly their hair began to grow long and grey as their skinned turned dark and wrinkled under the heat of the sun. They spent their time listening to the birds sing their enchanting melodies as they fished the day's catch. And every night they would build a fire and sing songs while watching the stars gleam through the branches of the tree. In silence Varuna watched over them as time drifted on the ocean currents. One night as they were beginning to fall asleep, one of the fishermen noticed that he could no longer see the stars through the branches of the tree. It had grown tall and mighty over the years and it seemed to him that there were flowers beginning to bloom under the moonlight. He watched the flowers grow as he fell into a deep slumber. In their dreams that night they could see their families and how their children had grown to become big and strong fishermen like them. They now had families and children of their own. All together they were singing, dancing and sharing a meal during the Spring celebrations under a tree of silver bark and blue leaves. The scent of freshly cooked rice still lingered as they awoke from their sleep. Silence surrounded them and they opened their eyes to the bright sun and saw that the tree had bloomed over night. The most beautiful flowers they had ever seen of every color filled their vision. Never had they seen such a collage of colour in their lives. They did nothing that day but watch the tree as its flowers slowly lost their color and seeds began to appear in their place. The birds, who had nested there during the years of their punishment, started to all sing in unison while the tree's leaves began to fall covering the whole island making it the same color as the ocean. The fishermen, entranced by what was happening, could only sit in awe as each of the birds took one of the seeds and flew away in seperate directions. They knew the birds songs would never return and saw that their fate was coming to it's end. Alone on the Ocean island, the fishermen looked at each other and began to feel hopeless as their old bodies seemed to whither away with the island. They stood up and walked closely to the tree as the rustling of the leaves followed their every step. As they approached the tree they saw that a only a single seed had been left behind on the farthest branch. "This is our destiny my friend", one of the fishermen said, "We must take this seed and return to our village. This place has come to it's end and I will not let my life end here. Like this seed, I will be reborn far from this place. Help me bring it down and together we shall build a boat from this dead tree and set sail tonight." A new strength had taken over their bodies and together they cut down the tree that no longer gleamed under the moonlight. Even in the darkness of the night, when their eyes were blind to what was in front of them, they continued their work. They could not see, but their skin was beginning to become smooth once more as they struggled to shape their escape. The same night, that seemed to never end, the two fishermen took their canoe to the shore with the seed safe within their grasp. "Varuna, we know you have watched us as we grew old enduring your punishment, but our lives will not end here. Listen to us one last time. Please, grant us safe passage back to our families and understand that our intentions are pure." There was no moon in the sky that night and as they set sail into the darkness. Soon, the same cold mist began to surround them. They ventured further from the mystical island that had become their home and the Ocean began to roar with the sound of tremors from deep below. "Together we left our home and together we will return" The fishermen said to each other as they fought the waves and battled deeper and deeper into the mist. It seemed to them that days had gone by in the darkness, but the sun never showed its face. They became hungry and weary as the last of their strengths began to leave their bodies. They held the seed within their hands and prayed one last time to Varuna. "We are your children, let us return home so that we may bless our own." They looked up to the sky and saw that the moon was again high above their heads and the stars began to dance behind the thin clouds that drifted in the wind. The mist began to disappear and far in the distance they could see lights. They were not stars, but small fires on the coast of what used to be their home. As the fishermen drew nearer to the beach they looked at each other in the moonlight and saw that their faces were young again and that their hair was silver like the stars. They could here voices in song and drums in the distance as they reached the shore. Soon enough, they could hear the laughter of their families reaching their ears as the stars began to hide away at the awakening of the sun. One step at a time they made their way back to the village only to realise that not a single day had gone passed since their attempt to go fishing on that night of the Spring celebrations. Before returning home to their families they looked towards the Ocean horizon. "Varuna, spirit of the Ocean and protector of our village, your children are forever in your debt. We will never forget this lesson we have learned. Let this seed grow and give life to a tree so beautiful that will forever be a symbol of your protection over our families." They planted the seed that night and soon after, a tree of silver bark and blue leaves sprouted from the ground.

I know it defiantly needs work. I'm really not even crazy about it. Its my first attempt at some first person perspective work and I gotta say, props to people who write first person, its difficult. I deal well with constructive criticism, just don't be an asshole. Oh ans also its my first reddit post ever. :P Well here it is: “It was the coldest night of the year. At least it felt like it. Well actually, every night feels like the coldest night of the year when your family can’t afford two blankets in the Yukon Wasteland. In the Yukon its kill or be killed… viciously. The average life expectancy of that shit hole of a habitat is twenty-three. Twenty-fucking-three. Lottery winners say our good ole pals here in the Hearth live up to a hundred years old! But anyways it was a damn cold night, I believe in November of 2308, correct me if I’m wrong Meg!” Meg replied, “I believe in October, Scotty” “Anyways in October of 2308, the senators came rolling through looking for their weekly tribute except this time, turns out they wanted people, and not just any people, children. The damn Hearth was too lazy to work their own fucking wheat fields. Yup me and Meg were two of the lucky bastards to be taken from our homes in the middle of the night without any prior knowledge or warning. My own parents didn’t even know I was taken. You have no idea what it’s like knowing that you will never see your family ever again. But I think both me and Meg can agree that our lucky little “extended work trip” saved our lives.

“You should put on some long pants,” I advised my brother. We headed down through a yellow field of tall grasses. Its slope converged at the center like a valley, here, high among the San Francisco foothills. The Western sun shone gently upon our earnest escapades. I wanted our adventures to embody the spirit of this city, a mystical bastion of all freedoms. The field's ending was demarcated by a sort of incomplete fence, probably put there decades ago by the Spanish or the young American imperialists. We stumbled to the gate, which hung open perfectly and allowed the cool ocean breeze to pass through like a gust of its own breath. Matt was waiting on the other side. He was a year older and wiser, well acquainted with the ways of the city's center. He'd told us stories about all of the nooks and strange neighborhoods, the nudists and the secret passageways and the unique chill you could feel when you ate ice cream on the beach near the Golden Gate Bridge. Matt was just the person I wanted to see. Though I knew it would disappoint my brother, my goal would be aided by this traveler's expertise with the city's heartbeat. I bid my time as we made our way through the less fertile crags of the hills, full of rocks, mosses, and bird droppings. We overcame the precipice, and I could see a large numbers of graves in the direction we were heading in. As we approached, I heard a slight buzz. Matt groaned and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “I have to get home for dinner, guys. Sorry. Maybe tomorrow.” *Damn*, I thought. I consoled myself with the knowledge that I couldn't have asked him now, anyway. I could still enjoy this exploration- what appeared to be an antique cemetery, alone with my similarly-minded brother. We stepped up, upon the artificially elevated ground of the yard, and looked around. The rows went on for what seemed like forever. I noticed a huge chamber near the center, which had to be a tomb for someone important. As I went along, I observed the dates on the graves. I was surprised at the age: they were almost exclusively from the mid-to-late 1700s, and the few exceptions were only slightly newer. One must have been a young boy: his date of death was just before his eighth birthday. Some had flowery patterns carved into the sides, and there were the customary cherubic angels tending to the invisible gardens growing atop the headstones. I reached the massive tomb. The faded brown doors exuded an antiquated feeling, and I could see that the stony sides were cracking. Looking around and discovering no unwanted observers, I drew closer. I saw notes and small trinkets scattered upon the small floor in front of the entrance. Upon further inspection, the door was missing one of its bolts. This rendered it almost imperceptibly ajar, but the opening was there. I cautiously took another step forward and heard a crunch under my foot. Curious, I leaned down and picked up the note. The handwriting was scrawled hurriedly, and I could barely make it out on the piece of paper that was shredded at all corners. After a little scrutiny, I picked out the strange message: “NOT ME AGAIN” I dropped it and ran blindly from the tomb. My eyes scanned the graveyard and I realized that I didn't know where my brother was. I tripped and fell, and collected myself against General Juan Pablo de la Trinidad's epitaph. Slowly, I was able to calm myself, and rationalized it by acknowledging the likelihood of bored vandals. My brother came trudging up from the left. “A lot of old graves,” he quipped. I brushed off my jeans, embarrassed at my former fright. The sun now hung just a nickel's width above the Pacific, and I reminded my brother that we should head back. I hadn't talked to Matt or seen the cool parts of the city, but I had tomorrow.

Samantha Fitzhugh leads a quiet wall-flower life in the genius class of her high school. She never knew her father, and her mother is off in Antarctica absorbed in a career as an anthropologist. A series of freakish events in the school have her on the verge of being expelled. Out of the blue, the hottest boy in the class invites her into his family to stay until her mom returns. There she finds warm and loving parents even if they are a bit strange -- professor father with profound arcane knowledge and a psychic mother who reads minds and casts spells. They believe that the vestiges of some inherited power is starting to emerge from her. They caution her that high school is a hormonal time. If she wishes to go down this road, she must retain her chastity. Meanwhile, a mad artist is spontaneously producing paintings of Samantha that have become a focus of worship for a gang of crazed meth-dealing bikers. They believe she is the descendant of Inanna, an ancient Sumerian goddess from the lost planet Nibiru. The gang leader is a former professor with a murderous thirst for vengeance against those who drove him out of the profession. He believes in Samantha’s magical descent and her link to a planet with a 3,600 year orbit that will bring it smashing through the earth’s solar system. He wants her and intends to possess her, no matter who he has to kill. Townsend “Boo” Radley IV sat in his small stock broker’s office with one of his bigger whales as they were called in the trade. A fish on the line. A sucker. A patsy. Marvin Sfortz. Seventy-two years old. Sold a plastics extrusion factory in Belleville, New Jersey for twenty-six million and retired to a southern university town with a major teaching hospital and ACC basketball. Didn’t know what to do with himself now that he wasn’t bossing a pack of Puerto Ricans every day. Liked to imagine he could pick stocks. Had a nose for hidden value. Explosive growth. “Well, down here with the grits and ya-hoos,” said Boo, “nobody much likes the action.” “Bunch’a yokels,” Marvin echoed. “How did they fight the Civil War?” Boo made a forced laugh. “It’s good to see a man who can take the torque of a roller-coaster ride on the market.” “No guts, no glory,” croaked Marvin. Sleazy old yuck with his dentures and foul cigar breath. It was just too funny to churn his account, make commissions on pointless trades. The man was in pre-Alzheimers and had no short-term memory retention. Couldn’t figure out he was losing money until tax time. And by then he had forgotten how all the transactions had worked. The Yankees got drawn south by the low taxes. They all said it was the weather, but in fact their big government obsessions had ruined New York, Rhode Island, New Jersey. You hang on there, you’re just paying lavish retirements for a pack of parasite unionized civil servants. So they flock south to a university town with “culture” not that you noticed it much. A teaching hospital to keep your sorry carcass upright. Buy up all the nice real estate and drive the penurious faculty out of the town. Retired, nothing to do but carp with each other about how dumb the hicks are, how things were done so much better back where they came from. Boo didn’t feel bad about what he was doing. He was young and needed to make his way in the world. Marvin had no use for the money. Just leave it to adult children that he constantly bitched about. Ingrates. Free-loaders. Moochers. Marvin struggled to his feet, his brain already devoid of the trades the two had just agreed upon. Slapped a broad straw hat on his head like an Impressionist would use painting in the open air. Cataract glasses. He had one of those Medicare metal canes that you can adjust the height on. Couldn’t even carry a stylish cane carved from exotic wood. What good did 26-mil do him? Better it belong to Boo. Boo had been the bottom of his prep school class and couldn’t get into the Ivies. One admissions director had actually laughed at him. Asked what “diversity” he would bring to the student body. “Old money wastrel? The vanishing New England WASP?” What a shit-head. So he had come to the university along with the rest of the bottom of his class. Administrative fools actually fawned on them, believed they brought style to the place. Branded the school a “Southern Ivy.” Branding was big at colleges. What a joke. Boo had been a lacrosse star. Had a mop of blond hair he could flip out of his eyes, wow the coed honeys. They all thought since he was from Greenwich he was rich. Problem was, there was no Townsend family money. Or very little of it. During his college years, he liked to swank around in his fraternity and pretend he was a trust-fund boy. But his father could barely pay the bills. And after he blew his brains out in the embezzlement scandal in his investment bank, there were no Wall Street connections either. So Boo got his broker’s license and stayed on in town. His high-performing pals from his prep school class had all been Dartmouth and Yale; now they were at Goldman Sachs. Always talking big deals. Who the heavy hitters were. The big swinging dicks. He’d tell them he liked the low-key atmosphere of the South. Honey-voiced belles. Mint juleps. Said he was thinking of buying a race horse stud. They were working eighty-hour weeks and sounded envious. They had no idea what a ratty state it was. Dead textile mills. Feed-lot hog farms. Hillbillies in the mountains. Boo played racquetball and squash now, liked to work out over at the medical school health center. Med classes were half women. Keep his eye peeled for hot young honeys in white coats with stethoscopes. He knew the income levels of the various specialties by heart. Interventional radiology was right up there at the top. Cardiology. He could picture himself married to one of them. Scale back his business and just manage her personal fortune. Take up fly fishing. They’d travel to New Zealand, Iceland, Chile. Make a regular thing of Christmas each year in Gstaad for the skiing. A row of three dollar signs began blinking in the upper right of his computer screen. Got him out of his reverie. Good Christ, it had come in again. A cool million fucking dollars from a bank in Switzerland transferred once a year to Maeve McAlpin Fitzhugh jointly with her daughter Samantha. The sum was up to ten million now, and they never enquired about it, never withdrew any. They never fucking touched it. And it just sat there in an account that paid maybe two-percent. He always got a home office congratulations letter on his mismanagement of that one. The New York office got to play with the money and pay the Fitzhughs peanuts for the use of it. He had only met them one time when the total was six million. Maeve Fitzhugh had seemed bored by the whole thing. Totally disinterested. Kept checking phone messages. He pulled up the photos of mother and daughter. The firm always kept pictures in case of identify issues. The mother was what his mother in Greenwich would call a “handsome woman.” Mid-forties. Clean face lines. Hair pulled back. Very outdoorsy. Wind-burned complexion. Did some kind of exploration thing. The girl was just a junior in high school. But there was something compelling about her. Her eyes just pulled you in. He’d sit and stare at her for long periods of time.

He did not ask why she gardened in the dead of night, but stood arguing with fireflies through the erratically glowing end of his cigarette. He told them of age and resignation, and they avowed ephemeral instinct. He recited the entirety of Kant in a single carcinogenic flicker, and Socrates fell as the afterthought of a tiny glowing coal lost in the overgrown grass. And then he spoke of spent youth and failing health, and method by which all manners of hope could be preserved in jars of alcohol awaiting careful dissection by unwitting students of the Incorrigible. “All of this,” they insisted, “is but memory or foreknowledge of a single July’s eve.” They spoke to him of eternal recurrence. He told them she was insane. “You can’t argue with insanity,” he sighed. A mantra, of sorts. He stared across the dark into the far corner of the yard, where a discordant fluorescent lantern overpowered the fireflies’ voiceless chatter. He did not ask what compelled her to furtively slip seeds beneath the ground whenever the sun turned its back, but absently watched her scrape the heavy worm-laden soil, a disembodied volition devoid of memory or foreknowledge. Perhaps it was a deep-seated, inarticulate realization that the sun was hostile to her endeavors, and would not spare the requisite pinpoint of warmth. And so she had allied herself with the lesser kin of the sun in a manic, tubercular kind of secrecy marked by violent fits of consumptive confidentiality. He did not ask what strange seedlings might be coaxed from the worm-laden soil by the glow of fireflies. His cigarette had gone out, and tonight the fireflies would have the last word. Her voice reached him as he turned towards the house: “*…my only sunshine…you make me happy, when the skies are grey… You'll never know, dear…*” He locked the door.

Panicked, Elizabeth sprints away from her pursuers, panic bubbling in her chest. She doesn’t even have time to process what just happened, all she can do is run and pray she won’t get caught. She runs through the marketplace, dodging startled shoppers and angry glares. She almost knocks over a fruit stand, but the owner and a few bystanders manage to catch it before anything falls. As if through a tunnel she can hear him screaming at her to be careful. She doesn’t stop though; all she can do is run. She can’t breathe, but she can’t stop. She needs to find a place to hide, but where? Suddenly an idea strikes her; she quickly veers left down a muddy alleyway and splashes her way down to a small grate. She usually hides here after her father- no! Now is not the time to think of that! She needs to escape! She needs a plan! She quickly pries the grate open, slides in, and shuts it behind her. She curls up in her all too familiar corner and finally lets everything sink in. Shivering with cold and fear she runs over the events leading up to this point. She just murdered her father; she stabbed him with a knife. She felt his blood on her hands and saw the life flicker out of his eyes. Her mother had started screaming and cradling his body, a guard heard and came running. She remembered dropping the knife when she realized what she had just done. The guard asked what happened and her mother just hysterically screeched at Elizabeth. As the guard turned, she took one final fearful look at her mother and bolted. Come to think of it, she didn’t even know if the guard had followed her or not. More than likely he did, but she was just too light and fast for him, even in a dress. Elizabeth tried to calm herself. She had done what she had to do; no-one could fault her for that… right? The hopeful part of her mind prayed that everyone would understand and all would be forgiven, but the rational part of her knew just how wrong that was. She had to escape. Maybe she could find another town somewhere and build a new life… no. That wouldn’t work… Realizing what a hopeless situation she’s in, a small sob escapes her lips, but she quickly stifles it- she can’t let a guard hear her now. She’ll just stay the night here. Maybe in the morning she’ll be able to think of something to do… Elizabeth wakes up in a very familiar place, curled up like a dog in a ripped dress covered in blood, mud, and straw. Sun is streaming through the grate, but it didn’t quite reach where she’s hiding. She whimpers and buries her face in the straw, not caring how bad it pricks and itches. She has to go home. Untangling her bruised and cut limbs she crawls out of her hidey-hole. Standing up, she gathers her tattered and torn dress and starts limping through the marketplace. She receives many disapproving glares from the other townsfolk, but she doesn’t care. She makes this walk of shame almost every morning. She passes a guard on the outskirts of the town who just grunts at her to pass then stumbles up the winding trail to her house. As she walks in her father looks up from the newspaper, grins like a Cheshire cat, and says, “Morning Pumpkin, how’s my baby this morning?” Elizabeth just flinches and hangs her head. God, how she wants to kill this man.

there was the man who had touched me as a child. The monster.He was hooked up to some sort of anti movement thing. His arm was held out to me and held in a clasp, his index finger pointing out. I sat before him in the chair. He smiled as I put my hand onto his, examining the sharp spiked nails that had been driven into the most secret of my places. "your hands are so soft, girl. Like an Angels" I laughed coldly. "enjoy it now. " My eyes drank in the room. A small metal table was to my right. Surgical equipment lay upon it now. "they're yours." a voice behind me said. "I know. " I stared at them for a moment. Should I do this? Who's going to stop me, after all? I grabbed a small but sharp scalpel. I played with it so the monster could see it. He began to sweat. "it was all a misunderstanding angel. " he stammered. "save it. You never even apologised" I whispered. "do you want me to now?" he queried. Sliding the scalpel I made a small incision Between the soft part of his palm. "remember when you made me play doctor?" he was no longer smiling. "remember when you used to touch me? of course you do. " disgusted, I noticed his erection. He began shaking as his blood dripped onto my palms. I smeared it onto his face and turned to the voice. "I want this off me. Now. " I was given alcohol. Then gloves. Piercers gloves. I continued. [harsh dialogue. Monster loses his cool. ] I cut away the skin next to his nail, exposing the right side of his finger bone. He cried out and I grabbed a towel to make it stop bleeding. I took the lighter and cauterised the remaining flesh. I did the other side. A small object used or pointing during surgery pushed back his cuticles. This was going to be the best part. Taking the scalpel, I began to push the soft sensitive skin holding the nail to his finger. Once it was cleared and burned away I took pliers and tore the nail out effectively making him shriek. I laughed while I worked, and began humming the tune he used to.

He pulled the sytrofoam cup to his chapped lips and took a drink. The warm coffee engulfed his throat with the beautiful poison keeping him awake on a morning like this. The morning dew barely left traces of its beauty as he scanned over the desolate park. His weary eyes didn’t see much but his knowledge helped him fill in the gaps. He was nearing the ripe old age of 60 but he sure didn’t feel it. At least, not now; he was too happy. He looked around again before taking another long drag from his bitter black beverage. He glanced at his scratched up watch and took note that he had a few more minutes of the pure bliss before him. He chuckled out loud, knowing full well that the watch stopped working a while ago. He just assumed it was time to go and he took another long sip of the warm coffee before sighing, this was going to be a long day. The wise but old man started walking to the gate of the park with his briefcase loyally at his side. He crossed the park, getting his worn shoes wet but the he didn’t care; the morning dew was a rare occurrence in this busy city. He reached the edge of the park and left, throwing away his empty cup and mentally preparing himself for the day before him. As he walked along the empty sidewalks, he couldn’t help but admire the true beauty of the city before him. He had seen the city too many times to admire skyscrapers reaching toward the sky, yet he couldn’t help but feel relieved; almost safe. He reached a crosswalk and waited, seeing his destination rise before him. A small woman stopped next to him, talking on the phone with someone about drapes. He couldn’t help but overhear since the young lady was making sure everyone in the city could hear what color her dining room drapes would be. The old man looked both ways before leaving the annoying amateur decorator. He made it four steps, four steps exactly before he heard a loud noise. A noise he knew way before he turned to face the monstrous machine rumbling toward him. His wide eyes couldn’t help but stare as the semi hurtled toward him. He stumbled toward the other of the street before diving out of the way, narrowly missing his inevitable death. He cheated death too many times before; he just didn’t think it would catch up to him this quickly. He stood up and brushed himself off, making sure all his pieces were still attached and healthy. He somewhat chuckled to himself, he couldn’t believe what happened. The lady from across the street was stunned, barely believing herself what just happened. He threw her a quick smile before picking up his briefcase and entering his job. He saw his watch as he opened the door to the superfluous lobby and saw one more scratch added to his timepiece. One more scratch, one more memory, one more wrinkle he laughed to himself. The receptionist saw the old man and beckoned him to go sit down and wait for his appointment with the boss. He sat down and eagerly grabbed the nearest magazine he could get his hands on. On the outside he looked nervous, he anxiously kept looking around for someone to break up the awkward silence he was sharing with the receptionist. On the inside he was confident; he knew what he was doing, he’s been doing this for over fifteen years and this was just a part of the act. He was the director of his own play and he had the lines for all the actors. From beginning to end, he controlled the whole play. Except this play was a con. It was somewhat simple, go drink at the bars near the big business buildings. The perfect timing was lunch or an hour or two after businesses closed their white collar doors. He would go make rounds around the bar, being friendly to different groups of people, finding, no…searching for the one person he could instill trust in and reap the benefits for. He would then find a drunk in a suit and buy another round for him and his buddies. Then the waiting game ensued, picking up on subtle hints to project the perfect business plan for their company. Give the business card to the drunken idiot with a monkey suit on and let the rest of the part play out. Wait a couple days and receive a call wanting to get in business. His business was purely artificial, ranging from the fake business cards and the fake website to the fake business plan. He was a confidence man, and he had had fooled everyone from the west coast to the big apple. He was on his last legs and needed one last score to go into retirement for good. “Harvey Calvin?” the receptionist asked. I don’t know why she didn’t just stand up and lead the way for the only person in the lobby but the old man nervously stood up, before dropping all the contents in his briefcase. He quickly shuffled on the papers and pens back into the worn leather case and walked toward the desk. “Mr. Holloway will see you now.” She smiled, leading the way with her hand toward the elevator. He quickly nodded and quietly made his way toward the elevator. “Sir, it’s floor fifteen, room is at the end of the hall.” He replied back with a small thank you but he was well aware where his office was, along with how big it was, security checkpoints were as well as how fast he could get out of there without being seen. He knew they were watching him from the minute he stepped into the building but he knew his little act wasn’t going to be enough. He stepped into the elevator and hit the 15th floor button before sighing again. The hard part was coming up and he knew it had to be a homerun or else he would lose all the time and effort he put into this score. He lost the will to enjoy the con game. It started out fun, scam people out of money through a simple lie and just keeps going along with it. Each con brought more money but more problems. He lost too many things throughout his fifteen year tenure. The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor and his weary eyes laid upon an angel. Her dirty blonde hair fell upon her shoulders with time itself stopping gravity from affecting such a fine piece of art. She was busy looking down at the portfolio as she entered the elevator, telling him to go to floor 15 as well. She looked up to say thanks and she froze. Her lips trembled before smiling. “William? What are you doing here?” she closed the portfolio and reached for a hug. The old man was reluctant after hearing his real name after a long while. He was caught up in some many aliases he sometimes forgot what his real name was. He accepted the hug before glancing up at the floors and wishing the 15th floor was a lot closer. “I’m here for business” he muttered, knowing full well that he wasn’t. He was here to scam the legal pigs out of their pensions for his own retirement. Her smile became less and less as time went on because she knew the truth. “I thought you stopped?” the four words cut through his soul with ice daggers and hit his heart with full force. He stumbled over his words trying to convey that this was the last time and he truly cared for her even since that horrible night eight years ago. All that left his dirty mouth were the words I’m sorry. She scoffed at the response and her warm face turned ice cold and she stared at the elevator doors, waiting for the earliest attempt to leave him once again. The doors opened on floor seven and she rushed out and letting a couple young businessmen in the elevator. His thoughts were clouded as he barley heard the young men tell him floor twelve. He finally made it to his destination and stepped out of the elevator. He completely forgot why he was even there before Mr. Holloway yelled at him from across the entire floor that he was late. He hurried over to the office and he sat down on the uncomfortable chair that the big boss at the corporation made sure was there. Josh Holloway, or Mr. Holloway to many people, was a sick, twisted man. He swindled money out of poor people to finance his second yacht sitting out on the river, just waiting for him after a successful business deal with a nervous amateur with a secret. Holloway treated his employees like dirt, but ensuring them enough money to stay and work for him. He was a cold man with only one goal in mind: money. He beckoned the old amateur in and told him to sit down. “We took a look at the investment you offered us last night, and I have to say: we’re not amazed. We’re happy, yes. But amazed? No. You’re plan is brilliant but it needs some tweaking. We cannot offer a big deal unless we start with something small. Low risk might bring us low reward but it will also build a sense of high trust between me and you, Mr. Calvin.” The boss finished his monologue and looked across the rich, walnut desk to the trembling man in the uncomfortable chair. This was his time to shine, the old man thought to himself. He opened his briefcase and handed him a couple papers, detailing what all the rival companies did and explained that what Mr. Holloway wanted to do was safe and low risk but also common. Of course, the papers were all forged. If the boss was smart enough he could call up the New York Stock Exchange and question these numbers and the old man would be thrown out without a moment’s hesitation. But the boss was greedy. He wanted money but above all else; he wanted to be the winner. He wanted to crush his opponents and if his opponents were doing the same thing and barely scraping by, he had two options. The old man knew that this was the worst part of the con because it was all up to Mr. Holloway or any CEO’s to make a moral decision: stay the same course as the rest of his rivals and go low risk and maybe come out on top of his competitors or trust the nervous man and invest a high risk situation for a high reward. “Mr. Holloway, all your competitors did the very exact thing you are about to do. That’s a good idea, it would be better to be on the same level that to fall behind. I’ll talk to the investors and have them set up another $50,000 investment.” The old man was barley done finishing his closing arguments before the boss stopped him. The boss chuckled before telling him that wasn’t necessary. He called his receptionist in and a briefcase. They both knew what the contents had and they both couldn’t be more excited about the transaction between the two. “Mr. Calvin, I worked too damn hard to be stagnant with my competitors. I need to be better than them and demolish them in the process.” He opened the briefcase and smiled. “Tell your investors to invest $500,000 and make sure we don’t get caught” The old man smiled as he reached across to shake the stupendously stupid boss’s hand. They shook hands and they both smiled, shortly after the old man reassuring him that the return rate will be exponential compared to his competitors. But, before he could leave, the boss had a question. “I’m so glad your calm now, but why were you nervous before? You are an excellent sales person. If this deal goes well, I might just get a job with you here.” The old man smiled. He had heard this countless times before and he would always defend his nervousness with how he always dealt with small businesses and never with big corporations with futures. But this time was the response was different. “I was walking this morning and this truck almost hit me. I could’ve died today but what struck me was that there was no moment where I relived all the good moments in my life. There was no time where I saw all the memories from my past and I just felt uneasy.” The old man paused, keeping the small tear in his eye and trying to finish his discussion so he wouldn’t lose the sale. “I guess I thought today was my day of bad luck and I wasn’t going to secure a sale. My boss was disappointed by my numbers and I needed a smart man with money to turn my day around.” The old man smiled. A genuine smile he hadn’t felt in years. The boss walked around the desk, handed the old man the briefcase and assured him that this was the turning point in his life. He was bound to be great someday, this was his day. The old man left the building with the money in tow, ready for his retirement to start. He smiled to himself, tapping the briefcase he worked so hard to achieve. Crossing the street, he realized that he never counted the money; he didn’t even take a look at it making sure it was there. His happiness turned sour as he looked around for somewhere he could count it. He saw a bar about a block away and casually hurried to the door. He rushed through the bar and ran straight for the bathroom. He closed the door and locked it, making sure that no one was in any of the stalls before opening the case and checking the contents. Someone started to walk in and then knocking was heard, signaling him to hurry up. He made sure at least $100,000 was there before he closed the case and unlocked the door. Some old drunk, even though it wasn’t even noon yet, rushed to the urinals as the old man cheerfully left the bathroom.

(This is part of my new found personal project of writing one half-assed short story a week, every week, forever and ever. Jon gave me the concept for this week's short story which was ' God gives you the option blind or deaf, you have to choose one. Go.' This is the roughest draft seen by man or beast but I just finished it in order to meet my deadline and its not even spell-checked. ENJOY) In a far more reasonable world than this one, you get to choose your ailments and misfortunes. God, as one may choose to call it, only partially controls your fates. You are at least given a choice in the matter. Two options are placed in front of you and which one chosen is entirely up to you. It is in this Utopia of infinite forked roads that Jim, a 26 year old grad student from a fairly reputable university, treads down a cobblestone road made out of playground foam padding. When you are given an 'option' as it is referred to by the populace of this universe, time stops and your options are politely placed in front of you. Though you have no clue the long-term results of your 'option' it is your choice to make, and everyone must suffer through choosing their misfortunes every now and again. There is no rush, no timer, no pressure. You have forever to decide and since deciding is inevitable given the fact that inaction is impossible over the course of all time, no one even knows that you are in an 'option'. Though everyone is keenly aware that they occur. Some people spend the rest of their lives regretting decisions they made, wondering what would have occurred if they had truly given the option the weight it was due and not chosen randomly to get it over with. School girls gossip over possible options given them and how they would respond, preparing even at young ages for the inevitability of choice. Jim was suddenly stuck full force with an 'option' as he passed a hot dog cart on 7th in the midst of noticing a woman in a yellow dress that may per chance be blown up by the wind at any moment. It took a moment for Jim to recognize the scenario he was quite suddenly placed in. His surroundings had slightly faded and before him on the left in bold typeface was 'Blind' on the right in similar fashion was 'Deaf'. "Fuck..." He muttered to himself. This was much heavier than other choices he had dealt with on previous occasions, for instance 'Hang-nail' or 'Stub-toe' or even 'appendicitis' or 'tonsillitis'. He sat down in that timeless space and began to consider his options. Given what he was just moments from witnessing before this unfortunate event had interrupted him, losing his sight would 'really royally suck'. Then again not being able to hear the voice of any of his friends or join in conversation like he normally would would also be truly 'bite the big one'. He started the godly task of deciding his fate. Colors, though muted, were still visible in the background of what was his leisurely stroll down the street. He could see frosted over blobs of green which were just a few moments ago vivid trees. He would lose this, his favorite color would become a void. He would fail to differentiate the space or shape of objects he was not actively touching. He would never again see the face of his friends, his colleagues. The internet would be almost be entirely useless to him sans some sort of text to speech technology and then all he would have would be an endless drone of speak-and-spell mechanical noises telling him the news of the day or creepily relaying to him jokes that would come out hollow and uninteresting. With the concept of that terrifying jolty computer voice constantly barking at him, he began to consider his other option. Silence. Deep and unending. He was in an odd bout of this currently and so he stood for a moment and wondered what it would be like to have this for eternity. No more music. His favorite bands would be useless to list out with pride at parties. He would lose the ability to communicate effectively with the public. And in place of all those things would be this curse of silence. Not even white noise. He would still see everything, but interacting with other people would become a hassle. Everyone close to him would be burdened with a half-assed attempt to learn sign-language. He would have to carry a pen and paper with him at all times. He would lose the memory of his own speech. He was suddenly struck with the overwhelming feeling of how fucked up his situation really was. It was basically choosing your own death sentence on a lesser scale. It was emotional torture. It was needlessly draconian. It was sick. And there was nothing he could do about it. At the end of this mental back and forth he was going to have one less of his senses. The path he chose now dictated the direction of the rest of his life, until some new and horrifying 'choice' manifested itself. He felt helpless. Alone. Abandoned. After crying uselessly for an hour to no one at all, exhausted and defeated, he came to the conclusion that it didn't really matter which choice he made. They were both equally egregious attacks on his sense of self and his pride. He might as well close his eyes, spin around and point. He would know the choice he'd made by whether or not his eyes ever opened again. What was the point in giving one a choice in the first place? What did it mean when the odds were stacked against you in what was always an even trade? Everyone always lost. No matter what was chosen most people regretted whatever decision they had made assuming that the other option would have turned out better for them. He wanted to opt out of the process. He wanted to choose NOT to choose. So he sat down. He sat down and he waited, wondering if by some miracle waiting would make the hot-dog cart come back and the lady with the yellow dress slowly refocus. The noises of a busy street would once again fill his ears with what he now believed were the harps of angels; once car horns and yelling pedestrians. But they didn't. Time passed and nothing happened. He took a nap and woke up to the same strange setting. BLIND and DEAF plastered in front of his face asking the same unformed question, 'which ailment do you want for the rest of your days'? "I want neither..." he said under his breath. " I want neither!" he screamed to nothing. " I choose not to choose you fucking bastards! what kind of sick twisted shit is this!?". Nothing but grave silence greeted him back. "Blind." The world went dark.

All Because of Me Just one more minute, one more moment. It was all I needed, and I blew it. She’s gone, forever, all because of me. Our eyes will never meet, our hands never interlock, our love never shared ever again. And it’s all because of me. She was my entire life, my whole inspiration and purpose in life. I lived every day of my being just to spend even a single minute with her. She was my definition of beauty, for no one to ever come close to. And now I have nothing and nobody else, in the world right enough for me. And it’s all because of me. My senior year of high school was picturesquely perfect. I was a god who walked those halls, merely among common men, of those whom were barely worthy enough to bow down to me. Except something felt missing. For all the fun I was having, it just wasn’t satisfying, and for all I tried and tried it never would come to me why. That was, of course, until I met her. The way she could light up the room was indescribable. She literately made me freeze in my tracks, made me forget everything, and just know her. But no one else noticed this. So I saw it as a blessing, we were destined to be together and nothing would get in our way. Our simple passings in the hallways turned into eye contact, but awkward at first. Oh how her eyes shuttered like a pristine lake, glimmering like the sapphires given to her by birth. These very eyes starred into the depths of my soul and dug into me like a harpoon, latched in and never came out. So I pulled my churning stomach together, and went for it. The girl I had merely thought about, never talked to before, was not startled at all by my contact. She seemed to expect it, and very enthusiastically went on our first of many dates that Friday night. As the time passed, I fell in love with just everything about her; how she parted her golden locks, which clothes she wore on what days of the week, how she giggled when I tickled her, and how she breathed deep when I hugged her. But this the proverbial iceberg, I had only met the surface of this deep, dark twisted beauty. One late night, after going to a friends party, she broke down in the car on our way to her house. I didn’t understand what was going on, and any words I tried to say to comfort her were ignored. She just wept and wept, for no apparent reason at all. Finally, when we arrived at her house, she looked up from her tear soaked knees and make eye contact with me. Our eyes stayed there, interwoven, for God knows how long. All I could do was pull her in, hold her tight, and promise her that she could tell me anything in the entire world, and that no matter what happened I would be there for her in an instant. We spent 2 more hours that night just sitting in my car, talking. The love of my life opened up a wound that no one had ever cared enough to examine before, and she told me about how depression had affected her. She spent her nights, locked in her own room, cutting herself as she wept. The pain was the only way she knew how to come back from her nightmare of a life. Her parents were clueless, and she was lost in a deep sea of terror and confusion and fear all mixed into one grand tempest of her life. She feared for her very own life, because she never knew when or what would set off her sadness, her emptiness. She tired to stay strong that entire conversation, but I knew on the inside it took her all the courage and trust that was encompassed in her small and delicate body to tell me her deepest and darkest secrets. It was at that moment that I realized my own purpose-it was to save this girls life. After that night, things would never be the same. She expected me to abandon her, to throw her off like an outcast. But I didn’t, and she became my obelisk that I put all my energy and time into, and I knew that God intended me on saving her. Months passed, and she showed progress. I became a crutch for her to lean on, in times of trouble, and she went an entire month without touching that unforgiving blade. Then, one night, my phone rang. All I could hear was her, sobbing with a waterfall down her face, telling me to come over as soon as I could, because she had lost it. She had her father’s revolver held up to her head, minutes away from her life ending in a pull of a trigger. I bolted to my Dad’s car, the closest and fastest way I could think of to get to her, and left without a word to my family. I sped through the streets, taking every single way I could to save even just a second, because it could be the difference. I approached a stop sign, and after a split second decisions, stopping at this sign became a definite no. So I blew right through it, and then-nothing. The next thing I know, I am at the gates of Heaven, being told the story of my life and death to see if I am worth of this eternal life. It turned out that I was t-boned by a drunk driver who also ran that fateful intersection. I died on impact, but I will never be told if my angel made it that night. I will never know. And it’s all because of me.

this isn't real. or is it more real than anything i've ever seen? i knew it the moment i opened my eyes: i'm somewhere else. this place was designed to put me at ease. i just walked a scary path, but i think i am in heaven now. "we like to call it stage 4," a voice boomed from above. did he just hear my thoughts? "yes. you will note that sentient lives are generally partitioned into 3 stages: growing up, self-manifestation, and winding down." i was convinced it was a simulation. "oh, it is." then where am i? "we like to call it stage 4," he repeated. "we have found that when most sentient beings enter stage 4, the first thing they ask is, 'am i safe?'". i assume you're trying to convey that this is a good universe. "precisely; it is the least we can do to ease your transition." many people die every minute. shouldn't you be moving on to someone else?" "i already am. to put it crudely, i'm a piece of software representing the chief architect. i am here but i am also many other places. like the being in asimov's 'last answer.'" you said that the first thing people wonder... "i know where you're going with this. you're going to say what kind of creator am i, if beings in my universe don't even know if this is a good one." not only do you read my thoughts, you read where my thoughts are going. but yes, what kind of creator are you? "trying to push the balance toward good is not as easy as it sounds, at least without giving away the answer. sentient life is *art*. it would take something away to reveal ourselves. you would have gotten less out of it; thought it was less real. and besides, whether or not there is a creator, people should generally behave as if there isn't." so am i plugged in from the outer universe? "no. you were born truly in this universe. and so you must stay in this universe. we made stage 4 to... make amends. not to you in particular, necessarily, but given the great number of beings who suffer, we created this place for all of you. it is anything you want it to be, including being reborn into stage 1, or designing your own sub-universes, or even going quietly into the night." and what about you? what happens when you die? "i wish i knew," the voice boomed from above. "in a way, i greatly envy you.

Once upon a lawn, a grouchy old widow planted a minute plum seed. This seed had been handed down from generation to generation. Only the worthiest descendant would be able to successfully plant this seed and live. It seemed the deeper he spiraled into a great depression, the greater the intensity of his solitude, the quicker his plum seed burgeoned. Soon enough, his life was facilitated by this mere speck of ovule. He was able to buy a toupee, he had a young, blonde damsel by his side, money to fill wagons, and even a pet zebra. With his increasing opulence came the trust issues he would have when he was still a married man. Soon enough, driven mad by wealth and success, he began to trust no one. One dreary evening, a young charlatan, quite the looker—the classic tall, dark, and handsome, smooth talking stereotypical male—offered to take some of his plums off his hands. Well, what was he going to do with these? Was he going to attempt to compete with his prosperousness? Would it be for the well-being of the village? Surely, no idiot would waste all of those plums on others. The value and tenderness they were grown with, impossible to merely give away. The old man’s greed and disbelief were overcome when, in his sleep, he heard the murmur of what sounded like his wife. “Give him the plums,” she said, “he’s a nice young man.” The next morning, he left a woven basket full of plums on the charlatan’s doorstep. Curiously peering through the diminutive window of the bungalow, he noticed a faint silhouette of what appeared to be a child. Cute and innocent, right? He could do no harm…unless, the quack foresaw his visit. The child was but an informant. Raging with anger, he busted down the small wooden door and began to throw plums at the child that turned out being a coat rack. Moral of the story? Plums are cool but don’t grow them when you’re old and alone.

>This is part five of an eleven-part novella that I wrote about a year >ago. They all work as stand-alones as well, so I thought I'd test the >reddit waters first by posting this (this is my first post), then if >there's interest, I'll start from the beginning. “See that man on the bench? The one who keeps checking his watch?” “Yeah, I see him. Think I should aim for him? Because I was thinking more that bus of school children that passes by here every day around this time. Could you imagine man, all those little kids watching something like that? If only we were exposed to such things at their age.” “Well, as good for them as it may be, trust me. Go for the old man. He comes by here almost every day and he needs this more than any piece of shit kid.” “I trust you, so old man it is. How much longer?” “Few minutes, give or take how much of impact you plan to make.” “Ha. I’m sure you’ll know just as well as I will.” “You know what kind of impact we’re speaking of, right? You could change a lot of opinions if you don’t screw this up.” “What kind of opinions are we talking about here? The kinds of opinions that are swayed by an act as simple as what I’m about to do? We don’t need those kinds of people. If they don’t believe in it themselves and don’t arrive there on their own terms after whatever hardships they’ve traversed, then it’s useless anyway. Don’t follow the leader who jumps off of a building.” With those last words, I run to the edge and after seven well-placed steps, I leap towards the sky below, 80 stories down. I did it. I finally did it. Oh shit I did it, I jumped. I jumped. Shit shit shit I jumped why did I jump SHIT I JUMPED. Ok, ok, just…just…remember. Why am I doing this? To better myself and no one else. Why no one else? Because every single entity I’ve encountered thus far has only been an extension of me and by denying myself a couple decades spent living, I’m presenting a gift to the whole of my species, the gift of a clean mental slate. **-755ft to Destination-** *So I’m about to die. Well, I’ve been about to die ever since I was born, but this is simply the closest I’ve come. No, wait, now this is the closest I’ve come. No, now. Now. Now. No, stop, I can’t thought-loop my psyche when every misplaced image can’t be painted over. Death…the detachment of the personality from the corpse, the awkward pauses in conversation where I can feel my eyes grow just that much heavier; the ultimate lucid dream. Being so close to it now, I can understand at the same level as I did when I first gave my life ending any serious thought; that complete, yet incomplete notion of existing while non-existing, the essence of white space, the daydream that lasts into the night. My way of imagining it has always correlated to a recurring dream that I’ve had since I was maybe 4 or 5 years old. In this dream, I exist in a realm of utter nothingness. In this realm, no matter what direction you take or whatever actions lead your limbs, the effect is about as apparent as the cause is discernible. In this state of existence, time has no beginning and has no end. Everything around me is blank and the best way to describe it would be empty space. I am here for a reason and this reason comes to me in a complete thought, as if I experienced the idea all at once; in a realm without time, surely not inconceivable. The thought consists of a person who I haven’t met yet at that point in my life but I now recognize as someone close to me who needs my help. I attempt to speak and no words come out, but the blanket of space that has been keeping me docile is slightly rumpled and what is revealed is a bio-dome of sorts. Don’t get me wrong, the empty space remains and it feels alone, but a few bushes and trees exist alongside me in this new mental world. I begin to run and I can see numbers in my head counting down from ten. The first few seconds seem to take a lifetime, yet each individual nano-second is split into the mere act of breathing and non-breathing until everything is so sped up that my life is lived and re-lived multiple times. Whatever I’m moving towards could represent multiple things now that I look back on it, but at the time, it was just a person. Perhaps it was the attention or simply the act of looking my way; perhaps it represented a too- ignored side of me; but with this person seeming to be at risk for something grave, the strain on my psyche during the dream was staggering. So I’m attempting to run to this person because I need to save them no matter what and everything begins to slow down. My screams echo throughout the void and a bush catches my leg, causing me to trip. I can’t stand up and all I can hear are thousands upon thousands of numbers crashing through my mind. Once zero is reached, everything becomes still and my blood ceases circulation. Someone starts to cry and I no longer exist as a human being. I become part of the whiteness, part of the nothingness one could say. To be there while not being there simultaneously is a fascinating place to be. Coming out of the dream, I was always left in the same state for sometimes days. Time has no meaning and there’s this pressure that’s alleviated from my thought process. Over the years, I explored that place and each visit became a little more distant, a little less focused until eventually, I could achieve that bliss by closing my eyes and blocking out all thought.* Something hits me in the arm and tears right through it. I can feel the muscles tear as follicles and pores are ripped apart and my blood starts to stain the windows that pass me by on my descent. I think I hit a bird. Yes. I jumped off of a building and the first thing I hit isn’t the ground, but a bird. **-620ft to Destination-** *Better to hit a bird than be shit on one during my fall. I couldn’t even imagine, being shit on right after I die. Actually, I would very much like that. Surely something I would brag about to friends if I woke up. What am I thinking, ‘if I woke up’. That’s the kind of thinking that led to a developed world and a developed world is what led to the death of everything else. Earth would’ve been heavily changed by the dominant species no matter what and even though the newspapers and anchormen always say that we’re killing the planet, no, we’re not. We’re making it unsuitable for human life and evidently, much more than that. The planet will be just fine. We will be just fine. In the over-arching outline of all that ever is, we were dead much longer than we were alive and a return to normalcy may be what the current civilization needs. To kill a planet- to assume that once all human life is gone, all life stops until someone is there to observe it. The conscious observer is just as bad as the conscientious objector and with both out of the way, maybe a pair of eyes will be able to appreciate something, anything, without either martyring it or attempting to organize an intrinsically chaotic system. Order comes from chaos and chaos from order; man from society and society from man. In both cases, one seems to be in control of the other. In both cases, that one is what spends a majority of its span as the unwilling, sleeping guise of the other.* **-560ft to Destination-** *Someone must be watching me right now. Someone is seeing this body fall to the street. I’m sure that there has to be at least one parent covering the eyes of a child. I hope my body bounces and hits that parent in the face. Yes, I know that parents think they reserve the right to shield their children from the horrors of this world, but children need just as much violence and terror exposure as they need tenderness and love. The kids that I’ve seen grow up since I’ve been aware enough to observe with patience have been all but blocked out from seeing anything worthwhile. This is almost certainly not true worldwide and if it is, then I thank the lack of morality in the past few years for leading us to this, but children in this day and age lack almost every universally accepted attribute that make up for a stable, future-privileged human being. The people who grew up into leaders, thinkers, builders, artists, were not told to sit inside all day and watch someone who’s paid to entertain them. The technological advances that have been made within a generation have essentially changed the way that humans are raised in every single way. Humans aren’t raised in any way similar to what once passed for culturing a being. Everyone who can’t read or write is looked down upon; everyone who is without basic computer literacy is labeled backwards, obsolete; everyone who is without a job and an education, ostracized to the point where it’s a sub-culture on its own. The thing is, that describes almost the entire human species. Instead of being raised to develop into a healthy person with creative outlets chosen by the individual and paths taken at will, we’re all on mood-altering something or other and the outlets chosen are the outlets bought. We just plug in and absorb, whether it be the musings of Bukowski or the tales of Serling. No matter how high in regard the medium is kept, it is still nothing more than a medium, there to meet you half-way and keep you there until you create for yourself or imitate other imitators.* Feathers are pulled by the wind and out of my outstretched arms. From the ground, I must look like some sort of falling angel. **-415ft to Destination-** *Out of everyone I’ve ever met, I wonder how many of them will realize that their last time seeing me was the last time that they’d ever see me. I’ve personally never been to a funeral, but I might as well show up to my own.* **-350ft to Destination-** The open cut on my arm is being lacerated by the air flowing around it. *It doesn’t pain me at all. Not much pains me at this point. My mind is clear and my sympathetic nervous system – as calm as it’s ever been. At my rate of descent, I should be hitting the ground any second now. The old man better have stayed on that bench; he’ll be needing this. This all feels too surreal. If time as we understand it is truly a fundamental law that governs us, then I should have hit the ground ages ago. As much control as I have over the rate at which I perceive the world around me, it seems almost implausible that one could fall for this long. A single step, followed by a long fall; a single dream followed by a long awakening.* **-235ft to Destination-** *This is it, any moment now and it will be complete. The wind resistance can only resist me for so long. Try as hard as anyone may, for to stop something this long in the making, one would need to reset humanity itself. In my most optimistic reasoning, would that necessarily be such a bad thing? Sure, the road moving towards me may not exist, but neither would the workers who built the road, the parents who raised the workers. The immigrants who wanted something better and the ones set on making something worse for the better.* **-110ft to Destination-** *Where will these thoughts go once I hit the pavement? They can’t be lost to the clouds or oceans; can’t be found by the travelers or the beggars. If I regard myself as no more than an idea, then I will spend the rest of eternity lingering with my internal voice. My thoughts aren’t just spawned within myself and forgotten once I’m gone; it can’t be as simple as that. They must exist elsewhere, a place where the ideas that bring about species-wide revolutions in cognitive-ability and mutual understanding go to await the next cycle of patience-enabled statues. Some call it the collective unconscious and others just refer to it as deep-space, but I prefer to imagine the place where my concepts and ideas go to live out their usefulness as a realm readily available to anyone able to tap into potential, tap into my limited awareness and expand it beyond recognition. If what I’ve learned is still able to grow long after I’m dead, then maybe they won’t be Event #4. Maybe they’ll prosper.

>This is part 4 of an 11-part novella that I wrote in my second semester of college. If there's any interest, I'll post the rest starting from the top. Thanks. As I reach for the top shelf, I hear something crack and for once, it’s not me or my bones, but simply the walls. Surely a good sign that today’s show will be memorable. Closing the cupboard, I notice that one of the hinges is creaky; something I’ll have to keep an eye on. After a few minutes of preparation, there is a small bag of popcorn in my coat pocket. The dead of winter is still not dead enough for me to reciprocate, but to be safe, I put on my scarf before locking the front door and stepping onto the sidewalk. Looking at my watch, the time is half-past-noon – a fitting time to start my journey. While my destination, the park bench at the intersection of Pike St. and Irish Lane, isn’t more than a twenty-minute walk, leaving now will make sure that I arrive with time to spare. Can’t miss another show and definitely can’t be late. Looking back up, the wind blows in my eyes and if I squint, I can just make out a fragment of the day-to-day existence of this patch of concrete. Everyone may be gone, but the air has never felt more refreshing. My legs intertwine with the crosswalk and eventually, the other side of the road as I start to approach my old school; the school that I was in as a child and my children and children’s children attended. To think, thousands of lives began with the ill-advised teachings of the mental-terrorists who taught here. To think, six lives ended here. I moved past my own false reality decades ago, but it still troubles me when I remember how sure of myself I was back then; how right everything felt and how arrogant I only became when I thought I moved past the previous year’s model. This building only breeds the minds of the malleable and as malleable as I once was and still may be, stretch my mind far enough and it’s simply putty for the masses to mold as one person after another sees fit. Condemned long after it commandeered many an education, the worst it can do now is disrupt the air flow and soil. I leave the school behind for the last time and continue. Smiling couples, smiling children, smiling birds, everyone I pass today just seems to be happy where they are; good for them I say. They’ve still got so much ahead of them and whatever’s behind them has only brought them to this moment. I check my watch again and it’s quarter-to-one, still plenty of time. As I turn the corner, an enormous tree comes into view and with it, fond memories of elementary school botany. I walk to the park entrance and stop to watch the passersby come and go as they focus on their where and hopefully why. As hoped, there still remains a single living organism within the borders of the streets surrounding me. A small child wearing a baseball cap walks up to me. I smile and she smiles back. I see her parents not too far off and they wave. Odd, how trusting people are with their eyes and legs, but who am I to judge when I’m in the process of losing mine anyway. “Hiya Mister, my Mommy and Daddy bring me here every weekend. The swings are my favorite. Do you like to swing?” “Hello little girl; I did when I was your age, but I’m not so good at swinging anymore,” I said with a laugh. “Hm, why can’t you anymore?” “Well, I’m an old man now. I used to be young like you and when I was a little boy, I swung every single day. I did so much more than swing in this particular park though. Would you like to hear a story?” “Yes! I love stories!” “Ha, I’m glad to hear that. You see, a very long time ago, I was a little boy who went to the school around the corner. At that time, this park was just grass and a single bench. My second grade teacher had an idea, the sort of idea that gets you really excited. The idea was for me and my classmates to each plant a pine tree in this park so that by the time we were grandparents with much experience and turmoil to look back on, there would always be the tree we planted here to represent a simpler time. The original goal was to have a beautiful park for the children. Here’s the fun part, though. I didn’t like the other kids very much. Actually, I didn’t really like anything very much. The kinds of things that brought happiness to me were coated in the sadness of others. That’s just how I was raised; I thought it was normal. So on the day of the planting, I replaced my pine tree seed with something else. Can you guess what I replaced it with?” With visible confusion on her face, she said, “No, I can’t. Tell me!” “I replaced my pine tree seed with the seed of the black walnut tree. It’s a very special tree and it was chosen for very special reasons. The black walnut kills pine trees and almost everything around it. The local fauna rots and decays and all that’s left is an entity that kills all but itself. The dream of self-preservation, clearly displayed for only me to be enthralled by year after year.” With that said, the little girl looked around and for the first time, she saw the park how I saw the park – a single tree surrounded by dead grass. There are no squirrels. No flowers to bring hope every spring. No bees to pollinate the flowers. No natural predators of any kind, whether it be insect or mammalian. The only two predators here are me and my old friend, the black walnut. Two of a kind one could say. “It was nice sharing my story with you little girl. Be sure not to tell anyone, ok? It’s our secret.” “Alright Mister. I think I’m gonna go back to my swings. Bye.” “Goodbye.” I turn my back to the park and start walking away. Strange, how after all this time, nothing else has grown; it’s like my seed all those years ago killed so much more than the seeds of others. The ideas instilled in this park are as dead as the dreams my classmates had for a forest to play in. Such a triviality, these silly games of which actions were right then but wrong now. That is one thing that I have been able to observe in my years of passivity; no matter how backwards a choice may be once made, it is always somehow justified and that justification lasts until the idea is dead and the memory is forgotten. Wrought advocacy is not something that will ever be fixed down the road after the choice is made. What always seems to follow are acts of grandeur, speeches made about how to make things better by working around what is too difficult to admit. Maybe this is something that will never be changed as long as the people turning these ideas into reality are as parasitic as the ideas themselves. The hands on my wristwatch read three-minutes-to-one as I quicken my pace. The bench is in sight. As I get closer, I notice that it’s empty. Perfect. It would be a waste to have to share such an anticipated moment with another person. Finally here on time, I sit down and relax. One leg naturally crosses the other with my left ankle resting on my right knee. My head leans back with the scarf creating a pillow of sorts and the first thing I see are the clouds. It’s amazing, how they still look as wondrous as they did when I was a child, the only thing to retain its innocence. I reach my hand into my pocket and take out the popcorn. Showtime. I look down the road patiently and to my surprise, I see the little girl from the park skipping towards me with her parents trailing behind at a brisk pace; how poetic. They look like decent people and I’m sure that they would’ve raised a fine daughter one day if given the opportunity. As they approach the bench, the mother and father don’t seem to realize that I’m the same man from the park and neither does the daughter. Three sets of legs step onto the empty road and I hear a small, honest voice ask a question. “Daddy, what does self-preservation mean?” I can almost hear the puzzlement in his smile and before he has a chance to respond, my show begins. A car going well over the speed limit flies through the red light and hits all three bodies at the same time. They practically explode as bones break and pieces of flesh and clothing are scattered across the road. The car just keeps going, apparently content with what has occurred. From the open window in the apartment building across the street, only two things are heard – laughter, and a single person clapping.

Elliott awoke in his bed. Not quite sober, not quite drunk. Being a 25 year old neanderthal is simple, in his own mind, but arduous in the worlds mind. Upon placing his feet halfway on the floor he pondered if he should start his day, or end his day. Both ended in the same outcome of misery. With his head full of half stars he started his day,thinking about his failures as well as grandiose ideas of the day to come. He slid on his shoes and clothed himself the way he did yesterday, or anyday prior as far as he was concerned. He peered into the vacant window of his failures as he sipped his Irish coffee, contemplating on if he should start his day. There was never really any choice, anyway. He humbly yet stressfully lulled his way into his job, wondering why. He took his old cutless to work, thinking along the way of his failures. The flask in his inned jacket pocket, beating louder than his heart, reassured him of his confusion. Whilst passing beautiful women along his comute, he couldn't help but think of what could've been, The luxury of no anxiety, the freedom of his mind, and why he couldn't get his damn oil changed. As he strolled into his mundane job, the flask beat loudly as he imagined it in his blood stream. But his anxiety helped him carry on into his cubicle. He could see the poeticness of it, but chose to ignore it as his glee-full co-workers passed him by. He confusingly had an innermonolouge, but to hell with it, at least I have my flask, as he thought as he took a swig, How can a sell this nonsense to others, he thought. As sad as he was, he was the most enlightened one in this prison, or so he thought. He took a heroic swig from his flask and stared blankly at his monitor. "I'm not better than this", he thought. He jumped heart first into his workday, his flask of a heart picking up pace. He certainly had a case of the Fridays. The Fridays filled with booze and sorrow. He fumbled through his logic and decided that it was time for sleep. He stood up, strolled out of his office hoping someone would pick up on his aura, but no one did other than the rotating door upon his exit. As he decended down the stairs, he couldn't help but feel this was a soliloquy for his life. Down, down, down. Step after step until he reached the exit, The relief, the agony, the purity hit him at once, At that moment he fantasized that everything was not going to be alright, even though it was. During his ride back "home", he contemplated not life, but the actions in it. And in that pure moment he felt happiness, The happiness that only happens in commercials. It was okay. Today was okay, Tomorrow was a mystery, and he took solace in that. Finally, a half smile showed on his face. He had found his love, The love for the unknown. Praise be to his gods.

He had never truly created before. He'd done lots of making, lots of sorting, lots of piling. But never before had he created something from thin air. So he sat and began to try and do the impossible. It took lots of concentration, something he had always lacked. He had always found that ideas seemed to assault with much greater force then they seemed to other people. Every sound, word, movement, color and character were threads forming a tapestry that covered him, changed him and the world around him was filtered through those threads. Each story that became part of his tapestry changed him a little more. Words that were not his filled his mind and sometimes escaping his mouth. The tapestry of stories that he carried with him seemed to be always growing. Others seemed to also carry their own tapestry, each beautiful in it's own way. But he always knew that his was the most beautiful. He worked constantly- refining his tapestry into a coat that would protect him and keep him warm. Instead of letting the words of the world come to him, he began to seek them out. Stealing the silks of stories anywhere he could find them and slowly working them into a form that better suited him and his needs. He added to his coat of stories until had become long and heavy. He was quite proud of it and would use any opportunity he had to show it off (sometimes to the annoyance of others). But as proud as he was of his coat he began to find that it wasn't enough to just collect the pictures, words, and characters surrounding him. He wanted to make them. He wanted not to steal the silk that stories were made of but to create them like others did- out of thin air. He had always been fascinated by these magicians, the ones who could create these stories out of this air. The tapestries their silk made seemed to help the world turn. They were the strings that could connect strangers, they were a recipe for both a smile and a tear. A truly great magician could, with a few of their blessed threads bring damnation or salvation. He wanted to be one of those magicians. He wanted to be adored for the threads he pulled from the air. He wanted to be blessed. But he was afraid. Ever so afraid. Because just as someone could bring damnation to others, they could just as easily bring damnation and scorn to themselves. For the magical threads were not truly pulled from the air. They were pulled from deep within the magicians. Tapestries were made of pictures, words, and stories but these threads were made from the memories, secrets and lives of magicians. To hold the thread of a magician was to hold something that was precious to that magician. And above all else he feared judgment. He feared that after all these years of hiding within the words, pictures and stories of others that he would be empty inside. That if he reached to deep within himself he would find nothing but the air. So he would take pieces of the coat that he had made from the silk of other magicians and try to pass them off as his own. He received praise for the stories he had been collecting for so long. "What stories you tell!" they would claim. "Truly you have a gift!" He would nod and smile, thanking them for their praise. But he never truly felt pride for these second hand stories he passed about. He grew more and more depressed as he began to fear the emptiness that might exist within him. Then one day, hidden far from others he decided he couldn't take it anymore. He needed to know what was inside of him. He removed his coat and standing naked he reached within the deepest depths of his soul to see what lie there. So deep did he reach that he forgot where he was, or even who he was. He reached until he saw it. A thread stretched before him shining bright. And he grabbed that thread and held onto it with everything he was. For the first time he felt the something that was truly his. He awoke from his trance with this story in his hand. A story that seemed to have come from thin air. Filled with pride, he began to inspect his thread. Truly it was his, but...something about it seemed familiar. He grabbed the coat that he had constructed from the threads of other magicians. His thread looked like only a newer, shoddier version of the threads that made up his coat! He was filled with misery. So this was all he was capable of? After passing off the threads of his coat as his own he was now only capable producing terrible duplicates of the threads that he had loved and cherished. Horrified, he cast his thread that he had once held tightly in his hand aside and hugged his coat- the last comfort he had. For a long time he sat there, counting the threads he had collected over the years. Then he noticed something. The newer threads he had collected bared a strong similarity to the older threads of his coat. Why? He looked more closely and realized that the threads of the new magicians all seemed to resemble the older magicians that came before them. But why? Had these magicians done the same as he had? Were they all just as incapable as he was? He thought on this for some time and had a brilliant realization. What if, long ago, there was only one story? A cherished thread that was recreated over and over again, passed along and used for generations. Until one day someone created an imperfect version of that thread. It wasn't necessarily better- but it was capable of different magic that the first thread wasn't. Then what if someone duplicated that second thread, one that also imperfect? Then someone could have created a fourth thread by combining that second and third thread. What if this happened for millions of years? How many threads could there be? All of them coming from the same original idea but all of them still so very different. All of them making up the coat that covered him inside and out. Upon realizing this he reached within once more to pull out another thread. Sure enough, another imperfect thread was pulled from the air. Birthed from all the threads that had come before it, yet somehow different. He then realized that this was an experience all magicians had gone through. And with one imperfect, ugly thread in hand and on the ground next to him he realized that he was now a magician. He left his first thread where it lie, and hid the second. He was still to ashamed to call either thread his own. But he continued creating threads after that. Slowly and painfully at first, but then with time he began to create more and more. The more he created the easier it became. He eventually began to enjoying his threads. He knew that even with all their imperfection they were his. And in studying his threads he learned more and more about who he was. He dreamed of one day showing this threads to others, but the thought still terrified him. He stilled feared judgment above all else. He may have been a magician now, but that in no way guaranteed that the threads he created would be accepted. Showing off his coat to others was one thing- he knew that the threads that made up his coat were treasured and sought after. But the threads he himself made? His eyes were the only to have ever seen these. And he feared how others would treat them. If his threads were to be rejected he feared that he would no longer have the courage to create another. Considering this he ceased creating his threads. He tricked himself into thinking that the less threads he created the greater of quality they would be. But deep down he knew this to be a lie. He was constantly aware of his deep cowardice. Then one day he could stand it no longer. He reached deep down a pulled a thread out of thin air. This thread held everything that was precious to him, and before a crowd of many people he exposed it. He did not know how they would react nor did he care. They could love the thread, they could laugh at it, they could hate it- they might even ignore it. But it didn't matter. Because he had decided that a magician who only creates magic for themselves serves no purpose but their own. And even the worse writer has more worth than one that hides their story away. Above all else he feared judgment. All else except never being heard at all.

April 6, 2052, 1 pm Agent Martin makes his way back to work after lunch break. His office, on the top floor of the Data Security Center—DSC—is indistinguishable in design and contents from the other offices on the vast floor. All are small soundproof rooms, windowless, shut off by black sliding glass doors. Each office is a command center. Martin takes his seat, yawns, and puts on his headset. He enjoys his job; it often reminds him of playing video games as a youth. He turns to the monitor on his right, strikes a few keys on the keyboard, and up pops a panel showing birds-eye footage of a suburban neighbourhood. A large textbox underneath reads “Approaching Destination: 200 meters”. The number steadily decreasing. This damn wind hasn't let up the slightest, he thinks, shaking his head. It had been extremely windy the entire day. Prior to leaving for lunch, he had delployed a set of four drones—as was the standard deployment—packed in a larger camoflauged container-unit—camo-con—which was the source of the footage now on screen. The targets name was Wesley Smith. His activities had been flagged with “Acute Suspicion” by the system earlier that morning. All such cases required the attention of and if necessary, investigation—or “analysis” as it called—by an agent. Martin considered it bad luck when such cases were assigned to him. He had groaned when the notification had popped up. The day was fairly quiet and he'd been having great fun micro-managing a drone in a local park. The notification had presented him with a typically boring task. Wesley was sixteen years old. Another stupid sixteen year old that's fascinated with how drugs or bombs can be made, he'd thought then. However, to his delight, he found that the flag had nothing to do with the users querying history, but rather it's lacktherof. Wesley, it seemed, had found himself some very good encryption software—that the system must be unfamiliar with—as over the past nine hours, his data footprint had been reduced tremendously, triggering the flag. Martin had let out a whistle as he thought about all the different possibilites. There was a small chance that this kid possesed data that could lead to him to the source. These were the types of cases Martin was best at. He would surely get a promotion if he were to uncover the creators behind some black market encryption package. He had then followed the standard procedure, flagged the case as “Under Analysis” and had deployed the drone set. The wind however, had delayed what should have been a half-hour trip to over an hour. Now, he watches as the container unit stops at ten meteres from what he assumes is the target's home. Gusts of wind gently rock the camera side to side. The house is an average looking two-storey house, an exception being the large apple tree in the front yard. Hanging from the tree, a tire-swing slowly sways back and forth. It's the swing that flashes in Martin mind; as a kid, he had a friend who lived in a home on that very street. Passing by here, he would often see children pushing each other on that swing. His mind wanders, and he finds himself wondering whether Wesley—No, he must'nt get distracted. The system begins running a series of tests to confirm that this is the correct house, then ejects the four drones from the container, and prompts Martin to guide the entry. This was probably the most enjoyable part of his job. He begins micromanaging the blade—the smallest, quickest and most agile of the set—and defines a distance for the others to trail behind. The blade was one inch long, half an inch wide, and four millimeters in height. It was a dull shade of grey and perfectly smooth. A barebone unit, it contained just a nano mic-cam component, a communications component, a power supply, and over a dozen micro-motors; it was fairly stealthy, ideal for recon. It's light weight also meant however, that it was a challenge to control in the wind, and Martin througly enjoyed this challenge. After zipping around some for fun, he spots an open window at the back side of the house. He thought it a bit odd for a window to be left open when it was this windy, but was able to determine that the room is unoccupied. As the small drone caravan silently advances into the dark room, the monitor to Martins left begins blinking. The hound—a relatively clumsly unit that Martin almost hadn't included—had detected illicit substances in it's proximity. A line of bolded text on the monitor reads: SUBSTANCE: [SCHEDULE I - CANNABIS], the last word—CANNABIS—appearing in green font. The change in font color was Martin's little hack to his own station, thus no one else would ever see it. He chucked to himself whenver it came up. He suddenly dreads including the Hound in the set, and hopes it's a false positive. Standard procedure had to be followed now. He issues the command for the drones to begin inspecting the room. Martin ran his own alrorithm—a feat that as far as he knows, only he has acomplished—for room inspection and was proud of it. The largest unit—the Tech—contains the processor shared by the four and is responsible for giving instructions to the other three. In fact, even now, the signals sent to the Blade by Martin are first processed by the Tech, and then only passed on if it considers them safe. It is a highly complex unit whose nano-mechanics Martin had always been in awe of, but was not authorized to program. Just to override it's room-inspection algorithm had taken him weeks and numerous demonstrations. But he had done it, and now the three drones would sniff, photograph, and record the sound in every visible and acessible space in the room, in at most three minutes. As the blade, he slides underneath the centimeter tall gap underneath the door, sees that it leads to an empty hallway, and remains there as a lookout. When the inspection completes, Martin sits silenlty looking over the new data while carefully listening for any sound through the headphones. The Bat, a unit with ultrasonic capability, working with the Hound had determined that a desk—the laptop sitting on which Martin disappointedly noted was powered off—contains in it's drawer, between three to four grams of marijuana. For the second time that day, Martin groaned. There was nothing more he could do here. Had he not discovered the weed, he could have gone probing further to try and hack a device on the network. But the presence of the drug had already been logged by the system. The case was no longer in his domain. Any further risk taken by him would be overridden or worse, logged and reported, by the Tech. He would not be doing any hacking today. As he begins to type out the mandatory report to send back to PRISM, he wonders who the case will be assigned to now—if it hadn't already—and what type of power and authorization that person has. Maybe, he thinks, it's someone inside this building somewhere. Regardless of what the system would do with the information he had just added to it, he was fully certain that young Wesley's days of being a free man were numbered.

So my friend sent me this story he wrote this morning.... thought I would share here, edited for names. Authors name removed per his request. Jamie’s Trip The Jail So it's a mid-summer day in California. The sun was shining and the wind was blowing. Jamie White lead in this story was out doing a biking video with two of his friends. Jamie after about thirty minutes was riding back on his bike. Jamie was just riding and a car came out of no where so Jamie made a quick swerve right and there were four black people across the street and they saw all of this happen so the black people start talking trash to Jamie, “oh look fat boy almost got hit”. So Jamie started making fun of them back “oh what are you going to rob somebody.” So they stared going back and forth it was starting to get heated a bit. So one of the black guys was like “Hey you're pretty funny....follow us.” Jamie not thinking like he normally does started to follow them (mistake # 1) and while on the way to the black compound the argument was still going on. So they arrive at the black compound and one the black guys say's “hold on man let me get the door for you.” (Mistake #2) Jamie was thinking in his mind “You know when five black people you don't know come up to you and ask you to follow them, Run do not pass GO do not collect two hundred dollars just run”. But Jamie still followed them. So at the gate there were three males and one female and the female was large...So she started started making fun of Jamie too. So Jamie calmly said “Shut the fuck up bitch, you look like a pregnant walrus”. (Mistake 3) next thing you know the walrus started throwing fist at Jamie. Jamie got hit 3 times right is face and then the walrus took her juice box and threw it at Jamie. Jamie inched over to her face and yelled “calm down.” and she was like “Nah fuck that fuck that you called me a bitch”. So the three other boy's started to talk off their clothes “you done fucked up now big boy”. Three of the four black people started to run and get other people out of their apartments. So the black dude punched Jamie right in the face two times and Jamie was like “Nah ok man let's go”. So jamie took his right arm and did a full swing to the left and the black boy just put up his right arm and just blocks and then snaps his arm out of place. So now Jamie is like a prison bitch. Jamie takes his bike and runs across the street and the black boy ran across the street with him and Jamie turned around and in the distance all Jamie see is a bunch of black people running toward Jamie carrying what ever they had on them one women had a brush and another man had some tape. One other lady had a Cain, little kids were running out like Jamie was Barney. One woman run out of her apartment with a loft of bread. So Jamie sees them all running at him see he looks down and he sees some rusty pipes and Jamie picked up one long pipe and he yelled “everyone stand back”. One other dude picks up a pipe and was like “nah im coming to fight you”. Next thing you know a blue van pulls up and stops short and the tires make a screeching sound. Jamie was like “Ohh no theres going to be like gang members and they are going to jump out and it's over”.Two police jump out and they are dressed like army officers, they run past all the people that are trying to get Jamie. They run up to Jamie and put a taser and put it right up to Jamie’s chest and says in a monotone voice “Put it the fuck down”. Jamie started to chaplain about his arm and the cop just yells “I'm gonna shoot you get the fuck down”. Jamie lays down on the cold ground and they handcuff him and the other black boy. So they walked up to the crowd of black people and started making up a story “Yeah we were walking and this man came off a hand glider and started throwing fireballs at us and then he landed and pushes this old lady down and put a gun up to her head”. Next thing Jamie knows the black mother comes out and walks over to the police squad car and starts to make hand signs of Jamie raping this black lady. So Jamie was like “ohh no what am I going to do, my arm is messed up”. So he told the police officer he wants to press charges and the office just told Jamie “Shut the fuck up bitch”.After about thirty minutes Jamie is taken out of his squad car and ask Jamie for his side of the story so Jamie told them his side of the story. They take Jamie out of the squad car and they take the black person handcuffs off so Jamie was thinking to himself “Ok good they are going to let me go”. So they come over to the squad car and Jamie gets out and asks where are we going and the cops says “Your going to jail”. Jamie asked “Wait for what?” and Jamie then said “but sir I didn't hit anyone”. The cop said “I know, but you wanted to”. Jamie sat there all mad and then he said “But sir what about my bike” and the cop laughs and says “What bike?” and then Pulls off. Jamie gets into the police station and Jamie smelt like shit and his arm was still fuck up. So they officers assign Jamie a room full of like forty prisoners. One guy was just dressed in blood and he was staring at the wall. So he is sitting there and then Jamies arm pops out of place three times and each time Jamie just starts yelling and yelling until the pain was gone. Jamie found a belt on the ground and put it around his arm like a sling. Every guard that walks by Jamie asks about to see a doctor about his arm and then officer said in a deep southern accident “Shut up convict you cannot have medical attention until you are processed”. The floor was cold and went prisoners peed on the floor. Prisons also beated off on the floor. Jamie is sitting in there for like eight hours and he was thinking to himself “The bail is going to be so low I haven’t done anything in years the bail is going to be like five hundred dollars to a thousand dollars, I only have to pay ten percent”. The officer take Jamie out and have him sit down and the guard said “bail set at thirty thousand dollars”. Jamie pulled his head to the right and put his hand on his ear “excuse me sir?” and they said it again “thirty thousand dollars. Jamie said “hold on” he started to count on his fingers and looks up “That's two thousand five hundred big macs”. Jamie repeated the finger counting and looks up again “That’s eight hundred thousand one dollar meals” He counted on his fingers again “That's seventeen hundred blows jobs from the hooker down the street”. So jamie was like “ok don't worry you only have to pay ten percent how much is that and he was like three thousand dollars”. So Jamie gets put in processing again for four hours and a nurse comes to so jamie a big fat lady walks and says with an attitude “So whats wrong with you?” and Jamie says “my arm I think its snapped out of place” The nurse reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a flint stone vitamin and says “here take this” and then walks out. Jamie looks at the vitamin and says to himself “are you kidding?”. Three days go by and Jamie is still in processing and then finally they put Jamie in a medical cell to see medical attention about his arm. In the cell is about four-five old guys. The homeless man gets up and runs up to the concrete slab and is yelling with no pants on and a guy is like “ that’s not a toilet!” and the homeless man just sits there and yells “no seizure!” and that moment shit began to fly out his ass like homeless mini gun. Next thing you know it's lunch time for Jamie he sits down and he gets his meal all the meal is, is a bologna sandwich on wheat bread no dressing nothing no cheese to mayo nothing and some cake. Same meal for breakfast lunch and dinner. After a day in the medical tent and a Asian doctor says “so what seems to be the problem and Jamie says “my arm is dislocated”. And the doctor says “your arms not dislocated”and then sends Jamie back to the medical cell. After another hour another doctor sees Jamie and is a good doctor and gave Jamie a sling and the guards take Jamie to where he will be staying. By this point Jamie called his siblings and asked said”please get me out “. The gaurds tell me and one other white boy and told them they were going to the youngsters tank and the moment they said that everyone said “ooooooohhhhh” like it was high school again and one dude shouted to Jamie “Choppa”and Jamie was like”whats going on?” and one inmate said “boy the youngsters tank is the worst place to go”. The youngsters are just doing push ups. One beefy dude is like “aww boy were going to have fun with you guys”. The white boy Jamie is with is named Gatling. And he is trying to make friends with the beefy looking dude. They have this routine they have two kids fight and the loser gets jumped. Gatling is getting jumped and Jamie just sits there and pretends to be all cool . The big beefy dude name is Choppa. Choppa was the big main dude and the head of prison society. Jamie goes to the shower cause he hasnt taken one in like five days and then Jamies taking a shower and Choppa says “big boy If I ever smell you like this again there will be some problems”. And Jamies voice gotten deep and says “oh yeah” but Choppa didn't so anything. So Jamie is just chlling there and they start singing “Choppa how big is your stick I can jump with my stick I can jump with my stick show your stick show your stick” Choppa showed it and a bunch on people join in but not Jamie and Jamie went to court the and Jamie got his bail reduced to ten thousand. Gatling gets out and a small guy and a big dude try to jump Gatling and Gatling doges and yells “peace dude im outta here and Gatling walks out”. The short dude walks into Jamies tank and sits down and Jamie hears a noise looks forward cause his arm was covering his face Jamie thought to himself “what the hell is that”. At that time a mexican cleaning lady is cleaning the windows Jamie looks down the see the short guy with a magazine and the magazine is making noises and the short dude is jerking off to the fat mexican cleaning lady. Jamie is thrown off his bed and they begin to jump Jamie. The next morning Jamie was scared and the next thing you know the loud speaker goes of f. “Jamie White to the front desk to be released on bond!” the door opened and after six hours he was a free man.

The walls reflected the starkness of the house, and it's spirit; brightly cream coloured, yet somehow dark and rotten. Dust clung to every orifice of it’s being, although if you asked me I'd tell you it was cleaner than ever. Their was something chaotically organised about it all, as if the place was catalogued by some divine power just out of human grasp. In some patches, paint peeled off like dead skin. But the house was alive. The whistle of a kettle echoed down the hall, dragging back memories of the thousand cups of tea that made up my mother's regular diet. A note of music intruded upon this sound- piano, or perhaps violin. My parents were talking, my brother laughing at the television. I shivered, and, trying to ignore these sounds, drew my heavy lidded mind back to my studies. The house stilled, but remained awake. Outside, the sun gave one final, presumptuous glow and disappeared. The greenery faded to shadows, the winds stopped, but the house remained, and, having observed all of this, I remembered when I first saw this place. It was a day like any other day, yet so unlike any other day it sent my mind reeling. It was the day I died. Looking around the room, I watched as the illusion faded and I returned. Once again I found myself in the commune; the screams, the smell of charcoal still new to my senses, and I remembered that the house was alive no more, and that I was once again alone.

Editing for formatting. People here weren't your typical shopping-mall, suburban mom-type pretenders. Here there was grit. Here there was spit, spilled booze, broken glass, cigar-flavored air. Here there was a bar, in the middle of nowhere; a biker stop, really, ducked off down by the old frontage road past the overpass. No neon signs lit up, no teenagers told their friends this place's name, and those who did talk about it referred to it only as "The Stop." Jukebox rambled on in the background, all full of vibration. War, Edwin Star. Bartender spat in a cup, scratched the beard of his neck. A fly pestered a drunk at the bar. The bartender reached for his swatter, brought it down like a judge's gavel. Drunk just grunted. *ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, LISTEN TO ME* The only door swung open slow, only the night seemed to wait beyond it. Only mosquitoes, the faint but constant sound of frogs and crickets. No one seemed to notice the squeak, save for the bartender. The only door. Dust kicked back and the floor boards rattled some as the knob smacked the wall. This, the drunks did notice. Jukebox still blared, but any murmurs died down. They all stared into the night beyond the door, the one door. They all smoked their tobacco and put down their beers. Night wore a boot, and stuck it through that one door. Alligator skin, old, worn, dirty, still tough and intact. A heavy frame followed; the night birthed a man. A black poncho hung over his belt-line, to his thighs. His cowboy hat hid his eyes, his beard hid his chin, and his toothpick danced on his lips. Grit. The Night hung there a moment, the drunks took him in. A few started to murmur again. The bartender stood still. Another fly buzzed by the same grunting patron, he did nothing. The night was here, and it wore boots. *Many a young man's dreams* *Made him disabled, beaten and mean* *Life is much too short and precious* The Night's steps were heavy, slow, purposeful. The kind of walk a man has when he means to make a point. The one door hung open behind him, dead on its hinges. He sat down at the bar, head hung low and chewing that toothpick. It had to be gum by then. *To spend it fighting wars these days* *War can't give life* The bartender. "Listen, mister, I don't want any-" *It can only take it away* Boom. Splatter. Brains on back of bar, bits of skull on cash register. Frightened patrons. Scramble. *OOOOH, WAR, HUH* *WHAT IS GOOD FOR* A revolver smoked in The Night's gloved hand. Arm outstretched, he was frozen in the madness. They were all dead when he walked in, dead anyway. Six shots were all he had, one was gone. Then two more were gone, lost in the heads of drunks cowering in a corner. His head still hung low, his beard still bobbed as he chewed that toothpick. A fourth bullet sang through the air, struck a pitcher and went through the wall. The fifth had an up-close-and-personal visit with a biker's back (the hole it left tagged the forehead of the skull printed on his kutte). Then a silence. Brief, welcomed. A television above and beyond the bar switched on. The Night looked up with red eyes, his hat falling to the bloodstained floorboards. White noise. Black hair. A mess of it, to his back, all grease and tangles. *SAY IT AGAIN* *WAR, WHOAH LORD* *WHAT IS I-* Jukebox kicked off. No one left inside, no one to hear it cut off as if the power had been pulled, though it hadn't. No one left to wonder why evil came to The Stop in July when it was hot. Footprints left trails to skid marks where trucks peeled out in the parking lot. The dead jukebox, the footprints, the corpses of the Bartender and his patrons, the TV's white noise, that was all. And those red, red eyes. A face climbed through the static, to smile on the screen. It locked eyes with the Night. One by one, every light bulb in the bar burst. Then the mirrors cracked. After that, the beer bottles exploded. One. By. One. Last was the TV, the static, the noise, the face. It clicked off with that sharp whistle the old ones make. It clicked off, and The Night was gone in smoke. His bar-stool swung for no one to see. Dead eyes could only perhaps behold spit, spilled booze, broken glass, cigar-flavored air. Blood. Wherever The Night went, it still had one bullet.

It is unclear how this story should start. “It was a day just like any other, only it wasn’t” or “It was a stereotypical Arizona day; the kind so normal, weathermen found it odd enough to give it mention” sound superfluous for such an average story, and yet they provide the best description of how the day began. The sun was shining without a cloud in the sky, and a slight breeze drifted in from the southwest; just enough to rustle leaves on the city’s single tree. Most of the population was either at work or in school, leaving a quasi-quiet atmosphere in their wake. The General Motors factory building stood just as it had for the past thirty years. Inside a window on the top floor, an immaculate office stood facing the city. A large oak desk overlooked the glass, as bookshelves and picture frames lined the walls, and a traditional putting mat and clubs occupied the far corner. The sole occupant was a tall man, dark hair graying at the ends and neatly groomed. He was a thin, pale man, the lines on his forehead betraying his easy smile and relaxed posture. His Armani suit was freshly pressed and buttoned, with two pens adorning his breast pocket and a shiny set of cufflinks and tie clip completing the picture. In front of him, on the desk, sat the files. Tyler rubbed his forehead, trying not to look at the papers on the desk in front of him. He’d been staring at the two files for over an hour now, and was no closer to making a decision than when he’d started. Management was cutting back, and there was no longer the salary space for two design artists. And, of course, it was his duty as manager to make the final call on who would stay and who would get laid off. Which would have been fine, had the men not been so similar. Both had been hired at the same time, neither had missed a day of work, and both were excellent at their job. Tyler knew that losing one of them was a mistake; they worked as a team, and were definitely better together than either one on his own. But management wanted cutbacks, and when the big chair is thousands of miles away, it can’t see the same things he could. Again, he picked up the first file and skimmed over the practically-memorized information. Rod Heftman, age 36, graduated middle of his class from graphic design. He’d done some free work for a buddy’s web page before their business had contacted and hired him. Married, three kids, one in college. Had worked for their company for seven years now. Rod was a big, quiet man, sporting a neatly trimmed beard and glasses. He was easy-going and casual, typically chatting it up with other coworkers while on his smoke and lunch breaks. He was amiable and hardworking, and was someone to be counted on to keep his head if things went wrong. He wasn’t overly ambitious, and though he did not stop at the minimum, he wouldn’t push himself past what he saw was satisfactory; a trait that was seen by most as simultaneously realistic and lazy. Jon Godard, on the other hand, was 28 years old, and had graduated in the top third of his class. He’d come straight out of college to the company, giving a winning interview and boasting several honors in his resume. Married as well, with two young daughters, he had also worked 7 years for the company. Where Rod was quiet and reserved, Jon was outspoken and ambitious. He was a smaller man, with gelled black hair and a Colgate commercial-worthy smile. His charisma seemed to be off the charts, though he kept his flirting to a minimum, most likely on account of his family. He was a dreamer, an imaginative that loved to think big and go hard into a project. Occasionally he’d lose himself in a line for several days at a time, before Rod would gently remind him to join the world of the living again. He didn’t handle stress well, and would tend to get moody and irritable during a big project. The two men worked perfectly together, with Jon pushing new and bigger ideas while Rod kept him grounded and leveled out his impulsiveness. Tyler knew that the department would suffer a good amount no matter which one of them left; either it would lack in creativity and perfectionism, or it would be erratic and unpredictable. But management was clear, and no matter how he’d tried to explain it to them, he’d gotten the same answer: only one design artist. Tyler sat back, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hated to do this to either of them; both had families to feed, and would have a lot of trouble trying to find a decent job in the current economy. Both could do well in the position alone as well; he would simply have to pick his poison when it came to the drawbacks. Their main strength was the creativity of their design and advertisements. To lose that would definitely hurt them; under normal circumstances however, even mediocre results, if consistent, were better than a roller coaster of excellent and lacking work. Tyler sat still for a while longer, picking through every detail he could to find a solution. Nothing came to mind, and eventually he gave up. It was simply going to be a blind pick, a game of chance, with no clear outcome visible for either solution. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a quarter, flipping it between his fingers as he studied the small designs. It was only fair, really. After all, he couldn’t decide, and it wouldn’t be ethical to poll the co-workers or fire both and hire someone new. At least chance was fair: fifty-fifty. Positioning the coin on his thumb, he expertly flipped it into the air, catching it on its way down and slapping it to the back of his wrist. He held his hand still, refusing to see the result. He had hoped that the answer would come to him as he did the deed; what was the saying, “Flip a coin; when it’s in mid-flight and you find yourself suddenly hoping for an outcome, you’ll know what to choose.” But still he had felt nothing but apprehension. Taking a deep breath, he sagged his shoulders a bit. It would be up to the coin after all. But what if I could do something? His mind began to wonder, causing him to stay his hand for a little while longer. There had to be another way; there was always another way. Again his mind picked up, though this time exploring broader options than before. Without looking at the coin, he dropped it on his desk and walked out of his office. Approaching Wendy, he waved. She smiled her typical big smile and greeted him. “Well look who’s out of the office. Come to mingle with us workers?” she teased light-heartedly. Tyler smirked at her words. “I don’t know; you seem to have an acute sense of optimism that I’m not sure I want to catch. Actually,” he continued after she rolled her eyes, “I’ve got a bit of a problem. Management is trimming down again, and they want me to get rid of either Jon or Rod.” “Oh, that’s terrible,” breathed Wendy, disappointment plain on her face. “I love those boys both so much, and they do such a good job.” “Agreed; and I can’t for the life of me decide what to do. So I was wondering, as a bit of a Hail Mary, if you would consider something for me. I am thinking about asking several of us long-time workers to take pay cuts; not a lot, but enough to convince the board that keeping Jon and Rod won’t cost us any extra. I’ve already looked at my paycheck and decided that I could certainly survive off of less, at least until business picks back up and we can afford them both again. What do you think?” Wendy was quiet for a moment, tapping her finger to her lips. “I don’t know, Tyler. Money’s a bit tighter on everyone right now, and nobody likes the idea of a pay cut. But I’ll tell you what, if you get enough people in on this, so that the load is spread out and hurts all of us a lot less, then I’m in.” Tyler smiled. “Alright, I’ll start asking around. The board said they’d call me today, so I’m gonna have to work fast, but I think this could work. Thanks for your help, Wendy.” The next several conversations went the same way, and then the next dozen after that. Even newer recruits were open to the idea of giving up a small portion of their pay to help keep the two popular workers. It wasn’t long before there was plenty of people stepping up, allowing more than enough money to keep both men. Tyler hurried back into his office, excitement rushing his steps as he made his way to his desk. A few minutes later, as if on cue, the phone rang. “Mister Jones, have you made your decision?” a member of the board asked. Tyler cleared his throat. “Actually, if you don’t mind a bit of a delay, I think I might have a solution that everyone will find acceptable.” “Well alright, let’s hear it.” Tyler explained the steps he and his employees were willing to take, breaking down the cost and showing that, without a doubt, the company would be able to keep both men without losing any money in their particular faction. When he was finished, he held his breath, waiting for their reply. “Well, Tyler, it sounds as if you’ve got that all figured out pretty well. That was a very impressive thing you did there, and we can certainly appreciate it. If all that is true, then there shouldn’t be any problems keeping both men.” The voice on the phone said warmly. Tyler smiled. “Thank you, sir.” He said as they hung up. He was still grinning; after all, it wasn’t every day you take action and do some good in the world. He stood up and stretched. Time to go tell Jon and Rod the good news… The ringing of the phone broke Tyler out of his daydream, and he was jerked back to the present. The board was calling for his answer. Glancing down, he regarded his hand, still covering the coin, before removing it and looking at the result. “Mister Jones, I assume you have made your decision?” one of the board members asked. “Yes, sir.” He replied simply, his voice lacking a bit of enthusiasm. “We’re sorry about this, Tyler. We hate doing this as well, but business is business.” “I know,” he replied as they hung up. Rubbing his eyes, he stood and walked towards the door. It was time to deliver Rod the bad news. He glanced out the window again. “Really is a beautiful day.

Ryan awoke to a sharp odor. He felt as if it was biting the inside of his septum. Other than the smell he was unable to sense anything. All he could see was darkness. He tried to touch his fingers to his palms but felt nothing. For several minutes Ryan pondered his situation. Could he still be dreaming? He didn’t feel as if he was in a dream, rather he felt as if he had been sleeping for days but was finally awake. He had heard of a condition called “sleep paralysis”. Perhaps this was causing his lack of sensation, but why then could he not see the faint glow of his alarm clock or the whizzing of the cars going past his downtown studio apartment. After what felt like hours, Ryan’s anxiety began to build. “Could I have had a stroke in my sleep? Is that why I can’t feel anything?” Ryan asked himself further elevating his already high blood pressure. Just as Ryan was coming to grips with his own impending demise he started smelling something else, almost like a frying hamburger. “FUCK!” Ryan cried. All of the sudden he could feel intense pain coursing throughout his entire body. It felt as if all of his muscles had just been pounded by a meat tenderizer. His feeling had certainly returned, however any attempt at moving was met with even sharper pain. Ryan could sense a fine mist spraying his body. This is when he realized he was naked. His sense of sight and hearing were returning. He could hear a faint hum, like that of a microwave. He saw shadows in front him of what looked like people, stumbling around. The realization that he was not in his apartment, lying in his own bed had sunk in. The pain began to subside, replaced with a dull numbness that Ryan prefered. He took a step forward, pushing the tinted glass door in front of him. He could now hear screaming. As he walked out into the large circular chamber he could see fifty or sixty men and women, naked like him, stumbling around, shouting and crying; “Help!” “Where the hell am I?” “What is this?” “Let me out of here!” Ryan tried to form the words “I’m cold” but was unable to get enough breath behind his speech. He saw hundreds of capsules surrounding him. The chamber was lined with them, stacked over several stories. Most had their glass openings ajar, although a few people still seemed to be emerging from the walls. On the other side of the chamber was a large arched opening. Ryan could see groups of people heading in that direction, so he followed. As he got closer he noticed he felt warmer and warmer. As he neared his destination he began to feel almost comfortable with the temperature despite not wearing any clothing. He entered the opening and saw people streaming into an even larger chamber from various doors in all directions. At the center of the room were two ramps going to a second and third floor. A older man stood between the ramps. Giving orders. “Girls head up the left ramp, guys up the right”. Ryan headed towards the man. Now able to speak he asked him. “Who are you? Where am I?” “I know less than you do, please just head up the ramp, I’m just trying to create some order.” Hearing him speak, Ryan realized he knew who this man was. He was his journalism professor, sans his usual twenty-five year old grey suit making him almost unrecognizable. “Professor Harper?” “Hello Mr. Stein. Please go up the ramp”.

There once was a boy named Jim. Jim was super rad and really liked dogs, just like most other humans. His life was extremely okay, just like most people his age. He had friends but he always felt like they didn’t get him. He spend allot of time in his room with his corgi. After a while, he realized that he loved this dog. It wasn’t just a corgi, it was his friend and ally. He loved his corgi, and the joy that it had gotten from the simplest things. The kids in Jim’s school were jerks though. They didn’t find Jim super rad at all, in fact they taught quite the opposite. Liking corgis that much was weird! Jim can’t LOVE a dog! Jim was super cool tho and he loved something that loved him back so why should what all of the kids in his school think even matter? Months past, and eventually Jim was not okay with being friends with only his corgi. He wanted someone to hang out with, other then his mom and dog. He began to contemplating for hours on end on how to get people to like him more. The only way he taught he was able to make friends would to be stop being corgi boy and become a superhero. It worked when batman did it! Jim became The Corgi Crusader.

I was lying on something soft, my body sunk into it. When I opened my eyes everything was so white, so clean. “Where am I?” I thought. “Am I dead?” I sat up and looked around. I felt strangely light headed but not in an uncomfortable way. It felt like I was flying. When my eyes adjusted to the brightness I saw a figure approaching me. I felt no fear but more of rejoice, like seeing an old friend after a long time. I stood up, but fell backwards; only to find a stool behind me, in which I sat. When the figure got closer I saw it was a man. His skin was somewhat of a mixture of white, brown and black, I couldn't figure out the colour. As he came closer he started to speak. I had never heard the language but I somehow recognized it. To my amazement I could understand it. He was speaking towards me, but not to me. What he said was beautiful. He said “Come here my child, for you have nothing to fear with Me. Walk along side Me and you will never feel the need of anything ever again.” When the man was close enough I stood up. At that moment he was within five meters of me. I asked him “Where are we?” And he answered “We are where you want us to be. We can be anywhere.” I looked around for the second time and my heart nearly skipped a beat; we were in my childhood home, in the living room. The man sat down and so did I. After a short while I asked him “Are you God?” “Yes.” He answered. “But if you are God then I must be dead.” “Must you?” He asked. “For you to be dead you had to be living at some point.” “Are you saying I don’t exist?” “No. On the contrary; you are the only one that exists.” “What are you saying?” “I am saying that you are the only human being in the world.” I did not quite understand what he was talking about and he must have realized that because he said. “You are the only man in the world and every other human is your imagination. What I am telling you now I have told you countless of times.” I started to get very confused and felt a headache coming. “Just to get this straight; I am not dead because I was never alive, I am the only man and everything else is my imagination and you have told me this before? How come I can’t remember it then?” God signed and pointed to the door. “When you walk through that door you will be born again. You will know everything from all your past ‘lives’ but not remember anything from them.” “What is the point in this?” “The point is very simple; when you have lived through everything you will know everything and then you will become God.” “So I will replace you?” “Correct.” “And the only thing I have to do is walk through that door?” I pointed at the door and felt a small shiver lead up my spine. “Also correct.” I stood up in haste and was going to walk to the door when God interrupted me. “But I must warn you; you are automatically walking to your doom.” “I know, but since I don’t really live I don’t really die either, do I?” I said, with a grin, and walked through the door. “Smart kid” mumbled God “I wonder how long it will take him this time to figure out that he is my son.

I don't remember the first time I met her, but it was in some kind of abstract kind of way. The colours around us were always loose and steady, mad colours that no one had ever heard of or seen. Connie and I were both mad you see. We were both seeing psychiatrists, both once a week. 'How have you been the past week? The psychiatrist would say 'Not bad' I would always say. I would very rarely say how bad I'd been feeling. 'And what have you been up to?' 'Nothing much' 'Shall we go over what we talked about last week?' 'Yes, if you want' Sometimes talking about things made everything worse, a lot of the time I'd come out feeling more depressed than before I came in. It would go much the same for Connie except she would be much more honest about things. 'Have you been up to much over the past week' 'Yes, a lot' Connie would say 'I've fucked two men since I last saw you'. And the Psychiatrist's face would be in a kind of shock for a while. 'And anything else?' 'Yes, I've also fucked two women.' 'Oh, my. All that in the last week' 'Yes' Connie and I spoke nearly every day. We'd fall out quite often and it was usually over something that I did. Mostly not turning up to places that I'd say I was turning up to. Her brother was an alcoholic and I knew him through a friend who he lived in a flat with and he was managing the band I was in at the time. He promised us fame and glory but in the end he turned out to be liar. Connie's parents were nice people. Her mother was an English teacher and her father was a blues musician. When I was a gigging musician her father played with us and helped with gigs. He is a very fine musician. The last time I spoke to him he asked If I was still playing music and still with the band? 'No, not anymore' I said 'Why not? 'Musical differences' 'Yes, that happens a lot.' It was my birthday and Connie was putting on a birthday party for me at her home. She had two kids and a now a dog. Which was a beagle named Gatsby. The first time I met Gatsby I knocked on Connie's front door and she opened it and Gatsby ran out into the road while a car was coming and I ran out into the road and saved him. He tried to bite me after it all. But after that all he does is lick me and give me affection. The birthday party was on a Saturday. It was originally meant to be on a Monday, then a Tuesday, then a Friday and finally we settled on a Saturday. The reason for all this being a certain person could only make it on a Saturday. Her name was Caitlin and she was a beauty. She had long dark hair and a body that danced beneath the tide. Connie and Caitlin didn't get on and Connie didn't really want Caitlin at the party but she said it was OK as it's my Birthday. Connie thought Caitlin was jealous of her because She spent so much time with me and Caitlin was in love with me and she couldn't handle it. 'She's in deep with you, you know' Connie said 'No, she's not' 'Yes, she is. She fucking wants your babies!' 'Oh, God please. Don't be silly' Connie was on the brink on being an alcoholic and she would say the same of me. I bought mostly whiskey for the birthday party and two crates of beer. We both drank a lot and some would say too much. There were a few more people attending the party. Mostly girls and one boy and in the end he never turned up. I arrived at the party at 6 in the evening. It was a sunny day with a slight wind blowing in the distance. It felt soothing on your face. There was only one other person who was there at that time, her name was lotte. 'Hello' she said 'Hey, how long have you been here?' I asked 'Oh, not long. About 20 minutes' 'I see. And what you drinking then?' 'Cider. What about you?' 'Whiskey and beer' 'Manly drinks then' Yes, I suppose you could say that.' Connie was busy with her kids. Giving them their supper and getting the younger one ready for bed. I sat in a chair silently looking around the room. The TV was on. It was some children's programme. I had my eye on a fly flying about. It flew on the window and then the curtain and then finally landed on the TV which is where it stayed for the remainder of the night. I was waiting on Caitlin mostly. I was looking forward to seeing her. 'When is Caitlin getting here?' Connie asked 'She said 8 o clock to me' 'What time is it now?' '7:15'. I'm meeting her at the bus station at 8' Nothing much happened in the next 45 minutes apart from some very small small talk. By then I had had about 3 bottles of beer and Lotte had drank half a bottle of cider and Connie was already drunk. 'I'm off to meet Caitlin' I said I arrived at the bus stop on time and Caitlin had not yet arrived. It was now rather cold and the sun had gone into hiding. The breeze was cold against my face. Not long the moon was about to make an appearance. I looked up to the sky thinking about things and I felt an empty feeling inside me. I don't know why but my heart heard the dancing of the soul and could not dance to the same rhythm and I felt lost. It was now 8:25 and Caitlin had not yet arrived. I tried to ring her and there was no answer. I looked up at the sky some more and pondered the world and after pondering the world for another 35 minutes and I gave up and went back to Connie's. 'Where's Caitlin?' Connie asked 'Don't think she's turning up' 'I'm rather glad really' 'Yes. We shall drink the wine I bought for her' We opened the bottle of wine and drank it from the bottle. 'We're all mad here, you know' said Connie 'What do you mean? I asked 'Lotte is one of us' 'Oh, is she?' 'Yes, she is' And Lotte smiled splendidly at the situation and became drunk rather quickly. We went into the garden as it turned dark and laughed at the stars while sitting down in the long grass. 'Yes, we're all mad here' we all said The party was a boring one and we were all home by midnight.

“The ancient grove is this way Becc, do not fall behind. There are beings in this forest that do not take kindly to trespassers.” Becc ran to catch up with his father, not stopping until he was behind the Conn of his village. His father was chosen as Conn before he was born, it was a title of honor and respect, bestowed unto those whose deeds of valor in battle were legendary. Becc was the exact opposite of his father. He was small and timid and had never even swung a sword in his life. In fact, Becc had never done much to contribute to village life, always being side lined by his father on the simplest of tasks. Once, His father had refused to let him spear fish on the River Fial with the other boys. More water had flown from Becc’s eyes that day than all the rivers on the continent of Dulra. “Father,” He pleaded as salty tears stung his cheeks. “My tenth day of birth is long past and you still refuse to let me leave the walls of our village. Why?” The young boy could feel his father’s cold eyes burning into him. This is useless he had thought, before turning his back on the man who had raised him from birth. “Becc,” The Conn’s commanding voice had shot through the boy like hot knives, stopping him in his tracks. He did not want to turn around to face him, but was guided by a rough, familiar hand on his shoulder. He gazed at his father, his vision blurred by the mask of tears that clouded his eyes. The man who had served their village as Conn was not cruel, nor would he purposely hurt his own son. Becc knew this, for his father had taught him all about their ancient continent and the dangers that lay outside the safety of their village. He confines me for my own sake; I am too weak for the outside world. What if I ran into a Druid, or even worse… A Sage. Father had always taught him that life was a precious thing and it would be careless to through it away so easily in the wastelands of Dulra. “Remember our lessons Becc, beyond these hallowed walls hides a land that is fraught with despair and darkness. I have seen what is to see, I have heard what is to hear, and I have tasted what is not to be tasted. The stains of blood do not wash off so easily, from our clothing, or from our minds.” Becc was older now, but no more experienced at anything than he was back then. This was only the fourth time he had ventured out into the wilderness, all of them had been trailing in the wake of his father’s shadow. It was clear a boy of fourteen was not to be trusted alone. The genre im aiming for is a type of Low Fantasy. This world i am building exists alongside the primary world in which the main character Ériu calls home. I am enjoying writing and building this world. It is inspired by Irish Mythology as you may be able to tell from some of the Irish names. I would be very grateful to know if this is an interesting first few lines.

My father (Walter) married Darcy in 1992 after six months of acquaintance, at the terrifying prospect of dying alone. In 2007 Walter O’Driscoll bought a dog and formed a stronger companionship with it than that of the one with his wife. The dog had anxiety problems and would incessantly vomit regardless of location or time. It was this trait coupled with the purchase of a new entryway rug that drove Mrs. O’Driscoll to get rid of the dog, and it was this that drove Walter to burn down the house with her inside. This story is true. Walter was 61 years old come September. He worked at a company that sold cleaning products which, yes, is as boring as it sounds. But Walter didn’t mind boring. You see, a belief he’d held onto since he was a teen was that doing boring things is like meditating. And so he did so for nine hours a day. And then he would continue being bored well after he got home until he went to bed (in a separate room from his wife’s), and he would read a boring book, and then dream boring dreams (sometimes of reading boring books), and then wake up and eat (boring) breakfast. Life was predictable for Walter. One day while reading the paper, he realized he had been living his life in the future; when he was driving to work, he imagined himself already at work, packaging cleaning product, and when he got to work it was exactly what he expected. While he was packaging cleaning product, he was thinking about watching television with his dog. In fact, for an old man with so little future ahead of him, he spent an unusually large amount of time thinking about it. The only time that Walter wasn’t hyper-aware of his boredom and thinking about the future was when he was sitting in his chair watching TV, his dog in his lap. After a couple episodes of whatever was on television, it ran off to some other part of the house. Walter wasn’t alone in his chair for long when Darcy’s shrill, French voice preceded her entry into the living room. “That damn dog puked on the cahpet!” she said, each angry word bleeding into the next. She said more things but he turned on the subtitles for the TV and feigned deafness until she stomped off ranting about the poor little dog. A week later he arrived home from work to Darcy walking briskly out of the house yelling. Her attempts to make herself heard were futile as Walter had the windows up so that all that penetrated the glass were muffled bass notes. He stepped out of the car. “- Rug again. Get rid of that dog! Get rid of it-” he tuned her out again. That night he sat in his chair with his dog in his lap, watching whatever on TV. Dinner was boring, just as he expected. In bed, he dreamed of working in the factory. The next day, he went to work, just as previously described, and worked all day, just as he’d imagined the night before. When he got home, things began to veer off from their normal path. Darcy didn’t come out to meet him in the driveway to complain today. In fact, the house was eerily quiet, although he couldn’t quite place what it was that was so different. When he got to the door, he realized what it was- the dog wasn’t barking. He stepped inside. Darcy was standing in the kitchen with her hands on her hips. “You were taking too long to get rid of the dog so I did.” He didn’t listen anymore, rather walked to his chair and watched TV. She complained about other things, but the complaints fell on falsely deaf ears. That night, instead of going to bed, he stayed up awhile. The orange glow from the lamps throughout the house reflected off the windows making it impossible to see outside. The TV had been off for some time. When Darcy’s cruel snoring came through the walls, he made his way downstairs and dug through little odds and ends until he found a can of mogas. He took it upstairs with him and poured it all through the house, making extra sure to douse the entryway rug, and the area outside her Darcy’s bedroom door, then lit a match and dropped it on the trail. As he made his way back to his room he reflected on all of his life spent in boredom. He did not regret it, but he was tired now. He could hear the crackling of the flames growing louder and louder, and eventually, the shrill calls of the woman to whom he was married. He entered his bedroom, which was, again, not shared with his wife. Walter pulled his slippers off his feet and lay down in his small bed. The house was getting hotter, and with every second he lay there he became more tired, then he fell asleep.

Katie asked Artie to meet her at the Mexican restaurant, the bright yellow, stucco building just down the street from her house. It was a place they often went to eat. Artie sat on the plastic bench across the table from Katie. Katie’s blue eyes looked larger, even more beautiful than usual. But though her eyes were wide, they had less depth. It was as if the deep pools of her eyes had dried up, leaving pure calcite rings of white and shallow puddles of blue that had once been seas. Artie stared down at the table top. The surface was brown formica with a fake pattern of wood grain. He looked up at Katie, she brushed a lock of her auburn hair away from her face. “Are things going to be OK between us?” Artie said, his voice was flat. “I don’t think so” Katie said. “What did I do wrong?” “Nothing” Katie said. Her voice was flat too, but it had an edge like anger. It wasn’t anger, “It’s over between us. You left some of your stuff at my house. I put it in a box on the porch, you can come get it whenever”. Artie’s right hand was gripping a little plastic arch with the number “12” on it. Just then a voice came over the intercom, “Number 12”, the voice said. Artie moved to slide off the bench and stood up, he looked down at Katie. “Are you going to stay and eat?” “No” she pulled her purse over her shoulder and slid off the bench and stood up. For a moment she and Artie stood close to each other. It didn’t help that she looked unusually beautiful. Artie didn’t reach for her. Even the habit of a parting embrace had dried up, his insides felt dried up. He stood feeling awkward for a moment. She looked very straight and dignified. Suddenly perfect. Then she turned and crossed the restaurant toward the door. Artie’s eyes followed her as she pushed open the glass door and walked out into the parking lot. There was a big, arched window on either side of the door and he saw her as she crossed the parking lot. The warm March sun fell reddish on her hair. It didn’t help that she looked very beautiful, even at a distance, walking across a parking lot. “Number 12”, the scratchy intercom voice said again. Artie went up to the counter and exchanged the plastic arch for a tray with their meals. The tray held two lunch specials; tacos, enchiladas and piles of beans, orange rice and shredded, colorless lettuce. Artie set the tray down on the table and picked at the food. Then he got up and walked to the restroom. He cried a little bit in the bathroom stall then came back out. When he came back from the bathroom, he saw one of the restaurant employees dumping the tray with the two lunch specials into a garbage can. She looked up at him. She must have thought he was done eating. Artie smiled at her vacantly and walked toward the exit. He crossed the parking lot. That’s one thing that’s hard about being alone in the world, Artie thought as he got into his car; people throw your food away.

Imagine the color white. Now imagine a place. A place of the color white. This place has no dimensions, nothing filling its space. No air, no walls, no heat, no matter. Can you see it? Good. But this place is not bare. In this place there is a box, a box sat on a stool sat on the nothing in this place. This box and its stool are white, and invisible as they blend into this place. You want to know what’s inside the box, I’m sure. I would like to tell you what’s inside the box; that would make certainly be of convenience to the both of us. But I can’t tell you, oh, no. You must find out for yourself. How can you find out what’s in the box? I have pondered this very question for ages. One’s first thought would be to simply open it and look at all the secrets within. But that’s impossible, I’m afraid. Remember, this box on this stool in this place has no matter, no droplets of energy dancing around its surface. It is nothing. It’s not even there. But how can it not be there when I clearly told you of its existence? Look at the place once more. It is a white vacuum; nothing contained within, because there is no within. But you just saw the box, how could this be? Well, my friend, I’m afraid that’s where you went wrong. The box is white, the stool is white, the place is white. These items can not be seen by the human eye. And when seeing is believing, it is safe to assume that what we can’t see is not there. You feel betrayed now. How could I have knowingly given you the false image of a box on a stool in this place? You are confused. Well, it’s all just standard practice, friend. But I’m glad you made it this far into my written words. Most lose patience after the first mention of the box, while they hastily try to figure out a way to unlock its secrets. How foolish they are. They have lost themselves in their own imaginations, in places with stools and boxes that don’t exist. We must remind ourselves of what is and what isn’t, of what can and cannot be. Take these words as a warning. Do not see only what you want to see. You may lose yourself in your own beautiful imagination.

A man walks into a bar, he took a seat and ordered a beer. "One cold beer please" he whispered. The barman took one look at him and instantly recognised the man. "Why if it isn't ol smokey Joe from down the road" The man looked up and said, "My names not Smokey Joe, now where's my beer?" The Barman was taken back by the man's remark, He calmly grabbed a cold one and slid it down the bar counter. "Thank you" The Barman was sure it was Smokey Joe, He had the glass left eye and a sword for a leg, there weren't too many people who looked like this. The Barman says, "If I remember correctly mister, the Smokey Joe I know had a glass left eye and a sword for a leg, you sure you're not him?" The man takes a sip from his beer and quietly whispers, "I may have a glass left eye and a sword for a leg but I don't know this Smokey Joe fella" At this moment the Bar front door swings open and a sword emerges from the settling dust, followed by the flicker of light bouncing off a glass eye... It was Smokey Joe. At this point the Barman is in utter disbelief, what were the odds of two different men both having a sword leg and each a left glass eye? Smokey Joe slowly walks up behind the man sitting at the bar, the air filled with tension, Smokey Joe says, "I've lived down the road all my life and I've never seen you round here, what's your name?" The man at the Bar takes another sip from his beer and whispers, "Ivan" The two men spent the rest of their days as best friends. Many adventures were had including the infamous hopscotch finale of 1869 where both men were in a horrific freak accident that claimed another leg from each of them, this time they were fitted with prosthetic limbs rather than swords as it was far more practical and safer. End.

One evening in bed, the philosopher turned to his wife and said: “I cannot intuitively, subjectively, or objectively acknowledge your existence,” He sighed as if this was a thought that he’d been laboring with for some time, and went on; ‘at best you are the product of my past experiences and my personality construct, but essentially you are an outcome of my brain’s chemistry, and current physiological state (if they exist). “The “you” that I believe is you, is an interpretation of a perceived reality. If there is a “real” you, you must be nothing like what I believe you to be, but something entirely unknowable to me. If there is a “you”, you exist at a point in time and space that I will never reach; nor will I ever be able to objectively observe what exists there. It is impossible for me to prove your existence beyond the framework of my own mind. Therefore it is irrational for me to believe in you” He said, his voice rising. “ I cannot believe in you! I do not believe in you!” With that, the philosophers wife disappeared instantly, leaving behind only the faint “pop” of air rushing in to fill the vacuum where she had once been. “Aha!” said the philosopher, so you were an illusion all along! Logic and reason have triumphed over the untrustworthy human senses!” The philosopher turned on his side, and slept comfortably. The next evening, the philosopher turned to the empty space on the other side of his bed and said “I miss you.

Okay so there was this kid,lets name him Timmy. He's in kindergarten and there's this 1st grader,lets name him Tyler, that always picks on him and beats him up. Well one day Tyler throws him down and little Timmy's glasses fall and shatter on the asphalt.. Little Timmy knew he couldn't take him on alone so he went around and gathered 5 of his friends and they waited until they saw Tyler go inside to go to the bathroom and then they followed when they got in there he turned around trash talking them and they just looked at each other and then...Little Timmy gave the signal and they all just tackled him to the ground and started biting,punching,kicking, and pinching and they finally stopped after 15 minutes of the beating and then from then on Tyler never touched Little Timmy again...

By thirty, your life's pretty much over. Even though you technically still have more than half left, once you have a family, a job, and a home, every day is exactly like the last. There are no unanswered questions, nothing to look forward to. By thirty, you've realized that life is dull, drab, and meaningless; you're just riding it out. Your alarm clock blares, so you groggily slap at it until it shuts up. You crack open your eyes. The fire-red 6:00 taunts you from the nightstand. You drag yourself out of bed. When your wife stirs, you pretend to apologize for waking her. She smiles and doesn't believe you. You shave, shower, and dress in your favorite shirt and tie which, since you have no personality, is black on white. You stagger into the kitchen and start brewing coffee, soon followed by your dazed wife with her frazzled hair and ratty bathrobe. She plops her sagging ass into a chair (you pray it doesn't break) and stares zombily into space, picturing the kitchen she should have had. You pour two cups, the steam drifting lazily from the dull black pools, and drop into the seat opposite her. You push her mug over and even attempt some inane, frivolous conversation. But she's busy sipping her coffee and wondering what she ever saw in you so she responds in grunts. Silence shortly reclaims the room. Then your little girl trudges in, so suddenly the two of you are cheerful and in love. While Mommy's busy complementing Daddy's tie ("My, how interesting!"), the little girl pours her own cereal and orange juice. She joins Mommy and Daddy at the table, but doesn't utter a word; she knows they're faking. Kids are smart like that. When she silently finishes and leaves to prep for school, you rise, spit a goodbye at your wife (the kid's not here, so no need to kiss), march out the door, and fire up your '98 Ford Escort. The rattling shakes open the glove compartment, so annoyance tugging at the fringes of your brain, you slam it shut. Even though you will never get it repaired, you remind yourself to do it anyway. Then you accelerate and brake and turn until you're lost in those short, yellow lines that happen to be zipping by. That's where you are right now: mesmerized by an endless parade of golden dashes, wondering how life managed to slip you by. It's actually quite simple: you screwed up the first part. Life flows like the daily commute. There are two distinct legs: navigating to and cruising along the highway. The initial is substantially more involved; you're constantly accelerating, braking, and turning, meticulously reading every street sign to pick your way through the complex matrix of roads. Since you're paying attention, encountering new situations, and still fresh to the drive, this shorter leg seems the longer; there is more to remember so you remember more. Then you merge into the swift river of cars of the highway. Breathing a sigh of relief, you settle into your seat and lose yourself in whatever tune is on the radio. Hopefully, nothing happens; every minute is just cruising steadily along the smooth pavement while kind of keeping track of the cars around you. But without unique events, the minutes blend into each other. Time becomes slippery and insubstantial. Before you know it, you've arrived at your destination, wishing you lived further away. Life works like that. When you're young, dumb, and inexperienced, you're left to forge your way through an intricate spider web of paths, hopefully with a map or other guide, but usually not. You decide who you are, what you believe, your profession, whether you even graduate high school, and whether Debra is actually your soul mate or if you should push for that abortion. Some people guess right and comfortably cruise along for the rest of their lives. But when they don't have guidance, it's easy to see how so many young are lost. As a result of the constantly changing landscape and plethora of new experiences of young life, this shorter leg (thirty years at most) seems the longer. Then you merge onto the highway; you have a spouse named Debra who hates your guts, a job you planned to work for two years but this is already your eighth, and a kid who's too smart to talk to you. You watch as the days blend into one miserable stream and, before you know it, you're dead. But that's what happens when you fuck up that initial leg; you end up driving to nowhere until you run out of gas or crash. So, in a moment, you will pull into a parking lot. Your ankle sore for no reason whatsoever, you will limp into the concrete building, blowing right by the motivational poster depicting the long and tumultuous history of the company. Cassie, the bubbly receptionist, will perkily greet you. You will neadrathalically grunt back. After an eternity of making calls in your droll office, the last will be to Debra, notifying her that you're leaving work (bitch better have your dinner ready). As you walk out the door, Cassie will energetically wave goodbye. You will ignore her. You will crawl through traffic home in your sputtering car with the incessantly swinging glove box to stagger inside, exhausted from yelling at idiot drivers. Fortunately, the steam will still be rising from your formerly frozen lasagna. Since words only spark argument and truth, you will eat in silence. After, you will try to act sophisticated by reading the newspaper, but your wife's cooking show will be too damn loud. You will quietly hiss at her to please turn it down. She won't. You will remain mum for a few minutes, penting up your boiling rage. When it finally bursts free, you will throw the paper to the floor, yourself to your feet, and your words at your bitch wife. You don't have the patience anymore for her pointless cooking shit. Debra will be unfazed. She will flat out ask you when you ever had the patience for her pointless cooking shit or her at all, calmly rehashing your utter failure as a husband and a father. Even though she ain't so perfect herself, you will storm off to bed in a huff, anger clamping your mouth shut. It's hard to argue with someone who's right. And the whole time, the little girl will be curled up to the crack of her door, listening intently to every word, lonely tears snaking down her face. Just like every other day.

Dylan was a starving artist, often making more money raking yards than selling his photos. Even though he vows to quit his passion, he always makes his way to the State Capitol to catch candid images of people around the statues and lawn. As another rather uninspiring day draws down to its end with no pictures worth taking, Dylan begins to pack his equipment and head for his small apartment. He's grown too used to this feeling. Suddenly, ten young women in canary yellow dresses walk onto the lawn and form a circle, barefoot in the neatly cut grass. While people start to crowd around what must be the beginnings of some sort of performance, Dylan struggles to ready his camera and get in front of the onlookers. The women fall to the ground in unison as he lifts the camera up to his eye; Dylan snaps several quick pictures as the crowd grows silent. The ten bodies lie there for about two minutes before people grow concerned. "Somebody dial 911!" came the scream that broke the silence. The woman kneels there with her hand on the pulse--or lack thereof--of the redhead of the group. After the hysteria died down, the police marked the scene, and the media has asked their questions, a journalist rolls through Dylan's rolls photos of what's being called a mass suicide. The fourth one on the roll was an almost surreal capture; yellow dresses appear to float in the air as they fall and the faces look dead before they hit the ground, like the souls can be seen leaving the body. The journalist looks into Dylan's eyes, "I don't know what your portfolio looks like, but it seems as if you finally have your million-dollar photo.

8:30am: The dreary sky and humid air on the balcony fades away and is replaced by a cheering crowd. Everybody chanting my name as I vanquish my foes with a mix of martial arts and well-timed energy blasts from my hands... A river, the sun shining through trees, my raft gently bobbing in the water as I pass a large waterfall, the feeling of serenity washing over me. I feel like I could stay here forever. Not a care in the world, feeling as if I am reconnecting with myself. A self that has been held down of late. A self that can accomplish anything... Flight. Soaring through the clouds, energy filling me, overflowing... A realization. I try to fight it, but it begins to overwhelm me: You forgot to take your pill this morning. 8:45am: Dreary sky, humid air, my stomach hurts. I wish I had a cigarette right now. Just another morning of the symptoms of something terrible being so wonderful.

The grief of war My palms are sweating like there was no tomorrow but that was it, there could be no tomorrow for me, this could be the end, my love back home, gone. My family mourning me and the fact everything and everyone I’ve ever loved, gone. My heart starts to beat a thousand times per minute and my thoughts run left to right confusing me at every turn. My mind running wild. The gun fire becomes a shallow hum in the midst of my thoughts then a loud shout breaks them “grab your rifle son, you’re gonna need it!” it was the sergeant major screaming at me. Then the once shallow hum of gun fire became a loud roar of endlessness and screams from those injured. I reach out to grab my rifle, quivering as I do. Then a firm hand rests on my shoulder I turn my head it is John. I had met John during training, he was a “lost soul” before the army, he used to tell me of how he used to steal cars and redo them and sell them on and how he wasn’t afraid of being shot, see he’d been shot twice before, once in the left leg and once in the chest and when I asked him how he said “ Well jerry, when you steal from the American mafia you leave with battle scars,” I always wondered how someone could be so careless of anything. He pulls me to my feet and says” Come on jerry, we’re about to charge the Japs,” I just laughed at how casual he was about this but I grabbed my rifle by the stock and held it tight. Me, john and the rest of the platoon turn to face the sergeant, Alright boys, I’ve just had confirmation that we will be the platoon leading the charge against the Japanese,” My heart sinks beneath my feet and my breath becomes quick gasps for air, my face runs pale then I look across at john and his face lights up with glee along with the others in the platoon. I’m stunned, stunned beyond belief. I shouldn’t be here, and I’m not ready for this, these men they want war, want it more than me, they crave war where as I hid from it all. I can’t do this. I lean over to grab my helmet, trembling with fear as I do. I put it on my head and tighten the strap and think to myself “this is the end.” “Before you head out you might want to write a note and keep it on your person, this could be it!” the sergeant shouts over the gun fire of the Japs spraying at our temporary trench line. I grab a pen and paper from my front pocket and start writing. To my dearest…. I shake with fear but I’m determined to finish. “Jerry, we’re heading over!” yells the sergeant. I knew deep down that we wouldn’t be coming home and this was a last ditch attempt for us to take over the island. “But I was going to fight till my last breath,” I told myself. I raise my head above the trench to scout out what lay ahead, fifty or more japs all committed to their cause “ protect our land, serve our emperor” and they were not about to let us walk right over them. I grip my rifle tight along with the others and we shout in unison “charge!” I leap over the trench screaming at the top of my lungs, I fire at will, forgetting to aim accurately and shooting wildly then something happened, it wasn’t pain nor fear but a euphoric feeling, like nothing mattered anymore, the sound of gun fire became a distant hum. I look across to john running across in the distance then suddenly he falls to his knees and places his hand to his heart and falls flat on the cold hard ground, the sergeant and the others lie lifeless on the ground or are screaming in pain from their injuries. A lone tear runs down my cheek and falls to the ground dragging my vision to my stomach, my uniform is stained bright red then my knees buckle and I drop down to the ground, I grip my stomach tight but I knew this was the end. I reach into my front pocket of my vest and grab my letter griping it ever so tightly but it made me feel safe just knowing that even though I’m gone my family and my wife would be safe. My eyes close then nothing. Two weeks following the events: “Mails here!” the mail man yells out “I’m coming, I’m coming Mary yells back. She opens the door and the he hands her a letter “must be important, it’s got an army stamp,” she closes the door and reads the front of the letter “to Mary – Anne jones, U.S army, “ her eyes fill with tears and she begins to tremble with what she knows is inside, the letter revealing the death of her husband. Whilst shaking, she tears open the letter and begins to read. “We regret to inform you of your loss, first class private Jeromy jones has been killed in battle, he fought valiantly and died for his country,” three tears roll softly from her cheek and her head dips in sadness but the letter goes on say “He was found with a letter addressed to a Mrs Mary – Anne jones,” she reached in to the letter and grabbed a piece of parchment which had been tattered and ripped along the edges but the words were still readable. They wrote, “To my dearest love, This will be the last letter I write to you it’s not long because soon after I write this my battalion will be leading the charge against the Japanese. I’ve got low hope I’ll survive but this doesn’t matter now, the fact that does is that you will be safe. I will miss you and our love will be forever, whether I’m there or not. Love jerry,” In a brief moment of realisation she then drops the letter and breaks down on her knees and as she began to scream no sound came out, not a hint of noise nor break in the wind she just knelt there mouth wide open, screaming in silence, consumed, in the grief of war.

Curiosity is what drives us, most of us anyway. The way he saw things were different. To him, curiosity was death. To be curious, was to die. He would never leave that old house that was falling apart, the haven that he felt was home. Never experiencing anything because of the fear that he held within with so much pride. Blinded by his own lies and his rejection from himself and life. What was life? To him life was four filthy walls that were impenetrable with a door wide open. In his mind, death stalked the walk ways and hallways. Lurking in the dark, waiting to pounce on him as soon as he dare muster up the courage to face reality. Sitting alone in his room for so long, with no one to keep company. Nothing to look forward to. Nothing to aspire to become. He tries to alleviate the sickness with hymns of the past. The chant of life and the death stillness of his own. Staring at the ceiling, he decides. He dares to be curious. Curious of what? *Note* This is my first short story submission, so take it easy on me. Let me know what you think and make sure to leave feedback. If you liked it, I will write up part 2. Thank you.

The Cycle - By Blacktyde - Four hundred....fifty..hmm..everyone remain still! - What are you counting? - ..seven, eight...eighty. - Well! About one billion six hundred and fifty give or take a few. Not a bad turn out this time around. - This time..? - Alright! Total restart! Time to bring em around again. - Restart!? hey! - Oh quiet.I’ll see you again in a moment or two. - Relax for what? what’s being restarted? where am I? - So many questions! - There would be less if you’d answer them! - Oh and some attitude too! - You have to understand my frustration! - I don't have to do anything - I'm sorry if I'm being demanding, I’m confused...thats all. - Thats quite alright, after something like that, who would have a few questions? - right! and answers would be a wonderful addition to them. - Well ok then, one at a time. -Alright, who are you? - HAH thats your first question? who else could I be? - I guess I should’ve known, you know, because of what happened. - Yes, theres not many that can cause something like that. - I suppose, how about one more? - Ask away! - what’s being restarted? - Humanity of course!. - Humanity!? how would you restart all of humanity? - Its simple really, for me anyway. - But it just ended! right? - Yes it did! And now its going to start! again! - What? Why restart it? - Because you’re not all here. - Whos not all here? - Humans, my creations. There seems to be a few billion missing, thats certainly not a small amount to leave behind. - Yeah...the ones that don’t deserve to be here are left behind. Thats the point. - Who exactly are the ones that don’t deserve to be here? - the others! The non believers of course! - Believe it or not, you were all non believers at one point. - But we are not now! - True. You all have found your way. Thats all it is. The others are just lost. Thats why you need another restart. Do it all over again. Until they find their way. - But they won’t! They rejected you! - But you didn't! You all did not! - Well obviously...I de-...we dedicated our lives to you! - Yes I know, but you, along with many other new faces I see, we're not here the previous times. And yes you did finally dedicate your life to me, and you’ll dedicate many, many more. - What do you mean many more? Reincarnation? - Hmm I suppose, it is a Reincarnation in a way...yes. - But you promised us an eternity with you. Here, in heaven. this is heaven isn’t it? I mean, I assume it is. Thats where we go after the rapture. - Oh no, that was no rapture. - What do you mean? The world ended! All the signs were there. And we all got pulled at once. To..here. Wherever here is. - I know, I did it remember? Oh...I suppose you wouldn't would you.. it was only a few moments ago but, not to you. - You’ve lost me. - Humanity is just, well, a cycle. The world restarts, and you believers and nonbelievers are sent back through. Its only a few moments to me but...a lifetime to you. - Sent back through? Why on earth would you do that? - As I said before. You’re not all here. This cycle will continue to happen until you’re all here. - Well how does that work exactly? - Well, have you ever thought that, someones life is planned out, before they even exist? - Yes, predestination right? - Precisely! You, along with the rest of the people here now, have earned it. - Earned it? I always thought of it more as a curse than a reward. you pre setting our choices before we even make them, takes away our free will altogether. - Not your choices all together, just your choice in belief. - I still don't see how thats a reward. - Before you earn this reward, you make the choices yourselves! And once you make the right ones, you end up here. - But don't you, as,well...you, choose who will be predestined before the beginning of time? - Yes, I make it before the beginning of time, every time I restart time. Do you follow? - You’re confusing but I'm trying. - Every time I end the cycle. The people who believed and worshiped and glorified me will, be sent back through with the ones who didn't but since they’re predestined, they will always end up here again, however many more times it takes, you will always end up back here. - And the people who don’t believe? They always...wont end up back here? - No! Of course not! They have the freewill to choose or not to choose to follow me. I decide not to know, in advance, their choice. keeping their choices, THEIR choices. - And more believers come back each time? - Thats the idea. - I'm beginning to understand the point of this cycle. you let them choose you, then once they do, they are predestined to choose you in future lives, to avoid hell and what not. - More on the “what not” side, but basically yes. - But why not predestin all the people to believe? - Why keep this cycle going? - Why? Thats how it must be! Restarting life until they do it correctly. Until they deserve to move on! To fulfill the purpose of life. - Which is? - More questions hm? Well... you tell me. What do you, as a believer, do throughout your lives? - Well..worship, Pray, Try not to sin...You know.. - But why do that stuff? Why live like that? - To be a good person I suppose..you want your followers to be good people? To stand out? - Partially... Well how about this, if you have a child, and your child is presented with an opportunity to steal some toy, or candy he really wants. And he doesn't. what does that do for you, the parent? - It makes me proud of my child of course - And how does your child’s choices reflect on you, from the view of others? - It makes me look like a great parent. - Yes! One could say, it brings..glory? - So you’re saying its all for creating an image for yourself? - Right. Creations glorifying their creator. - Seems a bit self centered! - I made you, I made you all! Is a little appreciation too much to ask? - I suppose not, so the point of us, your creations, is to bring you glory? - Yes thats the purpose of humanity! To bring glory to your creator. Through your actions and choices. And show the others his greatness. - Thats a lot of work just for glory. - I created you, I should get what I made you for. I deserve it don't I? - Yes but I still don’t see why everyone can’t be predestined....the act does not become less good if everyone’s doing it. - You’re right. But if I am standing next to my child and I make him not steal the toy, its not really his choice. And no glory comes from that. To anyone. - Ah I see. the choice must be made by their own free will first. Before they are saved. - Exactly! And once they’ve freely made that choice, They are saved for all eternity! as was promised. - So we just redo the same earth over and over again? - Ehhh..not exactly, you are not the same people, or gender. Or even in the same time period. its completely random, wherever your soul ends up. Its a gamble really. - Well...who does that leave us as? When we finally return? Do we keep the soul of who we were last? - Yes! Along with all the others! - Others? Our past souls join us also? How would that work? - Ah always a question. You know you won’t remember any of this in a moment right? - I don’t care. - Well you see. Your all one soul. Split into many. -I don’t understand - When you’re all here. You all have the same soul. You will be in a different body. A body that has nothing to do with human definition. - So we are all one person? - In a way, but separate. - You’re not making sense again. I need more of an explanation! - You’re getting there! Your mind still can't wrap itself around this yet. - Well help me wrap it around! Help me understand. - Come now. Lets leave something to talk about next time hm? - I hate the idea of waiting that long...even if I don't know it - Oh you'll be back here in no time at all. - Yes but I won't remember this conversation - Its alright. I have the time to explain again. Maybe even further next time. if you’re up to it! - How does this restart happen anyway? - A split second here. And eternity for you between each cycle. It really blows even my mind. You all become smarter and smarter each time around, and the discussion goes further and further. I take great pride in them, They truly do bring me glory... well, lets see now.

Two Houses. Picture two houses across the street from one another. They looked perfectly normal and sturdy on the outside, but on the inside they were run down and falling apart. Inside of one lived a quiet and peaceful man, and in the other lived a beautiful and cheerful woman. Neither of them, however, liked being outside the confines of their own house. One day, the peaceful man ventured across the street to the other house and was invited inside. The two strangers visited, shared laughs, told stories, and enjoyed the others company. At the end of the day, the man returned to his house. The next day he visited again, but instead of talking, he started to slowly repair the inside of the run down house. When one of his repairs would break, he would immediately come over to fix the damage with a smile on his face. The two housekeepers became used to seeing one another each day, and eventually, the woman would come over to the man's house to visit. The woman noticed that his house looked much worse on the inside than hers, and started to sneak inside at night while he was asleep to make repairs. When the man would try to fix something himself, or repair damages to his own house, he would fail, and sometimes even make things worse. But the next morning, he would notice that things would be fixed. This puzzled the man and he decided to ask the woman about it the next time she came over. The next evening they spent together, he asked and she informed the man of what she had been doing, and the man asked why. She replied, "Because people who show a caring and wholesome heart deserve to receive the same treatment they give to others." The man became confused. "But I am a shut in. Nobody gives to me, and I don't give to them. Why does somebody like me deserve somebody as wonderful as you?" The woman put her hand on the man's shoulder and looked into his dark brown eyes. She noticed a hurt that had always seemed to hide beneath his smile, a sorrow that hadn't been revealed in a very long time. She said in a soft and gentle voice: "Somebody that prefers to be alone does not always prefer being lonely. There is always somebody who will care." The two embraced, and the man sobbed and became limp in the woman's arms. Once he had calmed down, the woman kissed him on the cheek and returned to her house without saying a word. The following morning, he noticed another man performing landscaping on her lawn, painting the outside of her house, and cleaning her patio. Each day the house would look more and more beautiful. He became sad that the woman had found somebody else to do her work, and started to loathe the landscaper that would beautify her house all the time. The woman remained indoors all day, trying to make the interior of her house look as pleasant as the exterior. However, most of her attempts at repairs or renovation were disasters. The person she hired was no help, and was only after her money. She began to miss her neighbors company, along with his sturdy repairs and his gentle smile. As days went by, the man and woman thought about each other more and more, but never saw each other. One afternoon, the woman heard her doorbell ring. Knowing it wasn't the landscaper she hired, she curiously approached the peephole of the door. Seeing that nobody was outside, she opened the door and looked for pranksters. Looking down, she saw a small, dirty looking tin with a bow neatly placed on top of it. The interior of the unkempt tin was extravagantly decorated with soft velvet from top to bottom, and in the center laid a simple necklace with a key on it, resting on top of a small note. Putting the necklace on, she unfolded the small note and noticed little droplets of water on the page. "You are the only one that can make it feel less empty. Please take care of it for me while I'm gone. I must go, but I will return one day." After reading it the woman dropped to her knees, and tears started to form in her tightly shut eyes. For what seemed like years, she spent the next few months wishing the man would come back and going into his house to take care of it while he was gone. She noticed that every little thing she had done to the house remained unchanged, as if he never tried to correct the small mistakes she had made. Eventually, the man returned. The woman was thrilled and filled with happiness, but also saddened by the fact that the man no longer came across the street to visit her. A few days after his return, she noticed he was packing his belongings into boxes. Fearing that he might move away, the woman mustered up the courage to go talk to the man. "Why are you putting everything into boxes?" The woman asked. "Because," the man replied solemnly, "I am looking to create new memories and find a fresh start." The woman said nothing and returned to her house, slamming the door and fighting back tears. The next morning, the man was loading his belongings into a moving truck when he saw a pile of boxes bigger than his own sitting in the woman's lawn. He walked across the street to the pile, and saw a note taped to one of the boxes. "I will always love you, and I promise that I will always be next to you. No matter where we go." The man's face turned into a broad smile, and he looked up to see the woman on her front patio, looking right back at him, the necklace glistening in the sunlight. She ran into his arms and they kissed for what felt like an eternity. The pair continued to load all of their belongings into the one moving truck, and left that very evening. Holding hands with his true love, the man looked into the rear view mirror to see the sun setting on the old, abandoned houses for the last time, and felt what was truly a pure happiness. An odd and relieving sensation washed over him like a tide, as he realized that he would never have to search for anything in his life, as long as he lived.

Golden prison bars cage my bed in their heat; I’m sweating under the sheet now. Venetian in their namesake, the blinds are the crux of my being. I roll myself off the bed and onto the floor which is thankfully still bathed in shadow. My breathing is quick and shallow from preforming that singular feat, an obvious sign of the cigarettes last night, though I needed no telling as my swollen tongue could taste. I wipe the sweat from my brow as the carpet rubs my nude back, my eyes stay shut as I wonder what happened last night. I creep my hand along the carpet, a hermit crab combing the beach for solace, hearing the circling squawks overhead, feeling the sun beat down on it. My hand finds solace. I twist the cap off and take a sip. It’s making late payments on bills, payments just touching the minimum, drowning in debt as I still place the bottle to my lips for a drink. The jingling quarters in my pocket are the rhythm section behind the automated ding accompanying the liquor store door. The rhythm section marches with me leaving the other pieces behind, this parade route swings by the gin shelves because it’s early in the month and the bills don’t have to be paid yet. The lady at the first cash served me three days ago; I head to the second line. On the way out I hold the door for an entering customer around my age; I can hear his pocket jingling. I don’t make eye contact. Once home I place the new bottle beside the empty one on my desk (kitchen table) and open my word processor (booklet of paper). This, not drinking cheap alcohol or smoking bummed cigarettes, is the true struggle. I don’t drink because life is unfair; I drink because my main character keeps being a fucking dick when he’s supposed to be the “Hero”. How can I not pull a cigarette from the battered pack I stole last night when my female lead sleeps with her best friend’s man behind her husband’s back? What about when my twenty year old protagonist drinks his way out of university? That must deserve a drink. I’ll fight with them, yell at them, tell them about the damage they’re doing, show them their reflections, add soliloquys, but it never does any good. I’ll keep trying to write them in the right way while the sun falls and the bottle empties. I’ll fight until the phone rings, and my friend invites me to the pub. He’ll tell me not to fuck up like I did last night, and I’ll laugh and apologize as I gather my coat promising to be there in 15 minutes.

There was yet another murder in my small, decrepit town, I got the call just as I got out of the shower and was in the process of getting ready for sleep. I got my ragged uniform on, and hopped into my cruiser. It took me about five or six minutes to get there, and when I did, I wasn't ready for the scene that laid before me. The poor fucker was nailed to a tree, well, what was left of him. As I approached the body, I could see the true grusomeness of the slaughter. The guts of the man were in a small pile beside the tree, along with a metal medallion full of strange symbols, I call over Wright, my assistant to see if he has ever seen these symbols. He said "those look like hieroglyphs John, but I have never seen these ones before." "Great, a damn cult is invading our small town, and chopping up our people for their sick pleasure!" As we continued the investigation, I proceed with caution, because with this fucker around, anyone could be next, even me. The coroner proceeded to tell me how he died, he said that he was heavily drugged and was chopped up while he was still alive, and once he died, he was eviscerated and nailed to the tree, he then looked at me and said that he had seen some shocking scenes, but this took the cake as the most fucked up body he has ever seen We were looking for more clues, like how the killer got ahold of the poison they used to paralyze the victim. When a strange package was delivered to me, I look inside to see what was inside, and I see a bag containing the brain of something, and a note saying "the next body is in a dark and moldy place, hidden in plain sight." I begin to think of where the hint was leading me, and I think of my old house, which has been falling apart because of what happened there. The reason I became a CSI is because of the b.t.

“Be careful what you wish for.”In the Arizona desert,in a small town,on a motel bed,this thought goes through Travis Tanners mind. He looked at his hand,The gun had fused with his skin 3 days ago. It contained 1 bullet then,now it carry's 3. Travis remembered what the gun said to him the day he found it. “kill them, leave me.” a cryptic message that was decoded to late. All he had to do was kill a man and the gun would let go. He refused,causing unforeseen consequences. The next day a bullet was added. In some sick way he knew what it meant,now two people must die. He knew what he had to do. Guided by the words of the gun,he came to Red Sand Flats. A kind of town that has a diner,a motel,a convenient store,and a police station. That's it. 8 people live in this town,cut off from the rest of the world. On the day he rode in to this place,Travis was drunk. He passed out in his motel room,and woke up with another bullet. He sobbed. Travis was going to be a writer. He had tried for years to get a book published. Sadly his own perfectionism got in the way. He ripped up many rough drafts,threw them away. He needed to get the emotions perfect. Three months of working on a horror story. In anyone's eyes it would be considered a masterpiece. Travis deleted it because he couldn't get the emotion of killing someone 100% accurate. Countless hours watching interviews with soldiers, and reading serial killer autobiographies was to no avail. He gave up, decided to change genres,but it was to late. The package had been sent,there was no going back. Halfway through his new book he got a package at his apartment. A present complete with warping paper,and a bow. Inside it was the most beautiful revolver he had ever seen. Custom bone grip, and a barrel so polished he could see himself in it. It called to him,beckoned him to pick it up. He made the greatest mistake of his life that day. She was gaining more power. Everyday that went by,every bullet added to the gun. Was more control over Travis. If he failed to sacrifice,she would have complete control over him. She had to wait only three more days,three more bullets,until she won this sick game. Until she finally broke free of her prison. This was not her first time going through this. She had created many psychopaths in her time. From school shootings to bank robbery's,someone always shook her off. Not this time, Travis wasn't going to kill anyone,she was sure of it. The writer,with eyes bloodshot,and breath that could get you drunk,left his room. The sun nearly blinded him, though he didn't care. The gun controlled parts of him already, if he waited any longer it would never let him kill. Never get him his freedom back. On the way to the dinner he stopped to look at his reflection in a window. Black jeans,White tank top with beer stains,and messy hair. He looked like a man with nothing to loose. He didn't,with only a dog at home,no one would mind him going to jail. Or something similar. He thought about the events leading up to this as he crossed the street. All the serial killers he studied, all the interviews with family members of the victims. Here he was about to create another 20/20 special. “ If I wait any longer it will be worse. Just go in there and do it.” he gives himself a pep talk.”You don't have to kill anyone.” the gun spoke directly to his brain. She was part of him now. She could read his mind,control some actions. That goes both ways though. He knows what she needs,knows what she will do if she get's it. Travis has to do this or worse things will happen. It was a sacrifice he had to make,just like the others before him. It took all the strength he had to open the diner door. She used as much control over him as she had. Not fully powered, all she could do was slow him down. 5 people in the diner,some tourists stopped by earlier, but he couldn't tell them apart from the locals. he gets a table and orders a pink lemonade. He sips it as he thinks of what will happen. People will die,families will grieve,the town will be filled with a sadness for months,and he would go to jail. It was a sub-par situation to put it blankly. Having no way to choose who to kill,he did a simple thing. He played spin the bottle. He laughed to himself of how childish it was. She started talking to him.”Sleep,rest,relax” Each word was a command,and each was disobeyed. He tried hard to probe his brain for any memory of Hers that had passed to him. Visions of previous hosts moved like a sick slide show in his mind. Some loved it,embraced it,became psychopaths. Some killed the first day,some the 5th . No one had let her win,and he wasn't about to brake the streak. He took a deep breath,prayed,and opened fire. Each bullet that left the gun was like taking an allergy pill. His vision got better as he killed the waitress. Killing a biker gave him back control of himself. Shooting a hiker made the gun fall to the floor. It detached with a pop, it was the most glorious feeling he had ever felt. The sensation of air where the gun was made him smile. It hit the tiled floor with a clank. His hand was red and itchy but he couldn't scratch it,there were people that wanted him to put his hands in the air. Being as happy as he was, he came peacefully. Mark and Lucy sat at the dinner table. They did the usual small talk,but mostly they just ate. “Did you hear about that psycho down in Red Sand Flats?” mark asks through a mouthful of food. “You mean that writer that went crazy? Yeah Jamie told me about it at work. Poor town it was a nice place, sad there have to be people like him in the world” she took a sip of her wine. Mark talks while she drinks. “Yeah what a freak,they say he says he thought a gun was attached to his hand. The only way he could get it off was to kill people. Can you believe that? What a text-book freak.” they both agree and change the subject. That Is Travis Tanners reward for saving humanity. Being talked about at dinner tables across America,hated by everyone. He gets to rot in a padded room, deemed crazy for telling the truth. So is the fate of those chosen to make the sacrifice.

Saturdays with Sharal-Min Jones Saturdays were always gloomy for Sharal-Min Jones. It was always sunny, not a single cloud in the sky, and the animals were hopping all around. It was also the day that everyone decided to tell him that he sucked. For example: “Hey there John!” “Sharal-Min? Gross, what are you doing outside? You really should go back in so we don't catch your ugly on such a beautiful day!” And they were always completely serious. Not once did Sharal-Min see a smile or a snigger. Just completely straight and disgusted faces looking at him. Nowadays he never went out. His skin had greyed over time (what a ghoul), and his teeth had yellowed because he never got toothpaste. Nor a new toothbrush. Usually he ate mice off the ground for food, and drank whatever dripped through the hole in his ceiling asbestos. Even I think he should be dead by now, and you should see my ugly face! Today was the day that the mice stopped coming, the annoying neighbor's escaped chickadees built a nest over his water hole, and he started to die. “But I can't go outside,” he thought. Sure, nobody even knew who he was anymore (again: never went outside), but he had agoraphobia, and was therefore afraid of leaving home. So finally he stepped outside. Then ran right back in. Then out. Then in. Out. In. Out. Out. Okay, he had done it! Sure, he had only confused himself, but he was managing, rig- Sharal-Min half-fainted back into his house and clutched at his heart. Alright, there was only one solution to this: he needed to bring out the flour bag. Flour bag? No, I'm not messing with you. This freak had an old flour bag in his strongbox. Just the idea that this guy had a strongbox should be creepy. He even named it, too: Marisson. When did he get it? I would say about ten years ago when he had visited that fortune teller. She had told him, “When you become mentally unable to leave your house, open this bag and say 'I wish 'dat I was coo' like 'dem udda kids.' It'll get rid of your fears like that!” With two snaps. Yeah, not one. Two. Pretty badass, huh? So Sharal-Min Jones did as he was told. Instantly he felt better, but was kind of worried when he saw green smoke swirl up from the bag. It circled around the room, and only a few seconds later the bag coughed. Well, the opening did this sort of thing where it blew out really big then sucked back in, anyways. Sharal-Min doubted that the bag could be animate. Then the freaking thing talked. “Thanks bro!” it said, and S-M. J. peed himself. He started back so badly that he knocked over some shelves, got hit with the various heavy bowling balls he kept on them, and died. I know what you're thinking: “Great, so Sharal-Min Jones, the hero of the story, just peed himself and died by consecutive bowling balls to the head.” Yep, that's exactly right.

It was 1:30am after a grueling Day 3 on the Inca trail. I haven't pooped since day 1. I had hoped to hold it until we returned to the hotel the following night. But I knew when I crawled into my bag that this night might have other plans. It was such a strange mixture of feelings. On the one hand, there was almost an inevitability that pooping would happen this night. I was afraid if I stayed in the tent there might be an extremely embarrassing situation. On the other hand, I was freezing and I didn't want to leave the tent. I didn't want to wake up my travel companion. I was afraid that the poop might be a messy affair, and just maybe I could hold it for another day. After hours of tossing and turning, I decided I must get up. I put my freezing FiveFingers on my already freezing feet. Upon exiting the tent, I'm greeted by the most haunting, beautiful gift of a vista. It was a clear night, the first since we had started hiking. Machu Picchu Mountain was visible bathed in silvery moonlight. In the distance were the snow capped peaks of the Andes, also reflecting the brilliance of June's supermoon. I saw constellations I've always read about but never seen: the Crab, Pegasus and his Great Square--even Orion was here! I didn't expect to see him in the Southern Hemisphere! The Big Dipper, low on the horizon and upside down, pointing towards home. And Cruz, the beautiful Southern Cross. CSN kept repeating in my head--"When you see the Southern Cross for the first time. You understand now why you came this way. The truth that you've been running from is so small, but it's as big as the promise, the promise of a coming day!" The truth is that I'm a worthwhile person. I could've stood mesmerized there for hours, except that I had a job to do, a biological imperative. I walked up a lonely trail to the restroom. My experience with the free restrooms on the trail was that they were nasty. This one proved to be no exception. I open the door and look in. There's shit all over the floor, but it doesn't matter. This is my destiny. There's no toilet, just a porcelain hole in the ground. I drop trou, being as careful as I can not to let my hiking pants touch the turdy tile floor. I squat slightly, with no idea what's going to happen. I'm afraid it's going to be a drawn out watery affair, and I will have to stay in this tiring squatting position a long time while my insides flush out. I'm afraid I might slip on the floor, damp with piss and excrement. I'm afraid I might miss the hole and make the room even more unsanitary. Was I standing in exactly the right position? It was the moment of truth. In less than a minute, there was a solid compact mass of well-formed shit. It felt like a beautiful black birth. I knew in an instant that that was going to be all, and it was enough. It seemed to fall towards the porcelain hole for an eternity. And… Bullseye. My job done, I wipe (though I hardly had to). I open the door and walk to the hand washing station. When I'm done, I turn to revel in the light of the moon, the stars, and the promise of a coming day.

I went through and fixed all the grammatical errors i could find so hopefully it sounds/looks better. Christian Owens was a junior at Norm High School. It was February 13, 2006 and the school day was a quarter way through. For Chris’ first three classes he was absent, as well as his two best friends whose names I simply do not know. They weren’t absent due to a doctor’s appointment or a wedding or something like that; they just simply didn’t show up. That wasn’t out of the ordinary for them or for any student really. This day wasn’t like any other day though. Something was extremely different from any other day. I couldn’t tell you exactly why this day was unlike any other day. Maybe it was the fact that out of the entire 147 students in my class, the three boys were the only ones absent, or maybe it was the fact that the boys would actually return to school. I don’t know what it was but I could easily tell that this day was not like any other one, especially as the day progressed. It would actually turn out that this would be the most memorable day of my life. Unlike any other day that he missed, Chris and his three friends did return to school. He was out of our standardized dress code, which much like missing school, was not out of the ordinary, but it wasn’t that he was just missing a belt, or had his shirt untucked, he was wearing cut-off camouflage shorts with a “Led Zeppelin” shirt on. Over the shirt he had baggy hoody (this was EXTREMELY out of dress code). On top of his head laid a black ski-mask which was very strange, But the MOST out of the ordinary thing was what he was holding. What Christian Sorely Owens was holding that day would end up changing everyone’s life. Grasped tightly in his hands was an Avtomat Kalashnikova, which most people know as an AK-47. As you probably guessed, firearms are not part of our school’s dress code. Accompanying Chris was his two unnamed friends. For the sake of the story, i will call them Dave and Steve. And accompanying Dave and Steve was a Mac-10 and a Baretta 92. The friends were both carrying five gallons of gasoline, which could only end worse. You’re probably wondering how on Earth they just waltzed right pass the front office and check in center without anybody stopping them, but if you saw how laid-back everyone was you would understand. For example the attendance check in woman was always in “conference calls” that would talk about the bar a lot and different beverages that were consumed. I have no clue what went on at the school that involved those things but i just assumed it was more funding for the athletic department. That’s beside the point. Anyways, so Chris and his two buddies were lackadaisically strolling through the school as if everything was completely normal, but Dave and Steve were pouring their gas in streams as they walked through the halls. Chris was staring in the direction straight in front of him with an expression that is hard to describe. It wasn’t angry, or sad, or happy. It was calm, relaxed. It was… heart-warming. As they strolled along the only noise that could be heard was Chris’ humming the tune Karma Police, by Radiohead. Our school was very small so it didn’t take long to cover every hall with a line of gas that ran in front of every door. as they reached the end of the last hall, Chris pulled out a cigar and a match. He started to sing as they all pulled down their masks, “….This is what you get, when you meessss with usssss” and lit his cigar then threw the match behind him and the streams ignited almost instantly. In seconds, all the halls were engulfed in flames and the fire alarms were sounding while the sprinklers went off. Students and faculty were screaming as they ran through the fires to try and escape. Everyone was frantic and nobody seemed to know what to do. As the gasoline started to burn out and the sprinklers stopped the fire, the halls began to clear. As soon as Chris, Dave and Steve could slightly see, they all rose their guns and began to fire relentlessly at anything that moved. Unless the person was on fire, then they saved their ammunition. They began retracing their steps and shooting at anyone they saw. Of course people escaped, killing everyone was not the plan. Just… Killing. As the boys reached the entrance of the school, Chris smirked and said thank you guys, I’m glad I have true friends that could help. Then he raised his gun and killed both Steve and Dave. At this point sirens and vehicles could be heard right outside the school. Chris pulled off his mask and started towards the door, but before he walked out he looked through the window of the door to his left. He saw a boy just standing there, frozen, facing away from Chris. Chris approached the boy slowly calling to him, “Hey! Kid! What the f*ck are you doing?” As he got closer he could hear the boy crying. He looked in front of the boy and could see a burned corpse lying motionless on the ground. The corpse was an older woman and quickly Chris realized that this was his mom, or aunt, or someone close to him. “Sorry.” Chris whispered as he raised his gun to the back of the kids head. He reluctantly squeezed the trigger only for nothing to exit the barrel. Chris had run out of bullets. Chris threw down the gun and darted through the door. As he exited the building he did something that I, the boy who was staring at my dead mother in that dark room, would never forget. Chris smiled and yelled, “F*ck you! F*ck all of you!” just then a loud bang was heard and Chris fell to the cold concrete. There, in the doorway to the school, was me. In my hand was the Baretta 92. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t think I could do it. But something overcame me that day and I don’t exactly know what it was. But all in all it was me, soaking wet with a pistol shaking in my hand, I was speechless. Right then in there it hit me. I had just killed a man. I zoned out and began to think of everything that had happened. I began to think of my mom, and how I would never get to see her again. How much she meant to me. I began to cry even more, and started to scream. The S.W.A.T. started to move in closer to me to help. I couldn’t take it anymore. It wasn’t fair. How come I lost my mom? I can’t live without her. Just then I heard a voice. “It will be okay kid.” One of the S.W.A.T. members said. I snapped, “NO IT WON’T! IT WON’T BE OKAY! SHE’S DEAD! I NEED HER! F*CK YOU! F*CK ALL OF YOU! I raised the gun to my head and pulled the trigger, but all I heard was a tiny click. I kept trying. Nothing came out. “NOOOO! KILL ME. I HATE YOU. I HATE ME. KILL ME!” The S.W.A.T. quickly came in and grabbed me and removed the gun from my hand. I fought back but everything began to get blurry and I started to lose conscience. Almost instantly I woke up to the ending of an awful movie we were watching in English class. Although it was just a dream. I could still feel the cold firearm send chills down my spine and I still heard sirens and crying. How could a dream feel so real.

I'm sure that there was a moment shortly after humans and chimps were branching out that Human said to Chimp "Hey man, see that rock up there in the sky? One day I'm going to go there." and chimp said "Cool. Dude have you tried these bananas? They're fucking delicious". Human just shook his head and said "Dude, bananas? Don't you want to find out how we all got here?" to which chimp said "Not really. I like bananas and I'm going to die one day so why not eat bananas?" then they each took their own path. In the end, I guess it worked out for both of them. Human got bored and needed stuff to do. He invented TV then calculus then got angry at other humans for pointing out that, in fact, calculus came first. Meanwhile his cousin, Chimp, still thought bananas and insects were the bee's knees. He never made a cultural or global impact but "Why bother?" he thought (assuming he could think) "Why not just make shit then eat shit? Life's short and these bananas are fucking good" (those bloody bananas were all he ever talked about). But now, a couple hundred thousand years later in the dead of night, Chimp looks off into the sky and sees that big rock his cousin was talking about, smirks, and says "You crazy bastard." At the same time, every once a while when Human wakes up and goes to his overpriced kitchen in his overpriced home, he reaches for a banana, takes a bite and thinks for a second "Hmm, this shit is pretty good" then asks himself why he just thought that.

It was a beautiful, sunny day. The wind was blowing just the right way, like it was purposely missing the hair of the three girls walking home. Each had on a blue blazer with the school crest for thorns high, the local private school. One had tall, thin legs that seemed to go on forever. She had long, curly blonde ringlets flowing down to her lower back. Next to her was an averaged height red head. Her hair was short and partly died blue to match the blazer. She was talking to the third girl. The third was short with curly brown hair that was even longer than the blondes. Even though the red headed girl seemed to be in a serious conversation with her,the brunet seemed distracted almost gone from her body. She kept thinking of the past twenty four hours of her life. Why had her mother decided to have a midlife crises? Now, of all the times in her life to have a crises this was the worst. She had just become head cheerleader and James, a guy she has been crushing on since she was old enough to read vogue, had final asked her out."okay fine then I guess your right I will get a tattoo and then join a gang from Russia!"Said the red head. "Eh uh, yeah sounds great Luce" said the brunette. Lucy turned to the blonde in aggravation. " Kenzie are you even listening?" Lucy said. " uh what"said Kenzie finally coming out of her daze. She turned to look at Lucy noticing her angry face. "I'm sorry Luce, I just have a lot on my mind. What is it you were saying?" "I was saying that with prom coming up we need to decide what, who and where?" Luce said happy to have some attention. " what, who and where?" Asked the blonde in curiosity." Yes, Rebecca what, what are we all going to wear, who, whose all of our lucky dates, and where, where's the after party?" " oh uh well I don't know about party I'm not sure I want to go anywhere after" said Rebecca. "Becs your joking right? Your not seriously considering ditching us prom night. You know what I always say?" Said Lucy trying to convince her friend." I know, I know" said Rebecca " friends for life till the end and beyond" Said Rebecca trying her best to make fun of Lucy's saying. " not funny, and I'm serious we stick together through thick and thin... And prom!" Said Lucy about to burst from excitement."guys, guys enough with the prom talk okay let's just get through midterms then prom, i promise." Said Kenzie clearly not wanted to discuss further. As the three girls got to there street Rebecca noticed the moving truck in front of Kenzie's house. "Uh, Kenzie whose moving in your grandmother?" "No, not that I now of."said Kenzie curious about what was going at her house. She turned to her friends and said goodbye. She then ran up her drive way, past the truck and into her house. When she walked in she noticed the bare walls and floors. The foyer was completely blank except for the two large movers bringing out her bed. As they walked out she caught a sight of her mother in the kitchen directing there maids as they packed dishes." Ehhhh, frank please don't drop that it's an antique from France!" Cried Kenzie's mom. "Hey mom, what's going on? What's with all the huge guys" said Kenzie as she grabbed a cup from a nearby shelf. As she walked to the sink. Her mother turned towards her. " oh um sweetie we need to talk" Kenzie turned nervously towards her mother knowing her tone of voice was the sympathetic one she always used when something bad was about to happened. "Wait, when you said we are going to move you didn't mean after my senior year this summer did you?" Said Kenzie trying to understand what was going on." Well, honey that's what I wanted to tell you. Surprise! I got a building sooner than later. We're moving tomorrow. The guys are here for our stuff today." Kenzie dropped her cup immediately. "WHAT!!?" Said Kenzie as she saw her friends and her amazing life go by."Kenzie, me and your father told you last night that we thought we needed a new start and that when we could get a building for my new shop we were moving. Nothing new is happening." " mom, not fair you know I never thought it would happen so soon, prom isn't that far away please can we stay till graduation it's only in a few months?" Said Kenzie hoping to convince her."Kenzie it's over we're leaving. End of discussion" her mom said trying frantically to continue packing the kitchen. Kenzie decided to try a different tactic with her mom."fine but how about we make a deal?" " like what?" Kenzie thought of what she was going to say. "How about if I don't like our new home in a month we move back just in time for prom and graduation and you buy me a new car?" Kenzie's mom thought over the new proposition."and if you like it in a month?" "Then I stay for the rest of senior year and go to a college close to home. I know you want me too!" As Kenzie's mom thought it over Kenzie realized that there was no way to trick her mom about liking the new place. Her mom had always had a weird gift for telling if someone lied. So if Kenzie happened to really like the new place her friends would kill her for staying and missing all the glorious senior privileges. "You have deal! One month nothing more nothing less." "Oh , thank you so much Lucy and Rebecca will be so happy!" Kenzie ran to her mom and gave her a huge hug. She then happily skipped to her room in an excited daze. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to get a new start. It might actually be fun but of course she'll always love thorns high. Wait where did her mom said they were moving to? Hopefully somewhere in California her home town, so that she can see her friends. When she got to her room she noticed a mover in her room. "Oh, hi sorry it's just that this is my room and I was hoping to pack some things for the move!" The mover then turned to leave. As she turned towers him to escorts him out of her room she noticed the mover was young and handsome. He had the look of a model mixed with a football player. " hey, names Blake sorry ill get out of your hair." He then turned to leave." Oh well you don't have to I'm just grabbing something's" Kenzie went to her closet to get all of her most beautiful things to impress Blake.She went to grab her coach bag when she heard a crash from across the room. She turned to see what it was in time to notice Blake catch a falling eyeliner from her desk. He caught it so quickly that it barely even left the desk. Kenzie stood amazed at what she had just witnessed." What, you look like you just say a ghost?" Blake said " you just...you just...you just caught my liner a second before it touched the ground!" " yeah, I guess I just have killer reflexes" said Blake trying to dismiss the comment. Blake put the liner down on the table and walked out of the room. Kenzie ran after him to say that it was okay. She grabbed his arm."wow, your really hot. Are you feeling okay" "don't touch me!" Blake said as he ripped his arm away from Kenzie and continued out the door way."wow, that was weird. He felt like my straightener set to its highest temp." She then went to her closet and finished packing the rest of her belongings.

Floral Patterns The young man handed a ten dollar bill across the counter, exchanging it for the freshly wrapped flowers the lady gave him. A lovely bouquet, she said. He smiled, thanked her, and walked out of the market pavilion, exiting onto the downtown side street. The late afternoon was bright and hot and the dewy flowers glistened optimistically. He headed down the street clutching the bouquet, passing market patrons and other sidewalkers, holding the flowers tightly to avoid them being jostled. He passed through a crowd gathered at a bus stop, avoiding eye contact where possible. Two shirtless, rudely tattooed men sat reclined against a convenience store looking at him. Faggot, one muttered, hoping his buddy thought he was overheard, hoping he was not overheard. Probably. The young man proceeded down the busy city thoroughfare, passing restaurant patios where glasses clinked and couples laughed. A group of ladies in large sunglasses and large necklaces drinking cocktails ogled him quietly as we walked by. He heard them titter and coo and knew their looks followed him. He would be the subject of their conversation for a few minutes. He paused at a corner, putting the flowers into the crook of his arm to light a cigarette. A large, Greek-lettered man asked approaching him from across the street. Yo man, could I bum a dart off you bro? he asked while groping his pocket for a lighter. Sure. Thanks bro. Cool flowers dude. Thanks. Take ‘er easy man, and he walked off back across the street, leaving the young man to light his own cigarette. He took a few drags before starting down the street again. It was very warm, and sweat pooled on his back. He decided to cut down a shaded alley and get off the main street. His shoes sounded on the chipped asphalt as he stepped off the sidewalk over a torn garbage bag and into the cool, fetid air of the alley. Old brick rose on both sides and the flaked paint of some decayed mural remained visible beneath the city grime. The alley exited onto a nearly vacant parking lot, and he crossed the hot pavement towards the street. He flipped his half-smoked cigarette back into the alley to join its numerous kin. The moisture had long since evaporated from the flowers he gripped, and their original lustre had faded. The street was less busy than the one he had just left and he was thankful. The only person visible was a homeless man sitting on a spread of cardboard sipping from a worn paper cup. The young man considered crossing the street to avoid contact but decided it would be too obvious. Spare some change? Sorry, he answered looking away as he walked passed quickly. I’ll take those flowers instead. Ha, he stated and didn’t break his pace. The street exited onto another main road and he took a right onto it, joining the herds of people swarming along the sidewalk and the traffic oozing between intersections. Buskers played on either side, and between the noise of engines and tires and voices, acoustic music was audible there, percussion there, and a wailing street person there. His mouth was dry and his feet swam in his shoes. There was a Starbucks just ahead and he decided to stop for an ice water. The line was long, almost to the door, but it was densely air conditioned inside and it cut through the sweaty grit that covered him. He stood as the line slowly progressed forward, the haggard baristas pouring ices and syrups into taxed blenders. He got to the front of the line and ordered his water. The cashier smiled with relief for the brief respite. Those are beautiful flowers, who’s the lucky g—person? she asked, but he was already moving to the pickup table and her question was ground out in the sound of masticating ice. He grabbed his water and moved through the crowded café towards the exit. A girl in a short sundress was coming through and he held the door for her with his elbow, hands clutching flowers and water. Thanks, she said looking up at him, smiling. You’re welcome, he said, returning her smile. They paused for a moment, her looking at the flowers in his hand. Her smile dropped and she stepped passed him without another word. The young man exited out of the cool air into the city street. The sidewalks were filling with nine to fivers finished the grind, inappropriately dressed for the sunny heat. They shoved passed him on both sides headed towards parking lots and bus stops, desperate to get home. He sipped his water and moved slowly upstream against the city. Despite his best efforts the flowers were getting jostled. A small yellow carnation was crushed down and in, the cellophane folding over it. He stopped at a garbage and discarded his cup and ice, pausing to readjust the crumpled flower, unfolding the plastic from over it. He crossed the street to cut across the park. Large trees shaded couples sprawled on benches, eating, laughing. He watched as they held hands and touched each other. Teenagers sitting too close, kissing too hard, listening to music too loud. They watched videos on their phones and they sat in each other’s laps. He walked across the grass watching them frankly. No one watched him. The grass ended and concrete began. His destination was just up the street and he could see the squat grey building sprawled before him. He was a bit later than intended. He wanted another cigarette but didn’t want to smell like smoke. He got to the parking lot and stopped. Cars were pulling out and he stopped to let them pass. The drivers looked at him. He climbed the steps to the front of the building and stopped. The large doors and a small garbage can with cigarette butts littered around it stood before him. He stood. Fuck. He took the decaying bouquet and shoved it into the ashy garbage. Fuck. Gripping the door handle he pulled hard and entered the building.

“Corie! Get your friggin butt out of your friggin bed and get ready for school!” My older sister Elizabeth yelled. I groaned. Ever since the law had been passed, I’d been going to school with only a week a year off, but that one week was always uneventful and hard to remember. I pulled my shirt on and, grabbing my backpack and bicycle lock, took off for school. When I was halfway to school, I stopped and whistled. Hunter the 10 month old puppy ran up to me and gave me a good licking. I pulled out a treat and leaned against a tree, throwing the treat to hunter. “Wow, Hunter, you’ve grown, what 10 pounds in the last three months?” I asked him. Hunter barked at that and rolled over. I threw him another treat and got on my way. When I got to the bicycle rack, I pulled out my lock and put the combination in. D-R-E-A-M. I pulled at the lock to open it but it stuck. I groaned. I pulled a couple more times, and eventually it opened and I locked my bicycle to the rack. I stood back to make sure I didn’t leave anything in my basket and ran to class. I have three teachers. Misses, Mister, and, Miss. My first class is with Mister on the history of our country. This is one of the most boring classes and I have to do it every day, so it is pretty much all review from yesterday. Actually, that’s what all my classes are. Irritatingly long reviews of the day before which was also a review. Ever since Pres I. Dent became president, things have become so redundant. No one celebrates birthdays. No one uses last names. No one drives. Instead, we all ride bikes. It did wonders for the economy and environment, but it still sucks. And we all ride the same bike. The only thing that differs between every person is their name, face and hair, their clothes, and their bicycle lock combination. I had long blonde hair with blues eyes. Some peoples' lock combinations have numbers, some have letters, some have both, but I’ve been told that even if you see someone put their combination in, you’ll instantly forget it. Scientists even made it so that there is a drug--The Drug--everyone takes when they are born or if they were born before The Drug, they take it every ten years. The Drug makes it so that you can’t feel hurt or get sick. I don’t know a person who hasn’t taken it. Sometimes i wish I could do something different than review and repetition, but every time I think that, I realize there is nothing I can do than wait for someone to change something. For our country to wake up. That night, I Elizabeth comes into my room, which is boring and gray, and says: “Cor, They’ve decided to let us have “credits” which is like what used to be dollars! Isn’t it amazing?!” “Sweet,” I replied “but couldn’t it become a problem like money did?” “I hope it doesn’t...” She said, look off into space. Elizabeth is old enough to remember what money was like. She says it got removed because it got too out of hand, the millionaires got too much control, the middle class disappeared, and the the poor class got to be twice the size the of the upper class, then president Dent came and saved us all. He never got elected, but he still became president. I know I was alive when he wasn’t in office, but I just can’t remember it. I asked about it once in fourth grade, on a review day, and Misses yelled at me. I cried and everyone just stared. I seemed to be the only one who could show emotion in my class. And in my town except for Elizabeth and my teachers. Elizabeth says that our parents were taken away because money was taken away and our parents were only there to earn our money. I don’t remember my parents either. Actually, I remember one memory of my mother. She said something about dreaming and how I should never stray far from my dreams. Elizabeth said the computer is a place of dreams, so when I get some credits, I get a laptop. I go onto the internet and Elizabeth was right. It is a place of dreams. It even says dream right in front of me. It literally says “dreaming” “Hey Elizabeth, c’mere!” I yell. Elizabeth walks in. But when I see her face, it isn’t her face. Her eyes are glowing red and she’s quietly laughing. “You are very dumb, you know,” she says, “this is all a dream. You’ve been dreaming for years and years. Follow the light in your laptop. Wake up. Leave this horrible world.” "what?" She grabbed ahold of my shoulder and slapped me repeatedly "Wake UP!" “ELIZABETH! NO! ELIZABETH! ELIZABETH! NO! STOP IT! NO! MOMMY! DADDY! HELP! PLEASE!” I watch in horror, still screaming, as my hand went toward the light. I woke up in a hospital room, still screaming. Then I saw you. You asked me what made me scream. I asked you if it was all a dream. It was, you told me. You told me to relax, and tell you what made me scream. Elizabeth. That's who, or what made me scream, I shakily said. You know, you said, most people don't dream during a coma. I was confused. A coma? What had happened to induce a coma? "Do you know who I am?" You asked, "No, I don't. " I replied. " I am Pres I. Dent, the leading professor in the study of comas and what happens to a human during one." At the mention of the name, my breathing quickened. "You're him, the...the tyrant who took over the USA, and reduced us into nothing but a system! You took my parents, turned everyone into emotionless slugs, and..." It was all coming back to me clearer than before, than when I was dreaming "You....you killed my friends, my family, everyone I know, and placed me with people I didn't recognize. " A look of fear spread on your face then quickly dissipated. You put your hands up " Fine, you caught me," You said with a chuckle, " But please, explain more about your...dream. " " So you're him?" I asked "No way, I just want to know more. " "About what?" You sighed "Okay, listen. You know how I said its strange how you dreamt while In a coma? Well, no one-at all-dreams in a coma. You're the only one. So, maybe you were remembering something. In fact, you were remembering something. You just had the names wrong. Elizabeth was your sister Danielle. She was a government traitor. The tyrant was named Pike Creshwin, the self elected president, and you are not Codie. " " How do you know what I was called in my dream thingy?" " Because that is the name of your newborn brother, who was killed within the first week of the tyranny, only because they wanted you. " You are the fabled, the feared Gwyneth Creshwin, daughter of Pike Creshwin, the only one strong enough or skilled enough to defeat her own father. There are millions in amnesia inducing comas right now, all because of that damn drug, and thousands more being put in them. You stood up. " You, Gwyneth Creshwin, are the leader of the rebels, and the only one who can overcome the coma. You are the only one who can save the world. " "So, what do you say?" You said, " How do I know I can trust you?" I replied, " Trust me, you know," you said, smirking at the joke. I grabbed your hand as you helped me up from the bed. A rush of memories flooded my consciousness. I suddenly remembered who you were in my previous life, before the tyranny. I knew what our connection was like, what you felt when I was in the coma. The truth came in an avalanche of information. I knew that we, two fifteen gear old kids, were going to save the world from a fatherly force unlike any other. It would be hard, but we'd do it. I knew that I could trust you.