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Allura 23

I live in a small house, a row home. It’s not the “nicest” part of town, but I enjoy it. I spend a lot of time in my room. It’s in the basement, adjacent to the rear of the house, which lets out to a back alleyway. I’ve got a nice little set-up, with a door leading into the remainder of the basement and a door leading outside. I’ve also got a good sized screened window, with a sill, upon which the cats love to perch. The room is pretty much finished, with carpet and trim, but there is a leak. I sit at my desk and work and watch and listen to the people walking by. It’s an entertaining mix. My nighttime routine includes brushing, going potty, getting naked, turning off the lights, and opening the curtain, in no particular order - save for concluding with a satisfying climb under the covers. One evening, as I’m getting near that stage of slight dreaminess, where you nod in and out of consciousness, rain begins to fall. I didn’t notice at first, but I began to listen as it grew a little louder. Softly, yet suddenly, I hear a familiar sound; strange though, for a carriage to be anywhere around here. It had approached so gracefully and quietly that I was not startled at its very rapid arrival. It was parked right beside the back of the house, and I could see the horse’s head through the window, peering deep inside with his watery black right eye. The horse itself was also black, as were the reigns, which looked somewhat tattered. As soon as I looked in the horse’s eye, a feeling of darkness fell over me, like a tide rolling in. The eye was a giant black marble, a primordial ocean, violent and deep. Shadows flickered out from the periphery, waving, darkening the already pitch black coat. I knew to look away almost instantly, as I would have surely drown in the undertow. I remained calm, checked my breath, and looked around the eye. The horse stepped forward and revealed the man holding the reigns, an old man, seemingly crippled, or bent. It wasn’t really clear what was wrong with him, he just seemed sickly, weak. He was dressed in black, as was the entire carriage. The thing looked like it was about to fall apart, and it reeked of evil, of torture and destruction. The man gave a menacing grin. I had had about enough. I got up, walked to the end of my bed, and picked up my shotgun. My eyes had well-adjusted to the dim light, and I opened my drawer and pulled out a round of buckshot. Loading the gun, I looked at the driver. He shifted nervously, frowning slightly. I checked the cartridge, snapped the barrel together and aimed at the picture of hell that was now standing before me, aiming back with two barrels of his own. The barrels shined silver, butted with a deep red colored stock and an intricately decorated firing assembly. The hammer and chamber glinted in the ambient night light. I knew I could not fail as the conviction of love filled me; I cocked my gun and fired into his chest as he was cocking his. He laughed, and a new wave of putrid hatred swept over me, tossing my sense of self like a tree in a hurricane. With a scowl and a sharp look from his grey piercing eyes, he informed me that 47 men had already tried tha- but before he could finish, the might of a thousand suns overtook me. In an instant I tore that gun from his hands and aimed it at his head. I fired without hesitation, just as he began to pause his sentence. He dropped, and my ears rang. The horse seemed uncomfortable, but did not startle at the shots. I stepped over the man’s limp body toward the door. I knew there was still evil lurking, Satan had only been wounded. I swung the door open and stepped into the cool night air, steady drizzle, new moon. A foul odor wafted about, like molten rock and bodies. The horse watched as I moved around him to the door of the carriage. Without opening it I could see through the open window to the occupants, two small children, a boy and a girl. Their eyes were black. Dressed like puritanical dolls and skin like porcelain, they sat holding hands, gazing with a wicked innocence. The soft creases around their eyes betrayed the sick pleasure they derived from doing very bad things. They pleaded with me in childish whimpers, begged my mercy for their foulness, cried softly at the impending punishment. I said nothing as I raised the heavy barrels and lined up the children, being sure to hit both at vital points with the spread. Lightning struck and thunder clapped as I fired over the teary-eyed pleas of the demons, hit both in the throat: one in the esophagus, one in the artery. They vanished, evaporated as the force that created them was felled by its own tool. The carriage, the horse, and the man had all gone out in the blink of an eye. The rain had dissipated, a slight mist hung in the air. I looked down at my empty hands, shook my head, and walked back in my room. Inside, I checked the room for damage, but there was none. The shotgun was still smoking when I removed the empty shell, put it at the end of the bed, and went to sleep.

The darkness that fills me spills out of wherever it can, the wounds getting deeper everyday, pouring the black into the street. It flows down, infecting everything it touches. It erodes all hope, anything positive is swallowed up and dissolved. This continues unaided, is sped up by jabs and hits from within and others. The worst part, the worst part is it's unstoppability, it's right to be there as a consequence of misplaced actions. Anything good gets more and more distant, with no right to hold it back. I can but try. Trying is all I have. But the trying is almost impossible. The sense of impossibility turns to impending doom at it's worst. The life within is scraped away; barely a skeleton still stands. But the skeleton is now weakening, it can try but it's goal is fading. The skeleton now sits, rarely clambering to stand, and when it does so it's flattened. The world that's left is too bleak to contemplate, anything remotely uplifting is just a mirage. Only the pain is real. I can reach out and feel it spikes, it's hooks and it's sharpness. It cuts when it gets closer, too close and it severs the few remaining arteries, pumping the faltering hope. I'm already dead, but the flesh is stripped away, the soul ripped out and organs gone. The skeleton fights on, almost gone too. She attacks the skeleton but he knows he has no choice but to take it. She tells him he can recover, regain his body if he tries with all his might. But even that is fading into false hope. He wants to save all the other beings from the tragedy he's unleashed upon them but that's futile. All he can do is fight, fight and fight even more. But it makes nothing different. The one he wants seems immune to his attempts, his ever-lasting self hatred burns and burns. She claims to see how little the skeleton has, how little he is; but she lashes out again. The skeleton can't protect himself. He has no right to protect himself. He must bare the few remaining scraps of his being to her and hope she accepts, while everything around him continues to burn relentlessly. No matter how far away he is the fire is just as strong. Just as harsh. He's on his knees, all the nerves burnt away, all his thoughts merged and blurred into insignificance. The only thing he knows for certain is that she's the answer. But she has others answers, better answers in her eyes. She sees others skeletons: but these have have bodies, organs, hearts and souls. She looks back at the skeleton, that once was her favourite, with disgust. And I don't blame her. He lies there, lifeless. Without a single shred of hope left, trying to fight with his last breath but even that is snatched from him. He's going down, to the furthest corner. Only hoping for her to save him from this pit of self-inflicted torture. He wants to save her the trouble. Save everyone the trouble and do it himself. But he's too much of a coward to end it for himself. Instead he lies there and takes it, takes it until he's faded away for sure.

Birthday Girl It’s my birthday! Come celebrate with me! I’m turning 30 so this is a big one. Dancing, fun, seafood and the Potomac River: all of my favorite things. When: Saturday, June 11th at 7:30pm Where: Pier 30 Restaurant 113 Macnamara Pl Alexandria, Va 22314 The e-vite was pink and yellow with balloons surrounding it. I haven’t seen Anna in two years. We met while I was working for the Recreational Center, teaching kids to swim and play soccer. I spent my nights studying, reading and contemplating the meaning of life. She spent her nights doing karaoke, working odd jobs around the city and networking with other local musicians. We were opposites, yet I felt like I needed her spirit in my life. I loved who she was and idolized her for what I thought I didn’t have at all. We spent hours laughing, talking, exploring the zoo’s new exhibits and painting messy portraits. We spent other moments improving my wardrobe; I became her own personal canvas. I could’ve run away with her and never come back. She had that affect on me. It was one of those romances no one really knew about and one I don’t share with everyone. She was different and beautiful yet she left a big hole in my heart. She left suddenly and I just wanted to see her again, for closure, one more time. “She’s inviting you?” Joan asked over the phone. She was my co-worker and the closest friend I’ve had since moving to the city. “Yes. I haven’t heard from her in two years and suddenly I get a birthday invitation. Just like her to do something like that.” “So what are you gonna do?… about Abe? She asked, whispering for some reason. “I’m gonna tell him of course. You know, about the party.” Abe is my everything. I’ve been loyal, and would never dream of hurting him. ‘I ridiculously trust you’ he said once, while we drove through Nevada, on our way back from our trip to Monterrey. “So the party’s tonight?” Abe asked, gluing a wing to his small, modeled airplane. “Yes, you coming with me?” I said, sitting across from him. “I don’t think so, I’ve got to finish this.” He said. “You’ve been working on that thing for over a year. What makes you think you’re gonna finish it tonight?” “I wanna finish this by next week so I can take it to the air show this time. Go, have fun. I’ll see you when you get back.” He said. I was glad he said no. I didn’t want him to come. I needed to go on my own. Pier 30 was loud, packed and filled with pink and white balloons. I had on my tight black dress, one of three dresses that I owned. It itched but I knew I needed to femme it up a bit, just a little bit as Abe would say. Everyone looked dressed in their business attire, like they just got off of work. It’s a DC crowd, that’s not surprising. “Hey there, you made it.” She flashed her huge smile. I stood there for a minute and stared. There she was. She’s made her way back into my life, again. So suddenly. “I see you’ve changed a bit” She said, looking me up and down. “Yes, you know. It’s my attempt to soften up.” I said, pulling my dress down a bit, uncomfortably. “I like it, it’s you. I knew you would start wearing dresses, it was only a matter of time.” She said. “Yeah, I just wanted to try something new.” I said. Her eyes still in the shape of almonds, her hair pulled up perfectly in a bun. Things haven’t changed. My heart still filled with excitement just being in her presence. She grabbed my hand and we walked around the party together. She introduced me to a few people, everyone nice and welcoming, half of them drunk already. The night was filled with birthday cake, red wine and a piñata. She’ll be using piñata’s on her 80th birthday, I guarantee that. It was 2 am and there was trash, popped balloons and party streamers all over the floor. We both walked out of the door together and stood in front of the place. “Thank you for inviting me, it was great to see you.” I said. “It was great to see you too. Are you coming with me tonight?” She asked, suddenly. My heart skipped a beat. I wanted to be with her again. I wanted to share everything, go on road trips, run away with her. All of those feelings hadn’t changed. “Anna, I can’t do that. I’m sorry.” She stood there and watched me, like she expected me to say that. “You left, remember? And now you want everything to be ok? It’s not.” I said. She looked right in my eyes. It was like she could read my mind, like we had an unspoken agreement. She reached down and adjusted my dress. Stared at it, then looked right at me. Then she turned around and walked away. I wanted to stop her, but I didn’t. I turned around and walked back into my life, back into Abe’s with part of my heart still with hers, knowing I could probably never see her again.

It was strange how the animals acted no differently than they had before it happened. Squirrels climbed over the piles of rubble, either completely oblivious or simply unconcerned with what that rubble could have been just a couple years back. Blue birds flew in the same patterns they did before, paying no attention to the fact that their shit was landing on history itself: on cobblestones and marble columns that could have been testaments to the collective knowledge of those who were here just a bit ago, yet so long ago as well. It’s been said that the Earth is resilient and that, when left to run its course, nature fixes all. Perhaps someone would even say that that is exactly what happened, and that although the course can seem amoral and even outright wicked at times, it is nature’s course nonetheless and that it exists in a plane above all questioning. But of course, no one said that. No one, especially not the only sign of this past world that remained, the sulking frame of muscle and bones and dried-out hair that was currently bathing at the bottom of a nearby waterfall. No, he, (and he is certainly an accurate term to describe this embodiment of animalistic masculinity) was more concerned with removing the foreign, black, sticky thing that seemed to have a death-grip on his foot. The deer were likely to cross the same path they do at this time every day, and he had to be rid of all distractions, poised and ready to pounce. Sadly for our primal protagonist, he was indeed too late and was forced to come to terms with the reality that he would be entering another growling match with his stomach tonight. But this realization would go on to be as unfulfilled as the aforementioned one, for this night was not like the other nights. The squirrels still climbed and the birds still shit, but a disturbance had come to enter this formerly peaceful land. He was unable to sleep, and found himself staring at the sky, waiting for his fat, yellow friend to come back and tell him that the world was safe again. Indeed the sun did return, as it always promised it would, even after the End. He did as he always did too, and followed his instincts to the tallest rocks he could see. There, as he approached the peak of the stony mountain before him, did a figure enter his view. It was like him, with meat and bone and hair, but different too. This figure had strange bulges at the chest and in its eyes was a longing that he would have said felt like coming home, if he could remember how to say that or knew what a home was. And then, something magical happened. For the first time in a very long time, his mouth managed to form a very old word. Finally, he forced his throat to let it out. “Adam,” he said. She smiled coyly. “Eve.” And so it Began.

Rigel looked at her for what seemed the first time to her. She felt him peer down to the dark in her soul. Sensed him delving into what made her her. Prodding, seeking; searching for something in her. As she peered on his face, pallid in the low light of flickering arcane candles, she saw years of trained mental acuity reflected in his concentrated visage. Then with a crack resemblant of firecrackers he ceased to stand before her, but she continued to sense his presence as unbridled fear began to well up in her from the deep dark pits of her soul. Memories she had long buried. Tucked out of her conscious mind. Forgotten by a tortured mind in a fragile state. Claire shrieked as these dark fragments of time tore themselves from the long guarded reaches of her mind and came to play before her eyes as though they were yesterday. Two young children walking through a field. Bright day. Grain swaying in the gentle breeze off the sea. Cool moisture. Lightning. Thunder. The taste of iron; Smell of blood. The touch of death grazed her child-mind as she turned violently, the world shaking as her senses were bombarded by blast after blast. Her friend lay there, torso burned out by strike after strike of lightning. Corpse blackened. Crisped to the bone. Face frozen in the smile she had been sharing with Claire, innocent and happy. The smell of blood lingered on her face but was replaced by the more pungent odor of burned flesh. Then as if by the lightning itself her self was returned to the dingy cabin with it's arcane tallow candle light and Rigel's penetrating glare. The thunder still booming behind her eyes Rigel caught hold of her slender frame before she could drop to the dark pine wood of the forest cabin. Her rich auburn hair, as though flowing water, pooled beneath her head as he gently lowered Claire into a lying position. After fetching a soft lamb skin to cover her with Rigel sat back to contemplate what he had found while delving into her memories. ...Perhaps continued EDIT: Spelling and fyi I think I could continue this for a while I have character and environment development in mind - but am lacking in overall plot.

As I lie here, alone and fading, I feel there is nothing more to do than reflect and wait. However, the last thing I want is to come across as pitiful, or sad, or lonely, even though I must confess to being all of the above. life is a strange gift, it is something we do not ask for, yet we accept it as a necessity. Now, when I look back, I see all the time wasted. I can see now how I continued to spend all that time living with the intention of living, even though I knew I must die. I use the term 'living' loosely, because of my delusion that I would continue to live, it allowed me to continue in a state of routine, where nothing changed, no rights were wronged and nothing was done to make my life have some form of purpose once again. It's a sad thing to admit, and most definitely a sad thing to realise, that you have spent very little of your life actually living, that you have spent so much of your time on autopilot without considering or acknowledging it, that when the end inevitably comes, you will regret each of those moments not fully cherished. My memory has faded somewhat, but I remember the reasons why I find myself alone in this hospital. There are so many. I could list how I pushed away each and every person, but in the end it would only serve to remind me of my mistakes and my regret. Despite this, it ought to be said that I am entirely to blame for my own downfall. I have lived my life in ignorance and reinforced it with arrogance and stubbornness, if I could take it back- if I could take everything back- I would. I would plead with my friends to forgive, I would beg my lovers not to leave me and I would have been there for my family, because they were always there for me. Alas, we cannot turn back time, all I can do is wallow in regret of moments wasted, hoping that somehow it will make a difference. One of the great ironies of life- at least in mind- is that humanity strives for happiness, and yet is constantly dissatisfied with their lot. Rich and poor, black and white, men and women, all of them strive for more. All of them are miserable, and all of them end up in the same place once they are dead. The end is coming soon. I can feel it, and it scares the hell out of me. I wish I could confide in someone, I wish there was someone to assure me that everything is going to be fine, but the truth is, even if there was someone here to tell me as much, I wouldn't believe them. We don't know what happens when we die, some of us claim to know, but nothing can be proven, nothing is certain, heaven and hell are just as likely as reincarnation, and reincarnation is just as likely as nothing at all. Either way, I am terrified, even though I know I have nothing left to live for, the end still scares me. I suppose I should finish writing and close my eyes for a while, I have been drowsy for a long time now, maybe it is all the sedatives that are being pumped into my system, or maybe it is the illness, either way, it is useless resisting. Before I go however, I did want to say one thing. I wanted to say I am sorry, to everyone I ever wronged, to everyone and anyone I ever pushed away or hurt, I am sorry, from the bottom of my heart. I lived my life as a spiteful human being, and I cannot ever forgive myself, but I loved you, I loved all of you, even the ones I hated, because you gave my life purpose, and without you, my life would have meant nothing. So it would seem that is it. I needed to say sorry and thank you. I can't forget my manners. I simply wish my final thoughts to be that of thankfulness. I will be thankful to join those I have lost, mostly my dear mother who I have missed for over thirty years, I will be with her soon, and for that too, I am thankful. This will be the last memoir I write. The last words I put on paper. I suppose there should be some kind of conclusion or catharsis, something that ties all loose ends and wraps everything up nicely, but I don't have that power. Really, there is only word left to say, and that word is: Goodbye.

Salaam/Hello! Before you read this please note that this story is EXTREMELY GRAPHIC! If you are light-hearted or sensitive to such material then please do not read this. If however you do read it then please read it till the end. This story is meant to portray a fraction of the possible cruelties which the people of Syria might be facing. DAMSEL IN DISTRESS The bullets whizzed past. People were getting gunned. Debris was clouding everything. The storm of blood, sand and stone resonated in the eyes of everyone leaving pulses of fear in their hearts. They were scarred for life. The militants of the regime kept the civilians pegged down in their base. It was a bottleneck situation. Only one-way out, and it was through the street full of barriers and resistant front lines of merciless soldiers of Bashar's regime. They had snipers placed in strategic wide-angle access points, making sure no one could even lay a foot on the street. The people were pushed back either into their houses or whatever cover they could find from the constant blasts and bullets. Bodies lay in piles down the street and the smell of blood and gun powder staunched the air. One was forced to only two sounds, either screams or bomb blasts. Silence was a forgotten term. Hisham was one of the gunmen. Thirty four killed today, he thought. It wasn't enough. Abbas, one of the other militants, was on forty seven. He just had to beat him. HE HAD TOO !!! He remained behind cover while reloading his rifle. The anxiety was building up in him. Once cocked and loaded he got up and sprayed all the bullets. He just wanted to see them run, to see them cry, to see them afraid. He smiled at his collage of mass murder. No one could touch him. Here he was god. He slumped his rifle over his shoulder and admired his work. They were too afraid to come. Suddenly, he noticed one of the bodies moving among the dead. It was a woman, half conscious she moved weakly. Trying to regain a sense of where she was, but she was defeated by several injuries, lack of energy and mental torture of the battlefield. 'Desert,' thought Hisham. The flame inside him ignited. He motioned to his colleagues on his side to cover him. Walking the past barrier, he went to her and grabbed her by the forelock and dragged her back towards the base. Ignoring the shouting, screaming, kicking and crying from the woman as her body scraped against the rubble and ground, he just had one thing in his mind. Tonight he was having a feast! THE DEVIL'S CELLAR The woman was chained in a dark cellar. It smelled of old dust and musty oil. The bars and walls were covered with cobwebs, and the whole place was cluttered with broken furniture and outdated newspapers. There was a small window behind her where the moonlight trickled in, shining against her bare body. Each hand was tied by rusty chains supported by a post on both sides. She was forced to either stand upright or slump and let the pressure of her body tense the chain around her wrists. She felt a mouse brush her leg and let a scream in fear while jolting. Immediately, the bruises on her body ached even more from the sudden movement. Her tears and sobs dried up. She could do nothing. She was nothing. She was completely helpless. Why didn't they just kill her? She was struck by horror. What they were going to do to her? Suddenly, she hears a scraping rattle against the bars with footsteps. The pace was brisk, haunting, like a panther in hiding waiting to pounce. She could hear the person walking up to her. The moonlight only revealed the boots and military trousers. The upper half was veiled by the lusting darkness. Even so, she could see some smoke. The trail led to cigarette, which was revealed as he lowered his hand and flicked it away. Hisham stared at her. The fear in her eyes was unmistakable. Sweat pouring from her forehead, her body trembling from fear and her breath racing. Here she was, naked, stripped of dignity and humiliated. He loved the power he had. He was in control, and she was her prey. 'This bitch is mine,' he thought. In a sudden move, he slapped her on the face, leaving a red mark, went behind her pulling her backwards by her hair. He put his hand over her mouth, unzipped his pants and thrust into her. Her scream muffled against the cold, hard fingers, her eyes widened and tears started streaming down her face as she felt him inside her. He handled her fiercely and with each pound, she screamed. “PLEASE STOP!” “NO” “PLEASE!!!" She knew there was no one who could save her. He pushed harder with every force against her with increasing pain. Her legs were trembling. Her body was shaking. With one long last thrust, he pushed away from himself. She slumped helplessly as she cried and moaning. She was defeated. Wiping the sweat of his forehead, he zipped his pants and made his way out. The echoes of the her cries decayed as he walked away. He met three of his men down the corridor. “The bitch is all yours," he said. By the time he reached the end of the long corridor, he could hear the screams all over again. The boys were doing a good job. THE BIRTH OF HOPE Nearly five months passed. The woman repeatedly abused, manhandled and tortured. She was reduced to nothing but an object, a sex object. Even slaves were privileged to have feelings, but hers were dead. The same prison, the same four walls, the same sins every day. Her life was lifeless. Her body lost its stature. There was one significant change. She was pregnant. So many of the militants had their way with her. She didn't know which one fathered the bastard child she was carrying. She could only feel the baby move in her. She didn't care whose it was, it was a life inside of her. It was her baby. Hisham was in the mood again. He strode towards her cell, the urge burning in inside him. There was nothing left in her that attracted him to her except the fear she had in her eyes. However, it eventually died out. She learnt to accept that this was her fate. There was no fun anymore. He wanted to change that this time. He walked up to her near-limp body. Her eyes were blank, expressionless. He grabbed her face, locked into her eyes with a menacing smile. She just looked at him, There was nothing she could feel anymore. He placed his hand on her swollen belly and for a second he saw the jump in her eyes. 'The bitch cared for this kid,' he thought. This was going to be fun. He drew a blade from his side pocket, which gleamed in the rays of sunlight. Her eyes widened. What was he going to do? And without thinking he pressed the knife on top of her belly, under her bosom. She immediately realized the horror she was about to face. Slowly, and yet delicately, he started slicing around the belly. Scream after scream, the pain worsened. The blood trickled down her legs. She tried swerving side to side but the more she moved it hurt and ripped her harder. There was nothing, but she could but watch herself being cut open. Tears were streaming down her eyes. “STOP … PLEASE STOP … NO!” Her screams couldn't help her. He kept cutting her open. He was halfway around and then stopped. Her belly was half skinned open, the bloodied internals could be seen from the side. He threw the blade away. She couldn't feel relieved but at least he stopped. The pain was unbearable until he grabbed the open side of her stomach and swung it to the other side to rip her entire skin off. She screamed so loudly, helplessly as she felt pain like never before. Everything was now revealed. Blood was splattered around her feet. She was shaking uncontrollably. She just wanted it to end. He threw the separated flabby stomach skin to side as if it were junk. 'Now comes the fun part,' he thought. He could see the foetus wedged inside her. Ferociously, he grabbed it by the neck and pulled it away from its clove. A few organs slipped and slid to the floor. She screamed. Her baby was in his hands. “Please don't harm it, please don't harm it. It didn't do anything to you. Take me but leave it alone," she cried. Her voice was nearly gone. She was losing too much blood. Her vision started to blur. He looked at the disgusting flesh in his hand. It was weak and pathetic, covered with blood. He grabbed the umbilical cord and ripped it open, separating the thing from the woman. She screamed as the cord hung loosely over her revealed stomach, dripping pus and blood on the floor. He then held the thing in front of her. He let her stare at the unborn baby for a split second before splitting its neck. The baby was dead. “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO," she screamed. He swung the flesh over his head and pulled out a pistol and shoved it into her mouth. In that one moment, he saw the ultimate fear in her eyes. Covered in tears and blood, she slumped in his mercy. He looked at her long enough to enjoy the product of his work before he pulled the trigger. The bullet went through head and blood splattered against the wall behind her. Her body was completely limp as the chains in her hand tensed under her dead weight. Her intestines scrambled to the floor. She was dead. REFLECTION POINT I would first like to apologise if the story disgusted/offended you. But I had to make sure that what I wrote really affected the reader. We have become such a cold-hearted society that we have become apathetic to mass murder. We are witnessing an act of national terrorism, yet it is amazing that we can sit back and watch it happen without doing anything. If you felt anything from this story, be it sadness, pain, hurt, disgust, anger, then please use that to help me raise money for the Syrian people. Don't just sit there and think others are doing something or it won't make any difference.

A man came in to the office today, in a real huff. ”Oh, man, it's 8:10 already? Damn train was late, protesters everywhere. I'm telling you, this whole thing is a mess.” ”Yeah, don't worry about it,” said the boss. ”I mean it's not the end of the world, right? Hah!” ”But I am sorry, though. Totally.” ”It's okay.” ”And, uh... I hate to ask, especially with this, you know. Being late and all...” ”What? Cough it out. Anything for you, considering...” ”I mean, if it's not too much trouble... Could I leave a bit earlier? If it's not too much trouble. Gosh, I already said that. Listen, I'll work overtime, I was late, I'm being out of line for even asking this, I'm -” ”Hey, hey! Slow down, man. You did... you did get my email today, right?” ”What email? You know I read my company email here.” ”It's just that, well... No easy way of putting this...” ”Just get it out. What email you talkin' about?” ”Umm... You're being terminated.” ”Terminated?! Since when?” ”Since the meeting yesterday. I mean, hey, you're a terrific guy and all, but you know those corporate cunts? Came here, suits and all, and started talking about downsizing our office. Can you believe it?” ”Frankly no. I can't. I mean I'm being fucking terminated? On what grounds?!” ”Don't take it personally. It's just not you, your whole unit is being brought down. Yeah, turns out your team is just not profitable enough.” ”We're the customer survey team, what did they expect? Us to pay them? Man, what a bummer.” ”Yeah, I know... Listen, swing by my office and we'll terminate you quick and painless, today. We'll sort out severance and what not.” ”Guess I don't have a choice. Man, what a dull fucking day. First those riots, and I'm late, and now this? Ugh, whaddya gonna do. Corporate says, us dogs do. I'll go clear my desk.” ”There's no need for that. We'll just incinerate it.” ”Incin- Yeah, really funny, Jerry. That's my stuff. You know, picture of Deb, and the kids. I'm taking it with me. I don't even think we have an incinerator around here, do we?” ”We do actually.” ”Wow... That was unexpected.” ”Why so? Gabe, did you... Did you even read your contract?” ”Of course I did! I read it fine print and all.” ”ALL of the 30 pages?” ”Whaddya want me to say, Jerry? Did you read your '30 shades of crap' when you sold your soul to this joint?” ”Of course I did. But you didn't. Oh man, this is gonna be so hard to explain...” ”What, did it have some hidden footnote about stealing my stuff after they humiliate me and take away my job? 'Cause I'm calling the Union right now to put those suits at Corporate back in line if that's the case!” ”Calm down, Gabe, it's nothing like that.” ”Well what is it?” ”Uh... How do I explain this? Yeah, hey, remember Francis? From human resources?” ”Uh, sure. He was a nice guy. Left for retirement, right?” ”Actually no. He was terminated, too. Company policy, you know.” ”Company policy is to terminate people! How silly is that? Now they have to pay severance.” ”Let me continue. When we say terminated, well... I really mean terminated.” ”I know what terminated means. It means I gotta update my resume and send it out like other chumps from the survey team.” ”I mean terminated like shot in the head and burned along with all their possession.” ”W-wait? You're serious?! Corporate wants to kill me?! How is this legal!” ”Company policy, man. I'm right there with you. This company, nay, the whole world is going down the shitter.” ”They want to kill me? I can't believe it.” ”Better believe it. I think I still have some Francis stuck to my carpet. And don't even remind me about Helen, her brain left a permanent stain in the drapes.” ”Gnarly.” ”Right? So what do you say, swing by my office at, say, noon?” ”Do I... Do I have a choice in this?” ”Not really. Sorry, Gabe.” ”Can... Can I atleast call my family and tell them good bye?” ”Of course, Gabe. Of course. That's company enforced behaviour.” ”Company policy?” ”Yeah.” ”... Yeah well, if I don't have a choice... See you at noon, I guess...

Faces pass by, unnoticed, ignored. Yours stays with me. A simple smile expands into a lifetime. My heart beats a nervous staccato rhythm as I wait for you. Hours spent deep in conversation pass like the single tick of the clock. Your eyes are pools of light searching within me for meaning. Two separate lives begin to merge. Stories are shared, insights explored together. Your nose wrinkles slightly when you laugh at my jokes. I gently brush a stray hair from your forehead. Soft skin exposed for the first time, stray words without meaning fade slowly into the dark. Souls and bodies intertwine and become one, the edges blurring as we are lost in each other. Light creeps furtively around the curtains, setting your hair alight in a golden halo as you sleep. I gently trace the graceful curve of your neck with my fingertips. Your face pushes into the crook of your arm as you try to block the light from invading your dreams. As I lie there and stare at your innocent, peaceful face, I can’t help but feel lost. Lost in you, and the humble realisation that you have chosen me to share your innermost self. I know your secrets, your desires, your plans for the world, yourself and for me. Your eyes blink slowly as you stir, and you smile at me with the contented look of someone waking up to the sight of the person that completes them. I can’t help but smile back, caught up in your wonder at a world seemingly fresh and renewed. When you watch me while I work, I feel inspired to greatness. When you smile at me, you infect me with your laughter and delight. When you touch me, you ease the troubles of a world all too easily led to insanity. When you kiss me, all else ceases to exist. There is only you and I. A moment that seems to last an age, but gone all too soon, leaving me aching for more. I pray this feeling will last forever… You pass me in the crowd, your arm gently brushing mine as you walk on. My mind snaps back to the present from visions of a life together that could have been. I continue on towards the rest of the world, knowing it’s a better place because you are there. I’m so lost in you, and I don’t even know your name.

The air conditioning barely worked. The few wisps of cool air that seeped out from the tour bus’ ancient vents had to be trapped inside, lest its twenty or so passengers melt in the summer heat. The windows were shut tight; no breeze could get in or out. About fifteen of them were chain smokers. Tobacco was the new opium in 21st century China. After the first hour, the air became dense and thick. When the three hour ride finally came to an end, I could no longer see a yard in front of me. Mother picked me up and rushed to the front; I was still small enough for her to lift back then. The crisp air of the rural countryside hit me like a refreshing blast. Before I knew it, the contents of my lunch were being emptied on the dirt in front of me. ****** Our apartment smelled different when I came home from elementary school that day. It was an old, familiar smell. A faint, musky scent. I took long, panting breaths. My mind felt at peace. I sat on the floor, unmoving, soaking in the beautiful aroma. An hour or so passed, and I heard shouting down the hallway. My mother was angry. My father was on the defense. “Only two” He exclaimed “I found a pack in my old pocket. They were old. It won’t happen again”. A half hour later, the yelling ceased. All the windows were open. My mother walked back and forth, beating the air with a feather fan. ****** The day after my eighteenth birthday, I bought a pack of Marlboro’s, and a blue plastic lighter. Curiosity, and just because I could. My gaze stayed glued to the ground as I handed the clerk my I.D. It had a simple design. A red top with an egg white base, with “filter cigarettes” written neatly across the center. I liked the aesthetic. It looked nice in my pocket. It was never opened. I hid it in a secret compartment in my suitcase, and brought it to college. I’ll save it for a special occasion. Nicotine is supposed to be a relaxant, right? Maybe the night before a stressful test. Or as a cure for a bout of depression. ****** Every drive away from my town feels as miserable as the first. The peculiar feeling of leaving the place I call home to sleep somewhere else never quite fades. Maybe I should consider myself lucky for having a place to sleep at all. Look at all these homeless people, wouldn’t they love to trade places with you? I take a walk down the nighttime Seattle streets, for once hoping to see a few of the less fortunate. I come across a group, huddled under a storefront porch. But seeing their suffering does nothing to curb my own. Homelessness, not in a financial sense, but an emotional sense, could be used to describe my state of mind. Did I come back to visit, or to say goodbye one final time? Some things are harder to let go of than others. Slowly, reluctantly, I take the pack out of my pocket. Its red gleam remains unfaded, and its crisp packaging beckons to be opened. The plastic wrap comes off easily; It was designed to be torn apart by eager fingers. Lighting the cig was confusing at first, but I got it going after a minute. The aroma brought back an incredible flood of memories. My grandparents. All of my aunts and uncles. My dad. No one in my family had escaped its alluring scent. I was lost. My mind was intoxicated. They say some people have genes that make them more susceptible to addiction. That exposure to second-hand smoke isn’t much different than first hand smoke. These were fleeting thoughts, which came and went without me paying them much heed. The world began to calm down. My walk became steadier, slower. Any worries I had were dissipating. I closed my eyes with each drag, holding the wonderful smoke in my lungs. Before I knew it, I was on my second. And my third. And my fourth. My breaths were too long; I was inexperienced. I got ashes all over my face and hands, and I coughed extensively. It didn’t matter; it was all bliss. I was standing still, no longer even walking. There was a familiar haze in front of me; my mind drifted back to the bus ride. “This is mine, and mine alone” I thought triumphantly. No one else could force me to breathe their smoke. I made my own, with my lungs, my money, my life. I opened the pack, and took out another. As I flicked the lighter, a thought occurred to me. I didn’t have to do it. At this moment, there was no overwhelming force compelling to smoke another cigarette. But that might not be true a year, or a month, or even a week down the line. When my father found the lingering pack in his pocket, was his choice as clear as mine is now? Was I expressing my newfound independence, or giving it up? I threw whole case into a nearby trashcan. The walk away felt heavy, weighted by a mix of desire and pride. To turn around and pick it up again would be so easy. The white and red casing was calling to me, carrying innards that were still fresh and awaiting consumption. I trudged on.

For months I had been laying on the hallway floor, evaporating my self. The cup of liquid self sat waiting with the rest of it as I pushed forward. My childhood was already diced and minced and chopped up, in a baggie in the freezer all these years. One by one I pulled ideas out of my head and crushed them in my hand, catching all the pulp and juice in a wide earthenware bowl. Beliefs came next, thin flimsy things snapped without real effort, I set them aside in a small dish. Wrangling my feelings for a week had been a task, but they were tied up and waiting in a freezer bag on the counter. I didn't want to take them out again, so I just started smashing them as a whole inside the bag and was careful not to let any leak out. My creative projects pleaded with me from their corner, but each page was carefully shredded and each sculpture ground into powder. I mixed all the paints together. My old stuffed puppy knew what I was doing. He was watching me without his eyes, which had fallen off over twenty years ago. When I reached for him, he lifted his arms up and unflinchingly went under my knife. Nearly empty, I cut open my chest and took out my heart. It beat as I looked at it, it beat as I cut it up, and the pieces lay beating there on their plate. Finally I coughed and coughed until all of my genetics was piled up in a heap before me. A dish at a time, a bowl at a time, I poured all of the ingredients into a mill. They were ground together until a mash was formed. I put the mash into a clear container, which I sealed and have been watching. I don't know if I did it right.

“Just a few questions sir, and we’ll be out of your hair” said the neatly kept woman behind the desk. “No problem”, Pete replied, wondering how she fell into this job. “Okay then, so. Age?” “25”, he said, after a brief pause that someone lying might have needed. She nodded, punching the keyboard twice. “Weight?” “Ooo, God knows. Sorry. I mean, I have no idea. The last time I weighed myself I was about 210, 220? But that was at least a month ago.” He turned to his side. “What do you reckon?” She smiled, embarrassed at his gesture. “We’ll say 210 then.” Pete congratulated himself, then thanked her for the accidental compliment. “Time of death?” asked the woman, slightly more sternly then the last questions. Pete was taken aback. He was having fun before that one. “Don’t you already know that?” he asked. She shrugged sympathetically. “It’s for our records.” “Fine. Suicide.” A subtle wince brushed over her face at his brisk retort. “Will that be a problem?” he asked, noticing her expression. “No, no absolutely not”. The woman made a conscious effort to force a smile. Peter smiled back, her smile was convincing enough. She had lovely teeth, too. “If you’d like to go through, Jon will show you around.” As the words came out of her mouth, a polished, white door opened to the right of her desk. Jon, who looked like he had stepped out of a shaving advert, was waiting on the other side, doing his best to make him feel as welcome as possible with a beaming smile. “Come through my friend!” he shouted enthusiastically. Peter didn’t like him already. He stepped through the door, not pausing to consider the fact that one of life’s biggest questions was soon to be answered for him. Of course, he had preconceptions of what heaven might look like – clouds, cherubs, wispy structures with thrones and columns - but he decided he would leave those in the waiting room. They were mostly taken from Disney’s Hercules anyway; a dubious source at best. With his jaw hung open, he pivoted on the spot, like a netball player desperately searching for a pass. The door behind him had disappeared, and surrounding him, in every direction, were rows, and rows, and rows, of cubicles. They seemed to go on infinitely into the distance, punctuated by a medium sized houseplant by the doorway of each one, and a water cooler every 50 yards in the corridors dissecting them. He looked at Jon, who was looking around in gleeful awe, as though he too was seeing it for the first time. “Isn’t it amazing” he said, breaking from his trance to gage Peter’s reaction. “It’s…an office?”, though it was more of an observation then a question. “This is what we call The Mothership” explained Jon, still baring those suspiciously white teeth. “It’s the central hub. The engine room, if you like. This is where you’ll be working.

my life seems to be in a perpetual state of crumbling decay. I sometimes wander to safe, untouched parts of my life. But those places don’t stay pristine for long as slowly, but surely, the same decay that existed in my previous experiences begins to destroy anything that shines in my life. It seems as though everything in my life has a dull, lackluster coating. Even the sun once warming rays seem to just push me away, as if trying to keep me from infecting anyone elses lives with my disease. But I don’t want to die. I wish I could say I wasn’t always this way. I wish I could point to the time, the event, that brought me to this lonely state... but sadly no matter how far back I look, my life seems to be haunted by this slow decay. My only rest came from escapes to other worlds through various medias. Movies were the first. I could get lost in the action on the screen, the issues the actors had became my issues. But the illusion would always end quickly and abruptly. And soon after the same state of depression would settle in, only to remind me that my life and world will never be like the one I just experienced. About the same time as I was getting into movies, I picked up reading and video games. This also helped to transport me to new and exciting worlds that haven’t been corrupted by my presence. Books in a series became a drug. I would read one book after another, faster and faster, trying to experience so much of this new world that it might hopefully drown the one I currently exist in. Waiting for the next one to be released was hell. I would try to read ones I had already finished, much like a heroine addict using an old needle trying to get any remaining drops into his system. But then it happened. I finished the final chapter of the final book in the series I cared most about. The world was over. Sure I could daydream about what the character were doing, but it would be in a world that I create, and doomed to be destroyed by my infection. The author had unknowingly and unintentionally sent me to hell. I tried to reconcile by watching new movies, but with each credit roll of every film I watched I sank further into despair. For each film watched was another world lost or doomed to be devoured by my crushing darkness. But there was hope. I still don’t want to die. Video games seemed to sustain my thirst for the longest but weren’t quite as strong as movies and books as the persons populating the world had trouble with believability. But a renaissance of sorts happened in the video game world, where suddenly characters acted like people. One series in particular caught my attention. It’s world was filled with people you cared about. And they followed you through all three games of the series and game you reasons to care about said individuals. It was amazing. And then it ended... In a blaze of glory for the betterment of everyone, I gave all to save all. Sure, it was just my video game avatar that died. But it took what feels like the rest of my soul with it. The end of that series took away good friends. Friends that I could always talk to. A best friend that followed me through thick and thin. A significant other that always wanted me safe. And all of it was wiped away. It took away such a huge part of me that I refused to believe that it actually happened. That there was some, secret ending that revealed another game was coming out. But it never came. My hero died, *but I didn’t want to die.* That series was the nail on the coffin. Now every medium I used to escape was tainted. I’ve gone from movie, to book, to video game, trying to capture what I know I once felt. But the corrosion always seems to arrive the moment I land on some other world. It’s maddening. I’ve been contemplating of other actions that can numb my mind to what's around me, but I know these methods will only bring me back to the same place I started, or someplace worse. But I still don’t want to die. At least I don’t think so. I have noticed that I made a rather frightening purchase a while ago. I bought a pistol. Impulse. I had no intention of buying it, but for some reason I was drawn to it. Something about how the metal’s hint of shine. A shine that reminded me of a place I had been before. A part of my life that was once filled with such hope. It felt natural in my hands. Not too heavy, but definitely sturdy enough for heavy use. I bought it and a case of ammo. Like all new things I buy, I tend to open them up in the car on the way home. It’s a sense of excitement that everyone feel when they purchase a new toy of sorts. by the time I arrived home, I had already loaded a full magazine and had placed one round in the other. I left the gun in my car, bringing only one magazine with me into my home. Fast forward a few days. I was having trouble sleeping one night, so I decided to go for a drive. I drove for a few hours out to the middle of nowhere. I had a blanket in the back for emergency purposes, but decided to pull it out, lay on the ground, and watch the stars. And there it was. The cold black metal slightly reflecting the interior car lights. I grabbed the handgun, the reason I told myself that an animal might attack me and I don’t want to die. So I layed there on the blanket, back on the ground, eyes to the sky. And gun still in hand. I layed there in silence and without a thought for about an hour when I first noticed it. *I don’t want to die*. It was a phrase that I had said all my life. It was just something I would repeat in my head without any real reason for being said. But for the first time, I noticed it wasn’t just a simple statement; It was a reply. I spoke it again, this time outloud. *“I don’t want to die.”* I could feel my hand tighten around the grip of gun. *“I Don’t Want to Die.”* I sat up with the gun in my lap, shining with the light of the moon and stars. *“I DON'T WANT TO DIE.”* The gun sat there. Tempting me with it’s shine, a shine I wanted so dearly in my life. Multiple thoughts were racing through my head at this point. Phrases “Do it! You deserve this rest! End your suffering!” coursed through my mind. Were these thoughts always there? Were they caused by my corrosive curse? Or were they the very thoughts that caused the pain I was in? ***“I DON’T WANT TO DIE!”*** The barrel felt cold, lifeless. And in one fell motion, I threw the gun away from myself. *“I don’t want to die... I don’t want to die...”* Sweating, I repeated the phrase over and over. *“I don’t want to die... I don’t want to die...”* I drove home with the radio off that morning, gun in the passenger seat. When I got home, I pulled the bullet out of the magazine, placed the gun and magazines in the safe, and lost the key. I don’t know why I didn't just leave the gun. The bullet... well... I've made it safe. Pulled the primer and drained the powder through drilled holes on the side. Engraved my name in the copper, pulled a string through the new holes and made a necklace out of it. I could have died that night. This necklace helps me remember that I was stronger than that. This bullet was meant to end my life, but now I hope it gives me strength to keep it. It’s got a certain shine... *“and I don’t want to die...

The bandits chased Theroux out of Lewiston on account of his unnatural winnings at the poker table. He's got a card up his sleeve, they roared and they crashed after him thru fence and field, practically boiled they were and their mouths foamed like so many cans of soda flung to burst. Past the field there was a forest. Theroux cut through it towards the back road out of town, a weedy unlit lane that shepherded no one at the hour. He tumbled through impossible thickets that carpeted as dense as foliage could. He rolled down hatched bratchery and billowy willows soft as wads of cloud material. By some stroke of luck he didn't collide face first tree side. He crashed from bushes into the gutter lane side and recollected himself and saw no torch light's trace, so very relieved he was. He ran quietly down the road but cut a grotesque silhouette what with the clutching of mounds of rattling coin to his sides and sort of prancing on his toes like a deranged fairy. And in his sick prancings he thought he'd made a clean break. But the tomato faced bandit who was drunk as all hell had lost the mob during the chase at the fence in a fit of sickness and so slinked back to his tethered ass, he rode out of town and stupidly trusted the ass to follow the familiar path home. But the ass was stupid as all hell and brayed obnoxiously and trotted out of town the wrong way, by the same weedy lane Theroux haunted now. Tomato face swayed to and fro in the saddle like a buoy afloat in a sea of drink and could barely make out anything but mush and fuzz in his stupor. But in a sudden moment of clarity he saw, it was the wrong path and his lids sprung wide and his face wound itself grimaced and he drove two spurs viciously into the donkeys flanks, Wrong way dumb fuck! The ass shrieked demoniacally, it's the only way to describe the ghastly wail it made, and it reared up so violently it toppled over tomato face first and burst its rider red with a pop, and flailed there for a shaken second and then rolled to its feet and galloped break neck down the lane, soaring through the starry night. A minute and a mile later it came upon a deranged, impish looking man on the side of the road and ran him down in cold ass blood. And as legend goes, in a moment of pure random beauty the ass swallowed both those pockets of coin the imp Theroux had swaddled. Fast forward a day, the ass is in the wild rich as fuck and fucking tons of wild ass and don't even worry those two wounds healed. Long story short he lived a wild ass life til the end of his days and died happily as lord and savior to the many small packs of wild ass who roamed the prairies at that time. And he beget many wild ass children by his many wild ass wives. Their names are too numerous to remember but they all married and beget more wild ass children who married and beget more wild ass children who were so numerous at this point that it's pointless counting, but think four or five figures, all 9's. And so the population soared high in the ass kings wake, sort of like a wakeboarder spinning silly flips way up, and you may rest assured dear reader this trend continued for many generations, because it was a successful ass lineage.

“Working? You mean I have to work?” Maybe this was hell, Peter reasoned. It would make sense for hell to dress itself up as heaven – that magnifies the disappointment when you realise it’s hell. “Is this hell?” Jon turned to him, his face suddenly aghast. “How dare you!” he shouted. “Do you not see the plants? Do you not see the water coolers? This is a heavenly work place!” No one in the cubicles seemed to stir at the raised voice. “But it is a work place. I didn’t think I’d have to work here.” said Peter, baffled that anyone would call this heavenly. “And perhaps one day you won’t. But everyone must start somewhere.” Jon smiled, satisfied that his reasoning couldn’t be disputed any further. “Where’s God then?” asked Peter, much to the annoyance of his guide. “Peter. It’s Peter, isn’t it? Yes. Peter. Walk with me, I’ll explain everything.” Jon walked ahead, with Peter reluctantly following. He glanced into a cubicle. It was empty, save for a desk - upon which sat a computer, keyboard and mouse- and a person, sat on a wheelie chair, facing the screen. Jon hurried him along with a glance. “You won’t meet God for some time, I’m afraid. You may never meet him. He is the CEO, the decision maker. Even I haven’t met him yet, and I’ve been here for three millennia.” “The CEO? Of what?” “Of Heaven, Peter.” Jon stated the fact as though it were painfully obvious. “So, Heaven is a company?” “Exactly. And we’re very selective about who we employ. It’s a three tiered system. Hell is reserved for the manual labourers. They make sure there’s enough water in the oceans, enough sand in the deserts. It’s hard work down there, but it can be rewarding if you’re the right kind of person. Purgatory is the second tier– this is for those who used to work in restaurants, cinemas, administration – anything that doesn’t require huge amounts of intelligence, but isn’t what one might call “manual labour” either. They look after the day-to-day stuff – making sure the right people die, the right people survive, the right people reproduce; that kind of thing. A lot of it is data entry, but there’s an opportunity for career progression if you’ve got what it takes. Finally, there’s heaven!” He announced, gesturing his arms with pride. “Heaven is for the skilled professionals. Tell me, Paul-” “It’s Peter” “Tell me, Peter. What did you do whilst on Earth?” “I was an architect.” “Ah! There we go. *Skilled* professionals. Employees of heaven oversee the future of Earth. When will the next economic crash take place? Who will become the next superpower? Should global warming continue at its current rate? You get the idea. Any questions?” A million questions, thought Peter. He settled on one. “What about children, or people unable to work?” “Ah, I’m glad you asked. About 15 years ago, we launched the Potential Project.” Jon said, looking at Peter as though the words should already mean something to him. He continued despite Peter’s indifference. “The Potential Project is a piece of software designed to forecast the direction one’s life would’ve taken had they not died in early age, been afflicted by a debilitating disability, or anything else that prohibits them from reaching their full potential. Of course, we can’t give them a role here, but we don’t convert them either.” “Convert them?” “Yeah, convert them!” enthused Jon, buoyed by Peter’s sudden interest. “Up here, we don’t have a natural energy source. So, some people contribute to our efforts by donating their naturally produced energy!” Jon, marvelling at the genius of his beloved corporation, stopped at a water cooler and began to fill a plastic cup. “Let’s put it this way” he said, holding the cup in front of Peter’s face, “this isn’t exactly from a spring”.

No one knows the whole story. How could they? If I told anyone they would come back for me, and this time not be merciful. However I need someone to know. People need to be warned as to what is out there and be prepared. It all started with a trip out to Washington for some camping and hiking with my three best friends. I will not give out their real names for obvious reasons. We were all still in high school and it was the summer between Junior and Senior year. So we all felt grown-up and that we could handle anything, that we were invincible. That was our first mistake. Second was where we chose for our hiking trip. I do not remember the location, my therapist says I have submerged all my memories. But if I have why can I remember everything like it was yesterday? All but the small details that matter. Anyways all four of us had our parent’s permission to go out for two weeks for this trip. Lucy and Irene were 18 and Kylee and I were only 16. We prepare for this trip beyond excited. Weeks and weeks before the event we are out shopping for camping and outdoor supplies. We studied the area, took wilderness survival classes, the whole deal. The day came for the plane to leave and each of our families were at the air port saying good bye and telling us to be extra careful. We all said duh and that we are practically adults and can handle anything. So we leave. Somehow I thought there would have been more to the goodbyes, especially looking back. Our trip to Washington was pretty uneventful, even the 25 or so mile hike up to the camping site was uneventful. We all get to the site and are excited, Lucy and Irene decide to go explore the area to ‘get to know our neighbors’ as Lucy put it. Me and Kylee were the youngest and so got stuck with setting up the two tents and a fire pit. They were gone for perhaps an hour when they come running back shouting at us to come see what they find. Kylee just kind of rolls her eyes and sits back down while I get up and walk towards the other two. “Kylee! Liz! We found the most beautiful meadow full of these amazing flowers! You have got to come see! Now!” Lucy pants as she gets within ear shot of me. They both had glowing faces and looked extremely happy. I look back at Kylee and wave her over so she gets up and jogs to us. When she reaches use Irene repeats what Lucy said, turned around and trotted off without seeing if we were falling. Lucy waves us on and tells us to come on before the sunlight is gone. By this time it was getting late and the sun was starting to set. It took about half an hour to get there. But before I could even see the meadow I heard it. I could here this beautiful song, the only way I can describe it is like the Elves in the Lord of the Rings but it was happy and upbeat. It gets louder the closer I get to this place. I ask my friends if they heard it but they gave me a funny look and said no. I felt both happiness and apprehension at the song. It was not natural, unearthly, not to mention we were out in middle of nowhere. But whatever I thought it was just in my mind. I could not have been more wrong. We get to the meadow just as the sunset is at its peak with beauty. We all gasp in awe at the sight before us. I was in kind of a trance the whole entire time as the song was so lovely and haunting. It had captured me and would not let go. The meadow was perhaps 15 foot across on each side. A near perfect circle, and in the center was a hollowed out tree. I do not even remember what kind of tree. Like I said I was in a trance so I could not stop my friends, even though I tried so hard to. The rest of the meadow had a floor of flowers. Flowers so white they seemed to glow. They were delicate like a small child. That is what they made me think of, small children. Lucy looks back at us as she was in the lead and smiles. She then makes a suggestion to pick some flowers and bring them back to camp to decorate. The other two look at her like she invented AC and agreed. All this felt like a dream to me. I head this happy song slowly turn to a sad, angry, and agitated song as my friends stepped forward and starting picking flowers. I do not know how many they crushed while they picked about 2 dozen of them. I knew what they were doing was wrong, my expression had turned to horror but I could do nothing. When they were done they came back to the edge where I was standing and Irene grabbed me and shook me. They all looked at me funny and asked what was wrong. I, like the idiot I was, said nothing and asked if we could hurry to camp. So we did. We get back to camp fast as it was dark and we had not brought flashlights with us. Kylee had taken all the flowers picked and put them in a small pile at the center of our camp to do something with in the morning. I do not know what she had planned, probably to braid them together into a rope and string it across the tents. As we made it back to camp I realized I could no longer here the sad song. I was glad thinking that it was over and I was not going insane. Two hours later we were all in our tents asleep. I shared my tent with Irene and we were both fast asleep. I woke up suddenly from a nightmare of death. I do not remember what it was, just that everyone I loved, my family and friends, had died a horrible death. I sit there for a few minutes to catch my breath when I hear a song, so quiet and tiny I thought it was the wind. Slowly it grew, slowly it grew so loud I thought it would tear the tent apart. It was the same singers of the meadow, but a different one. One of anger and revenge. Irene bolts awake and looks around in fear. She thought it was a storm, a big one too. How could they not hear the song? I felt like my ear drums were going to burst it was so loud and emotional. She darts out of the tent to go to the shelter at the side of the clearing for bad weather. I call out to her not to but she goes anyway. I followed her, scared to be by myself. When Irene and I get underneath the shelter Kylee was there. I start to ask her where Lucy was when screams started. Piercing, pleading screams. Lucy’s screams. Just as Kylee and Irene start to move toward the screams with fear in their eyes I see dark shapes dancing just outside the edges of the shelter. I yell at them to stop and they do thankfully. Or maybe not. Maybe it would have been better if they went, they would have suffered less. I point outside and shakingly tell them that there is something out there. Irene lets out a scream as we see as small skeletal hand reach into the shelter, grabbing onto Irene’s pants. Kylee was the only one not frozen with fear and stomped on the hand, causing a crunch that I still hear in my dreams. I start to cry after that as the song just got louder and more intense, as did Lucy’s screams. By then we had all moved to the center of the shelter and huddled in shock and fear, them thinking there was a storm and some undead thing after us. Me hearing this song of revenge and knowing we would not make it out alive. Oh how I wish I could have died. The pain and the fear would have ended instead of dragging on for years. Hours pass and the screams slowly die away, the song becoming triumphant. We were still huddled together frozen, not knowing what to do, but knowing that our friend just died a horrible painful death somewhere close by. Irene slowly pulls herself away looking apprehensively out into the dark. She said that she was going to go back to the tent and grab her phone to see if there were bars and that she could hopefully call for help. Kylee agrees and I beg her not to go. She couldn’t go! But go she went. We never saw her alive again. But we did hear the screams, the screams the begged for mercy, the screams that went on for hours, and the screams we could not stop. By now sun should have been up, we should have seen the light, its life giving life that would have meant we were safe from the shapes out there. But somehow it remained dark as midnight with no moon and stars. The song kept going on. After what felt like years the screams stopped abruptly. Kylee looks at me and starts crying. I tell her it’s ok, we will make it. A few minutes the sky lightens, we still could not see the sun but we could see the surrounding area. The shapes, things, monsters were gone. The campsite was a mess; there was blood everywhere, but no bodies. Kylee breathes a sigh of relief and looks at me with almost joy. She thought it was over. She thought they were done with their revenge. I would have thought they were done too, however the song was still playing just as intensely as before and it had changed to revenge from the triumph. I could not stop shaking. Kylee jumps up and points to the right. She starts crying as look to see what she saw. Somehow it was Lucy and Irene. Somehow these monsters used their bodies, distorted them, did unspeakable things to them, to scare us and draw us out. Kylee thought they were still alive, but I knew better. Their faces were wrong, lopsided, and just evil. They had no eyes, somehow I could see that buy Kylee couldn’t, somehow I could see everything but she couldn’t. Their skin was not even the healthy tan of active humans, and had this sickly grayish-yellow hue to it. Their faces had no lips and their teeth were like sharks. No they were sharks teeth. The eye sockets where just pits and yet I could tell exactly where they were looking. They were hunched over, their hands ended in claws. They wanted us, they wanted to hurt us. I knew the purpose of the bodies. I somehow just knew. I yelled at Kylee to not look at them, that somehow we were safe where we were as long as we didn’t step out from under the shelter. Kylee just laughed and said we are safe. She said that Lucy and Irene had survived. She told me to look there they were. I looked again and I was nearly sick. Those monsters were not our friends. Kylee starts moving towards them and I grab her arm telling her again no don’t go out. She tears away from me and glares shouting that I was wrong and how cruel it was to ignore our friends when they were hurt and needed our help. She then runs towards the two. I glance at them and watch in horror as their faces split into grins, as they raised their claws out towards Kylee. The song increased in volume to the point where I nearly fainted. I could not watch, I did not want to watch. I hear Kylee shouting in glee and then in horror. I hear her screams. I hear the sounds of the claws tearing through her flesh. I hear the crunch of those horrible teeth on the bone. I heard everything. I saw nothing. I cried as the screams and sounds continued. I cried for hours after they stopped. I sat down worn out and scared, certain I would be next. I don’t know how long I sat there but eventually I noticed that I could see the sun, and that the song had faded to the point I could barely hear. And it was happy. I nearly went insane then and there. But no my sanity stayed with me as I looked out to the camp. To the three mutilated bodies of my friends. Lucy and Irene, their bodies were back to normal except all the cuts on them. All sorts of cuts. Kylee she looked like she had been eaten by a wild animal, and I guess she had in a way. All that was left of her was her skeleton with bits of flesh here and there. And surrounding the bodies were perhaps a dozen small figures. They were bone white and looked to be made of twigs. They had no faces, and their eyes were just red glowing orbs. I froze as I noticed they were watching me, afraid of what fresh new nightmare I would see. They spoke. Not with mouths but in my head, and they spoke in unison. They told me many things I dare not repeat. They warned me of what they would do to me if I ever returned, or if any human returned. They said the only reason I was not killed like my friends was that I was special. To this day I still do not know what that means, or if it is a good thing. When they were done they disappeared. Literally just disappeared in the blink of an eye. The authorities believed that we were attacked by a cannibalistic nut job that had escaped the mental facilities in the area. They never found him. But I know better, I know who did it. I just pray that no one else steps into that clearing. Beware of the white flowers.

I tried. It's my first one, so cut me some slack. Constructive criticism would be wonderful. Soft, white flakes float gently from the sky, blanketing the only world Lori knew. She sits, swaying slowly on the only swing in the park. Millions of thoughts running through her head, but the most important is her walk back home. The temperature was steadily dropping, as it usually does on November evenings, and Lori had only her favorite wind breaker on to protect her. She never gets to see him, but he always manages to pick out the perfect gift. It crossed her mind a few times that this year, he'd finally forget about her, about her sixteenth birthday. Everyday for two weeks she would wait in a lawn chair on her porch, stopping the UPS truck whenever it would pass by, asking anxiously about her package. Another day would pass, and a sliver of hope would seep from her, until finally, she stopped waiting. Her birthday wasn't glamorous in the least bit; having only a bowl of cereal for breakfast while flipping through the few channels they got on the only tv in the house. "Hmph, another birthday, huh? Well don't be expectin' nothin' from Jim and me. We gots bills to pay to keep a roof over our heads you ungrateful twat.(brat) And I been seein' you waitin' by the door these past weeks, figure ya old man finally forgot about you, huh? Too busy tendin' to that new family of his. He don't want you and he ne'er did, betta' you accept that now." Susan, Lori's mother, always had a way with words. "You don't know! Maybe it could just be late, ever think of that you simple minded Pillop?!" (Pill popper) "Girl you better shut up, talking to yer mother like that 'fore I tear you a new one. Gone and get out my face 'fore I get angry..and you know you don't like me when I'm angry!" Lori never liked her moms boyfriend Jim since day one. There was always something off about him to her.

ANIMALS (pt. 1 of a short story) I want to eat everyone in this room; each feckless constituent of the sales team sitting around the Mahogany conference table, nipping water and coffee from cardboard cups, bobbing their heads like ocean buoys, while Ray’s voice drones from his seat at the far end of the room. Ray is a half-hour into a disquisition on this quarter’s impressive sales figures, increased margins, and growing market share. The caged monotony, the shackled sameness, of this meeting, is excruciating. I exaggerate a loud yawn, my mouth gaping wide and toothy, and stretch my arms at oblique semaphore angles. The interruption makes Ray falter, and he stumbles over his words briefly. I wet my lips extravagantly with my tongue, and direct my gaze to the décolletage of the brunette across the table. Her name is Isabelle, though I am certain that it’s not. She sits in the cubicle across the aisle from mine. Isabelle’s hair is pulled back severely, revealing a tidily symmetrical hairline. A shimmering skein of black gossamer hair escapes from her hairpin and falls languidly over the hollow above her collarbone, which she abruptly and diffidently tucks over her ear. I am so terrifically bored. I want to hunt and hurt something lovely. “Tom?” I hear Ray say from the head of the oblong table. “What?” I demand, my gaze still fixed on the cleft of Isabelle’s buxom. “Uh, I- do you want to talk about the McMahon account?” Ray sputters. “Not now,” I say emphatically, fixated on the network of rivers and tributaries of blue-green veining beneath the diaphanous flesh above Isabelle’s mammillae. I sense, without looking, the dumbstruck awe radiating off the meat around table. I hear the nervous rustle of Ray’s shifting body in his seat. I hear his smile stretch taut across his lips, like wet leather. I hear the electric susurrus of occipital nerves as he performs anxious saccadic eye movements around the table. I hear the gulping undulations of his larynx, as he looks for face-saving words. “Why don’t you just say a few words,” Ray finally decides, his voice pregnant with desperation. I linger on the tumidity of Isabelle’s blouse and its buttons clinging tragically to their eyelets. Isabelle is taut. Isabelle is empty. Isabelle can pop like a balloon. “Tom?” Ray asks again. I look up and scan the spate of faces; so young and eager and full of hope, beseeching me with stunned eyes and gaping mouths to vouchsafe secret knowledge. I take a moment to examine each of them in turn, cataloguing the weakest of them. I fix the room with what I know is a disarmingly impish smile. “The McMahon account,” I begin cheerfully. In my cubicle, I’m listening absently to the voice on the other end of my headset, while I fix my eyes across the aisle. Isabelle sits with perfectly erect form at her desk, exuding doe-like grace and Victorian demureness, eyeing the glow of her computer monitor tentatively. “No,” I say into the phone. “No. No. No. Let me tell you something. That is a problem you do not want to have. I will cut your throat and those of your children,” I say into the phone. “Yes. You heard me accurately. No. No, it is not an empty threat. I will actually come to your home, to your place of business, and extirpate your DNA. Uh huh. Yes. Serrated. Yes. Flayed. Uh huh.” I am engulfed in the lurid carnality of the pink gloss painted across Isabelle’s lips. I gorge myself on the long tapering projection of her lithe body into a pair of patent leather Leboutins. “You will do it,” I say into the phone, “because I have said you will. Say hello to your mother. Good bye,” I push a button to end the call. Isabelle catches me gazing at her legs, and I can sense, without looking, that she has forced herself to smile. “The McMahon account,” Isabelle says. The sound of her voice, melodic like the hum of a crystal glass, disrupts my reverie. I glower into her vitreous eyes. “What?” I snap. She starts at the sound of my voice, and moves her lips spastically. “The McMahon account?” she asks. Her eyes inadvertently glance at the rounded bulge burgeoning between my legs, and quickly dart up, struggling to conceal her sense of mortification. “Yes,” I say. “How did you get it?” She asks. I forgive her for this; she hasn’t been here long enough to know what is dangerous. In this cubicle pen of taupe covered foam panels and laminate desks, I am the most fearsome beast. The numbers I put up on the quarterly printouts that are the cause of so much fawning are a towering hoard of skulls and femurs to mark the entrance of my cave. “Because I am strong, where others are weak,” I answer. There is a long pause as she lets this settle. “Well. That is really impressive, Thomas.” Tell me your jealous. “I’m jealous,” she says coyly. I can see envy undulating over her, like miasmas of heat jouncing over the macadam of some desert interstate. “You’re going to do really well here,” I tell her, and smile benignly. You’re not going to do well. You will work hard. You will sleep fitfully as you worry about the future. You will never quite apprehend why nothing is ever enough. Finally, you will heed a sententious internal voice that tells you that a life of happiness is not lived in pursuit of money. Secretly, though, you will know this to be false. Privately, you will always be haunted by the mystery of the secret knowledge; that mid-wife of specie, that puts fresh meat on tables. In Ray’s office, I’m sitting in front of his desk, looking past him in the direction of the downtown skyline. My gaze traces the saturnine sweep of a milky-white moon as passes over the tableau. Ray’s office is musky with the scent of liniment and weakness. Ray knows that my numbers redound on his leadership skills. Though he himself has produced nothing, he can point to me as a sign of his strength. His need makes him servile. His need makes him deferential. His need makes him anxious for regular validation. “Tom,” Ray says, forlornly. “Uh huh,” I reply, still gazing out the picture window. “Tom, have you ever worn a chastity device?” This registers like the peal of a church bell, and eviscerates my concentration. My eyes swoop to Ray’s downcast aspect. “Say it again,” I demand. “A chastity device? Have you- Have you ever worn one?” “Ray,” I say in a measured voice, “are you wearing a chastity device?” Ray considers me for a moment, and decides that I am worthy of his trust. “I— Just between you and me, right? Just between us friends? Just between us old pals?” Ray asks. “Always,” I lie. “If not two old friends, then what are we? We’re nothing.” Ray scrutinizes the leather blotter on his desk, absently brushing away motes of lint with the edge of his palm. “It’s Emily,” he says, nervously fingering the sharp edge of the cherry wood desktop. “She’s— she’s going in some interesting directions, sexually.” “Uh huh,” I tell him, leaning forward expectantly, tongue protruding from the corner of my mouth. “She— Well, she insisted that I wear it, Tom, and, well— I just don’t know. I just do not know.” Ray sighs dolefully, his eyes downcast, his lips vaguely pouting. “Let me tell you, Ray, that you are a lucky man,” I tell him. Ray looks up expectantly, a glimmer of hope behind his widened eyes. “How?” Ray asks hopefully. “Do you love your wife?” “Yeah— I- Yes, of course I do.” “Then, isn’t it true that what she has asked of you is not that you think less of yourself, but that you think of yourself less?” “Well,” Ray considers, “Yes! You’re right, Tom! Yes!” “Raymond,” I say in a level voice, “That you are distraught now, is not because your cock and balls are in abeyance-- ” Ray winces and shifts in his seat. “--but because you are wracked with guilt for having been a poor husband,” I say. “My God. My God, Tom! Do you think so?” Ray asks, feeling this guilt deeply now. “I know so,” I say emphatically. “It is you, Raymond, who is keeping her locked up.” “I am?” “You are,” I reply. “I am disappointed in you. You are many things, Raymond, but an abuser of women? I did not think you could be that.” “No, Tom. I’ve never touched- “ I hold my palm up to silence him. “Stop right there, Mister,” I demand. “You’ve been an emotional abuser, Raymond. No less than if you had struck her with a golf club or a baseball bat or a tire iron or a ballpeen hammer or a lawn dart or a rubber chicken or a sandwich board or a nunchuck or a broomstick or an oar or a bicycle pump or— “ “Tom?” Ray says. “Yes, right,” I say, composing myself. “As I was saying, shame on you.” Ray covers his mouth and widens his eyes in mortification. “You’re right, Tom. I’ve really screwed up. I might as well have hit her.” “With a crossbow or a shower rod,” I say, for illustration. “I’m a terrible person. I’m so ashamed.” “You have to do the right thing, Ray. I know deep down, that you are a good person.” Ray nods vaguely to himself, a scintilla of insight burgeoning across his aspect. “So?” Ray asks. “So, you’re saying that there is nothing wrong with a man; a strong independent man- you know?” Ray asks, gesturing with his chin in the direction of his lap. I am inebriated on copious amounts of serotonin flooding my bloodstream. Colors become more vivid. The vista in the picture window takes on a supernatural crispness. The supernal hues of the summer gloaming astonish me. For reasons I can’t explain I want to howl at the spectral moon in the window. I want more. I want so much more. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before, Tom. I have been dishonest- “ “Abusive,” I remind him. “Yes. Yes. I’ve been abusive. I have been the worst kind of monster; an abuser of women.” “There you go, champ,” I tell him. “I’m going to fix this, Tom. I am going to fix my marriage,” Ray declaims. “I believe it,” I say. “Thank you, Tom,” Ray says and rises uncomfortably from his chair, proffering his hand for me to shake. I take it cheerfully between both of my own, and shake it enthusiastically. “Good luck, Raymond. I believe in you,” I tell him. As I pull the door open, I hear him say, “Great work this quarter, Tom. Keep up the good- ” The door falls shut before he can finish. I float across the blue-gray patchwork carpet, down rows of cubicles, past the din of people garnering their belongings for the night. I don’t need to look to sense their awe-struck miens casting in my direction. I sense their enfilades of envy arcing across the cubicle farm towards me. I smell the redolence of their aggregated neediness. My ears spill over with the tremendous melodies in this fantasia of weakness. I open Google on my computer and point and click at the search field. Across the aisle I hear Isabelle - or whatever - pecking out letters on her keyboard. I sniff the air around me for the source of spores of fecklessness flitting through the air and, when I look up, there is a brown face effusing bad breath materialized over the lintel of my cubicle wall. “Hey hey, Tommy boy!” Raj exclaims. I turn back to my monitor and type: C-H-A- “You fucking killed it this quarter!” Raj says, jutting his fist in my direction. S-T-I- “Uh huh,” I say. T-Y “Big baller!” Raj yips. “Fucking America rules!” I lift my arm and cock my elbow far back. I wheel around towards Raj’s swarthy face, and hammer my fist into his. There is a sickening clack of bone on bone. “Thanks,” I say. “Keep up the good work, Raj.” “It’s- It’s ‘Sanjeev’. My name is ‘Sanjeev’.” Raj rasps, struggling to conceal grave pain pluming in his arm, blinking away lachrymal welling in his eyes. “You da man,” Raj croaks. “Uh huh,” I tell him, returning to my monitor. D-E-V-I-C-E Raj submerges under the wall and disappears, leaving the sickly redolence of his ancestral DNA, suffused with poverty and scarcity and fear, pullulated across centuries. I fan my palm in the air to dissipate the reek. Nothing made from Raj’s flesh can thrive among wolves. “Holy shit!” I exult, watching as a grid of thumbnail images proliferates across my monitor. I’m dumbstruck by the digital menagerie of cocks and balls behind Lucite enclosures; stainless steel rings distorting amorphous mounds of flesh; styptic constraints of gleaming steel crimping urethral maws to sphincter-like constriction. “Excuse me, Tom,” I hear Isabelle say. I jab a finger in the air for silence, before she can ruin the spell. I scroll down the screen until I have come to the bottom of the page and, satisfied, I shove away from the desk, and wheel my gaze around towards Isabelle’s lap. “What?” I demand, fascinated by the dark grotto made from the defile between her thighs and the taut hem of her skirt stretched across them. My fingers begin to wriggle involuntarily against my armrest. “I- Well- I- “ She crosses her legs and breaks the spell. I look up at her, careful to signal exasperation. “I’m waiting,” I remind her. “It’s just that, I don’t understand this computer and I- “ she pauses as her gaze drifts over my shoulder to my computer monitor. “My God,” she rasps, averting her eyes. “Oh my good God. What is that?” she says, pointing an unsteady forefinger in the general direction of my cubicle. “Cocks and balls,” I say, as if I were telling her the time. She casts her eyes sidelong, through her parted fingers, and says, “W-Why, Thomas?” “Because I feed on human weakness,” I tell her and grin.

Every day I wake up in a daze. My mind beats as if the drums in my head were being destroyed. Pound, thrash, pound, the drum solo never ends. Just a slow gutteral thumping, gradually increasing until my mind is fed up, it has made it's choice. As I crawl out of my bed, a bare matress strained from far too few one night stands. Each off-white splotch a memory. A memory forgotten well before the night it began. The sour smell turns my stomach as my brain pours from the inside out, asking for the cure. Begging for me to start my day. To start it the real way. Begging for no memories. Yesterday was the last day, turned into the last night. I promised her my least empty promise this time. Somewhere, somehow, some part of it was true. Part of me wanted to. For her. To be good enough for her. I know that it was true at the time, however today I am not myself. If I could just be myself one more time. Just feel normal once more. Just one more time. Then, I'll be ready. Then, I promise I'll be ready. This time for sure. This is the last time. I promise. For you. Edit: Sorry, this was wrote in like two minutes while drunk and I realize that it may not be the best, or even good. But it was a big step for me to actually let someone read something I wrote.

This was just a little experiment of mine, I wanted to see if I could capture the insecurities and doubts people experience throughout life in the way dreams do- through lots of metaphors and subliminal messages and whatnot... so here is my attempt... and thank you for reading :) A-Is for Abandonment: Alone in a vast plane of emptiness and darkness. A Baby, crying and starving on the ground, its tiny lungs gasping for the air it is deprived of, its miniscule hands reaching out for the touch of another human being- someone- anyone. Now it is fumbling, falling through the vapid emptiness of space, only to land in the empty seat of a Car. The baby is in the passenger seat, in the driver’s seat is a man with a look of desperation and concerned etched upon his face, a sweat upon his brow and a tear threatening to drop from his eye. He is trying to start the engine- so determined, and so destined to fail. He looks to the horizon ahead of him and my eyes follow his, and as I look I see light beginning to trickle into the darkness- Dawn is breaking. On closer inspection however I see the landscape littered with the walking Dead. A hand clasps tightly onto my shoulder. I turn to see two pairs of dead eyes gazing at me, I instinctively know that they are the baby’s parents. They do not linger for long. They simply request I take caution on the road ahead. The whole scene shifts and suddenly I’m standing on an Escalator, but I’m going the wrong way. The escalator is going down, but I’m struggling ahead. I persist, sweat dripping from my brow, knowing I must fight the tide, but not knowing why. Some thought buried deep inside my head has morphed into fact, and the fact is that something is waiting for me ahead and that something is leading me onwards. The escalator suddenly begins to drop, the steps becoming level and still at my feet. There is a boy ahead. He is reading a Fable to himself, speaking the words out loud. The book he is reading from is beautifully crafted and the pages are a brilliant white, but the words he is speaking are morbid and curious. I begin to wonder whether he is reading the story of my life, but the notion strikes me as ridiculous. The scene around the boy and myself begins to shift once again. Trees grow ominously tall and dark, imposing on us both, but the boy barely seems to notice. I see a trail make itself known through the newly constructed forest, and somewhere in the distance I can see an old, dreary, worn out, decrepit Gate, swinging open and then shut. I follow the trail and pass through the dismal gate, the hinges screech and I wince at the sound, as my ears protest the sudden rise in pitch. The forest begins to thicken and the trail becomes more and more obscure. Fear begins to consume me, I feel bile rise in my throat as my stomach acid begins to boil. In the distance I hear a faint, but haunting, Howl. Maybe it is all in my mind, but I feel the wolves closing in on me, their feral eyes leering at me through the underbrush, their teeth bared, ready to gnarl, gnash and gnaw on my flesh. Then the Insects begin to buzz around me. I have disturbed their nest, and now they are seeking vengeance. Fighting my way through the endless onslaught of the forest’s weapons, I realise that the wood around me is no longer in the form of trees, but exquisitely carved and crafted benches and desks and stands. I am in a courtroom. The buzz that previously belonged to the insects now belongs to the crowd and the jury, and is eerily similar. I stand in front of them all and look up at the imposing Judge. I hear the jury tutting and sighing and silently but surely judging me. The judge is speaking nonsense, but his tone clearly conveys his disgust and disapproval. It all becomes too much, suddenly the buzz in room grows louder, and the temperature increases, and the room gets smaller, and I cannot take anymore. I see myself- an adolescent- jump from the box in which I was sat, and Kill the judge with a blade. The buzz becomes a roar and the whole room becomes chaos. Everyone lurches for my adolescent self, but before any of their prying hands reach me I stab the knife through my heart. Through the devastation, much to my relief, out of the corner of my eye, I spy a Ladder. There is a woman there, holding it steady for me to climb, and she smiles, her teeth gleaming white. I climb up, out of the mess and the madness, into a place where it is constantly Midnight. I look around at the scene. A clearing littered with candles, all burning brightly, and radiating warmth. As I walk however I become aware that my feet are bare. I realise I am Naked and exposed. I begin to search for clothes, but there is nothing in the surrounding area aside from trees and candles. My eyes adjust to the dark and I see bodies on the ground. They are moving. All of them intertwined with each other, squirming, wriggling; limbs wrapped around limbs, lips pressed together. The cold, night air is filled with the sound of moaning and hushed whispering. The Orgy I have found myself in is odd to me, although my nakedness somehow now seems far more appropriate, and I am comfortable with myself. In the middle of the clearing, out of nowhere, a Podium rises from the ground. Feeling more comfortable than ever- I step up to it- above the mass of bodies below and I begin to speak. Just as I open my mouth however, I spy another podium in the distance. There is a figure stood at this podium just as I am, high above the people below. A Queen. I squint to try and see her better in the darkness. I spy a heart, stitched into her dress. I suddenly become struck with fear and step down. As I do I trip and fall to the cold ground where a Rabbit, white and energetic, bounds past my face at an unnatural speed. I crawl across the ground following the rabbits trail. It take forever- or almost a minute- to arrive at a small, sandy cave that is illuminated by an unseen light source. I look around and immediately feel at home. I know this is a Safe Haven. I must leave some time however; I cannot linger in this haven forever, lest I forget what is really outside. I stay for as long as I can, enjoying the warm, salty, night breeze and the sound of the sea gently falling against the sand. I watch the playful shadows dance against the roof of the cavern and feel at peace. I have to leave. As I step foot outside the cave I am immediately shoved to the ground, it takes me some time to realise what has happened, but it becomes clear that a Thief has stolen something precious from me. Not knowing what has been stolen, but certain that something has, I pursue the shadow that is bolting away from me along the beach. Just as I am about to reach him, he changes course and begins to run into the sea. I follow him into the depths, Underwater, the shadow continues on into the darker blue regions of the ocean. I pursue him further until eventually he relinquishes the item that he stole. The photograph of my parents drifts past me, and then begins to float towards the surface, out of my reach, lost forever. The shadow is gone, but I am still deeply submerged. I look through the murky water; imbedded into a rock I see a Valve. I have an insatiable desire to turn it. I swim to through the heavy waters that are bearing down on me and wrap my hands around the cold metal wheel. With great difficulty I begin to turn it, with a loud, satisfying ‘click’ the water from the ocean begins to drain. I see the surface rapidly approaching me from above- I close my eyes. When I open them again, there is sunlight, I’m in a Warzone, with the heat from above bearing down on me and the sound of gunfire blazing through the air. I run through the turbulent atmosphere. Bombs, bullets, shouting, screaming, blood, sweat, heat- I can feel them all, shooting towards me like I am their primary target. I manage to locate a tent and quickly manoeuvre my way inside. There are several officer and generals stood around a map. I pick myself up from the ground, covered in dust and dripping with sweat. I look at the map. ‘X’ marks the spot. The map doesn’t resemble anything even remotely sophisticated, it is instead a hand-drawn map of a series of islands, with a giant ‘X’ blotted on one of the land masses. Confused, I step outside of the tent, hoping the air will clear my head. The scene has once again changed. The heat has remained, but I am no longer at the centre of a warzone. I am on a beach, on a tropical island. The water is terrifically clear- I can see all the rocks and fish beneath it. In the cove is a large Yacht, which is evidently mine. I look into the sky and see that it is littered with an army of Zephyr planes. I begin to laugh, and spread my arms wide, feeling the tropical breeze wash over me. I’m suddenly an old man, with his wrinkled, old feet submerged in the sand, but I feel overall contentment. And then I wake up.

Driving down the dirt road he could feel it. The anticipation had been building up steadily since the day he got his job. It was like anticipation had created hundreds of cocoons that all decided to spread there wings at the same time. That kind of thing happens when you get to see the girl of your dreams for the first time in four months. Pulling into the drive way he decides to make sure he looked the part of "super excited boyfriend" and "super fine" at the same time. Maybe not so much the latter. He decides this is about as good as he's gonna get his hair, there's nothing in his teeth, he was finally going to get to see her. Stepping out of his car, he makes his way towards the front door and knocks. She throws the door open and they just hold each other for what seemed like forever, but in reality it was only 5 seconds. He pushes himself away and says, "I have to get this out of my system." He cups her chin in his right hand, tilting her head slightly upwards so that their lips met at the perfect angle. Love never seemed like such a tangible thing until that moment.

"Are you sure?" Ask this once and you get a confident answer. Ask again: a confused answer. Ask three times and you'll be doubting their answer. But just ask again and they start to doubt their own answer. "Are you sure?" No. I'm not sure. Not any more. Ask this every time and they'll doubt all of their answers, doubtful of the very last word you can hear. So ask for confirmation. Go ahead and ask if they're sure, because it's so important that you know. That's how you destroy a person's confidence. A question at a time, you doubt every word they say. And in every opinion, they strip their spoken words down to bare facts. Because opinions are doubtful. How dare they say something they feel! No more "I think"s, because that's nothing to be sure of. How dare they think. You think you have paid the bills, but have you? They can't answer the question with their thoughts, so they check. But it's not just the words they say that they're unsure of. It's the very act of living they suddenly forgot is theirs. You took it from them. Are they sure that they have their wallet? No. That hefty lead-weight in their back right pocket wasn't confirmation enough. No. The fat wallet pulling their jeans uncomfortably taut can't possibly confirm it's there. So no, they're not sure. It should be there. They're not sure about that, but since you asked, they feel for their wallet. And they felt it. It's been there the whole time. But now they don't know if they have their car keys, or if their jeans were zipped. So they look. They check. Every damned time, they'll check, because you asked. They're not sure of what they're saying any more. Why are their thoughts no longer theirs? They're no longer sure if they can live a day without forgetting something. But they weren't ever inherently forgetful or unsure. No, you made them that way. Because you had to know. So you asked. And they answered. No, they're not sure. They'll never be sure again. On their way out the door, they'll only be sure they left their wallet behind. One time, they actually did. Wow, I'm so forgetful. Better check every time.

Today is as good as any tomorrow, but it is never as good as yesterday. For most, yesterday was the day that they were younger. They use yesterday as an escape from their lives that are filled with more materialistic value, but neither the strength nor the wits to work their possessions. Others see yesterday as the day they had their chance in the limelight. Nobody remembers the fourth or fifth person to set foot on the Moon, none but themselves and their colleagues. They remember that day they set foot on the most uncommon landscape as the day they did something truly great, no matter how many others had disturbed the sand there before them. Yesterday is better than today any day of the week. Yesterday was better for me because yesterday I had three friends. These friends were the only people that I could tolerate. The first of the three was Juliana. I had met her at a high school party a few years back. She seemed out of place, being such a small and innocent looking girl. Her long brunette hair always seemed a little disheveled, but somehow it worked well with her golden brown skin. What made her look so innocent were those tiny freckles she had clustered around her nose. For as long as I’ve known her she’s been trying to prove herself to be hard, but her guiltlessness can be seen as clear as glass. My second friend I met a year after I had become acquainted with Juliana. His name was Christian. What an odd boy he was. When I first met him he was dressed like a ninja and jumped at me out of a tree. I never knew why he did so, and nobody ever knows why he does anything. He just does things because he can or he wants to be able to. When Christian removed his ninja mask I saw that he had long hair, with a color similar to Juliana’s. He had lots of acne and light scars on his face, but a strong chin to make up for it. He is the only person I’ve ever met whose yesterday is not as good as today. I met my third friend through Juliana. I wouldn’t call him a friend, but more of someone that I was forced to take care of. His name was Jack. He had soulless black eyes and glasses. A peach fuzz mustache covered his upper lip and his black hair contrasted his pale white skin. When I first met him he seemed like the most plane person that has ever breathed air. I was forced to be friends with Jack because Juliana is best friends with him. He was normal at the start, but once I knew him longer I made it clear that I was one to be trusted. That was a mistake. Every other day there was another threat of suicide and another plea for attention. In his eyes yesterday was bad, today is worse, and there is no tomorrow. This time he was right. Christian had started to date Juliana. I had no clue they knew each other, but apparently they met through school. I had never thought them to be together but they made the perfect couple. I can’t imagine what a fight between them would’ve been like. Juliana was too sweet and Christian was too stupid, and both of them were selfless. Their care towards others would soon cause their own downfall. You see, Jack was desperately in love with Juliana. He had been ever since they met in first grade. That is the reason he has stuck around for so long. He had seen Juliana go through so many heart breaks and he knew, or at least thought he knew, that he would be the best for her. That is, until he saw her with Christian. They say Christian is immature and needs to grow up. In my opinion he is the most mature. Jack is the one still holding onto his elementary school crush. Four-hundred and something days after Juliana and Christian started dating, and over three-hundred suicide threats of Jack’s later, we all stopped caring. Even Juliana was getting sick of his selfishness after her numbered days with her beloved started to be interrupted by Jack’s cries for attention. He acted like the threats were real, but that was all they ever were-threats. There was nothing for him to be sad about anymore, but he needed to be spoon fed attention or else more threats would ensue. None of them seemed real. Every night he would get upset and leave his house around midnight and walk around his suburban town and pout. Then the next morning everything would be fine. He would be friends with everyone again until night time. The main cause of his depression was believed to be Christian. Jack’s yesterday was a day without Christian. The real yesterday, August 16, 2013, was a good day. That day Juliana, Christian, and I decided to not give in to Jack’s threats. I stayed home most of the day and left Juliana and Christian alone, up until it was time to go to the fair. It was the last time they’d see each other for a few months since Christian was heading back to college soon so I gave them their space. I knew we were going to the fair after Juliana finished with her job, but we had no intention of running into Jack there. He had told me that he was at the mall, and I am assuming that is what they thought as well. The evening went exactly as planned until we saw him. His head was peeking out from behind one of the rides at the fair. Christian called to him to get his attention, but Jack turned and disappeared behind the ride. We all walked briskly toward the ride he was hiding behind. When we arrived we saw him again, further away and in the parking lot. Christian screamed a friendly hello. Jack looked back then started running. We all stood in the parking lot confused for a minute, then saw his car speed away. We thought nothing of his actions and went back to the fair. After the fair we decided to meet up at Juliana’s house. I got there first and played inside with her dog, while Juliana and Christian were off playing with each other in Christian’s car. I sat there for a shorter time than expected when Christian’s car screeched to a stop in front of Juliana’s house. Out of the car came a worried couple who rushed inside the house. Jack had been following them. Not just from the fair, but all day. Everywhere they went they caught a glimpse of his car. When they thought they were alone they decided to get intimate with each other in an empty parking lot. Then a car sped into the parking lot and hid behind a building. They were scared at first, then skeptical. Juliana and Christian kept with the activities until Christian spotted Jack from around the corner the car slid behind. Just as quick as they got dressed and left, Jack was on their tail. When Juliana and Christian reached Juliana’s neighborhood they turned then looked behind them. Jack hadn’t turned after them. He kept whizzing down the road until he was out of sight. We all stayed in Juliana’s house until about midnight. It was time for us to leave. Christian walked up to Juliana and gave her a long kiss on the lips then a solemn last goodbye. I smiled to see the two getting along, although they always do. Christian opened the door and walked slowly to his car. I stayed behind Juliana and held the door while she waited at the doorstep for Christian to leave. He unlocked his car and his lights turned on. Just as he did so, Jack paced from the right side of the yard to the edge of Christian’s car. He flung out a gun, pointed it at Christian, and fired. Yesterday is always better and always will be better. Yesterday I had three friends. They were not all happy with themselves, but at least they were there. At twelve ten the morning after that day, one friend was dead in the street. At twelve twenty, another was arrested. Jack may not have killed himself, but he is dead to me anyways. The date now is August 18, 2014. Tomorrow is Juliana’s funeral. She had killed herself the night before, after mourning for one full year about what had happened. Yesterday I had three friends. Today I have none.

Jerry Chavez hardly ever said a word. A damn shame because he knew so many good ones. Lascivious, licentious, and lethargic all laid latent. He even invented some new ones that would have been a boon to society: Escube: to get ready for the day at work or a night out on the town by shitting, showering, and shaving (hygienically speaking the best order to perform them in). Potanic: any item possessing the potency of Titanic proportions. Yet, Jerry's laconic manner cursed the air with the language of a mundane nature: shit, fuck, double-fuck, cock, bitch, hell, that 'c' word, Jesus, and sugar. All paltry words and a pantry one too. Jerry would spend most of his time creating the most wonderful worlds. Staying alive it might seem only to live in his daydreams. That was until the gift bag came. Jerry, returning to his cheap motel-style apartment complex from an appointment with a doctor, found a lavishly adorned gift bag on his welcome mat. “Is it my birthday,” he thought. Jerry looked at his watch. “No, much too cold to be my birthday.” Truly placing a temperature gauge on a watch is a brilliant idea, you are able to see how cold it is outside which helps you to realize if you have dressed appropriately. Or in this case it helped Jerry realize that this present was too early or much too late for his July birthday. Without a reason for the gift bag coming to mind Jerry still took it into his somnolently decorated apartment. Jerry was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, mainly because the giving of horses as presents seemed to have fallen out of fashion. At least that is in the circles Jerry ran in. Although the only circles Jerry ran in was down at the high school. But this was not a horse track. And obviously it's not the right track for getting a horse either. But I digress, actually looking back on how long that tangent was it would be more appropriate to say I trigressed or even quadgressed. Jerry in the meantime had grabbed himself a beer and sat down on his couch with the gift bag. He said something to himself which I intend was “Go for it you pussy.” and then he opened the gift bag. The first thing he found was what seemed to be a normal everyday yellow, Ticonderoga, number 2 pencil. Next was a brown leather bound journal, with which one would assume was to be written in with the pencil. The card followed. Jerry opened it with no haste, and read only this: What you write with this Pencil into this Journal will come true in that you will be able to fully participate in it so long as you pop one of those Purple Pills. Jerry daunted but determined checked the back of the card. Exactly as he thought, it was not a Hallmark. He now turned his attention to the dilemma of the pills. That is, where are they? The card's removal had emptied the gift bag. But as Jerry went to grab the bag again he heard the distinct sound of pills rattling in a bottle. And there they were. The purple pills were in his left hand. Jerry removed the magic lid from the magic bottle, and took out the magic cotton swab, and grabbed a magic pill. Jerry said something silently to himself which I intend was “Hell, why not.” and then swallowed the pill with the help of a swig from his beer bottle. Its taste was not bad. Jerry now felt he had done something wrong. Maybe, he was to have written first. But before he was to become too worried a story came to him and he began to write. It was a very good story. In the vein of Rip Van Winkle. A young lad, who Jerry would play, fell asleep on top of a hill overlooking a dystopian city. He was very unhappy in this world. He wished he could change it not just for himself, but for all. When the young man awoke he found himself on top of the hill looking down though on an unfamiliar city. He came down from his mount and walked around this new and as he found better city. Being quite confused he rested on a park bench. An old man seeing this unnerved young man sat down beside him hoping he could assuage the youth's pain. Jerry told him about the world he came from and how happy and surprised he was to see this one. Jerry asked how it became such and how it maintained its wonderfulness. The old man, who was quite knowledgeable, told him the story. He told the version that was not too long to allow the listener to become uninterested and not too short as to leave anything of importance out. It was a very good story and at the end of this he asked Jerry a question, “Shouldn't you be on your way?” “To where?” Jerry replied. “Home.” said the old man. Jerry paused. He believed senility had finally caught up to the old man. “I have no home here.” This made the old man smile making Jerry now certain of the old man's brain being gone. The old man said, “Then maybe here is not the place you should stay. Your home is there. You might want to go back and share with others the story that you have found here.” Upon hearing this Jerry knew what he must do. He would return to his dystopian world and share this gift, the one he was given, with others. As great as this would have been you must already know that this is not what happened. Our world has no magic pencil or magic paper. Neither does it have magic pills. Just regular pills which purpose is to help. The kind you might get after an appointment with a psychiatrist. Pencils and journals with which we can write our feelings and thoughts in and one day share with others. No, Jerry never came back to our world. Damn shame too for he had so many wonderful stories to tell.

My brother wasn’t really alive when he died. His soul was empty, his mind was vacant. Every needle gave him temporary euphoria yet the drugs took back what he owed them. Every time he stabbed a needle into him, he bled; he was left to die in a fashion as meaningless and trivial as his life, leaving the rest of us to navigate this maze of a hell hole. I walked into the entrance of the courtyard, the building as gray and monotonous as the cold winter sky. The courtyard was empty. I passed by the one lone tree of the courtyard. Its charcoal branches, twisted and bare seemed to reach out like hands trying to clutch something out of reach. The piss-stained stairwell felt cold and damp, the rat inhabitants of the building scuttled past, hungry desperate, scavenging for their next meal, whatever it takes. The city felt a world away yet it was just out the door. The building was just a facade so the outside world could ignore us. On the outside the businessmen stepped around the homeless, the junkies, the rodents of the city like discarded rubbish. I walked outside and watched across the road as a man ritualistically measured out two teaspoons of sugar and carefully placed them in his coffee for his morning fix. The rush of the city didn’t penetrate the walls of my building, only the sirens could be heard within its confines. It was the part of the inner-city less seen. The building was on its last legs. It was old, decrepit. The concrete was cancerous and cracked. The roofs seemed to slouch in the middle, barely able to support its weight. It was a dying cause, a failed social experiment. It made you feel suppressed, trapped, institutionalised. Sometimes I wish it would fall down. The walls house too many bad memories, too much pain, too much suffering. I get this feeling the buildings going to come down on me, the weight of the bricks crushing me without warning. Sometimes I think I wouldn’t mind if it did so this could all be over and done with. I walked back inside to our apartment; my mum was passed out on the couch again. I caught a glimpse of a photo of my brother. The pain felt like a knife stabbing through the heart, it was too fresh. the memory, too real. Death is a tough thing to digest but I get the feeling that the feeling will never go away. My thoughts are like parasites in my head, gnawing at my brain. I left my brother to die. Isolated, lonely, He reached out for help but there was no one there, no support, no help. That’s how it is in life. I feel that’s where I’m destined, where I’m headed. Ever since the death of my brother I’ve truly felt alone in the world, he was on the only sense of direction that I felt in my life and now there’s no one. Dad is long gone and mum is about as good supportive and caring as him. The school keeps calling about me but she doesn’t care. I haven’t been since my brother died. There I’m an outcast, that povo kid who lives in a rundown house with a drunk as a mother. I hate school and no one dares come inside the building to take me away, the outside world never comes inside this building, they know better. Yesterday I caught my mother shooting up. I see that same vacant look in her eyes that my brother had before he died. The same look that the man had in his eyes as he lay on the sidewalk, coughing up blood as red began surround his abdomen. I murdered a man for twenty-dollars. That’s all that was in his wallet. I panicked, I messed up. He was on his way home from work. A white collared businessman. He walked into the alleyway and I held a knife to him. He tried to make a run for it. I was caught up in the moment, too nervous, too involved in the situation. I sunk the sharp knife into his soft belly as he lay on the ground, mumbling something I couldn’t make out as blood pooled and he wheezed and coughed. He went pale as I ran away. Blood covered my hands as I sprinted. I tossed the knife in the harbour as the man lay down in the dirty streets in his last moments. People saw him but did nothing. He was ignored. For that brief moment he became a part of my world, he was a part of the discarded, the outsiders. He knew what it felt like to be pushed to the side. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of that man in the gutter, left alone, the look in his eyes, the look of death.

"I'm telling you, it was one of the most baffling weeks of my life" "What was so bad about it?" she laughed infectiously. "Well here I was, dating this beautiful, gorgeous girl, and the sex was absolutely awful. I couldn't figure it out. I questioned my sexuality once in case it was my fault. But don't worry, I'm not gay. I'm sure of that." Paul smiled, "and then she dumped me for 'not being adventurous enough for her'." "Well maybe it was your fault?" Sarah smirked. "Maybe, but I’ve never had any complaints before or after her, so im pretty sure its not." "Oh really, so I’m sitting here with a bona fide ladies man am i? The scourge of fathers across the country?" she giggled "I wouldn't say that." he laughed, "I’ve done okay. Same as everyone else." "I have to say, I was expecting you to be a big proponent of the three day rule" she looked at him quizzically "The three day rule?" "Yeah, you know, how guys always leave it three days before they contact you?" "Oh. Well its more of a guideline than a rule. But if it bothers you that in a day early i can come back tomorrow?" "Yeah, would you?" she fixed her hair, pushing it back out of her face. "I'd like to point out that I didn't make contact. You shouted at me on the street." "How do I know you're not stalking me? Or that you didn't plan it that i would run into you?" she asked playfully Paul smiled "think very highly of yourself don't you? Accusing me of dastardly scheming!" "I think it’s what I’d do if I were a man." "Bump into them accidentally on purpose?" "Of course, I love me, I couldn't wait to see me again." she giggled Paul laughed, "what about me?" "What about you?" she asked, confused. "Well, you couldn't wait to see me again either could you? That's why you organised to run into me, isn't it." "You can go on believing that if it makes you feel better." her smile like a bird opening its wings. "You have a nice smile." Sarah looked down, suddenly shy. "Thank you" she pushed her hair behind her ear. "You're welcome. But now my dear I'm afraid I must leave you. I’ve been talking to you now for two hours, when I should have been working." Paul stood up. "You work?" she smiled mockingly "Yes, I'm not as much of a bum as you think." he smiled "What do you do?" Paul had dreaded this question. He didn't know if he should lie and keep quiet about his real job, or just tell her. It all came down to one question: if he told her, would she figure out he was investigating her family. He chose not to answer. He smiled, took her hand and kissed it. Then he turned and walked away. Sarah was left once again, sitting alone, utterly bemused by what just happened. She watched him as he walked to the door. He looked back and smiled at her from the door before walking out. She sat staring after him for a minute. She bit her lip and smiled. She liked him.

Our nightly groupings, our daily musings - these things meant nothing in the presence of the elders. We would come together to frolic, to set ourselves free from our daily woes, but too often the old ones would arrive and cut short our jubilee. They would steal our grog, banish the brave, and force us back into their rigid academic bureaucracy. After several months, the banishment became too frequent an occurrence. Many who once willingly braved the resentment of the elders now cowered in their cells, waiting to be assigned work. Any attempt at triumph seemed hopeless, and the world of the masses was clouded by all that was mundane. We were trapped. Until he came. It was a cool October night, an unsettling chill brushing through the barren branches of the autumn trees. The blue-suited servants of the elders monitored the streets, searching for even the faintest hints of enjoyment to abolish. I sat alone in my cell, much like all the others, trudging away at my daily tasks to no foreseeable end. I grimaced as I moved onto the next piece of work, knowing that no matter how much effort was applied, the old ones would judge harshly and criticize all distinguishable imperfections. My emotions were boiling, and I would likely have exploded from hatred if it weren't for the start I received from the sudden knocking at my doorway. I glanced once, stared again at my work, and took a second, almost comical take. A knock on a door meant either banishment or mail – and no one in the institution had received a letter since the beginning of our imprisonment. The knocking stopped as suddenly as it had started, lasting only for a moment. I stepped out of my seat and cautiously approached the door, preparing myself for the worst. Hands ashake, I grasped the handle and uneasily turned it clockwise. At that time I was positive that I was going to be exhumed. But rather than a towering official notifying me of all that I dreaded, I found my doorway to be vacant, absent of physical matter save for the surrounding atmosphere and a small yellow envelope resting at the bottom. I picked it up with haste and slammed my door aclose. “Student” it said on the front, with no other words to be seen. Though a trap was likely, I disregarded my instincts and tore off the top with blind anticipation. A lone piece of paper rested within, folded to fit perfectly inside the casing. It read: “Dear student. Tonight is the night. No more shame, no more cowardice. We will party. - A friend.” On the back of the note was an address, a directive to an abandoned home that hadn't been occupied for ages and was deemed by the elders to be “unfit for student life”. Emotions ran through my mind in indiscriminate and overwhelming waves, confusion clouding my thoughts as much as excitement. “What?” was the primary question, yet another was “How?” and an equally valid inquiry stood to be “Why?”. I could hear my peers reacting verbally in the cells adjacent to my own. It was clear that many others had also been asked to attend In a jaded state, my thought fog shrouded most rational oppositions to leaving. Banishment was not a matter, nor was fear of arrest. My curio had long since taken precedence, and the only thing that mattered was to have it pacified. Thus, I walked. I behaved mannered and casual on my stroll to the gathering, avoiding the gazes of the blue-suits by blending in and hiding my intense anticipation. I could see my peers acting similarly, all walking ordinarily but on the edge of shrouded enthrallment. I felt good, for the first time in months. I sensed that a strong resolve was approaching. Something positive was on its way. From the moment I turned the corner onto Bronze Street, I was elated, hearing joyous tones that had not been murmured for what seemed like a lifetime. My body began to carry itself towards the sound, my mind adrift in a fantastical trance. “Could this be true?” I thought to myself. “A party amidst such strict elder rule?” But it was. The house was alive with grog-drenched laughter and the livelihood of socially stimulated youth. My senses told me that I was in heaven, but it was merely a party. The consistent deprivation of genuine enjoyment that I was regularly subjected to made that which stood before me seem all the more otherworldly. It was amazing, at the very least. The chatter carried on, with friends and individuals expressing themselves as they hadn't done in months. But in spite of this overwhelmingly joyous behavior, a looming question begged at the fringe of my mind – who had put on this extravagant, daring party? Was it the same man who sent the letter? Why had he done it? I had to discover the identity of the savior of our morale. It was an absolute. Before I could even begin to search for the answers, however, the dreaded flashing cars of the blue-suits were outside the house, their lights droning systemically in the windows and the howl of their sirens tearing through the atmosphere like the chilling scream of a soul reaper. With the blink of my eye came chaos, desperate yells and attempts to escape. No one sought banishment, and no one sought arrest. All sought to be free. In the midst of the freakout, a bellowing voice reached out from above the home and directed itself towards every blue-suit in sight. “HEYYYYY!”. The students stopped shuffling their feet and stood still, attention now paid to this unexpected act of brazen bravery. I was as bewildered as the rest. Several elders had gathered around their law-enforcing subservients, directing an all-encompassing gaze of pure accusation at every individual in the home. I shuddered, as did many others, at the chilling vacancy of their stare. “Step down from the house immediately.” came the megaphone. A lone blue-suit, the captain of the brigade, stood sternly in front of the rest, sound amplifier pointed towards the man atop the house. “You're all under arr...” “NO!” boomed the man, his tenacity held to a point with every fluctuation of his vocal chords. Both crowds were aghast with awe. Again the megaphone called “Come down, or we will be forced to...” “LISTEN TO ME!” he cried. The confidence and surety of his tone were enough to make even his enemies feel proud of him, the man who dared to defy their authority. “This institution...” he began “was created long ago, by great men and women, for both education and personal growth.” He paused. To me it felt like a presidential commencement address, his voice so absolutely strong that the intensity was palpable. Everyone awaited his continuation. “Look at it now. What has become of it? What has the bureaucracy done to improve the lives of the most important people – the youth?” This question seemed to unsettle the elders. One spoke in direct response “This college was designed for one purpose, and one purpose only – to learn. Personal fulfillment has no place in our...” his justification was cut short by an angered collective crowd bellow, myself participating. Several students moved to the forefront, with two blue-suits repositioning in response. The tension in the atmosphere was rising, I could feel it. “In your what?” yelled the man. “Your twisted, emotionless, money-seeking hearts? Do you have any idea how much these kids – your students – have been suffering?” He flicked his eyes to the blue-suits. “Have you never bothered to question the morality of what you're doing here?” They were begrudgingly attentive, and I saw one bow his head in what could only have been shame. “It's a police state, nothing less.” said the man. A few cries of agreement could be heard. The elder who had spoken was scowling, his lips trembling with privileged disgust and hatred. He was prepared to speak when the voice of the savior student crushed his looming interjection attempt, raining down upon our ears like a shower of liberative truth. “Bros, lads, and all collegiates.” Our attention was undivided, with every ounce of focus directed towards the speaker. “I brought you all here not just to frolic and to relax. Beer and friends are here, yes, but that is not the driving intention behind this gathering.” Brief murmurs of discussion swept through the crowd. “I brought you here to remind you of what it feels like.” He paused for a moment, then continued “What it feels like... to be free.” By this time, tears were copiously falling from my face, my conscious mind an overwhelmed trench of emotionally charged memories. Memories of freedom, memories of friends. Memories from so very long ago. I was bawling. “Do not weep, my brothers, my sisters. This unjust cruelty ends now. It ends tonight!” The eagerness was dripping from his vocal productions like the salted tears of the woeful student body. We were ready, we were sure. It was time. I screamed to the absolute limit of my vocal muscles, the resultant screech barely adding to the chorus of liberated student minds. In perfect synchronization, we all cried “Yes!!!” The time had come to shine, to take back the college that was rightfully ours. Boredom and resentment vanished in the place of excitement and friendship, and the party that night marked an epiphany in university life. The blue-suits were awakened by the speech of the elusive roof man. They arrested all elders and old ones in the college town for unjust treatment of youth and countless robberies of grog. New, more considerate “profs” took their place, minds set on youthful engagement and societal advancements rather than personal monetary greed. Before many were even aware, the institution had transformed. The only trace the man left of his identity was a brim-filled keg of premium draft beer, addressed to all the students of the college (myself included). Because of this, he garnered the moniker “Keg Bro”. It suited him, I thought, in both content and ambiguity.

So here I am, sitting at a bench, in a Texas Courthouse. I have been accused of murder. I am a doctor, the name is Gabriel Homes. The friend I am accused of killing is James Walden. My friend. Both of us are divorced and will never marrie again. Two weeks ago James confirmed he had cancer. With out boring you with the small stuff, the doctors he conferred with did not want to treat him the way he wanted. They were taking a much more statistically safe approch. He did not want what this approch would bring. And he knew no doctor would agree with the treatment he wanted. When I found out about his plan, I helped him. He was going to do it regardless, and he was there for me in my darkest hour. As his only real friend, I should do the same for him. For more then 40 years we have known each other. If there is anyone hear that should be alowed to make decisions for this man when he can not, it is me. "All rise for the honorable Judge Lisa Forman." " Be seated." Everyone sits down. "Mr. Homes." "Doctor." Homes blurted out. After a small pause. "Your Honor." After a sturn look, she went on. "Doctor... Homes, I understand you want to give the closing statement. Have you been adviced by your legal counsel?" "Ya, I know the risks your Honor." Homes said with blunt sarcasm. "Go ahead." Judge Forman waved her hand to signify the same. "Ladies and gentlemen of jury, I have asked for a jury trial for one reson. The jury. Laws are imperfect, they can not juge intent. Laws say certain situations with certain actions should be looked at to see if something was done wrong. The law says I have killed a man. But it is your job to ascertain if it was for good or bad resons. If I intended to do harm, or if I have acted in a way that harmed someone, and prevented them from going about there life as they wish. I did brake the law. That is what has brought us here. What I did I would do again, the law has the power to send me to jail for this. If you say it does, if the 12 of you agree that I had malicious intent. But if you agree that I did as my friend wished me to do, and that he was fully aware of all the risks, then you have the power to keep me from jail." Homes takes some steps to his left. "Dr. James Walden, has been fighting cancer in his patients his hole medical career. He knows the treatments, the risks, the problems, the effects and the outcomes that could happen. He has studied it his entire adult life. He knew that this treatment was most likely going to kill him. But he wanted to take treatment his way. He did not want to die from the disease he had been fighting his hole life. But more then that, after a life time of watching people die in a hospital, he did not want to die in the same way. These are the facts, this is what he told me, and this is what I have learnt from knowing this man for more then 40 years, the facts and my friendship with James Walden agree. This time Homes walks to his right but farther then were he started from. "Three doctors told him, they would do light radiation, to try and shrink his to shrink his tumor. If that didn't work, they would try chemotherapy, and they would increase the amount as needed. James knew this might take to long. His thought was, why not try the best chance for shrinking the tumor when he had the best chance for surviving the worst treatment. Simple math, you try the easyest to hardest action first untill it works or you try the hardest thing first, when your most equipped to handle it. He wanted to rip the band aid. He knew why doctors try and save this as a last dich effort. He was a doctor for more then 40 years, if anyone knows the risks of treatment it is him. He could ask a patient to do this and with only what he has told them they could agree to it. I guarente they would not understand the same as a doctor, and definitely not one that has been fighting it his hole life." He takes a deep breath, and pauses for a nice silence to build. As he looks around watching the jury take in what he is saying, he begins again. "My friend has watched people die in a hospital bed for longer then anyone should ever have to. Mothers hold their childs hand as the last breath comes. Old men with no one there, dying alone. Husbands and wives winning and losing the long and very painfull fight with death. It pained him more to watch this then anything else. He did not want to go through that, even more then he did not want to die by what he has dedicated his life trying to conquer. This man has given up so much to help people. And the law wants to tell me that, I should not of help this man the way he wished. You would give a solder his dying request but not this man. Should someone not have the right to help a man of this caliber. Should the most dear friend in a mans life not be able to help fulfill his wants and needs. If someone would rather have treatment in their own home and not a hospital, then they are allowed. But I can't do this because I'm a doctor. The law was not intended to punish me for this, it was intended to stop me from doing it for my own gain. Not for fulfuilling my friends educated request. How can being a doctor prevents me from helping my own friend my family. If there is another who would be more qualified then me, James and I have not met them. "I did not kill this man." The doctor shifts over to his left a bit. "He chose this path. It may be looked down on, but it is not wrong for someone to make a dangerous decision, when all this risks can only harm them. It is dangerous for a mother and father to let their son go off to war. But if the law alows him to, should the parents not support their child? Should a wife not cook a meal for her husband that works in L.A.s police department? Should a friend not skydive with his buddy as he concours his fear of hights? The reson we have people, friends, loved ones in our lifes is to help us in the tough times. Doctor James Walden faced death. As the only person on this planet that he wanted help from, can you really say that I have done something wrong that has harmed anyone but myself. I was helping my friend through the most difficult decision he has ever made. He trusted my judgment, and he knew that I have the best intentions, to help fulfill his wishes. Should someone really be punished for this." "If I must martyr myself out, to stand by my closest friend, then give me the cross and I will walk with it." Doctor Gabriel Homes stops hangs his head low as he turns around. The time he spend with James as life passed them by starts to come rushing back to him. Were they met, how they both helped countless people as doctors together. All the bets and games they palyed with one another. The people they have both lost in their lives and how each played their part in helping the other. James was there when he went into rehab, and a psychiatric clinic. Homes was there when he got a divorce, and James in the same way for Homes. He had to honor his friend, or it would dishonor everything they have gone through. He looks up and the hole room is fixated on him. 'How long has he been standing in silence?' The hole room watching his every breath. "I have done nothing I regret. I will stand by my friend. So that we would be friends for better or worse, if we were peasants or kings, if he was dying of cancer or living another 100 years. I have done right by my friend and the ultimate judge must see this. I will not stand down from his side." "I am done your Honor." As I walk back to my seat, I fear that people will side with what has been put down on paper befor their own moral compass leads them to the right path. They have been blinded by their rules. They feel safer with them. But as I sit down I feel better knowing I have a true friend. Even though I have lost the most important part of my family, I am better for being there with my friend, as he was for me.

Animals (pt. 2 of a short story) Traversing the third floor of the concrete parking structure, I listen to the sound of Isabelle’s Leboutins from behind me, parroting my own footfalls. “Thomas?” I hear Isabelle ask. “What?” I say, modulating my pace to toy with the tempo of her clacking heels. “I’m sorry if I’m being a bother.” “Uh huh,” I say, truncating my strides, and smirking when she adjusts her gait. “Can I tell you something?” she asks. I stop abruptly and wheel around. “Sure,” I answer brightly. “I just wanted to thank you, Thomas.” “Yes. You are welcome,” I say, hefting my phone. “Don’t you want to know what for?” “Uh huh,” I say, scanning my email inbox. “For making this such a great first week,” she says, with a cloying smile. I can smell the need effusing off you. The philter of the secret knowledge has seduced you. “Isabelle!” I roar, and fix her with eyes of black coal. She starts violently and staggers backwards. I lean in close and her eyes go as wide as krugerrands. “Are you a lion?” I ask. “Are you a lamb?” “I- I don’t understand,” she says meekly. “Answer me now! I must know!” “I’m- I’m a lamb? No, I’m a lion. I’m a lion,” she bleats, her lips trembling. I let her answer digest for a moment. I smile at her and reach to tuck an errant hank of raven black hair around the fetal pinkness of her ears. A rush of air escapes from her lips. “Come with me,” I enjoin her. “Where?“ “Now,” I say, patting her on the swell of her rear for emphasis, and loping away. I can sense, without looking, that she’s vacillating. I know the sensation of my palm lingers on her skin, like something caustic, but warm and reassuring. I hear the clack of her Leboutins close behind me. I order a several shots of expensive aged Tequila from a zaftig bartender. The bartender lines them up at the edge of the bar, and I proffer one to Isabelle. Isabelle takes the shot and studies it tentatively. “I don’t usually drink,” she tells me. Her new kind of face confuses me. This generation of mannequin faces is a problem; I can’t discern if she is telling the truth. “Drink it. You’re going to like it,” I tell her. I clink a glass against hers and stare expectantly. She studies the shot for a beat, and glances at me for reassurance. I smile and nod. She tilts her head and tosses the shot back. She winces and covers her mouth with the back of her hand. “Good, right?” I say. She nods and I take the empty glass from her and return it to the edge of the bar, along with my own. “Isabelle- ” I begin. “Why do you- “ she pauses, unsure of herself. “Never mind,” she says. “Speak,” I demand. “Well- I mean- I don’t want to embarrass you.” It’s obvious that you have not seen me, as I have seen you. I am unhidden and unafraid, like a swarm of vampire bats disgorged from the maw of the cave where it dwells, beating its collective leathery wing. “Just be gentle,” I implore her. “It’s just that, you keep calling me ‘Isabelle,’ and, well, that’s not my name, Thomas.” “I see,” I say, sheepishly. I lower my gaze into her lap and examine the narrow aquiline stretch of pink-white flesh above the lace cuffs of her stockings. “It’s okay. Really,” she says. “I- I- shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.” I’m not listening to her. I’m examining the convex welt of fabric distorted from the pull of her garter belt, so like a lascivious smile, so like, “have a nice day.” I reach blindly for another shot of Tequila and proffer it to her. “Will you forgive me?” I ask. She hesitates for a beat and, unable to decline such an earnest offer, she accepts. “Yes. I forgive you,” she says, smiling. “Good. Let’s drink to it,” I say, looking up at her. She tilts the lip of her glass against her lips, just as I set my palm firmly upon her knee. I can feel her body judder with surprise. “You’re sure you’re not upset?” I ask, as Tequila spills over her tongue. She’s shaking her head in response, and struggling to get the booze down, dribbling expensive Tequila over her chin. “Good,” I say, and chafe my hand over her thigh to consummate our new understanding. She makes an excessively pinched face, as she gulps the booze down. She reaches down, perhaps to extricate my hand, but it’s not there. Isabelle, there is a flaw in the contract among civilized people; not everyone agrees to the invisible walls that you and your ilk have stipulated. I take my first nip of Tequila and savor the complex intermingling of wood and Agave notes. I smile waggishly. Isabelle oscillates in the passenger seat, like the confused needle of a compass on a planet bereft of true North. Her world is spinning and warm and populated with richly colored forms that struggle to hold shape. I play the new CD of a metal band I despise, raising the volume until the windows reverberate with music that sounds like the killing floor of an abattoir. I jerk the steering wheel severely, jinking around slower moving cars, and making tight turns around corners. “I don’t feel very good,” I hear Isabelle mutter. “What?” I yell, over the squeals of the music. “I- I think I am drunk,” she stammers. I nail the brakes and come to a screeching halt along the curb in front of a McDonald’s. White smoke fills the rearview mirror. The air in the car is rumored with the smell of burnt rubber. I kill the music. The silence is staggering. “Did you say something?” I ask. “I- I don’t feel so great, Thomas.” “I’m not surprised. You really put it away tonight. A real party animal.” “I’m sorry,” she says. “I- I think I’m going to throw up.” “Don’t throw up,” I tell her. “I- I really think I’m going to vomit, Thomas,” she says, raising her hands vaguely to her lips. “No, you will not! You absolutely will not throw up in my car!” I scream at her. “I’m sorry,” she says, her hands covering her mouth. I lunge for the passenger side door handle and, pressing my cheek into the supple swell of her breast, I push the door open and shove her in the direction of the curb. She lurches her head and torso out the door and retches onto the asphalt. I watch her body convulse violently for a moment and, satisfied that she will not soil my upholstery, I grow bored. I lean back into my seat and turn to a game of “Angry Birds” on my phone. Feathered projectiles demolish friable sanctuaries of ice blocks and plywood that weaker creatures have erected to protect themselves. It is too easy for me. I have secret knowledge of their architectural blueprints. I need something more. I need to visit the highest levels of the game; exclusive secret levels to which only those who put up big numbers and hold secret knowledge may aspire. Those forbidden levels near the edge of the world, where the surviving creatures have taken heed of the lesson of their fallen brethren and erected more substantial defenses to protect cities, civilizations, infrastructures, at which I will catapult fierce extirpative nuclear birds. I glance at Isabelle’s back as it distends acutely from bilious contractions in her abdominals. “Are you done yet?” I demand, careful to signal a note or irritation. She responds with another spasm, and I return to the screen of my phone to enable the audio recording function. I direct the microphone at her, studiously observing the digital acoustic signature as it spikes with each sloshing discharge. I’m bemused by the height and acuteness of her cragged shame as it jabs graphical fingers into the air. Isabelle at last slumps back into her seat, her eyes webbed with engorged veins, her skin wan. “I feel better,” she says, hoarsely. “What do you want to do now?” I ask, adjusting the ringer settings on my phone. “What?” she rasps. “I said,” I yell, as if she is hard of hearing, “what do you want to do now?” “I- I need to go home, Thomas. What- what time is it?” she asks. “Eight-thirty,” I reply, off the top of my head, and certain that it’s much later. “I should get home,” Isabelle says again. I stuff my phone in my shirt pocket and turn to Isabelle. “I understand. Let me take you to your car,” I say, staring expectantly. “Thomas, I- “ “Yes, Isabelle?” “I can’t drive like this. Not in this condition. Can you drop me at my apartment?” “And where is that?” “Studio City?” she asks, as if she doesn’t know. “I see,” I tell her, rubbing my chin and nodding in contemplation. “Please, Thomas?” she mews. “I really don’t feel well. I wouldn’t ask otherwise.” I park at a curb in front of a post-modern art deco apartment complex in Studio City. Isabelle scrabbles her hands over the door until she finds the handle. “Thank you, Thomas,” she says. “I feel better now. I really am sorry. I’m not much of a drinker. I don’t know what I was thinking.” “Yes, well, we all make mistakes,” I say. “Thank you again,” she says, pushing her door open. “I’m feeling a little unsteady myself if you must know,” I tell her. “I suppose I’ll wait here before I make the long drive home. Yes. I think I’ll just wait here.” “Oh,” she says, bent over into the doorway. “Well- I mean- It is a bit cold out tonight.” “Brrrr,” I say, wrapping my arms around my shoulders and affecting a chill. “Well- I suppose- Do you want to come up for a few minutes?” Isabelle asks. “Exactly,” I say, bounding out from behind the wheel. Isabelle and I negotiate the flagstone walk to the entrance of her apartment building, and I hear the squelch of something wet and viscous being displaced under my shoe. A neon flamingo on the stucco façade radiates garish pink light over a Buffalo grass lawn and a row of Birds-of-Paradise lining the walkway. In a dim fifth-floor corridor, we find the rust-colored door to Isabelle’s apartment. The dusky floral carpet in the corridor repulses me. The senescent moldiness of the building wafts off the walls and floors and ceiling. “Oh no,” Isabelle says. “My purse. I forgot my purse.” “Where could it be?” I ask, with a slight lilt. “I think it’s still in your car, Thomas.” “It’s not,” I tell her emphatically, shaking my head. “Can we just take a look? Just a real quick look? All my things are in there. My phone, my keys, my makeup are all in my purse.” “Isabelle, you are talking crazy talk,” I say, inserting a dollop of menace into my tone. “Do you think I would tell you a lie?” “No. You’re right,” she yips. “I’m sorry. I’m sure I left it in my car.” “That sounds right to me. In fact, I’m certain of this. I saw you put it in your car. I could not remember it better than if I had put it there myself.” “Really?” she asks, brightening. “Let me tell something, Isabelle. I have done the Harvard MIT Memory Acuity Assessment. You’ve heard of the MMAA?” I ask. “I think so,” Isabelle says, nodding vaguely. “I am certified with one-hundred percent recall, and I am certain that your purse is in your car, just where you left it.” Isabelle sighs, relieved. “Thank, God. Thank you so much, Thomas.” “Uh huh,” I say, patting her emphatically on the ass. “Now what about this door?” “We have a spare,” she says, extending herself to the narrow ledge of the door’s upper casing. She fumbles her fingers over the ledge and brings down a tarnished brass key. I’m considering the “we” in her statement, when she turns to me and says, “We have to be quiet, my roommate is probably asleep.” I lock my pursed lips with an imaginary key and dramatically pitch it down the corridor. Isabelle casts a saccharine smile at me, and fits the key into the door. I follow her inside as she flips a light switch and removes her heels. I sidle past her into the living room. The apartment is tidy and furnished with flimsy plywood furniture and myriad pieces of gimcrackery. There is a dense weathered coffee table near a malformed futon couch and a frayed chaise. I scuff my shoes across the floor as I head towards the gliding panels of Isabelle’s picture window, trailing green-black something over the taupe colored carpet. In the glass I see the reflection of a snarling man-goat beast with gnarled claret-colored horns curling into the air like fingers of smoke. I look through the reflection and examine the expansive glittering tract of The San Fernando Valley. “So,” I hear Isabelle say. “Yes,” I reply, turning to Isabelle. “I had no idea it was so late, Thomas,” she whispers, affecting a yawn. “I better get to bed, if I’m to get to work on time.” “I see,” I tell her. “I don’t want you to worry. I’ll just call a cab in the morning,” she says. Poor, poor, Isabelle. Still? Can’t you see the reflection your window? “Do you have anything to drink?” I ask. “It’s a long drive and I’m parched.” “Oh! I’m so inconsiderate! I’m sorry,” she says, flustered. “I should have offered you something.” I tarry in the kitchen, nipping at bottled water. Isabelle’s eyes stutter with fatigue. I sense how my insouciance dazzles and frustrates her. She is bursting with the need to admonish me with words that she is unwilling to say. Her self-imposed shackles ruin her. You were wrong, Isabelle. You are a lamb.

"I'm sorry, but I just can't deal with your sob stories tonight," she said to me as I sat beside her brushing my fingers through her hair. "It's not a sob story," I protest. "I just want you to understand why I feel the things I feel." "Sometimes I think you just need to be checked for some kind of mental disorder." Five minutes passed as I continued to brush her hair. Finally I broke the stillness and whispered to her. "Are you still afraid of me?" I breathed. A soft nod was all that she managed to show. That was the worst pain of all. I kissed her on the head as I got up to go but I felt her quiver upon the touch of my lips. It was difficult to get up and go to my car with my heart dragging me down the whole way. I still needed to get gas. Coming to see her before I left town again used the last of the gallon that I had. Before making it to the gas station I saw a trooper waiting with his lights on pointed towards the speed trap. He would find his man. Tonight it would not be me. My mother gave me her debit card to use for gas. We weren't extensively wealthy but she felt that if she didn't buy me gas I would stay at school across state. She enjoyed spending time with me so she would make sure I had a way to come see her. I reminded my mother of my father. Before he became self absorbed, sheltered, and cynical. I loved my relationship with her but I often knew how much of a burden I was being financially. An engineering degree isn't free and every day I felt like I was leeching the life from her. As the debit card failed to make a transaction the realization struck me harder than it had before. I took out the cash I had to pay for the gas instead. Ashamed that I had ever thought about using her card, I quickly shuffled it into my back pocket behind my wallet closest to my body. As I pumped gas I thought about the money I had saved. I was trying to buy this girl that I loved an engagement ring but she was incapable of just listening to me. I didn't need responses. All I ever really wanted was someone to just listen and make me feel like I was normal and I had normal problems with normal thoughts. Earlier in the night she yelled at me while I was trying to talk to her. "OKAY FINE. I UNDERSTAND. IT'S ALL MY FAULT THAT YOUR STUPID TOY WON'T WORK." "You're not listening to me. You're not listening to me. You're not listening to me. It's not your fault that 5 people are on Facebook at the same time. I'm just trying to tell you that I get stressed out that things only work when I'm alone with no one else around." "Whatever," she mumbled under her breath. I looked down and saw my fist clenched as I sat beside her. Why was it in a fist? In that instance I saw the consequences of a clinched fist. I saw her crying with bruises on her face. I saw my head splattered on the floor as her father battered me with his college bat. I saw all the paths that a fist would lead me and rushed back to the noise of the present and watched my hands relax. As I drove home I pondered these things in my heart. How could I confidently marry anyone at this point. Especially someone who was afraid of me. Afraid of what I'd do. Couldn't do. Never do. Could never do to her. I saw the lights of a truck hurrying up behind me. It was late and must kids had curfews to meet. He sped up and passed. Either he didn't know about the stop sign or he didn't care that it was coming up. The truck continued at the same pace through the intersection. At the same moment a tractor trailer was passing through the intersection. The sound was blood curdling as I saw the truck get ripped to shreds. The mass slid 60 yards before coming to a halt. The truck cab was caved to the floor. The driver was killed instantly. I could do nothing. I could only watch and see the consequences.

He still remembered how the strong timber of the Louisville Slugger felt in his palm. He remembered the special grip he had practiced for it. He remembered the first time he learned what he could do with just his thick arm muscles and a flick of the wrist, and he remembered how it made him fell. The memories swirled through his mind has he approached the plate with the soft, lifeless plastic toy bat in his hands. He thought back to the countless excited feminine shouts from his college days, the swelling of excitement whenever he approached home plate. Part of him knew those days were long passed, and part of him refused to believe it. As he got himself ready for his chance at bat he went through the same little rituals he had when he was 20. The same steps, the same routines. He grabbed the base, feeling how much different it felt then he remembered. He had been told the wiffleball bat would be smaller then he was used to from when he was young, but he didn't want to believe it. When he felt he was ready, or felt he must have been ready, he looked to his wife. A look of excitement crossed her face like a wild carnality as she let lose a wanton shout. The man she had loved was the confident man with a control in the field. She had often commented on how it felt to see him swing, making the ball go where ever he wanted, however he wanted. When she saw him wielding the thick, heavy wooden bat, when she felt the joy and pleasure it gave her to see him in control, that is what made her fall in love with him. He knew these things to be true. He waited for the pitcher to do his part. The ball came to him fast, he swung, and missed. He felt a flash of anger raising through his middle-aged frame, then embarrassment. He hid his shame and anger behind a joke, a teasing shrug, as he eyed the crowd again for his wife. She smiled at him, caring but he could read how deflated she was. He clearly saw the grin on her lips; as plastic as it was supportive. He looked up, and through his smile his eyes pleaded: "I don't know what happened. But it won't happen again. Trust me." He told himself it wasn't his fault. That it was the bat, the empty, souless chuck of plastic that was to blame. He glared at it, his distain expressing itself through his jokes. His smile as hollow as the bat he was carrying. He did what he could to shake it off. It was perfectly natural and happened to everybody at some point, but still a haunting, cold knot was growing in his stomach. A worry was growing, festering under the surface of his mind. He swallowed hard to ignore it, tried again, swung and missed. He didn't joke. He wasn't angry. And he didn't look around at first. He couldn't blame the ball, the bat or the pitch. He could only blame himself. He knew in his heart that he was the problem, that he wasn't the man he was anymore, and if he wasn't bat-swinger, the star hitter, the man who could knock it out of the park every night, then what was he? Was he even a man at all? He didn't know, and he didn't want to find out. He wanted to hide. He felt shame. He felt ashamed and enraged at himself for making himself ashamed and he wished desperately his shame wasn't a public shame. Again he looked to his wife. He tried to read the look on her face, but he couldn't see her. The more he looked for her, the more he saw a petite brunette staring at her feet. Her hair dangled in front of her, and his heart sank when he could see a hint of a blush. She was ashamed of him, he knew she was, and he couldn't blame her. Her friends would ask how she was doing, and she would tell him. They would discuss his failure with the sly, cool detachment that they discussed everything else. She would laugh with her friends in an amused, ironic way then, but for now she seemed crestfallen. He knew she remembered how he used to be, and he wished more then anything she didn't have to see him like this. He stood frozen in his own thoughts, when a voice broke his trance. First one then several people shouted to continue the game; that he was taking to long. He had to continue now or admit the truth, to himself and everyone. To admit that he was a failure. To admit that he wasn't what he pretended to be. He didn't want to continue, he didn't want to try again. He wanted to curl up for a long time by himself. Suddenly he thought of his father. He knew his Father would be ashamed of him too. He knew his father would already have made it all around the bases by now. His father would have made everybody cheer. His father would have made his wife happy. The crowd was turning sour. They had been whipped into a frenzy and demanded satisfaction. The pleas to continue had become stern shouts to finish his turn at bat, or to get off the field. He sighed to himself, and took his position again. He didn't believe it would work, but he knew what was expected of him. He went through the same motions he always did. He did his part; the thing that defined him. The little dances that made him what he was, even though he was still doubting his own abilities. He lifted the soft bat in his hands, his fingers wrapped around it, hoping that maybe a new stance or trick would suddenly turn him back into the man he was before. He swung, he missed. He expected boos from the crowd. He expected not to be allowed back into the safety of the dugout. As he left home plate, he dragged the bat behind it, wanting nothing more than to drop it and never have to look at it again. But he still dragged it behind him, like it was somehow attached to him. When he looked up, he looked for his wife, only to see her giggling as she spoke to her friend's nephew. She smiled at the 19 year old college football player, her lips pulled back as she softly squeezed his arm. The younger man, for his part, all buffed chest and bravado seemed excited by the attention. She didn't look back at him the entire trip to the little chain-link trench where his teammates were. He sat down in a slump, but felt better in the dark of the bench. His teammates, the ones he felt would be the hardest on him, were all very polite, and friendly. The fear he had of their disapproval disappeared. They told him they understood. It had been a long time, after all, and that it happens to everyone, sometimes. They didn't reject him, they accepted him. They had something they could commiserate over.

The music blared out of the car stereo, Leroy was doing his best to shout over it, but she could only hear him during the bridge. “So I said to ‘im, ‘I don’t give a fuck what your company policy is, I’m’-” the chorus kicked in, she continued to nod whenever his lips stopped flapping– he needed to get this off his chest. The song reached its climax, and began to fade as London’s jagged skyline revealed itself on the dusky horizon. Gemma reached for the stop button, sticky with the coke that ‘exploded in his hand’ last week. It would be nice to have a moment’s peace. “Don’t you like them?” he asked – she had almost forgotten what he sounded like at a civilised volume. “They’re okay. A bit loud for me though.” He rolled his eyes, and took them off the road for a moment to smile at her. She ignored it, nodding ahead, and obediently he turned his gaze back to the ever nearing city, tapping his fingers nervously on the wheel. “Do you want to listen to James Blunt instead?” “Yeah, actually. That’d be nice” she replied, sinking into her chair. It had been a long night. Leroy felt around his seat. His searching fingers waded through the Stella cans and moulding sandwich crusts, hoping to find the disc. “Aha!” he shouted, pulling it from its stupor and proudly waving it in front of her face. She threw a brief smile in his direction, which was enough for him. Still grinning, he jammed it unsuccessfully into the CD player. “Shit, forgot there’s one in already” Gemma had already nodded off. “Gem. Gemma! I need a piss”. “If I had a quid for every time I’ve been woken up by your bladder” “You’d probably have about 2 or 3 quid. I won’t be long.” They had stopped outside a grotty roadside café. It looked as though nothing about it had changed since the 70’s, the grimy “open” sign hung in the smeared window, like an abandoned corpse swinging in the gallows. “What about *him*” she asked. It was unfair of him not to acknowledge it; she thought. He was forcing her to ask. “What *about* him? He’s fine, aren’t you John?” A muffled yell came from the boot of the car. “See?” Leroy smiled at her, as though she were a fool for even asking. He was so patronising, sometimes. The door closed with a thud behind him, sentencing the car to a stiff, nervous silence. A few moments passed. The car reeked of damp residue and stale beer. Sporadic droplets of rain spattered her arm and face through the stubborn, slightly ajar window. A few more moments passed. With a tired sigh, she turned in her seat and looked at the boot. It remained still, silent. Suddenly, she reeled around. The dashboard was reverberating violently, crudely piercing the silence. It was his phone. John’s phone. Shit shit shit. She looked at the screen, it was his Mum. Shit shit shit. The boot began to stir, a suppressed moan acknowledging the commotion. Adding to the commotion. Shit shit shit. The café door remained still, Leroy was taking his time. She resolved to pick up the phone, doing her best to absorb its desperate vibrations with her sweaty palm, willing it to stop. And it did. The café door creaked, and out of it stepped a satisfied looking Leroy, grinning stupidly at her. Immediately, he noticed something was wrong. “What’s up with you?” he asked, blindly stabbing the car keys into the engine with familiar precision. James Blunt continued his melancholic whining. “I knew it would kick off as soon as you got out.” “What ‘appened Gem?” “His Mum rang him.” “And?” “And, he started moaning again.” She gestured behind her, somewhat unnecessarily. Leroy let out a slight chuckle, much to her annoyance. “Who gives a shit? You’re still breathing, he’s still breathing. I, my girl, am still breathing. No harm done.” The phone buzzed again, it was punchier this time. Startled, Gemma looked down at the device, Leroy continued to act unfazed. “She’s sent him a text now. Should I read it?” “I don’t see why not, it could be a laugh. Oi, John?” He shouted, laughing into the rear view mirror. “You’re Mum wants to know what you want for dinner!” “On their way”, said Gemma, reading from the screen as though the words were written in a foreign tongue. “Pardon?” asked Leroy, still chuckling to himself. “It just says ‘On. Their. Way’”. Gemma looked at him, her eyes stretched. His relaxed façade began to reveal hidden concern. “Well check ‘is sent items then” resolved Leroy. Gemma leaned closer to the tiny screen, her pointed nose within inches of the black and white display. “The last one he sent was to his Mum!” Gemma shouted, as though the revelation should come as a surprise. “Shhh!” John glanced over at the boot. “We don’t want him thinking there’s anything wrong.” He turned James Blunt up. “JC08 1ET”, Gemma whispered. “What the fuck does that mean? Do you think it’s a code or something? Maybe it’s a postcode? I don’t recognise it. What do you reckon?” She looked up at Leroy. He was frozen. His mouth slightly open. His nostrils pulsing with heavy breath. His glazed eyes staring at the phone. “When was it sent?” he asked, doing his upmost to refrain from panic. Gemma clicked a few more buttons with a slight tremor. “03:37. So about 2 hours ago.” Gemma began to bite her lip, searching her memory for clues. “Hang on, that’s when-” “I know. That was about 3 minutes before we took him.” The young couple look at each other. Their faces awash with fear, glowing rhythmically from blue to red, blue to red. Both gulp in chorus. A muffled cry comes from the boot, loud enough to be heard over James Blunt. Behind them, a singular police van beams its headlights through the rusting car, turning them both to silhouette. “JC08 1ET” reads the policeman sat in the passenger seat, staring at the illuminated number plate in front of him. “Let’s check it out.

My village has been in the news a lot recently. Last week, a little girl was murdered right over there, on the green. It’s strange, our little village being on the news, and stranger still how all of us, even those who won’t admit it, are a little bit proud to be seeing its name being banded about everywhere, even if it’s for the wrong reasons. We were in the news last year too, but that was because a bunch of gypsies wouldn’t leave Mr O’Toole’s plot of land. This time, it was like being on a film set. There were police cars rushing by every day, and vans with huge dishes on their rooves, filled with reporters and cameramen. A detective came round my house yesterday to ask me some questions, which was pretty exciting. He didn’t ask me much – who was I, where was I at the time, did I know her – that kind of thing. Arthur from over the road reckons he was interviewed by the BBC, though I haven’t seen him on there yet, and I’ve been following the coverage closer then anyone. Police cordons were everywhere – you couldn’t move for them. The green was completely off limits, the cordons wrapped around the thick oak trees on each of its corners. Sometimes important looking men in suits would duck underneath the cordons and pace around thoughtfully on the long, uncut grass. Getting to the post office had become far more tiresome then it used to be too, now that the police had closed the road running alongside the green. I never really knew Annabel. She went to my school, but she was a few years below me. Everyone at school loves her now, but she was never that popular when she was alive. We had an assembly about it. Miss Deeple did her best to explain what had happened, and asked us if we had any questions. Someone asked if Annabel was going to heaven, and Miss Deeple said yes, which made me feel a bit better. We talk about her all the time. My friend Nathan reckons the head teacher killed her for not handing in her homework on time, but he’s wrong about that. I asked Dad when we could get rid of the body today. It was beginning to smell so bad I could taste it when I went to bed. He said we’d get rid of it soon, and he might need a hand. I’m happy to give him a hand, as long as he increases my pocket money. He said he would. I remember Dad telling me that someone dies every second. I hope I get an assembly when it’s my turn.

Driving fast is exhilarating. Not organized racing on a track or competitions with another to win, or attain a goal. I’m talking full fledged, full speed next level driving maneuvers in traffic filled roadways bristling with drivers who are unaware of the thrill that can be attained by narrowly escaping death. I used to own a C32 AMG, and I’m not mentioning this car to boast that I owned a fancy car, I’m mentioning it because it contained 350 of the most streamlined horsepower I’ve ever had the pleasure of controlling. The car was like an extension of myself, any movement or thought I had would take microseconds to be accurately represented. A balanced, nimble & light 5 second car. The presence of an enormous amount of caffeine coursing through my veins would increase my awareness exponentially; allowing precise control. There was a point in time where I would make weekly trips to Houston. I was a field technician and fixed useless electronic devices for random organizations. I would have lost my mind making that monotonous trip over and over if it hadn’t been for that car. I would cruise at 90mph listening to pre-recorded versions of Annie Mac’s 2 hour Friday mash up which contained upbeat rhythms that would keep my blood flowing and senses peaked. That and huge amounts of coffee. Cruising 90 in the fast lane pumped full of caffeine in the most clear headed aware state possible is the perfect position to make split second decisions. Like evading arrest. The state trooper was on the other side of the center median, and I saw him a mile away... But the little adrenaline seeking devil inside of me grinned wickedly. I knew unless there was a gap in the concrete barrier there was no way he’d get me. As I roared past him, the gap in the concrete was quite apparent. As soon as I saw his lights erupt in my rear view mirror, I decided I wasn’t getting pulled over today. The C32 AMG has 2 “sweet spots” if you will. 0-60 is lightening quick, but 60-90 is a bit slower, not slow by any means, but not anything impressive. Once you get to 90 however, you can truly feel the power of the car surge up through the pedals. Going from 90 miles an hour to 155 miles an hour is 6 seconds of exhilarating bliss. The curvature in the road worked to my advantage that day . When I saw the trooper flip his car around and hit his lights, he also dropped out of my line of sight. My foot dropped on the pedal at the same instant. I was 2 miles from the next exit and deep inside the adrenaline slowly seeped into my veins, would I make it I thought? Yes, was the resounding answer in my head. Yes you will. It took seconds to conquer those two miles. I slammed the breaks and slowed to about 100mph and as I barreled off the freeway the cops lights shone in my rear view at a distance. But he was far enough back that he didn’t see me. The terrain again worked to my advantage. The exit curved downward, running parallel to the freeway but lower, so someone on the freeway wouldn’t be able to see someone on the exit. But then the road curved back skywards. Wide eyed, I checked my mirrors, and looked to the left. The cop missed the exit. But then he saw me, and the smoke poured from his tires as his car, brakes floored, slide sideways onto the shoulder, and straight into reverse. At this point the adrenaline was in full effect. My body was in a heightened state of awareness. I had come this far. I still had the advantage. I was still going 90. He had to reverse off the freeway, and then speed up. I focused on the road in front of me, down shifted and punched it. I came to a light, took the turn, full, independent wheel traction control on my Michelin pilot’s kept me from flipping over or losing control, and I fast and furious drifted around the corner, only to stare down the longest road in existence. Then I panicked. There was nowhere to go. The road went on for as far as my eyes could see. A dusty, back country road about 155 miles outside of San Antonio on IH10. There was nothing out there. Trees, dust and asphalt. And I could hear his siren. But like something straight out of a movie, I saw a beacon of hope. A white church chapel, I roared towards it and the lot was full. This was my ticket. My tires spun in the dirt parking lot and slide safely in between a set of parked cars and killed the engine. I breathed heavily, wide eyed, hands shaking and like a slow motion movie turned my head and saw the trooper roar past in all his glory. I stepped out of the car and looked down the country road, the trooper disappearing into the distance. The country air in my lungs felt amazing, the adrenaline coursing through my veins pumped hard, and I smiled. I had won.

Year: early 1944. Location: Nazi occupied France The allies have just received intelligence from the french resistance that Hitler has obtained the materials to build an A bomb. Top army brass know that if Hitler builds an atomic bomb he will definitely use it agains the US or Britain, so they come up with a plan to stop him. Since the Normandy invasion hasn't happened yet, the best option is to drop OSS agents behind German lines to sabotage Hitler's atomic plans. Me and three other OSS colleagues parachute into German occupied France in the dead of night. Loaded with weapons and high explosives we meet up with the french resistance in a farm. They take us to a safe house in the village. We learn from their sources that a german train carrying enriched uranium is scheduled to leave for Berlin at 2200 hours the next night. In the safe house we put together a plan to blow up the railroad and derail the train thus ending Hitler's A bomb program. Just as we're planing the raid with the french resistance the Gestapo kick in the door and arrest everyone inside. One member of the french resistance betrayed us. We're all taken outside to be shot immediately. Blindfolded, we're stood against the wall. It looks like this is the end. We've failed. A gestapo officer gives the order and a hand full of german soldiers line up facing us, weapons at the ready. I can feel the sweat running down my back. It's over. "Bereit!" "Feuer!" I fall. As i lay on the ground i realize i can still hear their voices. Something is wrong here. As i lay there it all becomes clear. They've missed. When they fired i fell to the ground and the bodies of my colleagues fell on top of me shielding me from the german bullets. A few minutes pass. I can hear their footsteps as they walk away. I lay there for a few more minutes just to make sure the coast is clear. I spot my opportunity and make a break for it. Using my escape and evasion skills i escape into the woods and make it back to the farm. The resistance leader tells me he can not carry out the raid as the Gestapo have executed his best men. I tell him the raid must be carried out. I owe it to my dead colleagues. He understands what must be done, hands me some C4 explosives and wishes me godspeed. I wait in the hedgerows until nightfall. I sneak back into the village and make it to the station just as the train is about to leave but i'm not alone. German sentries are standing guard to stop any attacks from the resistance. Observing the scene I bide my time. The soldier guarding the back entrance walks away to relieve himself. It's now or never. I sneak into the station and make it to the train. As i'm placing the explosives the soldier comes back and sees me. "Stoppen!" he shouts. Aiming his weapon, he shoots. I'm hit in the torso. The impact spins me around and i drop the C4. He shoots again, this time hitting me in the stomach. I fall to the ground but alive. The german soldier raises the alarm. With my last ounce of strength i reach for the C4, light the fuse and place it on the train. I collapse. My life drains out of me. "BOOOOM!" The train explodes. The force of the explosion sends burning metal and debris flying into a fuel train nearby. It catches fire. The whole station goes up in flames. Hitler's atomic bomb ambition is reduced to ashes. The end.

The boy walked slowly,alone, one mile then two. After awhile he noticed someone was behind him, however they did not speak and continued together. Soon more and more began to follow the boy. They walked in unison a common path towards an unknown end. The boy led them through the treacherous path and through the easy. Some left him but most stayed on the common path to an unknown end. His path was wide that led through many routes with only one exit. Many passed on searching for the unknown end to the common path. However, the boy continued on. As time passed the followers began to forget why they followed and began to search for an exit from the common path to an unknown end. The followers were lost, now many exits existed that led back to the common path to an unknown end. The true exit was hidden masked by the boy. He loved his followers and he loved the path he had created. There is no exit from the common path to your unknown end. So lets take a trip just follow me.

The cabin had a musty, unused smell to it. It had been a couple of years since anyone had been here, so he went around and opened up all the doors and windows and just let the wind carry out the emptiness while he swept and dusted. It wasn’t too long, though, before he heard a car door out front. “Who could that be?” he thought. His wife and son weren’t due until tomorrow. Jenny and her family weren’t supposed to be there until the day after. Puzzled, he frowned to himself before going to check, but he stopped and smiled again as soon as he turned around. There, leaning against the doorpost, was Jenny, looking the same as she always did with her long red hair hanging down her back, blue eyes, and a gentle, soft smile on her lips. “Hey,” he said quietly. She walked toward him and said, “Hey,” before giving him a hug. They parted and he shook his head, marveling at the fact that although it had been almost two years since they had seen each other, there was no unfamiliarity there, no sense of distance grown as often happens. “I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow night,” he said. “I decided to come early to air the place out.” She looked around the cabin and smiled at him. “Looks like you beat me to it.” The day finished with them cleaning out the cabin, top to bottom. As often happens when two old friends find themselves doing some menial chores together, they wound up spending most of the time laughing at each other. Old jokes, new jokes, stories about people they knew now, and tales about people they knew back in the day. Just… enjoying the company of a person they didn’t have to hide anything from and have no reason to impress. As the afternoon came and went, and the evening turned to dusk, they cracked open the beer he’d brought and sat down on the porch to watch the sun sink behind the trees. A quiet peace drifted over them in the stillness of an evening free of demand. Night fell and they decided to go inside and light a lamp or two so they could spend the rest of the evening playing cards at the kitchen table, they way they used to. As they sat and played, a peaceful quiet lingered with them and they didn’t disturb it with unnecessary chatter. After all, why should two people who know each other more intimately than most married couples ever do need to speak to feel comfortable around each other? As they sat there in the comfortable quiet, his mind began to drift across his memories, and across to her, thinking about all the things they had shared over almost thirty years of friendship. Growing up together, grade school, her boyfriends, his girlfriends, the breakups and the weddings, all of it touched his mind as they played. He realized, with a small amount of surprise, that almost all of his happy memories were ones he shared with her. There had never been a relationship between them, never any hint that things should be other than what they were, and though they both acknowledged that it was a bit of an oddity whenever other people pointed it out, they had never thought much of it on their own. He looked over at her, picking up a card from the table, her hair and face glowing in the soft, yellow lamplight, and he couldn’t help but think of the only time the idea had presented itself that there could be more to their friendship than simply being friends. They had gone camping, just the two of them, after her college sweetheart had left her and she wanted to get away, just get away from everything and everyone that reminded her of him. So they went out to the woods and just let it all go. That night, he remembered they had just looked across the fire at each other, her face and hair glowing then so much like they were glowing now, and he had thought to himself that she was beautiful. Not beautiful the way he told other people she was beautiful, but beautiful to him, in a much more personal and intimate way than he had known. He had thought, then, that he might be in love with her, and as she raised her eyes to meet his, he had known that the thought he saw in her eyes, her beautiful blue eyes glowing in the firelight, was the same as his. But the moment passed without record, and soon enough their hearts had gone their separate ways again. He realized it was his turn to play and looked over at her, at this beautiful, amazing woman he had somehow spent his whole life with, and found her looking at him. A moment passed between them that seemed to last far longer than a heartbeat before her eyes left his again, but that was all it took, just one moment, for both of them to realize. She reached for another card, distractedly, and as she reached for it, he reached for her, and gently, oh so gently, placed his hand on hers. She lifted her gaze to meet his once again, and this time there was no hiding the question in her eyes, the desperate longing needing an answer. A sad smile drew across his face and, heart breaking oh so gently, he shook his head, just a tiny motion back and forth. His hand left hers, and she drew her card. They played into the night, still holding onto that quiet comfort, but he wondered now if his life would feel the same to him, now that it had been acknowledged. It seemed a lonely life, knowing that the woman you had married wasn’t the one you should have, that the one you loved wasn’t the one waiting at home for you. They finished their game and said goodnight. He changed out of his clothes and into his pajamas, and lay down in bed before he let it take him. They knew, both of them, that it was too late. It wasn’t a regret, or even a chance untaken. It was just a choice they had never made, and nothing more. There was a gentle sadness in him, a vast wondering question in his heart. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he heard the door open behind him in the dark. Soft footsteps crossed the floor, and his blanket lifted. Rolling over, he put his arms around her and pulled her close, holding her tightly as tears dropped silently onto his pillow.

He sat alone in his cell. Same thing he did every day. He would sit, sleep, think, and masturbate the days away. He did nothing. And that's what they punished him to. Nothing. That's what death row is. First you do nothing, then you die. But his day was coming. The day that shoved some toxic chemicals in him and kill him. But that's not what he was waiting for. He was waiting for his last meal. The last chance to have one last piece of the outside world. He'd been waiting years. He dreamed of this last meal. An 18" Italian sub from Fontane's Deli. Fontane's was a small deli in his hometown. He's wanted it for so long and finally it was coming to him. An 18" Italian, lettuce, tomatoes, oil, vinegar, oregano, and no onions. He hated onions. He paced around his cell counting down the days, the hours the minutes. Finally a knock came to his door. A man in a guard uniform announced almost as if the cowering man in the cell had no idea the day it was, "Time's up. Come get your last meal and get ready." He flinched at the thought of death, but smiled at the thought of that delicious sandwich waiting for him. He sat down, two guards to either side of him. He smiled as the sandwich was presented to him. His drink was a bottle of root beer. Glass bottle. The other stuff just didn't compare. He sipped at his root beer and smiled at the sweet taste he hasn't enjoyed in years. He picked up his sandwich. He bit down. He chewed. He smiled. And slowly his smile turned to disgust and his face twisted into a fearful look of despair. He whispered to himself, "...fucking onions...

Birth Atop a lush green hill sat a medium sized home. It had no servant’s quarters, but it did have a guest house. It had no storage building, but it did have a root cellar. It was no mansion, like those found in the city, but it was definitely a home. In the front door, and into the first door on the left, a slender elf was sleeping in his bed. His long hair pulled into a ponytail to prevent tangles he lay there snoring ever so lightly. His right arm was draped over the body of a pregnant half-elf. Her black hair splayed out everywhere, not unkempt, but not tamed either. Her soft face was half pressed into her pillow. Suddenly, her eyes sprung open. She bolted upright grabbing her belly. “It’s time.” She rasped quietly, her voice still waking up. The elf next to her jittered a bit and went back to snoring. She shook him, and with her voice returning shouted “IT’S TIME!” The male elf bolted out of the bed, grabbing the dagger under his pillow. He looked around and noticed the woman clutching at her stomach and breathing heavily. He dropped the dagger to the floor and ran out of the room. She slid her feet off of the bed, and sat there for a moment. Gathering her strength she rose out of the bed and over to a place that had been prepared on the floor. A soft mattress and clean clothes were everywhere to be found; a rune glowed on a stone next to the mattress. She touched the rune. Her husband came running back to the room carrying two basins of water, one was steaming. He set them down next to her. An older elven gentleman walked through the door. His eyes looked a mirror to the eyes of his son standing next to him. A rain drop dripped off the tip of his hooked nose. His silver hair glistened with the sheen of a fresh rain. He turned to his son. “It’s about time we meet that child of yours.” He said light-heartedly “I’ve never been so excited save the time your mother decided to head to the elven shore.” He nudged his son with his elbow and chuckled. He left the room and returned carrying a hand harp and began to play a soothing melody. The woman on the floor started to look more relaxed. “I’ve always said Morina, if you relax you feel less pain,” The older gentleman spoke to the woman and then turned to his son, “and if Isolian had paid more attention to his music lessons and less attention to his swordmaster he would be able to help with that.” He winked at his son. He knew that although Isolian was intelligent and capable he never had much talent for music. Isolian just looked at him. A tall man in dark green robes walked in carrying a bag. He set the bag down next to the woman. He opened the bag and aromatics filled the room. The soft smell of pine and sage only helped the woman relax even more. He spoke softly, while feeling her belly. “It appears that the baby has not turned around, so we should be fine.” He spoke some soft words, holding a mistletoe switch to her stomach. She instantly relaxed and looked pain free. He spoke audibly again to the two other gentlemen. “I have made her comfortable for the moment, however this baby will be here soon and I will need one of you to help me keep her mind off the pain and on task.” Isolian stepped forward, the older gentleman gestured to him. “I already helped his mother birth him and his siblings. I have no desire to do that again, but have fun; you’ll be miserable” the old man said jokingly. It was obvious that he was excited about the birth, but a spark of strange reminiscent fear marked his last words. “Good then, Tilanious,” The unnamed Druid said, “I will need someone to remove the afterbirth to the fields after we are complete.” He shot the old man a playfully serious look. Tilanious’ face dropped until he noticed the joking expression the Druid had. “Very funny.” He said, as he continued playing the harp. Morina grunted loudly in pain. The Druid felt her belly again and got everyone into position. He began coaching Morina, telling her when to push and when to breathe. Isolian stood next to her, holding her hand and telling her how well she was doing. Morina screamed and grunted with agony and apprehension. Her face would change from a deep red when she pushed to a ghostly pale between bursts. A few minutes later she screamed like a warrior on the attack. The Druid sat back and smiled. The soft cries of a baby filled the room. He raised the baby to the mother. “Here he is.” The Druid said. “Your beautiful baby.” Morina took the child in her arms. His swaddling cloth still covered in fresh blood. Isolian leaned down and looked at the baby’s face. “He has your eyes.” Isolian said softly, putting a light kiss on Morina’s cheek. “What should we call him?” She asked him back, smiling at her newborn son. “Itharious.” He said. It took him no time at all to come up with the name. In his heart, he just knew it was the right choice for his son.

I've never really written anything before, so sorry if it's terrible. Critique is always welcome! *********************************************************** It was two in the afternoon when Jack decided to go for a walk. The house was empty, as usual, and loneliness always made him want to be outside. Grabbing his copy of Animal Farm, he threw on a thin sweatshirt and closed the door softly behind him, as if trying to tell his house of his somber mood. Standing just outside his door, he paused only to sigh, and then set forth toward the park. The walk was uneventful, but the park was quite the opposite: children chasing squirrels, couples walking dogs and students holding hands filled the cobblestone walkways while a stranger strumming the guitar laid on the grass, humming to himself in self-enjoyment. Jack found an empty bench on the far side of the park; he always found that this area was far more enjoyable. There was less noise, less traffic, and the leaves on the trees were always arranged in such a way that they left little patches of light flickering across the ground. It was late August, the weather was beginning to cool, and the crisp autumn air was creeping up on the humidity of summer. On the bench, Jack made himself comfortable. He leaned back, draped the ankle of his right foot over the knee of his left, and opened the book. In Jack’s opinion, reading was an activity that was best enjoyed outside in public places. It let him dive deeper into his thoughts, and though he was surrounded by many people, it left that lingering feeling of loneliness. It was a feeling that Jack was so accustomed to that he had convinced himself that he truly enjoyed it. Jack was only a quarter of the way down his third page when he first saw the glimmer of light-orange out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t look up, but he could tell that a person was approaching him, a girl. Confidence was in her steps, and when she neared the bench, she stopped. “Mind if I sit here?” Jack looked up. Her golden hair was the first thing he noticed, followed quickly by her bright orange dress that swayed gently with the wind. Her sudden vibrant appearance caught him so off guard that he almost forgot to reply. “Oh, of course!” He slid over to the left, making room for her. The girl smiled, a genuine, kind smile, and sat down gracefully. She put her bag down beside her and pulled out a book of her own. Within minutes, the two were completely absorbed in their reading. Any stranger that walked by could have rightfully assumed that they were blissfully unaware of the other. Except that Jack wasn’t. He was painfully aware of the girl’s presence, even more so when she pulled out an old copy of 1984. More than once, he debated turning to her and innocently exclaiming, “Orwell!” She would look at him with confusion. “Sorry?” “George Orwell,” he would say again, motioning toward her novel. “Oh, yeah.” She would smile and look at the cover, as if noticing it for the first time. “It’s a good one.” “Oh it’s my favorite!” She would exclaim. The two would look into each other’s eyes, smile shyly and feel an instant connection. Then she would introduce herself, and Jack would shake her hand and introduce himself. And with that small conversation, a friendship would sprout, and from a friendship, perhaps something more. However, Jack said none of those things. He sat in silence, pretending to read his book while imagining what fun the two could have if he would just speak to her. But the more he imagined, the more scenarios popped up into his head. Perhaps she wasn’t like how he imagined. Perhaps she would hate him, think he was annoying if he tried to talk to her while she was reading. He would exclaim, “Orwell!” “Sorry?” “George Orwell, 1984.” The girl would raise her eyebrows in mild annoyance, but remain polite. “Yup!” “It’s a good one.” Finally, she would sigh and look at him. “Excuse me, but I’m just trying to read.” She’d put her book back up, shielding out Jack, and he’d be left slightly embarrassed, wishing he had never said anything. And so, Jack did exactly that: he never said anything. He went back to reading his book and left the girl in the orange dress alone. After a long while, when Jack was on page 40 or so, the girl’s cellphone rang. She picked it out of her pocket and read a text, laughing quietly to herself. She tapped out a quick reply, put her phone back and picked up her bag. As she stood up to leave, Jack looked up one last time, pretending that he had just remembered her existence. The girl looked back at him as well, and smiled. Not a big a smile, nor a significant smile, but a smile. And with that, she walked away, and in a few minutes, she was out of sight. Jack sighed. He wondered how he always got so attached to these people he met on the street, characters in a story whose names were not even revealed. It tugged at something deep in his heart, and loneliness filled his thoughts for a split moment; but after that moment, it was all gone. He convinced himself that people were not as interesting as he made them out to be, that each person's life story was not something he should bother to learn. Not realizing that another opportunity had just passed him by.

Itharious came running into the house covered in mud. Morina looked at him incredulously; the look made him stop immediately. He stood there with his eyes as wide as dinner plates “If you so much as consider tracking mud around this house, I swear to you that today will be a bad day for you.” She said, shaking a rag around at her freshly cleaned home. The next moment Isolian came bounding through the door and tackled his son to the ground. They rolled across the room and came to a stop at Morina’s feet. Isolian spoke triumphantly. “I HAVE YOU NOW! I told you I’d be able to find you wherever you went, and that I would take you down when I got you.” He chuckled heartily. His chuckling slowly faded as he saw the look of fear on his son’s face. Isolian looked up at his wife. “You look very unhappy.” He said. Instantly he regretted his decision to speak. Morina started beating them both with the rag. She screamed about the state of the house and their condition. She yelled about how they acted like animals and always made a mess of her clean home. Isolian stood sternly, Itharious softly winced at her screams. She put them both out of the house. “And stay out until you both get clean!” she shouted as she threw a bag with a change of clothes and a pair of towels at them. Isolain looked at Itharious and the two started laughing. They walked to the stream at the bottom of the hill and began to wash off. “I thought Rangers were supposed to be able to sense danger in addition to tracking creatures?” Itharious asked his dad playfully, but seriously at the same time. Isolian threw a dagger past Itharious’ head. Itharious ducked and looked scared. “They can.” Isolian said with a smile on his face. Behind Itharious a venomous snake was pinned to the ground by the dagger. It appeared to have been heading for him. He looked at his dad in surprise. “That doesn’t mean I can predict when your mom is cleaning the house though.” Isolian said with a wink. Isolian went on to explain the summary of his son’s lesson on tracking he had that day. They talked as they walked back up the hill and to the door of the house. Isolian told Itharious to go to his grandfather in the guest house and do his music lessons. Itharious protested, but went along anyway. Itharious hoped to be a great hunter like his dad someday. He thought about how much he had learned from his family. His ability to sneak along he learned from his mother. He could track animals fairly well for a child of only 12. He was proficient with sword and bow, and, according to his grandfather, Itharious could now play the harp without making him want to cut off his ears. He was proud of his achievements, but he knew there was a lot more for him to learn. He knocked on the door to the guest house. His grandfather greeted him and welcomed him inside. “I guess it’s time to kill some cats.” Tilanious chuckled as he ushered Itharious in the small house.

I sit on a bench with my hat in my lap and wait for the ferry. The number of a funeral home is in the band of my hat. My father has died. A man sits across from me and he looks nervous. He is holding a large black trash bag shut in his clenched right fist. Something smells. “Are you alright?” I ask him. He looks up from the ground and concentrates his gaze on me. His foot taps. “Can you keep a secret?” “Well I suppose, but- “I’ve got dead dogs in here,” he points to his bag with his free hand. “Stray ones. I don’t go around stealing people’s pets or nothing like that. That’s some nasty shit and I don’t do it. I just nab the stray ones. They don’t know the difference anyway, least-ways mine don’t, the ones I sell to, the Chinamen who live above me.” I am a little confused, “Excuse me?” “They eat ‘em, the dogs I mean. The Chinamen eat the dogs. I round ‘em up, the dogs, and cook ‘em on my tabletop griddle, well done. You’ve gotta do ‘em well done or you can get the worms they carry in ‘em. They aren’t the tape worms but some other nasty shit can get you. They buy ‘em from me though; they risk it.” “I see.” I look away and check my watch. The ferry should be here soon. I look for a way to change the topic of conversation. “Ferry should be here soon don’t you think?” “…dobermans. They like Dobermans the best. You know,” he pauses, “You’re a good confident, you know that?...a real good one. It feels good to get this off my chest.” “Confidante,” I correct him. “Yeah exactly, the slant eyed bastards can’t keep their paws off the Dobermans. Can’t figure out why for the life of me; they seem more gamy than most of ‘em do.” “Perhaps,” I check my watch again. The ferry should be here very soon. I contemplate using the phone on the ferry to call the funeral home but it might be too expensive. The man is talking again. “…here for?” “My father died. I’m going to see to his arrangements.” The man laughs, “His final arrangements eh. That’s rough,” but nothing in his voice suggests that he has any sympathy for me. I don’t what I expect from the dog cooker. A young woman approaches and I slide over on my bench so she doesn’t have to sit next to the man across from me whose bag is giving off the most noxious smell I’ve ever smelled. She walks up, nods politely to me and promptly sits down next to the dog cooker, who continues to talk to me, taking no notice of the young woman who has apparently found him less repugnant than me. “…no reason for them to lock me up. It h’aint like I’m killing people or anything, and most of these,” he pats the bag and is greeted with a sickening squish, “were already dead when I found them, or almost there. Some of ‘em is actually grateful that I come along. They’re miserable and living in a gutter anyway. So really I’m doing the city a favor is what I’m doing.” “Are you one of those people who cooks dogs/” the young girl chimes in and inexplicably bats her eyes at the dog cooker who seems to take notice of her for the first time. “I am have you- “I’ve heard of people like you. One lived above me, in New York I think, when I lived in a tenement building. I used to hear them arguing over the prices of the flanks. Some of them even used the tails for those pulley things on lamps to turn them on and off and such. Vulgar practice if you ask me, the tails bit I mean, quite inhumane. I heard somewhere once that dog’s tails are like when you cut off a chicken head, they can still feel it and it makes me think that whenever some schmuck wants to turn on his lamp a dog is in pain and I just can’t bear it.” “Oh I don’t do nothing like that. I’m real humane. Are you waiting for the ferry?” “Yes, do you know the time?” I check my watch and grunt, “Ferry should be here any minute miss.” She looks over at me, seeming to have forgotten her initial once over of me. “Why thank you. Are you waiting for the ferry as well?” “Yes. My- “His father kicked it,” the dog cooker chimes in uninvited; “He’s on his way to prepare his final arrangements.” He chuckles again. I suppose he doesn’t know that it is wholly inappropriate. “That’s quite right. I may have to call the funeral home from the ferry but I’m worried it might be too expensive.” “Oh it most certainly will be,” she fans herself with her hand and seems bored by my father’s death as if he was one of the mosquitoes she now shoos away from her face. Nevertheless I do my best to be polite. This trip isn’t any time for me to be more vulgar than need be, my father wouldn’t have wanted it and my mother told me to be quick about it. “So what’s your purpose-of taking the ferry I mean?” “Well it’s a little embarrassing. You could call it a secret I suppose.” The dog cooker makes his presence felt again by cutting in, “He’s a good one here, this one. You can tell him. He’s sure to take it to his grave,” he laughs, “grave, like his daddy’s in now I ‘spose, funny how language works like that, almost cryptic it is. He’s a good confident, very good. He’s kept my dog secret very close to the chest so far.” The young woman continues to fan herself and seems to take what the dog cooker has just said into great consideration. She adjusts both of her expensive leather boots and pulls her sleeves up to her elbows. She seems to be sweating and continues to fan herself, but it isn’t hot at all. In fact, if I wasn’t concerned about losing the funeral home number I would probably have my hat on my head because there is a chill in the air. Nevertheless she sweats. I break the silence. “Ferry’s running a little late.” The dog cooker is in his own world but the young sweating woman seems startled by my voice. “I’m sorry-I’d forgotten you were here. I am very glad to hear that you’re a confident man though. It’s a very attractive quality in a man.” “Right, yes, well I suppose my father- “So you can keep my secret can you? You won’t tell a soul? Or a living being for that matter I suppose. I don’t think a soul would have much use for my story anyhow. But you’ll keep it won’t you?” “Well,” I stutter. “Excellent. That’s the absolute best. I’ve been dying to tell someone, anyone, even the sad sack waiting for the ferry will do.” “Now that’s not- “So it all started a few weeks ago when my fiancé went to the bathroom. He takes an unbearably long time in there so I began to feel bored. I rummaged around in his kitchen drawers for something to do; a paring knife, or maybe a serrated one or the like; you understand how it is when you’re bored. So there I am rummaging in a knife drawer when I come across a nudie magazine, Big Cocks Anonymous or some nonsense like that, and I’m sure you know exactly what I was thinking.” “Well, I can imagine- “Exactly, a nudie magazine in a knife drawer? Has he gone and lost his mind while I was away some day? So I of course start flipping through the magazine in an attempt to dull my impenetrable boredom, and I plan my lambast of my fiancé for putting this magazine in a knife drawer when everyone in their right mind knows that it goes under your bed or a pillow or something like that you know?” “I suppose that makes sense,” I check my watch again. The ferry is quite late at this point; “I do hope the ferry is along soon. It’s very late.” “Naturally, of course, we’re all hoping for a speedy recovery for your father, but back to my story; so there I am flipping through this magazine when about the center of the magazine, in the area- “Do you think the ferry’s running a bit late for us?” the dog cooker interjects. I look at my watch for the umpteenth time. “It’s very late.” I wonder why he said us. I suppose he sees the three of us as some kind of unit. I can’t imagine why. We share absolutely nothing in common. “…the centerfold, that’s what it’s called and there is this gigantic glossy cock in front of me and you know what I notice? The blemish, I’m a nurse you see. He had a blemish on his cock that looked cancerous.” The dog cooker stands up and starts to pace in front of his bag, which without his hand tightly gripping the top begins to smell even worse than before. He blows on his hands and rubs them together. The woman continues to fan herself. The dog cooker says, “Sounds awful, cock cancer you say?” I’m no longer particularly interested. I’m very concerned about the ferry. I’ll most definitely have to call from it now because it’s so late. I’ll have to tell the people at the funeral home to wait for me. They close fairly soon now. “Absolutely, it’s a cancerous blemish if I’ve ever seen one, and I have seen many. My fiancé has one himself; it’s nothing though, especially compared to this one, the blemish I mean. His cock is of a fine size.” I begin to tap my foot and the dog cooker nearly steps on it as he paces by still blowing on his hands. Remembering my manners I feign interest, “I’m sorry but I don’t quite follow how that is relevant to you waiting for the ferry-if you don’t mine my saying.” The sweat is visible as it streams down her forward and she has deep pit stains on her blouse as she continues to fan herself. “Well that is what I’m doing here. I’m going to check on that man, the centerfold with the cancerous cock. I’ve contacted the magazine and they’ve agreed to let me examine it. I simply couldn’t sleep at night with the thought that I could save a man’s life. His life, his cock, is in my hands and I can’t mess that up. It’s that civic duty and whatnot, getting to me. The magazine even said they might include shots of me examining it in the next magazine. They’re going to run a whole big awareness issue, telling men to check themselves and stuff, it’s all very progressive and excellent.” “Quite.” “Ferry’s a bit late isn’t it? Didn’t realize how much I ramble. Time flies. I’m sure it’ll be along soon.” “…won’t be long, no it won’t be long now, he’ll be along any minute now. He’ll beat the ferry here and it will be fine,” the dog cooker mumbles to himself as he continues to pace. I am forced to retract my feet basically under the bench so as to protect them from his wandering feet. I can’t understand why the ferry is so late. The young woman addresses the dog cooker: “Are you quite alright?” “Just fine-fine and fine, just waiting on a customer, loyal one too, supposed to meet me here to make an exchange. Likes ‘em raw, this one, big risk taker. I’m lucky he’s still alive to buy from me, got a Doberman in the bag for him. Said he’d be here before the ferry gets here but I’m getting worried.” “Oh I’m sure he’ll be along soon,’ she replies, “Ferry should be right along after him too. I’ve never known it to be unreliable.” I tap my heels together under the bench and look up as I hear footsteps. There is another man approaching, small in stature and wearing a trench coat. As he approaches the dog cooker sidles over to his bag, displaying a bravado that must be reserved for customers. The two men speak in hushed tones for several minutes and there seems to be an argument. The small man pushes the dog cooker and the dog cooker pushes him back. Before I know it they are on the ground going at each other’s throats when the dog cooker reaches into the small man’s coat pocket. He pulls out what can only be a gun and the small man goes silent. The small man makes a desperate lurch for the gun and I watch in horror as the gun goes off and my ears are ringing and the small man lays dead. The dog cooker stands up and calmly drags the small man over to his bag. He tries to stuff him inside. He doesn’t quite fit. His head lolls out the side of the bag. I tremble on my bench and my hands shake holding my hat. The dog cooker sits back down on his bench where the young woman is unmoved, fanning herself. “Ferry should be along soon,” he comments blandly as the small man’s head rubs up against his pant leg, staining it red. He doesn’t seem to notice. The young woman replies, “I suppose we’ll have to wait a bit longer. I’m sure it’ll come along soon though.” I place my hat on my head and the number for the funeral home flies away in the breeze.

Drew wore unicorn t-shirts, camouflage shorts, and hiking boots with thick wool socks. They clunked with every swagger-laced step he took. If someone criticized his outfit, he smirked at their obvious insecurity. An ocarina dangled around his neck, the glossy black wood matching the greasy black hair draped across his shoulders. He played it whenever people were around. His face contorting into a wicked sneer, he spat upon anyone who learned piano. He told terrible jokes, the tips of his lips always curling into a slight grin. After the inevitable silence, he blamed the lack of laughter on the audience’s stupidity. It was hard being smarter than everyone else. But insecurity forced Drew to dress that way. No one could mock his clothes effectively if he didn’t try. And he desperately wanted to be the best at something, so he picked up an instrument with no competition. And every night, he cursed himself for being so stuck-up, the salty tears snaking down his cheeks and onto the dampened pillow. Drew knew he sucked; he thought hiding the fact would make it disappear.

I hated that ancient pair of shoes. Supporting a wife and child meant I had to make them last. The backs had fallen apart and the metal cut into my heels with every goddamn step I took. They had been digging the same holes into my feet all week but, as I walked to my car after a long day of work, it was especially intolerable. Maybe that was why I was so short with that girl when she approached me. My eyes were on the ground as I walked through the outdoor parking lot. I couldn't wait to be home. I took solace in the fact that my wife and daughter would be asleep. I could sneak in and clean the cut on my forehead and stop the bleeding from my knuckles before they saw me. Behind me, I heard someone call out, "Hey, Mister." Knowing my city, the odds were high that anybody approaching me in a parking lot at night was about to stab me and take my wallet. I snapped to attention, swiveling my head around and balling my hands into fists. I flinched in pain as I remembered my hurt knuckles. To my relief, there was only a hooker behind me. She held her hands together and shook as if she was cold. But I knew why she was actually shaking. "No thanks," I said as I turned and started to walk back to my car. "Actually, I, uh, I was wondering if you were, you know, carrying," she said, teetering up behind me on her high heels. "No." "Oh. Well, you know, I'm really in need of a fix, Mister." "Sorry to hear that," I lied. "Well... can I at least suck your dick, Mister? I need some money." "Don't say that," I said without turning around. "Who are you, my dad?" "No, just don't say what service you're offering. If I were a cop I'd be able to arrest you. Just tell guys that you want to party." "Oh. Sorry, Sir." Her accent was gone but manners like those didn't come from the city. She still had her Southern charm. "Well, actually, mister, maybe you could give me a ride." "No." "Oh, please. It's only a few blocks. I really need a fix. Really bad." "I have to get home," I said as I spotted my car. Justa few more steps in those goddamn awful shoes. "It's a dangerous walk, Mister. Please, Mister. Please." "It's even more dangerous to get in a car with a stranger, you dumb bitch!" I snapped as I turned to face her. "You don't know a goddamn thing about me but you're still trying to climb into a car with me!" "You have a kind face, Mister," she said meekly. I turned to walk to my car, laughing. "Really? You think so? Well you're a shitty judge of character." I was infuriated when I could still hear her steps behind me. As I reached my car, I faced her again. She was sobbing. Underneath the running makeup I saw her face for the first time. Her lifestyle made her age twice as fast, but I could see her youthful eyes glistening with tears. She couldn't have been out of her early-twenties. Her eyes reminded me of my daughter's. That unsettled me. "Can you please take me home, Sir?" she sobbed. "The bus station isn't far from here. I just wanna go home to my daddy. I never wanna see this city again." "You have a father and a home?" I asked in disbelief. "Then why the hell did you leave them for this shithole of a city?" "Please, Mister. Don't make me walk over there at this time of night. The bus station is just a few blocks away." The bus station was on the other side of town and I had no interest in staying out any later than I had to. "Can't you see that I have blood pouring out of my head and my knuckles! I'm a violent person! I make a living through violence, for God's sake! And you're trying to jump into a car with me because you think I have a kind face? I hope my daughter grows up to be a better judge of character than you." I froze when I realized the implications of what I had just said. I was a violent man. The kind that I wouldn't want my daughter anywhere near. I was hypnotized by my realization when I felt the girl put her hand on my shoulder. I did not know how to respond to affection. So I responded with violence. I backhanded her across the face. I swore as I remembered my injured knuckle and held my hand to fight the pain. The hooker backpedaled, holding her face. She looked back to me one last time and yelled, "That's why! That's why I left my father for this shithole of a city!" Then she stormed off into the darkness. At last, I sat in my car. I didn't start the engine, though. I looked at myself in the rear-view mirror. I studied myself, trying to see why anybody would think I had a kind face. To this day, I still can't see what that hooker saw in my face. Maybe it was because I saw what became of that girl from the South. Maybe it was because of the violence in my job. Maybe it was because I wanted to get a new pair of fucking shoes. Whatever the reason, I didn't go home that night. I never saw my daughter again.

There once was an elephant named George, George was the biggest elephant of the Tar-TO tribe. However he was also a coward. The other elephants mocked George and made him feel really bad about himself. One day the other elephants approached George "W-What do you want..?" George asked hesitantly. "We found a scary tarpit that you can test your bravery on!" said one of the douchey elephants. George paused and thought to himself "Hmm, this could be an excellent chance to prove myself to everyone!". George nodded and said "alright let's go!" but when they arrived at the tarpit George was started to have second thoughts and that's when he saw other elephants gathering around. As it turns out, it wasn't a test of bravery it was a ceremony where they were going to kill George via tarpit and eat him in the name of the elephant god Tar-TO-Tusk. George quickly starting to freak out but it was too late...They pushed him in the tar and as George started to drown he wished he could have done something in his life. However all was not lost for George, for what he didn't do in life he did in death. He filled the bellies of his own cannibalistic tribe and gave shelter to baby elephants with his bones. THANKS GEORGE.

The slavemaster sat in his carriage, whipping his slave. The slave had ropes tied around his neck and arms, and he pulled the chariot with him. His master would sit in the carriage and smoke and drink and gobble up food and would whip the slave with his whip if he ever slowed down. The slave would constantly be carrying the slavemaster around, sweating and heaving for hours every day before the master finally decided to sleep. He would fall asleep on the floor outside the carriage, and the next morning his master would whip him awake and tell him to keep pulling him around. The slave would have to eat rocks and pebbles and drink his own sweat to survive, while the slavemaster gobbled down turkeys and drank liquor and whipped the slave, telling it to go faster. One day, while the master was sleeping, the slave got sick of it, and tightened the ropes around his neck and crushed his head onto a rock, killing himself so he wouldn't have to live such an agonizing life anymore. The master awoke the next day to find his slave dead, and he cried. He sat in his carriage and cried, because his slave was gone. The slave had killed himself because he couldn't deal with his own problems, so he had to cause the master such pain. Now the master would have to walk wherever he wanted, which he wasn't used to at all. It really hurt him. How could the slave be so selfish? Why couldn't the slave just suck it up or keep living because maybe some day it might have stopped, whatever it was? But instead he chose to selfishly kill himself and leave behind a mess, causing the master trouble. Suicide. Such a selfish thing.

The ceiling is wide and white. Music and conditioned air issue from the holes made for their escape. Below, all them people eat. Fatty, not-so-fat, their kids, they all have dirty fingers. A guy can't wipe the smell of meat from his nose. No napkins, goddamn it the napkin dispenser's empty. Impossible! Dead molecules don't just go away. Leonard's shirt, and skin stink of grease. There's a good layer of the stuff beneath the bill of his cap. Tall, lanky Leonard needs special gloves that won't irritate his skin condition. He scoops sopping meat from the grill and slides it into paper lined containers that fit in a warmer. Other people in similar caps pile cheese on the beef. "Extra buffalo sauce," the drive thru customer says. "It should be in the bag." says a menstrual teenager. A guy in a damaged red truck drives off leaving a trail of noxious fumes in his wake. Leonard takes the bend out of his back and stands straight. He peers out from behind the grill. And he sees, dear reader, Spiral, the unconquerable wind, smash through the glass doors of the Burger King. Leonard's dark eyes fix on the massive mystical warrior. Spiral, Leonard's hitherto-imaginary friend, is screaming, is twirling with reasonless rage. He produces hurricane force with his vibrating limbs. Chairs fly and the people that were sitting in them are blown out of the windows. Kids get caught up in a gust, and the ball pit explodes. the walls shudder, the ceiling breaks wide. Everything flies, almost everything. Only Leonard stands bravely as his hat is taken by the wind. He can't bring himself to hide. He has to bare witness to the amazing Spiral. Wood splinters and tiles peel from the floor. Leonard's heart leaps. He feels fear and terror and he loves it. Then Spiral slows, stops, breathes deep and allows himself to be seen clearly. The super being is gold and sapphire, helmeted, and dangerously muscled. His eyes and teeth are glacier blue and godly bright. He locks eyes with Leonard, and his mouth moves to speak. "Leonard Malkin, come with me. You are needed elsewhere beyond the stars in what you call the Krab Nebula. The Fedorian people are locked in a civil war, and only you can help them. Surely, our prophets can not be wrong. You are the savior of our starflung world." Leonard clocks out leaving the Burger King in one healthy piece. He rides his second hand bicycle to his midtown studio apartment. There he prepares a mostly vegetarian meal. Carrots, green beans, and hermit bread, there's no need to turn the burner on the stove. No surprise, Liz forgot to pick up the almond milk. Mother fucker! No... No, on second thought that's okay. He was lucky a girl like Liz could love a queer like him anyway. She could forget the almond milk if she wanted. He lays down and watches kung fu television until one o'clock in the morning. Suddenly it's six AM. Leonard's alarm plays an awkward beach theme that rouses him immediately. The slumbering Liz rolls over caught in the throws of a burgeoning hangover. Leonard skips his morning shower, but manages to wash his hands with shampoo. Now its time to pull the dull razor across his face. there, that's passable. He could work like this. He could come home and take a nap if he needed. If worse came to worse, and he was really unhappy, Leonard knew he could always kill himself and get it all over with.

In front of him, was a cave, not a cavern or a tunnel, it was a cave. Inside this cave there wasn't much to see, some rocks, slimy walls and a little puddle in the middle. He could make do with this... He shouldered his tools and his assortment of wares and carried them inside, where he laid down a bear skin, to cover some of the ground before he got to work. *** Now I should explain who HE is, the fellow I am writing about is a dwarf, not very tall, heavily bearded and incredibly proficient with an axe and I don't mean a dainty little wood cutting axe either.. His name was Nort, Son of none, He was found left in the middle of an Orc stronghold where they took pity on the child and raised him as best they could. Now you might think Orcs to be horrible creatures of death and violence, but that is only true to a certain extent, yes they love a good sword fight or bare knuckle brawl, but they are also musicians, great smiths and steadfast workers and the young Dwarven child grew up with all these influences. *** Nort had no father so to speak, the Orc Chief was as close as he got and that wasn't bad; but there were no shortage of maternal figures in the stronghold. There was Grishna who taught the boy to cook and how to hold down his ale, and Bari who showed him how to smith great weapons or dainty trinkets and his "Mother" was the chief's wife, V'ara she taught him how to conquer his fears, how to write, read and speak, and how to make his way in the world. Now this stronghold wasn't exactly reachable by many traders, so the boy had little knowledge of the outside, sometimes a traveler would come and seek lodging for a night and the boy would be treated to stories of excitement and danger, these are Nort's favorite stories.. *** Nort knew he wasn't an Orc, he was many things but he wasn't an idiot, And he didn't care about who he was; it was all about who he was going to be. He was going to become a master smith in a great city, creating weapons and masterpieces everyday, and Bari knew he could do so... On his 18th finding day, that's what they called his birthday considering they didn't know when it actually was, He asked the Chief if he could leave the stronghold to set out on his own, many other orcs had done the same and he didn't expect to stay there forever and the chief knew it too, "My son" boomed the Chief. "You have proven skilled in your craft and I am proud of you, I know that your wish is to leave, and I shall grant that wish, just know that you are always welcome here and you will forever be kin to the Orcs". To which the Chief pulled out a box from his table and passed it to him, "Inside is two things, First a bag of gold and silver for your travels and second is an amulet smithed by my Grandfather many moons ago, He gave it to my father when he fell in love with a Human girl, my mother, so that she would be accepted by the Orcs wherever she went and would always have protection from them. Now I give it to you, so that you may always find family with Orc kind". And with those words spoken, the great gates were hauled open and Nort was on his way into the world, with a small pony and a pack full of supplies. *** Nort heaved his pack and pulled his pony into the cave; out of the snow and wind outside before settling down to make a fire inside a circle of stones he had collected. He got his tinder and he found a good piece of flint which he struck with his knife to make a spark and suddenly there was flame, good, warm flame! He'd had enough of travelling through that piercing wind and freezing snow, he needed his feet warmed and his belly full. The only thing now was the belly filling, what did he have left? Some nuts and berries, vegetation he'd scrounged from the wilderness and a small piece of beaver meat that he'd caught by the water's edge "Stew it is" Mumbled Nort as he hung a pot above the fire and filled it with snow to make water, before throwing in the greens and the nuts, he decided the pony could have the berries so he held his hand put towards the mare, "here you go girl, eat up". Next he chopped the beaver into chunks and tossed it into the pot, before adding a little salt from a pouch around his neck, and it was done, he had a meal for tonight, but he'd need more tomorrow... The wind was picking up, but the vines he'd pulled down across the entrance were doing a good job of keeping the snow out so he scraped the fire to the back of the cave and gave it more fuel before curling up in his cloak and going to sleep. What do you think? I got bored and decided to write a little...

I walked a mile to burn you, over parking lots and highways, across crowded children's playgrounds and the greenest of parks, through cricket games and grass half as tall as me, to a place under a tree where a man led me to ask for a lighter for his already-lit joint and to say I'd like a London kisser, a place littered with empty cans and torn up newspapers. It took three tries to light you, my thumb sore from endless fags and holding on to moving trains. Your smoke pooled around me despite how hard I tried to blow it all away, settling in my hair and skin. I immolated you while an aeroplane roared over the music in my head (praying for the death of a man i'll never meet) and cricketers shouted soundlessly, a field away. I watched you burn, cross-eyed, right down to your end, to the very first scrawled letter. It was your idea, really, writing names on cigarettes.

I was hungry. I was out of frozen waffles. I wanted a burrito. I got off the couch for the first time in what seemed like days. Well, probably because it was days. It's Wednesday, and I've been lying down watching whatever was on G4 since Sunday. I even dragged the microwave and a mini-fridge over to the end of the sofa. I only had one T.V., which I kept in my living room. Which meant my wallet was in my bedroom. Which meant standing up and walking... I thought this to be strenuous, in my condition of laziness. I walked down the hall toward my bedroom. I reached for the doorknob, and to my surprise, it was cracked open just a tiny bit. I did not feel worried about this, why should've I been? I just overlooked it and searched for my wallet. I glimpsed upwards, and saw my bed sheet move a bit, as if something had brushed it. At this point, I was unsettled, at least to an extent. I shook it off to the best of my ability. They say after you see or hear something that makes you any even barely nervous your imagination kicks in and you begin to think things happen, or they become more intensified. I assumed this was the case. I told myself that I needed to find my wallet. It was resting underneath my bed. I continued to scan the shadowed area after putting it in my back pocket. I honestly expected to see something; horror movies include scenes similar to this situation. There was nothing. I turned off the light and closed my door. Everything seemed to stop for a second- it was similar to the brief feeling of non-existence that comes over each of us occasionally (or is that just me?). As I stepped into the hallway, an awful feeling indescribable came over me. Sinister things seemed to be hiding in the unnaturally dark corners. I felt an extreme sense of uneasiness, like I needed to jump out of my own skin- although I was surprisingly calm, or at least appeared so- and ran down the stairs skipping every other step. I was shaking- what had just happened? I felt like I should have shaken it off, but I dismissed the feeling. Immediately after taking a breather, the eccentric feeling came back- but differently, stranger. It was… more intense. The edges of my vision were fading to an extreme black, but not evenly. I could no longer hear, or feel (I only realized this afterwards). Strange thoughts, images, coursed through my mind, indescribable except for one outstanding quality: immense maliciousness. The things I witnessed were not visions- they were horrors. I watched a man with a large gash through his stomach, and half of his intestines hanging out. He was desperately gasping for air, seeming to know his efforts would have no effect. I saw a man, standing still emotionless, and holding something in his hand… In a flash he opened his hand, switched his grip, and flashed a knife through the air and across his throat. He collapsed; went limp as if nothing had happened. Slight deep laughter is all I could hear. Now you would think seeing a man slitting his throat would be over quickly, but trust me, it is not. These were not the only things I saw. The rest are too graphic, too horrific to be spoken of. Somehow, everything that had happened then only occurred within a mere nineteen seconds. I stood up slowly, regaining my sense of hearing and feeling. I glanced to the left- and dear GOD this... This THING. STARING at me (to this day I wonder how my situation and outcome would have differed if I would not have looked in the direction of it). It was slightly taller than I. It was breathing heavy, angrily. Its head was tilted at about a sixty-degree angle toward the ground, though its dark green radiating eyes malevolently stared at me. It was bony, a brownish maroon color and had unnatural lumps in various places. Its arms were long; they reached just below its waist. I stared at it, horrified, my jaw was dropped. It looked at me, and without warning let out a blood-curdling cry without taking even a breath or even looking around. The only thing that happened physically noticeable on this hell-spawn was its eyes... They... Turned backwards and exponentially faded to a pitch-black shade, devoid of color or light. I was frozen, paralyzed. I fell over, unable to move! It seemed to find pleasure in this. It stopped making the horrific noise and crouched down leisurely. It took my ankle in one hand, faced the other way, and stabbed something into my carpet. It sliced side to side quickly and pulled. Thoughts raced through my head at amazing speed. I wondered what was happening. I questioned if this was karma. I even wondered if I was on a sick reality T.V. show. The monster (thing) seemed to crawl into its wormhole it created and dragged me closer to it. It was dark, and felt damp. There were dark orange lights that flickered with a yellow or red tint occasionally. It was silent except for the growing screams that sometimes could be heard. I never believed this place actually carried the smell of brimstone. I gave a look to the crack showing my house. It was rapidly shrinking. Suddenly, without a sign of anything, it was like I rushed back into reality. In a split second- I assume it was the natural survival instinct everyone has- I launched my forearm at the crevice. I caught the edge. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the demon-spawn becoming enraged. And oh, the noise it made! The sound was demonic, the most malicious sound I could ever come close to describing. It pierced my mind- my thoughts were blocked out completely for a short time. The horror's eyes turned a deathly black. Its mouth got about one and a half times larger in height while it doubled in width. Its teeth were a dark bluish-black tint. The throat was void of light. It was the most terrifying thing I've seen in my life. I just barely had the necessary mental strength to throw my head in the other direction, but I somehow managed. My hand still on the ever-shrinking portal to the real world, my fingers slipped in between the dark red fiery roof of wherever I was and the floor of my home. There was a horizontal separation that I barely had my knuckles inside. I started to pry it apart. With raw determination and shouting with rage the entire way, I crawled into the barely open tear. The pain was indescribable- beyond excruciating. Simultaneously the demon's grip on my leg was lost and the crevice closed. I crawled out onto the dark gray dirt, and when I opened my eyes to the sky, the only thing that surprised me was its lack of the normally abundant color. I had no idea where I was. I stood up, shaky and slightly in shock from what had just happened to me. One thing was for sure: it was dark here. Except for the irregular flickering of white fire, or at least what seemed like flames. The environment did not come across as demonic, unlike wherever I last was. However, it was not a necessarily happy place. This new world was silent, minus the occasional wild-grass movement from the slightest wind. I spent hours roaming… it wasn't long until I assumed the hours faded into days. Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months. I roamed through this universe in which hunger was non-existent and which sleep had no purpose. On a rare occasion I could see a blurred version of what seemingly was a squirrel or rabbit. If I started towards it, the distortion would disappear as quickly as it came. If I followed it, the same thing would happen in a matter of time. I never got close enough to touch it. Except once. This blur was exceptionally large; unlike the others I’ve previously seen. I spent a good thirty seconds questioning what it could be before concluding it must’ve been human. This was the first time in God knows how long I’ve been here. The blur was less than five feet from me- the closest I have ever been to one. I was getting closer…. Four feet… three feet, two… and then it slowly drifted away from me. I decided I would not let this one get away, as I didn’t know how long it would take for a large distortion like this to come along again. I followed it far out of the forest I made what I called my home in. I followed for hours that turned into days. It stopped periodically for short amounts of time. It brought me to what seemed like a collapsed city. There was a section of a highway, maybe about twenty feet long with each end warped and crumbled. I could make out houses, but they too were collapsed in or deteriorating. The figure seemed to know where it was going. It made its way through the city streets, through destroyed subways and around broken down shops. It seemed to pursue vacant skyscrapers and stalk vast barren wastelands. Finally stopping in a run-down home, it stopped in a chair in front of a desk with a computer. The room it was in was significantly vivid, and I could tell the being I’d been trailing was a male. My senses were functioning incredibly well; superior to the time I spent in my original dimension. I could tell that the coffee that he had was cold and had sat out for a few days. I could tell what was crossing his mind- what he was thinking. He was a writer. He had writer’s block. I knew how to help. I leaned over and began to whisper thoughts into his ear, into his mind. I said to him, “I was hungry. I was out of frozen waffles. I wanted a burrito.” He was writing it. He smiled. He liked the idea and was pleased with it, since writer's block had been pinning him down after the loss of his eight year old daughter. I whispered my entire experience to him and he wrote it down. I tried not to overwhelm him with ideas, so I laid out the story over a few weeks. Eventually, he was done; there was no more that I could tell. I was finished with him as he was with 'his' story. Epilogue I've been following the man for a few days after he finished the short story. I'm telling him how the story ends as he writes it: The writer gets up and forces his head through the wall without changing his expression or showing pain or emotion. *He executes this* The writer moves to a new spot and slams through the wall once again. *He repeats himself* There is blod tricklig down his forehed. He is geting nauseas but doesnt realisse it. He gets up and creetes the thrd hole. *once again, the writer makes a new hole in the wall* Fore wals ar in the gole. *the writer slumps over and the blood gushes from his indented forehead.

The soldier stood silently and observed the burning village behind him. Below, green tracer rounds flew through the darkness, mutilating and setting fire to everything in their way. The crackling of fire could be heard, as well as angry shouting and then more gunfire. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the faces of the family that had given him refuge the previous night. He had told them he would return and repay them for their kindness. Now they were down there, pleading for the american to come back and save them. The blackness of night had enveloped him; the only light now was the bright flashes of machine gun fire below and the faint orange glow of straw and human on fire. Between the muffled popping of guns and desperate wails for help, the soldier could hear the quiet roar of the nighttime jungle. He was surrounded by monsters. The misty, black jungle promised safety from the onslaught, but the noise and light below provided refuge from Vietnam's nighttime predators. The soldier was in limbo. He stood motionless, feeling the weight the M60 in his hands. the trigger was cold in his clammy hands. The soldier's face was devoid of emotion, a blank stare encompassing his face. A tear was pulled from his eye, and rolled silently down his cheek, mingling with a bead of sweat. He wiped his face with his grimy hand and headed up the hill. The next morning, The soldier walked silently down the hill and into what was once a village. Everywhere he looked, there were bodies. Farmers, women, children, strewn like rag dolls across the ground. He stopped and threw up.He looked up at the morning sky and wondered if his squad was on their way here. He made it to the center of the village, and there was a pile of burned bodies, charred and black. One boy called out to him. "Xin vui lòng không còn nữa!" The soldier dropped his M60 and it fired four green tracers into the ground.

(Part 1) By the mid-22nd century, time travel had become a mundane and everyday reality. When the phenomenon had first been introduced to the mass consciousness due to a theft of documents by a government employee, massive steps had been proposed to limit the possibly detrimental effects of what would likely become a hugely popular social pastime. An international committee, after much deliberation and the investment of a great deal of working hours and taxpayers money, eventually decided on three rules of time travel: 1) Do nothing to affect the social development of the people of the time 2) Do nothing to deliberately invoke a change to events in the future, particularly for perceived personal gain 3) Behave with no emotion as emotion breeds emotion in others and so can affect events As soon as the committee announced these rules to an eagerly listening world, researchers at TEID (Time Effect Investigation Department, a team set up to monitor the behaviour of it’s citizens by researching past documents) began to find that the rules weren’t perhaps as effective as they had hoped. Time travelling citizens trying to behave without emotion were being viewed with high suspicion in Nazi Germany, the witch hunting eras of the late 17th century and the vampire fearing villages of mediaeval Slavic Europe. All of these unfortunate souls were being summarily tortured, executed, and were failing to return home from their trips. They also found it impossible to not affect social development as travellers ended up in the bars and public houses of times throughout history, invariably became drunk and opinionated, and ended up either instigating or, in some exceptional cases, getting a little carried away and leading entire revolutionary movements. Lastly, it was quickly realised that it was impossible to not have an affect on future events as a whole anyway as the person’s mere arrival and subsequent existence in the past occupied space and therefore had instigated a change by just moving the air particles, anything over and above that would cause a more obvious chain reaction (such as stopping traffic at a road crossing or feeding an animal) and so it was deemed impossible to enforce any of the laws they had worked so tirelessly to create. At this point a press conference was set up to announce this failure, one journalist pointed out the impossibility of enforcing such laws due to the nature of time travel anyway and, after a lot of silence and shoe gazing, the scientists and international representatives decided to disband and research something that could be controlled instead, with no doubt at all, such as wormhole leaping. Despite the best efforts of authorities to restrict the sale of time travel machines, a huge black market was predicted, then materialised, and then once one particuarly entrepreneurial individual, Jiff Beaner, had gone three hundred years into the future and bought not only all the books on the history of time travel so as to learn all the industrial lessons of his competitiors to come, but also returning in a much bigger time machine with (after a few trips) parts enough for a time machine manufacturing unit from the future as well, mass production kicked into play and the time machine was now in 63% of all households by the end of the first manufacturing year alone. Naturally, Jiff was soon outdone by another who carried out exactly the same plan as Jiff had and outdid him overnight. Not only did the competitor have all of Jiff’s ideas for the next three hundred years but he also had a manufacturing unit three hundred years newer. Then someone outdid that man, and so it went on ad taedium. Time Travel became a standard leisure activity, people beamed from here to there, and the world continued (as far as they knew) the same as it always had. Then, not long afterwards, a researcher at TEID came across something that would change the public’s perspective of time travel completely. It was a man called Gerald Keys, he had travelled to 18th century colonial America, and there for no reason yet apparent, he had killed sombeody.

Proctor was lying down somewhere. He didn't know how he got there. The last memory he could think of was that he was driving down his road. He couldn't remember much else. His memories were hazy; He couldn't think straight. Just as these thoughts were going through his head, someone began to shake his arm. “Hello? Are you okay? Are you awake?” He heard the voice say. Proctor sat up, and opened his eyes. He realized now that he was in a large grassy field. The sun was just overhead, a large tree stood just in front of him, and the stranger was standing in front of the tree. “My name is Royce, can you remember your name?” “Yes, It’s…” Proctor stopped himself. Although Royce seemed friendly enough, but there was something odd about the question he had asked. “How did you know I was having trouble with my memory?” He said. Royce began to look confused, “I don’t know. I guess you did wake up unconscious in the middle of a field.” “That makes sense.” he thought out loud, “my name’s Proctor since you asked.” “Proctor, of course” Royce didn't sound very surprised. “Okay,” he said confused and slightly agitated, “Well since you know so much, can you tell me where we are?” Royce looked around the field, up at the tree and then back at Proctor. “Well, by appearance I’d say we’re in a field in front of a castle. But I can’t really say anything beyond that. I woke up just a few seconds before you did. I can’t remember much either.” “Where is this castle? I don’t see it?” “Well it’s… Just over that hill.” Proctor turned around and saw that there was indeed a very large hill. It surprised him that he didn't see it before, but maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. It took him a few minutes to climb up the hill and he was slightly out of breath when he reached the top. But as Royce had said, there was a castle about a mile away. It was made of stone, like most castles would be, it had a large wooden door, plenty of towers, and it looked like it was about four stories high. He ran to the bottom of the hill, going a bit faster since gravity was no longer working against him. Royce was standing in the same spot he had left him in. He was still staring at the hill. “I saw the castle right where you said it was. Do you think we should head over there? They might be able to help us with our memory.” “Yeah that would be a good idea,” Royce said as he continued to stare at the hill “It would also provide shelter for when it starts to rain.” Proctor looked up. The sky was completely covered with clouds and he could hear thunder in the distance. Royce seemed less suspicious now that he got to know him. They actually had quite a bit in common. They were about the same age, had similar interests and they both remember driving a car before they ended up in the field. There was however one deviation. Royce seemed to have ESP. Proctor could remember a few instances where Royce had repeated things that he had never said out loud, and then there was that hill. Could he really have climbed all the way to the top to see the castle and then ran back down before waking him up? He had said earlier that he woke up a few seconds before he did and he didn't sound like he was out of breath. The rain came just a few minutes before they reached the castle. Up close, Proctor could see that the castle was very rundown. The door had rotted away and he couldn't make out what was inside. He debated with himself whether or not it was a good idea to go in. But after hearing a loud crash of thunder nearby, he decided that electrocution would be a more painful death than stabbing. Upon entering the castle it was plain to be seen that it had been abandoned for quite some time. The skeletons of rats lay on the ground as if they had run out of food to scavenge for. The only sound they could hear were the sounds of rain and thunder outside, and the flowing of the many streams that ran through the lower parts of the castle. The outer rooms of the castle showed signs of abandonment, but rooms further in… were different. A great battle had once taken place in there. Skeletons were all over the ground. They held spears, swords, and shields. Walls were broken down, there were claw marks on the floor and ceiling, and the furniture that wasn't broken in these rooms, was burned. The destruction was everywhere, but it wasn't so bad that it ruined the structural integrity of the castle. Most of the major support beams were still in place and they were handling the extra weight pretty well. “I think a dragon is bit more dangerous than getting struck by lightning!” Royce said panicking. “A lot more,” said Proctor, “do you think we could get out before it notices us?” As if to answer his question a giant mechanical dragon crashed through the ceiling right above their only exit. Steam came out of the many pipes on its back and its eyes glowed red from the flames that were now shooting from its mouth. Proctor remained frozen in place, both from shock at the dragon’s sudden appearance and shock from its appearance. Royce spoke up knocking him out of his stupor, “its name is Koshmar,” he said. “it is programmed to kill all who trespass.” The dragon shook the rubble from its body and lunged forward. Proctor dove to the left, just barely avoiding the swipe of one of its claws. The beast ran straight for the wall and Crawled up it. It twisted around and shot a couple of fireballs. Proctor grabbed a shield from one of the skeletons, but saw that he didn't need it. Koshmar was directing all of its attacks at Royce. Proctor dropped his shield and replaced it with a spear. He ran toward the dragon in an attempt to stab one of its eyes. He didn't make it very far though and was sent flying by a lazy swipe of its tail. He landed near the window and could see Koshmar was shooting fireballs once again. Thunder crashed outside, and lightning struck in the distance… Wait a second? There was something very illogical about what was going on here. Just an hour earlier he had noticed that the sun was directly overhead and not a cloud was in the sky, but now he was in the middle of a huge thunder storm! And when he woke up there wasn't a hill in sight, but he had crossed over one to see the castle! Now that he was thinking of the castle, didn't it have a wooden door when he first saw it? And what about the thunder! Doesn't thunder usually come after lightning? Where was he? Was he in some alternate dimension that was ruled by mechanical Russian dragons? Then the answer hit him. The dragon, its name was Koshmar. Koshmar is the Russian word for nightmare. He was dreaming! All he had to do was wake himself up, and this nightmare would end. Proctor thought he was in a dream, and in a way, he was right. Moments later Royce woke up in a hospital bed, and Proctor… ceased to exist.

Disclaimer -- I haven't done any real non-work related writing in many.. MANY years.. I have probably committed a thousand and one grammatical atrocities and don't even realize it. I just finally decided I miss writing and threw together a short story off the top of my head in about 15 - 20 minutes. It wasn't quite yet midnight. The day we had anticipated for months. We had everything packed and I was desperately trying to sleep for the long trip ahead of us. Tossing and turning we struggled to pass the time as minutes turned to hours leading up to now. Eleven Fifty Five pm and All I want to do is hit the road now, not at 8am as we planned. Suddenly, a shatter from the garage. "What is happening? What is going on!" I thought, as I nudged John next to me. "John, John.. did you hear that?!" "Wha-snarfle-snar-gull-uggg* is the response I got "I nudged him a second time, harder still "John! Somebody is in our garage!" This time John woke up and seemed as concerned as I was. John went to the safe and got a 9mm pistol, loaded it up and started for the downstairs. I made for the phone to call the police.. Dead.. the line was dead. How could this be? This couldn't be happening, not to us, not now.. On this day of all days. I check back at the clock.. 12:20. Today, today is supposed to be the greatest day of our recently married lives. I realize soon that John has been gone for 20 minutes and I haven't heard another sound from the entire house. Frozen in time for what amounted to 5 minutes, I wasn't sure what to do. I finally mustered up the courage to step out of bed and throw on my Bathrobe. I too grab the other gun from the safe and struggle to remind myself of the training that John and I took last summer at the Police shooting range. I loaded up the clip and locked it into the gun. Through the dark and quiet house I tip-toed silently as a mouse. I made my way to the door leading to the garage and listened. voices.. John.. and.. 2 voices I did not recognize. I stood silently trying to listen. A Standoff. It sounds like John is in danger. Without sight, I am left to my own imagination of what the situation looks like just beyond the door. Guns in the air, pointed at one another. Everybody making threats and nobody backing down. Uncertain how to help, I tip-toed to the outside leading door furthest from the garage. I made my way to the yard. I have no idea at this point if I am making any correct decisions or just struggling to make the situation worse. Around the outside of the house I snuck, gun in hand, safety still on as to not accidentally fire in my nervous state. I made my way to the window just outside of the garage. The window is open, "This must be how they got in, I thought. Shoot, the shades are closed though" It was obvious there was no way I was going to be able to see through this window without being heard. I can now hear the conversation inside the garage much more clearly than from behind the interior door. I don't know what to make of the things I am hearing. John seems to know these 2 people. They are referencing each other by name. Some sort of argument ensues. I can only make out some of the conversation.. "Money owed. Gambling.. Here to collect" Could it be? Could John have a secret life of gambling and crime? 5 years together and I've never known? How could this be. All those late nights at the office. I never imagined anything else. All those "Business" phone calls. I just couldn't believe it. I hear John is trying to convince them to leave the car, and everything in tact. They keep saying it is the only thing worth any value. In my nervous state, shocked at the things I am learning I unknowingly dropped the gun to the ground as it made a loud "thud" and a "scraping" sound across the gravel. I hear one of the men gasp and start heading towards the window. I quickly pick the gun back up and point it at the shades. The shades fly up and I am face to face with a man I've never seen before, gun drawn. Now things are a 1 on 1 standoff. Me with my gun and this man and John with his gun and the other man. I refuse to come inside the garage and insist that they leave empty handed. Things turn from bad to worse when the man shoots a bullet over my shoulder to scare me. I immediately pull the trigger to fire back... "Shit, I didn't release the safety" Now struggling in a panic at what to do the man starts to laugh and reaches out to grab the gun from me. By now, the neighborhood is awake and surely police have been called. I manage to release the safety just in time to shoot the stranger in the hand as he is reaching to grab the gun from me. He backs up and the other man Shoots John. John shoots the other man and the man I shot in the hand shoots me. We are all down, I laid there in the cold gravel, still outside of the garage. In the distance I can hear sirens looming as I lose consciousness. 2 days later I wake up in the hospital. John is no where to be found bedside or otherwise. I have no idea what has happened. As I come to and I adjust to my place in this hospital bed I am finally informed of the news. "John didn't make it" The nurse said "We did everything we could but the wound was too damaging." As I lay there contemplating my current situation, I replayed that night in my head every single second in repetition. Could I have done anything more? Should I have done something differently? What happened to my dearest John? What happened to the assailants who broke into our house? As these questions raced I didn't notice the 2 assailants being wheeled down the hallway passed my room with police in tow. They were on their way to county lock up pending trial. I couldn't believe it, a dream of a life shattered in one single hour.. It just goes to show that you never really have ti all, or if you do, it's only on loan as long as someone agrees that it is okay for you to keep it. From that day fourth, I never could take that drive into the country.

It began with the power of suggestion. Then it turned into “do what I say” and they would just do it. Ive literally told people to kill themselves because I got bored of them. I would use girls as sex toys until they were just plain and boring to me. I used guys as butlers to do my every need until I was bored of seeing their face. And then I would tell them to kill themselves. And they would do it. The story of my power begins at school on a depressing and rainy day. I had been practicing the power of suggestion for a full year now, and I was going to try something on the hottest girl in school. The bell rang and I saw her walking past the soda machines, so this is when I decided to make my move. I walk up to her, tap her on the shoulder and say “Excuse me, Samantha right?” of course I knew her name but I acted like I didn’t. “Yeah, what do you want?” I loved the way she talked to me. As I began to speak something weird started to occur. I felt something horrendous was going to happen and then BAM! The lightning struck right in between us. I felt an odd sense of power and confidence and continued to tell her this, “Take your clothes off.” At first she started to laugh and then a weird look clang to her eyes. She began to do what she was told. Piece by piece the clothing came off, and a group of students had begun to gather around, making Samantha and I the center of attention. Finally after a full thirty seconds, (seemed like forever), she was completely naked in front of me and the entire group of students. I stared in amazement as she waited for her next order. “Get everyone here a soda.” I demanded. She then turned and smashed her head into the glass of the soda machine, cracking it ever so slightly. “Harder!” I screamed. So she did, leaving fragments of glass embedded in her forehead. Eventually the glass gave in, and the students just stared in awe. “Well? Drink up!” the students rushed in, trampling Samantha like a bag of limbs. When the students were all drinking the soda I yelled “Spit it out at each other!” they proceeded to do so. I looked at Samantha, just lying there waiting for her next demand. “Have sex with me, right here, right now.” She got up, walked right up next to me and bent over. I then thrust my penis into her and had sex with her raw for the next three hours.

He wakes up and looks over at his pad. No new contracts that he wants to bid on. He gets up and gets dressed and heads over to the bar. On his way there he notices another ship that is docked, it hadn't been out for very long, he would see if the captain was in the bar so he could get details. He walks in and notices the captain at a table with a few other captains that he has been associated with. As he sits down, he recognizes the new captain, he had originally helped a small portion in the operation to move his ship out of the sand, just before this contract. The captains all greeted him and they had some small talk till one asked the new one what happened. The new captain explained that for the first portion of the contract that everything had gone well, until small conditions in his contract failed to be met. The captain had suspected the possibility of an early termination of contract, but continued on none the less. Then one day the cancellation notice came, but the notice was strange. It basically came down to the fact that the contract creator didn't want a full time commitment. He had seen this before, contract creators stringing captains along and the captains wasting time not looking for other contracts to bid on. All of the captains agreed to aid the captain if they could, but they all knew it was up to the captain to either win back the contract or find another. The captains all began to discuss their recent situations. The next captain to speak had decided to dock their ship far north of here. The port there had frozen over and attempts were being made to break the ice and move the captain down to warmer waters but without a contract there was no real effort to break free. The captain mentioned he tried to get one on the short term, but the contract creator ended up adding too many stipulations. They all agreed to help once the captain got a contract, but none of them could justify allocating resources to remove the ice until then. Moving left the next captain had contracts a couple of times before and the captain mostly relived the glory days. The captain hadn't bid for a contract in a while, but stated about contracts ripe for the captains picking. Most of the captains were skeptical, at best, of the assertion. He personally thought that the captain's ship had shifted back into the sand. They all let the captain finish through the story, but quickly the next captain began. This captain had been out many a time, but most of the time the trips were short. Often major problems would arise and be ignored till both parties could not resolve the situation and back into port the captain would roam angry and disappointed as ever. The captain would also seem to take out his ship without a contract on record. While there was a black market, it was rarely active until people wanted a contract on top of their long term one. Even then once it was found out, it usually ended up in the termination of both contracts. The frequency of the captain's alleged activities within the black market made most of the captains dismiss the stories on the spot. Another captain spoke now. He remembered the captain well. He had worked very hard to help get the captain's ship from the sand and now the ship sat in the port. The captain had been in open negotiations with a contract creator whose other contract was coming to an end but negotiations had fallen through. Whether or not they would pick up again, no one could tell, but they all were hoping for the best for the captain. The youngest captain was probably in the most interesting situation. The captain had run several trials for contracts, but had never signed one. The captain had a strange outlook on how to be successful, and wished to return to his port of old. Several captains questioned how close the captain really was to securing contracts, even though the captain had presented evidence to the contrary. He was still undecided on the matter, but thought that the captain should send his ship back to the sand and open up contracts for others. The captain to the right mentioned only two attempts at contracts and yet, an inability to secure contracts. The rest of them sitting at the table disagreed with the statement, how could two attempts certify ineptitude. Alas the captain did not hear them. The captain had dried the pen of ink and did not want to refill it. Maybe one day when a contract slapped the captain in the face an effort would be made to refill the pen, but until then, the captains could only wait. It was his turn now. "You all know my story." He left to put his ship into the sand.

Us four sat ensuring my stay. In conversation, Rick was indirectly called a liar by Rob and Megan because of me. The price of being a father. Any words spoken to him sounded like "Liar". Any words spoken to me were in question. As if I was being interrogated. I had nothing to say unless asked. The house was a mansion. My cousin played the role of Keith Cozart. I looked forward to good times as the house was left mostly unattended. As we spoke my mind wandered into flashbacks and daydreams. Rob was showing me the room where I was going to stay. There were many rooms and hallways. Some rooms were connected by doors and weren't connected to hallways. I opened a door to a bathroom and there was someone in the bathtub. At first I laughed and looked away but Rob quicly put his arm around me and led me away, and as he did I caught another quick glimpse of the bathtub and noticed that it was a body. I was shocked and Rob started to remind me that I didn't see anything that there was no one there. I instantly protested to staying in the adjacent room which was where we were headed. I threatened to say what I saw if forced to stay there. I was led away. The confusion and unknowingness turned into fear and Plan. We returned downstairs and played it off, acting as if that didn't happen. Later I spoke with Rob's sister about what I had seen and she told me that it was not infact a body but pieces of bodies that were created from insecurities. That she herself had created some of the pieces that were in the bathtub. We walked and talked. I thought about what I heard. Generations of insecurities brought about what was in the bathtub. They all knew. Did Rick know? Did Megan know? I didn't know. Who was it? Was it one of their own. We ended up back at the bathroom and I looked in again and what I saw shocked me to the point that I couldn't clearly make out what it was. Was it a body or was it pieces? It was entirely underneath the water. I faked emotion and accepted the pieces of insecurities and agreed to stay in the adjacent room. It was the only way to survive. I spent most of the first week alone in the room. I heard them speaking about me. About how I spent time alone. I was genuinely afraid. The first chance I would take it. It was a Saturday. I had stolen a few grams of Rob's cocaine and over the course of 2 days had made it injectable with no one knowing. The owner of the mansion, the famous Dr. Bob, had syringes in the downstairs bathroom. Everyone left late in the night. The only ones left were Rob and Megan. Who were passed out. I stabbed Rob with the needle and injected it. As he woke and saw me he knew what my intentions were but could not prevent them as the high almost instantly kicked in and he fell into a euphoric state. Megan didn't even wake up. The thought crossed my mind. Did she know about the bathtub? Had she noticed the change in my behavior? I weighed the risk of foiling my Plan in my mind before deciding to leave her behind as I escaped into the night. I stole a car from the mansions garage and left leaving no trace of where I was going. The insecurity of being insecure. Being insecure was my only security, the only thing that led me to escape the fate that awaited me. Where all others had failed and gave in to become part of the fate themselves I had broken free.

“Hey, dad.” I said slipping into the barstool next to him. I slapped him on the shoulder and cupped my hand around the beer he had ordered while waiting for me. I took a long sip. “What's up, dude?” 'dude' it's been my dad's nickname for me for as long as I can remember. “Not much,” I said and we settled into a chat about work and politics and news. The normal launching off point for us. Syria is screwed; people aren't smart enough to govern themselves; did you hear about this new band; my manager is an ass. It was the normal stuff we talked about. Everything external, everything observational and opinionated. We never really talked much about how we were feeling. Rarely was a word spoken about aspirations or desires. We talked about the absolute instead. The conversation started to petter off after we covered all of the major news points and new revelations that have happened since the last time we did this. We sat in silence for a little bit, but it was a comfortable silence. One that felt more like being surrounded by complete, utter stillness not some vacuous empty; one that doesn't need or even want words; a clarifying moment of simply being there; not posturing or posing for the other person, but simply settling into a comforting complete sense of being. My mind started to wander as we sat there. Nowhere far away. My mind simply meandered around the edges of the conversation we just had and studied the connections there between us and my father. Suddenly I was struck with a memory. One from a long time ago when I was probably 10 or so. It was a memory I've had a million times before, one of those floating fragments of life that remind us we were alive before yesterday. I realized it was a memory that I had been having more and in in recent weeks. “Hey, dad?” I said uncomfortably pushing my glass onto it's edge. Just to the point where the beer threaten to dribble out onto the bar top, but not quite. “What's up, dude?” “Do you remember when I was a kid and you bought me a bow and arrow? You know, that one from the indian reservation or where ever it was we always went on school trips?” He laughed a little, lost in fog. “Of course. You were so excited for that thing. You had me tape a target onto a cardboard box and set it up in the backyard as soon as we got home. You wouldn't take no for an answer. I couldn't stop you even though the sun was about to go down and you weren't going to be able to see shit.” We both smiled a little; realizing in our own ways just how long we've been friends and reveling in that wonderful realization that between the both of us, by combining our two memories, we were forming a sort of tangible three-dimensional view of that old reverberating thought. It was like that chilly night was happening again. I could smell the honey suckle that grew across the edge of the yard and the chemical smell of chlorine drifting on the breeze from our neighbor Joy's pool. “Do you remember what happened after you set it up?” I broke eye contact with him and broke our parallax recreation of the far off evening. For some reason I was anxious about what he might say. Or, maybe not anxious, but scared. He searched through the drawers of his memory for a moment. His eyes flicked upward as he flipped through the card catalogue filled with millions of shards of shared life that we had in the backyard, but, finally conceding, “no,” he said. “It's weird. I don't know why, but I do. In fact it's been on my mind a lot lately and I can't figure it out. “You set up the target for me in the back of the house, near that old tan and orange rusty swing-set. You got the box positioned right between the two swings on the ground. You walked up to me, reminded me to be safe and went straight in the house. “I took a few shots at the target. The arrows whizzed by the box not leaving a mark. I looked around at the darkness that started across the lawn. The light was turning all purple and orange. That old tree I used to climb, I think it was a japanese maple. You know, the one with the red leaves. They sparkled so bright that time of night. But by this point that wonderous light was starting to fade into a relaxed deep purple. I looked around, but I wasn't watching the sunset, I was looking for you. It had been a few minutes since you went inside. I figured you'd come right back out, but you didn't. You just sat down and had a beer. You sat down with mom, and maybe one of her friends, at the kitchen table and had a beer. I think it was a beer. And even though that is such an inconsequential decision for some reason, me, as a child, was heartbroken by it. 'I walked over to the box and plunged the arrow right into the bullseye. I picked up the box. I walked over to the house. I swung open the kitchen door and I said 'Look! I got a bullseye.' I thought this would get you out of the house, get you to come outside, convince you to come play with me but it didn't. You congratulated me, patted my head. All the things that can reasonably be expected from a dad. Maybe you made a joke about me being the next Robin hood. Mom and her friend hemmed and hawed. But it wasn't enough. 'I think, after that, I broke down and cried. It all gets fuzzy. All I remember clearly after that is the disappointment, but I think I cried. I don't know if you saw it. I don't even know if it happened. Maybe that's just what I remember now.” I looked at my dad. He looked deep in thought, like he didn't know what to say. I kept going. “And what I just realized, right now while I was telling this story, is why i've been thinking about that memory so much lately. That's still what i'm still doing every day. But now it's not a box in the backyard I'm using, it's my whole life. I do it with my career and with my hobbies. I do it with my girlfriends and with my tone of voice. I think it's why I work so hard. I think it's why I've been so successful. And do you know what the bitch of it is? I still don't know if that's a good thing or not.

DISCLAIMER: I am not a very good writer, neither are my ideas novel. This story may creep some out, and that is the intended effect. Unfortunately, I don't think I developed the main character well enough for the effect to really take hold. Comments and criticisms are welcome. He stood silently over the fresh corpse of the bodacious, blonde adolescent. There was a backpack strap roped around the woman’s neck, signaling that the obvious cause of death was strangulation. The observer bent down and placed the tips of his right index and middle fingers on the adolescent’s wrist to check for a pulse. There was none. “I really do apologize for all this,” bemoaned the man as he stood back up and soaked in the surroundings. He found himself locked in his victim’s room – in her family’s house – and quite enjoyed the thrill of knowing that any moment the victim’s family could arrive back home, check on their daughter, and put an end to the man’s ruse. “You won’t mind if I dress you up, will you?” There was no response. There could be no response. The man was having a conversation with his deceased victim. The murderer rummaged through the victim’s closet, running his fingers through the variety of silk and cotton fabrics that delicately hung within. A blue, silk dress caught the man’s eye. It was a dress that he had seen the victim wearing a few weeks prior. Had he not seen the victim wearing the dress, she might not be dead today. “I remember it vividly,” whispered the feminine voice as he removed the dress from its hanger and compressed it against himself. He proceeded to tuck his head into his chest and take a whiff of the dress’s odor. He could smell her victim’s flowery perfume. It took him back, reminding him of why he was there – why he had strangled his love. The courtyard of Williamson High School left was not very pleasant, as the poorly maintained foliage obstructed the walkways and graffiti from previous graduating classes decorated many of the buildings and other structures. Still, it was the best place to people watch in all of the school. There were approximately seven or so standalone buildings in the courtyard, one for core each subject, plus electives, a cafeteria, a gymnasium, and an administrative building. Students had to walk through the courtyard to get to their next class. Students also had the option of sitting down at one of the picnic tables under a covered gondola that were scattered throughout the high school’s courtyard. One such gondola was in the center of the courtyard. “Look at him,” remarked a prepubescent, male voice as he pointed at a classmate of his. “The kid is such a tool,” he added. “He’s in my geometry class and, he’s always offering to help the girls understand slope. I can’t stand him.” The angry teenager was pointing at his male classmate that was joking around with a cute brunette and one of her blonde friends. “Probably thinks they’ll sleep with him if he acts smart and generous. Does he ever offer to help me or someone else if we need help? Nope, because I don’t have a pair of tits! Fucking jackass.” “What is he, your boyfriend?” “No! I’m not gay; the kid’s just a dick!” “It sounds like you have a crush on him,” replied one of the teenage boys sitting under the gondola. “Why don’t you ask him out? Maybe he’ll say yes, and you two can live happily ever after.” “I’m not gay! I just don’t like that kid! He’s fake! He’s a big, fat phony!” As the two teenage boys continued their banter with one another, a third boy – about sixteen, the oldest of the trio – kept his gaze fixated on the tool that his friend had pointed out to him. He interrupted his friends banter for a second to ask a question. “Who’s the blonde? She’s cute,” he commented. “That’s Alyssa,” replied the original boy. “Why? Do you want to fuck her?” The third boy blushed, unsure whether he should respond or keep to himself. He decided with the latter, gathered his stuff, and then took off for his next class. He kept his eyes fixated on the beautiful blonde teen, wearing the stunning blue dress that exhibited her petite figure. She had set the trap, and he had taken the bait. He was obsessed with Alyssa. Rather than go to his next class, boy number three followed Alyssa to hers. She was taking calculus, which meant that she was decently smart as well. “She’s amazing,” boy number three thought to himself as he made his way back towards his English class. He could not thinking about Alyssa. She, just from a glance, had made him feel things he had never felt before. The rest of the school day continued without incident. It was not until the end of the day that he saw Alyssa again. She was walking home. He could follow her. He could find out where he lives. So he did. Alyssa lived in an upper middle class subdivision, containing about ten or so homes. Small residential developments were typical of the area. Each lot was about on an acre or so, which meant that the houses were spaced just well enough apart to give everyone privacy and space from one another. Alyssa’s home sat in the front of the development. Trees and bushes covered her home’s lot. They gave her stalker the cover he needed to watch her house, to watch Alyssa, without arising any suspicion. He spent many afternoons and nights concealed in the bushes near her bedroom, stealing a glimpse of her whenever he could. He learned a lot about Alyssa during these days and nights. He learned that she volunteered at the Humane Society, was obsessed with pop music celebrities like Justin Bieber, and was otherwise a generic high school girl prepping for college. Armed with this knowledge, the boy decided to approach Alyssa one afternoon while she was walking home from school. “Hello,” commented the boy. “I’m Charles.” “I’m Alyssa.” “That’s a nice name. Anyways, I’m in Ms. Sanzone’s class, and I saw you walking out of her classroom the other day – god that sounds creepy – and I forgot what the calculus homework is for tonight, do you happen to know what it is?” “Uhm, I wrote it down. I think it’s some derivatives problem set.” “Yeah, but which one?” Charles must have alarmed Alyssa in some way. The girl immediately closed up and ceased talking to Charles. “I don’t know, sorry,” she hastily replied as she upped her pace in an attempt to get away from the creepy sixteen year old. Had she spotted him stalking her? “Did I do something wrong,” cried out Charles as he began running to keep up with Alyssa. She started running, too. She was almost home. She would be safe inside her house. “Which problem set is it? Are you going to tell me?” “Just leave me alone! Go away! I know it was you the other night!” Charles stopped dead in his tracks. Alyssa was rejecting him. She was scared of him, and he did not understand why. He had felt that he and she had bonded during those stalking sessions. She undressed with him around. She had intimate conversations with him around. They had become close, even if they had not spoken with one another. Charles was devastated. There was only one way for him to fix this. He had to talk with Alyssa. After a few moments of collecting his thoughts, he proceeded to walk towards her home. “Alyssa, I’m sorry,” stammered Charles as he banged on her door. “Go away! Or I’ll call the cops!” Charles backed away from the door, and proceeded around the house to Alyssa’s window. It was open, just as it was on most sunny days. She had forgot to close it. Charles carved a hole out of the window screen with a pen, and then climbed through it. He heard a few footsteps coming from the hallway and figured that it was Alyssa coming in to her room. In a panic, he hid behind where the door would open. As Alyssa walked through the doorframe, she could sense that someone was watching her. She figured that Charles was outside her bedroom window, but she feared to look. She kept her head down, careful not to look at the window. She made her way to it, planning to close it. Meanwhile, Charles had other plans for her. He emerged from behind her bedroom door, and removed his backpack from his back. Charles had one of those one-strapped backpacks, which he immediately roped around Alyssa’s neck and pulled towards him. The attack caught Alyssa by surprise, and she was unable to do much other than let out a few muffled screams that nobody was able to hear. Her neighbors were still at work. Her parents were not yet home. She was at the mercy of Charles, her stalker. Charles wiped a tear away from his eye. “If you hadn’t run away from me, you would still be alive,” cried Charles as he compressed the blue dress against his chest. He looked down at Alyssa’s cold body, dressed in a ratty t-shirt and denim jeans. “You look better in this,” said Charles, obviously referring to the dress. He removed Alyssa’s t-shirt and jeans, then dressed her in the dress and placed her on her bed. He folded the cover the comforter over the top of her body, and then slipped into the bed right next to her corpse. “This is all I wanted,” commented Charles as a smile developed on his face. His arm wrapped around Alyssa, and then he pulled his own body closer to hers. He cuddled with his victim, his love – pondering hard why she had rejected him.

Every day I wake up with my wife and make her breakfast and pack her lunch for the day. Her sheduale changes daily, so sometimes she is up at 6 int he morning, and sometimes she has to be up at 3. When she gets up, she turns all the lights on and wakes me up. I make sure she has her bathrobe and hair dryer plugged in and then make her eggs. I make a fresh salad for lunch, as well as packing any snacks she would like. Then I make sure her purse is ready, and that she has her phone, keys and wallet. I also pack her 'pills', which are a series of diet pills and vitmins. If I don't double check it for her, she will just leave, and then become furious that I didn't pack it correctly. Her commute is just under 2 hours, and she expects me to talk to her on the phone the entire time. The only time she doesn't, is if she hangs up on me to talk to her mom or her sister. Typically while we talk I'm finishing laundry, or cleaning the kitchen, or making the bed, or getting ready for work my self. On my days off she expects me to travel to meet her at work so I can ride the bus home with her. She also expects me to talk to her on the phone every break and lunch she has. When she has a day off she will often hang up on me, or not answer her phone if I call. She will spend her days off laying in bed watching TV, and napping with our cat. This morning she left me, because I was too selfish.

I honestly have no idea where to post this, it was originally going to be a reply to AskReddit thread but as I am currently at 48,352 characters typed in word, I don't know if it would be appropriate. If this isn't the place for a multi-episodic tale of woe-and-misery being related to someone who is a legitimate crazy person, then point me in the right direction. I have to get this story off my chest. Here are the links to my posts.

I am an old man with old shoes. The leather loafers fit comfortably upon my aching cankerous feet. Penniless tongues for a penniless misfit, both made around the 1930s. Worn and torn and faded and aged just to how I like, the day began when I slipped out of the cold sheets of her bed and into the warmth of my shoes. My shoes; thoughts are rolling around inside my head, trying to find the day that has come. Scratching the few strands of gray left, chaff falls beside my hand on the bed. I’m not awake yet. Her head is still on the pillow. She’s asleep and the dawn has already come. I get up, walking to low lit bathroom filled with dying lavender, and recall my father and his shoes. Mr. Sallanger had worn loafers like mine, back when they were still all the fad. We had enough money back then. Not like now. The world changes and the toothpaste stays the same. The water runs and I see him in the mirror, staring back at me. Yes, Papa, I’ll get it done. I did do it and that was that. My teeth are surprisingly strong; made to last and made to chew. They sparkle and gleam from the rinse. Dentures are all the craze in here. Damned loonies! I hear them rummaging out in the florescent lamp lit hall.

Prologue "Where am I, you pathetic fuck!?" "Sshh now pet." Daniel covered Elizabeth's mouth to keep her quiet. "Now pet I asked you nicely to surrender yourself to me. I always get what I want." Elizabeth's head was swimming with confusion and anger. Why is he doing this? Just two months ago she moved to this new place. Being in an unfamiliar place intimidated her but she told herself she would pull through. It was only for a few short years until her beloved father returned and freed her from this place. "Now pet I want you to stay quiet, there are people outside these walls." Daniel proceeded to take the cloth out of her mouth. "See I always get what I want." He had a very smug look on his face but she couldn't deny the same feeling she would get every time she looks into those icy eyes of his. Daniel spoke, "Now I've been looking forward to this moment for a very long time. Tonight you are all mine. I don't care what happens tomorrow all that matters is tonight." "You're fucking insane!" Elizabeth yelled. "Now haven't we developed a little potty mouth have we? You've been spending too much time with these people pet. Now I want you to close your eyes." "I don't think so, prick." She was scared that being this bold would have punishment. Maybe she should just surrender herself and let him do what he's planning. He didn't say what exactly he's going to do but she had an idea. All of these men were the same. "Fine." He walked around behind her and opened a metal box. He pulled out a surgical drill. Elizabeth felt her heart skip. He didn't know, did he? Daniel spoke softly, "Now pet this may cause tremendous pain but I need to know for sure before I take you. If I'm gonna spend my life in prison or dead I need to know for sure." She started to panic, "I have no idea what you're talking about! Need to know what?" "I need to know you're one of the beautiful creatures." Her worst fears realized, he knew what she was. And she had an idea what he was about to do. He took a hold of her skull and held her in place. He was surprisingly strong. She could barely move. She spoke, "Wait please Daniel, I could die!" "I know pet but I need to at least see it." He tore of her shirt and her bra. Topless, he then turned on the drill and pierced her chest. It was the most painful thing she ever experienced. As she heard the drill tear through flesh, muscle, and bone she could hear him hum her favorite lullaby. The lullaby he hummed the night before when everything was perfect. All of her senses started to fade except her hearing. Strangely the lullaby made her calmer and feel like everything will be alright. She then heard the drill stop, he stopped humming as well. His voice was excited, "There it is pet! Your beautiful heart. As still as a rock, But so gorgeous." He put the drill down and caressed her face. "I've dreamt about this moment Elizabeth." "Please stop." Her voice was barely audible. He spoke assuringly "It's okay I won't touch it. Your wound is starting to heal anyway. Okay love you can sleep for now as you heal but when you wake you are all mine." He gently laid her on the bloody table and softly hummed her lullaby as she drifted to unconsciousness.

..\ For the third time that week, Will woke up to screaming kids. Swearing, he looked over for his wife of fifteen years but noticed she was missing, in fact he had not seen her since last night. He put the thought behind him as he swung his legs over the bed and scratched his morning stubble. He got up after a few minutes and half stumbled half walked over to the bathroom. As he grabbed for his razor, he heard a sharp snapping sound and swore once more, then lumbered down stairs. . He hit the bottom step just as the door opened and his wife, who he was not entirely pleased to see entered, "Look who decided to show up." He mumbled, and staring at his feet he shuffled towards the broken lamp and his two youngest children. She retorted back but he pretended not to hear it, he started back up the stairs with his kids. .. "YOU KNOW GOOD AND WELL YOU HEARD ME AND YO", she stopped as a chair broke against the wall, sending splinters in every direction. Will just glared at her and thought about what a wreck she had become, in her hayday she was quite the looker but fifteen years of marriage had taken its toll. Will was always mild tempered, he cursed but ofcourse everyone around here did, and he was never violent, but the last year of her walking in at daybreak and dealing with a four and six year old had changed him, he was still level headed though, so he walked up the stairs, grabbed some clothes, his wallet, his phone, and his keys, then left to a dumbstruck wife, and two crying children. . . Will reached for his phone to dail up his old friend Terrance, he was a charter captian and Will could think of no better escape then some open sea. He decided to call in sick to work first, to groans from his boss. After 3 rings Terrance picked up and agreed to take him out, he drove out the five miles it took to get to the old wooden dock. He walked along the side, avoiding the numerous cracks, and got to Terrance's boat. They silently greeted and started prepping, and soon enough they were off. . After an hour of relaxing silence Will heard a shout that made him go from sleeping to wide awake in no time, he ran to the captains quaters and saw Terrance slumped over in his seat, he checked his pulse and felt nothing. Will killed the engine and just sat there, staring as the sun lightened the sea, while his friend was slumped confortably in death beside him. Eventually Will slumped against the wall, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and fell asleep. . Will jolted awake, feeling he just awoke from the worst nightmare ever, he reached over and put his hand on his wife, except she was cold, so cold. Will jumped up and stared at Terrance with horrorfying realization. He walked back up to the deck and looked at the night sky, it hit him that his kids and wife would be worrying about him. He snorted. Might be worrying about him was more like it. Still, he did miss them, which was surprising. He sat on the side of the boat and started dozing off. . He was sitting on a chair in his living room with his family, but his wife was younger, he looked around doubtfully for his two kids, and only found them when he looked under the table. They were joyfully pushing his chair back, laughing and smiling. Will started laughing too, it was contagious and soon his wife joined it. "I love you guys." As his chair tipped too far and he fell backwards through his floor and into the dark. Edit**** the '.

Four people sit around a fire, a Duke, two lovers, and an intellectual. All of their minds scattered, unto one’s own. The Duke, lost within the winding staircase of his ivory tower. The time to depart was nearing, two times for impact and the rest for the ones who watched. The numbers of those might rise, might fall, the Duke could only wait and respond, as the Duke always did. Illogical, improbable, but it would be a trial by fire, none the less. The lovers lost together, and yet, lost apart. One is caught in the jiffy of life; the other has vision beyond their years. Together they can see past, present, and future, clearer than a sunny spring day. Their problem is the ability to focus together. Illogical, improbable, but it would be a trial by fire, none the less. The intellectual sits back and thinks of other places to be, other things to do, yet is still taking in his surroundings. Numbers, and formulas, and things of reason steal the mind away, the calling of the others brings it back. Would the things in front be too hard? Would the things in front change the direction of life exponentially away? Illogical, improbable, but it would be a trial by fire, none the less. Together they sat, but separate they leave, a party of one and a party of three. The Duke no more out of his tower, the intellectual still other places, the lovers separate. Would they stay together? Illogical, improbable, but it would be a trial by fire, none the less.

The mouse of crescent time allotted, he crept oh how he crept throughout the world stretching his devilish paws, clawing his way through unity in hopes to find the measly remains of rubbish left a broad for the taking. Oh how he crept about a creature so calm, so unknownst to his diseased life, his calloused paws, the elongated tail nude to the flesh and some to the bone, he knows nothing more but the meal he wishes to endeavor ever more. The moon shone brightly on his being, while the clouds formed about his space, a grip tightening ever so fast, ever so fast it did tighten. The mouse hungry and alone, he knows his only hope to survive is the scrumpet of food abroad his view. The land so shriveled and chilled, as if the world was in for a storm. The moon no longer in sight, but the feast continued on, entangled in the night’s light enhanced by the ever close dawn of bolts from the heavens, the racing of the rain, and the heartbeat of the mouse, his paws trenched on. Onward onward, his paws made the continued pull, the body coursing along whiles the nude, so very nude, tail continued on. The rain overwhelming, the fur on the mouse drenched and his squeaks so timid in contrast, the rain drowning all hope; his paws scratching against the concrete, pawing through wake after wake. His paws, he thought were in the oceans of his forefathers’ who boldly accommodated themselves on ships set sail. The feast nearing now, he but has to extend his cold wet paw, so very cold, yet still a very very fine paw for a mouse; the feast within reach. At the exact moment his paw would reach out, a bolt of lightning would approach his radius, shocking the world as if it were but a nerve sending out a command; the paw entrenched in the rainwater, now circumventing the lightning’s girth straight through his soul, within his eyes, the brain over charged, his paws engulfing in flame. The mouse dead, his paws burned to a crisp, the brain and eyes exploded outward, the feast begotten and the mouse bid adieu to the world around him and fluctuated between this world and the outward reaches of the universe.

He inhales and draws back the string, stares down the target, releases and exhales. An eight, the next one would need to be higher. He nocks another, inhale and draw, release and exhale. Perfect ten. He sees something out of the corner of his eye, it's her, walking down the grove. He nocks another, inhale and draw, release and exhale. Perfect ten. She is closer now, nearly at the ropes. He nocks another, inhale and draw, release and exhale. A nine, he had felt her presence. She is behind him now, but says nothing and waits for him to empty his quiver. He nocks another, inhale and draw, release and exhale. Perfect ten, he has shown improvement. He turns to her and hangs up the bow, stares into her eyes and she stares back at him. He shows her to the gate. They sit at the table and watch as the gunmen across the road volley at their targets. They share a smile as the youngest of her clan hits a plastic Native American and rejoices. He motions to the bow. She smiles and nods. He retrieves his arrows and picks up the bow for her. Their hands touch. He gets goose bumps but holds his resolve. He moves behind her and moves her hips sideways. They felt like they belonged in his hands. He moved his arms around and guided her fingers up the string. She felt his breaths against her back. He nocked the first arrow and helped to guide back the string. He stepped back and let her loose the arrow. It hit the target solid, a four, high and to the right. They both laughed. He moved in and helped her to aim. He stepped back and the arrow was loosed. A five, still high but centered. He moved in again. She liked it when he was close. A step back. A loosed arrow. A seven, low and to the left. She turned and looked at him. He simply nodded. Nocked, inhale and draw, release and exhale. A nine, she gets excited. She nocks her last arrow, inhale and draw, release and exhale. A ten. She embraces him and he embraces her. He hangs up the bow and takes her picture next to the target. The arrows and bow need to be put away and so they leave to the archery shed. On the short walk up they meet with a nice lady from the kitchen, she mentions what a nice couple they make. He is taken about at first but then remembers the night before. At Sea Breeze, watching the meteor shower. Their hands held together by fingers, one set strong yet nimble, the other delicate yet longsuffering. Their lips embrace. He asks her the question. She says yes. He jerks awake. It was pleasant, yet brutal. She wasn’t the Heart mender. He still longs for her but the ship has sailed. She was the shadow of a past that will always be remembered but will never be returned to in the same light. He questions his sense of perception. He questions his understanding of himself. He doubts. He fears. He rests no more.

It was a shitty day for fishing. Even though it was only the second week of September, the sun’s rise had exposed a frost that was proving to be a hell of a stickler. Jack cursed his bad luck for the thousandth time as he watched the first tendrils of orange and yellow branching out from his rear-view mirror, but he’d be damned if he was driving all the way back to Kittanning empty-handed. “Ain’t nothin’ there but carp and poor tourists,” he’d muttered, half to himself and half to his friend Bernie, who was fast asleep in the passenger seat. So he drove on, parked his beaten-down ’03 Durango on the shoulder of a back road, and took a long draw on his Chesterfield before stepping out onto the dirt. Bernie didn’t take kindly to being woke up, but then again, Bernie didn’t really take too kindly to fishing either. Or much of anything, for that matter – two tours in Afghanistan and a couple of brand spankin’ new prosthetic fingers had left him distant, like he was always trying to look through a person when they spoke. But he and Jack had been friends since high school, and the two hadn’t seen each other since Bernie’s ass had been hauled off to Bagram on a C-130 to shoot at scorpions. There was still enough wet in the air to make for a hell of a mist. Even though Jack had grown up in the woods there was something about the fact that you couldn’t see the treetops that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Bernie, for his part, didn’t seem to give two shits, which made sense – Jack hadn’t bothered to ask him much about his tour since he’d got back, but he knew that’s the way things had to be for now. They reached the lake in due time and set about tying their lures. Bernie wasn’t big on fishing, but he was big on jiggers, and it paid off. He’d come back triumphant with 24 inches of trout to Jack’s empty net more than once, but Jack never held it against him. Bernie had always appreciated the craftsmanship of a good homemade lure. Jack swore on bait, and was a firm believer of ‘ya win some ya lose some’. That being said, he did seem to be running a hell of a bad luck streak. Bernie’s prosthetics played hell with his knot tying, and his line met the water a full ten minutes after Jack’s did. Shortly thereafter rain started spitting, and Jack afforded himself a small smile – maybe he’d have a little good fortune after all. Light rain meant the crawlers came out and he was hoping the rise in temperature would coax some fish a little closer to the surface. The two men hadn’t said much in the car or on the way to their fishing hole – a few guttural commands and backhanded remarks about the damned weather. It was fine that way, Jack thought, plain and simple as two men sharing a labor, shutting the hell up, and letting Mother Nature drive the conversation. After an hour or so, Bernie showed a spark of his old self: “How’s you and that bitch of yours, huh? Still living on the front of a honeymoon brochure?” He turned and looked at Jack, even showing a few teeth in a smile that made his face look like he’d forgotten long ago how to move your face when talking to civilized folk. Jack smiled, though he felt his stomach sink down into his boots, “Ah, well man…funny story about that. The brochure kinda burned to the ground after you left, man.” Bernie furrowed his brows and took his attention off his line. “The hell you mean it burned down? You were the happiest I’d ever seen ya when you were with her. How’d you let it all go to shit?” Jack sighed, his stomach felt like lead that just started on a slow boil. “Things weren’t exactly peaches and cream all the time, man. And it got to be too much.” “What got to be too much? C’mon, man, I didn’t get my fucking wedding ring shot off to hear your half-assed excuses for not wearing one. I thought she was gonna be it!” “Yeah, me too, man. Me too.” “Well, the fuck happened?” At that moment, as if guided by some perverse natural timer, Jack’s line started to dance in the water. By the tug he put the fish at least two feet at the very least – he was a big sucker… Jack let him be. “Everything turned around. Shit that made total sense before started becoming …complicated. Melodramatic. There was… she just started getting jealous all of a sudden, and would start ripping into me for nothing.” Bernie, God bless him, tried his best to cut in -“Jack, my brother, it’s normal for two people to fight, for things to go downhill, you know it’s just –“ “No, Bern, no, it was worse than that. Way worse. It was like a switch turned and she decided to become someone completely different.” Jack’s line was still dancing on top of the water, tracing a thin line through the ripples of the lake. “She finally found her way into the real world and she couldn’t take it, and it…it fucked her up man.” “Okay, so you guys were going through a rough patch, then, or she was, I don’t know! The point is, if you wanna stick to your guns, you gotta –“ “You gotta WHAT?!” Jack screamed, though he had no idea where it had come from – it had erupted from his chest, and the lead in his stomach was now at a rolling boil. “When you’re about to spend your life with a girl who decides to wake up and dedicate herself to running everything you’ve worked on together headfirst into the fucking dirt, without telling you a goddamn reason why, what the hell are you gonna do? Plead? Beg for understanding? Be supportive? You think I didn’t try all that?” The fish was drawing on the line now. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack could see it – walleye, at least 28 inches, maybe even shy of a meter. It had apparently become aware of its entrapment and was struggling with all its might against the hook embedded in its mouth. “She threw it back into my face, but not straight up, ah no. She waited until she could methodically disassemble me with this kinda shit because she knew how. And I knew it all along. I could hear the boulder coming to crush me, and I ran like hell, Bern, I ran like hell. But some forces of nature can’t be reasoned with and you know what I fucking did?” Bernie was silent, barely holding onto the end of his pole as he gazed at Jack from his spot across the shore. “I dropped her like a lit M80. I let her go and watched her burn out. And you know what the worst part was? I saw it, when I left her crying. I saw the fear and the pain, that despite her spite and hate and lies and backhanded bullshit I saw that she was truly sorry… and I LOVED what I was doing even more for it. That’s the level she’d left me at, someone who takes pleasure in watching the person he loves fall apart. Do you know how disgusting that is?” Tears were flowing freely down Jack’s face at this point, joining the rain drops in the water and then vanishing, indistinguishable from the murk of the lake. The walleye had made its way to the shallow water where Jack stood and was making a hell of a racket, splashing and gasping on the line. Jack finally took notice of the fish, and leaned down over its flailing body. “You’re a fighter, huh?” Jack scooped the fish out of the water, grasping it firmly under the jaw and below the dorsal fin. As it squirmed and fought, he stared at it with what Bernie thought was awe, maybe appreciation? Or maybe his best friend of over 20 years had finally lost his goddamn mind and was gonna pull an Ozzy Osbourne. “Maybe I should have taken a leaf or two out of your book, my friend. Maybe then things would have turned out differently. Or maybe I would have wound up with her too.” Jack sighed then…a long, painful sound that Bernie had heard once or twice back in Bagram on the face of an officer who just lost one of his own. He then watched as Jack removed the hook from the walleye’s mouth, smiled at it once last time, and let it back into the water. “I need to thank you, Bern.” Jack said, “it’s been six months to the day and I’m glad to have you here with me again. Forgive me for what I said?” Bernie nodded, still completely unsure of what the hell was going on. …the nets were still empty at the end of the day – after Jack’s inadvertent catch nothing had deigned to so much as nibble on anything the two men threw in the water. Though Bernie tried to make conversation again, Jack didn’t oblige him much, limiting himself to as few “uh-huh”s, “mm-hmm”s, and “you don’t say”s as possible. It wasn’t until they were back at the truck that Bernie found it, tucked away in the back of the glovebox. He was searching for a pack of smokes while Jack loaded the trunk and it tumbled out, gliding gently to the floor of the ‘03 Durango and settling near Bern’s right boot. “Jesus Christ,” he murmured. There, clutched in his right hand was a newspaper clipping that featured a picture of Jack bent over what looked like a metal heap. *LOCAL GIRL DIES IN AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT: DRUG USE SUSPECTED Authorities have confirmed the death of one local woman, aged 26, whose name will not be disclosed at this time due to reasons of privacy. The official cause of death has been identified as massive brain trauma. The woman was pursued by policemen until her car suddenly veered off the road and collided with a large tree, resulting in the impact that took her life. State Policeman Gerald Dalton was in active pursuit and reported that her vehicle was travelling at approximately 135 miles per hour at the time of the impact. Though she had no antecedent history of prescription drug abuse, a blood screening returned positive for numerous anti-depressants and painkillers, which the victim seemingly took en masse before entering her vehicle. Though the cause for the crash and reckless driving is ultimately unknown, law enforcement officials are investigating various leads.* Bernie checked the date of publication at the bottom of the column. Not surprisingly, it was six months to the day that the story was released.

This is my first story, so sorry if it's bad! You guys have been asking for it. So here it is. My story. On September 19, 1998, Kathy Logan gave birth to a girl named Amy. That girl was me. Or so I thought. Though I shouldn’t get to that until later, I don’t want to confuse you. Under the care of Kathy and her husband Jake, I lived happily for 14 years. Nice house, always fed, given many things. I was very spoiled.. School was never a huge problem for me. It is a preppy private school. I wasn’t popular, but I wasn’t a loser either. I was kind of just average. I had a group of very close friends, and we were all very happy. We did some things I am not very proud of, like bullying the scholarships and playing pranks on teachers. If I had known what I have felt like in the past year, I would have stopped. I thought my friends and I stuck together through everything, no matter what. I was wrong, because when I hit 15, everything changed. This isn’t an average story about a girl who went to high school, and suddenly “her life changed, and everything was different.” This is a story about a girl who found out her whole life was a lie. One lie so big it had to be kept from everyone, because if it wasn’t, the world would know the real truth. So a lie turned into a secret. And this secret was one that could get anyone involved in a lot of trouble. One secret so big, yet so small, because only two people were in on it. And 2 can keep a secret if one of them is dead, right? My (fake) father certainly thought so. Now I have to confess something. I told everyone reading this a lie. That’s right, remember the first paragraph where it said that Kathy Logan gave birth to me? Well that isn’t the truth. Kathy Logan didn’t exist until after I was born. And neither did Jake. The truth is that my birth mother gave birth to me on September 19, 1998. But that was not her first birth. She had had not one, not two, not three, but five other births. And I would be the last one. I was with my birth parents and siblings for six months. Six months of normality and of truth. Unfortunately that is the only amount of time I’ve ever had my life like that, and I barely remember it. On October 14, 1999, my mother told me to go play outside. With me refusing, she put me out there saying that I needed fresh air, and I hadn’t had any that day when my siblings already had. We had a large backyard apparently, and in my anger I went to the far corner of the yard. It was from there I watched my house burn down. I didn’t remember this until I was told it. I now remember sirens, and smoke, and I didn’t comprehend much more than that. But then I remember a man picking me up. And it wasn’t a firefighter. It was the man who started the fire, along with his wife. They adopted me as their own, renamed me Amy, and changed their names to Kathy and Jake Logan. That’s right, I don’t know my actual first or last name. But as I said before, I was never told this. My life was a lie. I didn’t find out by somebody telling me. I found out by another death. The death of Kathy Logan. Behind every death is a motive. I have mentioned two killings already. And those motives were the two most common motives out there. Money and disagreement. I never knew why my (fake) parents had so much money. They didn’t seem to work that hard. I didn’t find it odd. But it was. And my “close” friends noticed. My birth parents had money. I don’t know much about them, not even their names, but money is the one thing I do know about them. Because it was not our priceless pictures or our clothes that were saved from the fire. It was our money. And it was saved by – you guessed it – Jake and Kathy Logan. So then why did Kathy die? I said disagreement but that doesn’t give much away. It was because Kathy, even though she had done some horrible things in her life, cared about me. Had some good in her. Jake on the other hand did not. Kathy wanted to tell me. Everything. She thought I cared about them too much to tell. And if I hadn’t known that she was going to tell me, I might have told the police. But I have some forgiveness in me. So Jake choked her to death. And covered his tracks perfectly by staging a hanging. Said there was too much pressure on her at work, and nobody suspected a thing. Because little did he know I was a witness. Of both of his killings. Another thing he didn’t know is that Kathy wrote a letter to me in the event that this would happen. She made sure Jake wouldn’t get it and it would go directly to me. And that is how I found out about what happened. After that, everything changed. I became depressed, heartbroken, and I could barely look at my father. My friends also started to neglect me. I don’t know why, I didn’t tell them anything, but they started to think I was broke because I was depressed. I wasn’t rich, which apparently I had to be to be their friend. They left me at the time I needed them most. And so I got lonely. I told another lie. The first line of this book was “You guys have been asking for it.” But there is no “you guys.” It’s just me, myself and I. And so I’m faced with the decision whether to do Kathy good and not tell on Jake, or tell on him and have the satisfaction of seeing him get locked up. Last night I had a dream. I was playing chess with Jake. The pieces on my side were my birth family and Kathy, and me as the king. He took every one of my pieces, and put his piece in the perfect position to beat me. It felt like hours passed and I couldn’t decide what to do. He started to get impatient. Finally he smiled coldly and said, “Your move, Amy.

She stood there sprinkling out memories and emptying out pain. Her voice was altered as she choked on dreams and coughed out hope. I knew, even then, even in her desolation, that she was the staggering beauty that I had longed for. It was her, it always had been. Since the dawn of man and the realization of time, this was the girl that was formed to save me. Her parents used to be lovers, like mine. Both sets disillusioned by a town that had taught them to stay trapped in their misery. Her mother was cruel, like mine, and both had given birth to us and that was enough to make up for the torture that they would later provide us. They had given birth to two people who could lift each other’s sadness like the sky had lifted the sun, and there are not enough ways to thank them. Her father was a quiet man, but mine was not. This is where we differed. Her father had looked at her with kind eyes as mine had seared a fire into my cheeks that would be then soothed with tears. We still understood one another’s fathers despite not knowing ourselves. We were learning, but had not known it yet. We were adapting, but had not known it yet. We were meeting, but had not known it yet. We were lovers but had not known it yet. Our first words were mama. Our first sounds were cries, but we did not know pain yet, and we never did. We still cry, but are now quiet because we insert the tragedy into adjacent souls, where we understand and comfort the pain. They could say we are nothing more than a codependency, and we’d refute that but we don’t what we are yet, and there’s wildness in that. There’s a love in that, and maybe that’s all we need. We still know our first words but we resent them, as if we were lied to from the very beginning. Summer: I waited for her. I waited for months. She scared me with her presence. I didn’t know what I got myself into and I was scared because I wanted no way out. Beautiful wasn’t and isn’t a strong enough word, and to her it’s a lie and purely for flattery. It was the truest word that had ever applied. B.C. (Before Christ): I stood before the dinosaurs. They were huge, gigantic, and intimidating; some death-machines, some as kind as a hand on a shoulder, and some indifferent to my existence like the people in my high school. She wasn’t born yet and wouldn’t breathe a new air for thousands of years. I could still taste her kiss despite her nonexistence. No matter where I would go she would always be there; in my mind, in my trembling, in my hopes, or in this case, on my lips. Lava flowed, from magma brotherhood, down the mineral tree-trunk that had birthed it. It traveled slowly, deliberately, and without reason. To be too close to this would mean to be so far away from her, forever. I turned and ran. I sprinted on the earth’s hair and jumped into its eye, swimming as blinks followed. In the middle of its salvation, I turned and watched death eat the accomplishment never fully realized. Watching the blood of the land blanketed by the extending hand of God, I wondered if her smile could cease this or at least make it bearable. Looking to my right, I saw the moon and the dark horizon kiss. The water beneath me rose and waved a tongue of destruction that tasted my love transform into fear and watched my hands grip my taker of worlds, real or imagined. Summer: I had kissed her. Her emotion was real and it was there, revealing itself to me for the first time. I looked into her glassy eyes. She was as weak as she was strong. Her arms were still around me as her lips couldn’t restrain and shook the words out of her mouth. Nothing was right in the world as I held her in my arms but everything was right as I held her in my arms. She was the poetry that I had scrolled onto my heart and had breathed with my conscious. I whispered her words that had not been said and didn’t deserve to be said until that very second. She started to cry. Her eyes spoke of a story so beautiful yet so far away, as she stood in front of me. It was seconds before I was about to lose my stars, my moon, and my world. I looked at her and knew that I wasn’t wrong. I knew how beautiful she was and it hurt me so. Inside my head: I had kissed her. Her emotion was real and it was there, revealing itself to me for the first time. “Everything is going to be alright.” I looked into her glassy eyes. She was as weak as she was strong. “I have to go. I don’t want to but I have to. I have loved you...for the longest time, and…this is the moment, this is the moment where I realize I was wrong for waiting so long to tell you.” Her arms were still around me as her lips couldn’t restrain and shook the words out of her mouth, “I’m not perfect, okay? I don’t make the decisions I should make when I make them and I’m very confused. I’m numb and I’m very confused. I’m scared, and I don’t want to leave this place. I’m so sorry if it seems like I don’t care because I very, very much care for you. You are my best friend and my favorite person in the world. You are so lovely to me. I love you and I’m so sorry it took me so long to say it. I got lost.” Nothing was right in the world as I held her in my arms but everything was right as I held her in my arms. She was the poetry that I had scrolled onto my heart and breathed with my conscious. “I love you too.” I whispered her words that had not been said and didn’t deserve to be said until that very second, “Is there any way you can stay just a bit longer?” She started to cry. “I wish…so very much.” She stood there sparkling out memories and emptying out pain. Her voice was altered as she choked on dreams and coughed out hope. I knew, even then, even in her desolation, that she was the staggering beauty that I had longed for. It was her, it always had been. Since the dawn of man and the realization of time, this was the girl that was formed to save me. “I’m going to miss you so much. It might be two years if you don’t come back here next summer. I might not see you until I graduate. You don’t have to wait for me if you aren’t able to… It’ll make you miserable. I’ll understand if you meet another girl and if you do I hope she makes you very happy. I hope she loves you with all of the love you could give her. If you can, I want you to wait for me, and when I graduate I want you to walk right up to me and ask me on a date. Okay?” Her eyes spoke of a story so beautiful yet so far away, as she stood in front of me. “Okay.” I looked at her and knew that I wasn’t wrong: I knew how beautiful she was and it hurt me so. Summer: She sat in her car and I studied her face in case I was never to see it again. I missed her already and she hadn’t even left. A tranquilization softened my spirit. A hailstorm of emotion battered my chest. Smiling at me, I smiled back. Closing the door to her car and possibly us, she then ignited the realism by twisting her wrist. Her car sounded and I heard nothing as she smiled and waved goodbye. Driving away I knew that others could hold her, kiss her, and have her. I was afraid of fading from her thoughts as she faded into the night air. I stood alone. B.C. (Before Christ): I rode the waves of destiny onto the shore. The red death waited for me, glowing with anticipation. This was it, I was moments before my demise and all I could think about was her. Inaudible to my cries I knew that it was better to love than to never love at all. My heart had been fulfilled by the nourishment of another. It was okay. I was okay because I was loved in my lifetime. It was okay because I knew her. I had the privilege. 2015: Hats were thrown into the air and fell like spring rain. Ten minutes later I made my way through the crowds, the groups, and the new generation. I looked for her. I found her and she shined in my eyes as her eyes gathered liquid crystal promises underneath her eyelids. I ran towards her, and she smiled.

The Tree Cat by Gabriel Beury-Moore Commonly being mistaken as other trees when it is spoken of, the tree cat is exactly what its name describes. Some say the tree cat was once a house cat. He lived with a young man who worked hard during the day and would come home to his best friend waiting for him, and everyday the cat would greet him with excitement and joy. He waited for his owner to come home. He waited for days: pacing around outside, running inside at the slightest noise indoors, and running around the whole house just to make sure his owner was not hiding. Eventually, the cat just stopped. He sat patiently outside in the rain, in the snow, at night, and all day. Before his transformation, he did not know of the magic that lived inside him, for he thought he was just a cat. But as a tree grows its root into the ground, the cat’s fur grew into the soil, absorbing his nutrients through the water he drank. His skin became hard with rigor, to become the bark of a tree. His body grew straight up to the sky; he reached for the sweet rays of the sun to drink in the warmth and energy it gave him. Like the leaves of a tree, his fur changed with the seasons. It was bright and full of luster in the summer, colorful and vibrant in fall, cold and dark in the harsh snows of winter, and in the spring his fur would slowly fade its color until it became bright again in the summer as the air became warmer. Unlike the leaves of a tree, his fur never fell. Slowly, over many years, his fur became broader and wider to soak in the sun. Finally, the once small house cat became tall and filled with beautiful leaves, his face hidden perfectly by them. He listened to the messages the wind brought him, and the stories the tall grass told him, but he would only open his eyes once a day to wish the sun a good morning and bid the moon a good night. The rain, when it came, brought news of what was happening around the world. Sometimes the rain told sad tales of war and famine; sometimes the rain told tales of peace. However, when the rain asked what the tree cat would like to know, he asked the same question, “Have you seen my owner?” And every time he asked, the rain was deeply saddened. The rain told him, “I have not seen your owner, but I know he is safe.” With that news, the tree cat shut his eyes and smiled. While it was sad that no one had seen his old friend, he took solace in knowing that his best friend was okay. Why am I telling you this story? I am an old friend of the tree cat. I knew him when he was just a small kitten. I knew him as the cheerful boy who faithfully followed his owner wherever he went. I was there when he could not find him. He asked me, “Have you seen my owner?” And I responded, “I’m sorry, but I have not.” I told him that if he waited, he could drink from me as much as he wanted, that he could bask in the suns that warm the Earth, that he could eat the food that grows by my banks, that he could play in the sand that builds with my ebb and flow. For years, I took care and watched over the once young cat while he sat patiently. I watched him grow into the majestic tree that he is today. He continues to thrive and to smile at me when I say hello. And every day he asks all he sees if they have seen his owner, and every day we lie to him. We keep him company and we keep him happy by telling stories of time and stories of the world. We do not tell him of the day his owner passed. We keep from him that his owner visited him every day, but he could not see him. We fail to mention that he built a home to stay with him forever. We forget that his son would sit in the shade of the tree cat. We remember that every day his owner would tell him that he loves him. We keep from him that his owner’s children buried him just behind the tree cat and he could know that he was always with him if he could just look down. Most importantly, we have not told him that his owner buried him in the exact spot he grows. The owner was special; he spoke to all of us knowing that we were listening. He knew that he would outlive his small friend and he prepared for his passing every day. Every day he told us stories to then tell his friend. On the day of the tree cat’s passing, he asked us one thing. He asked the grass, the suns, the moon, the wind, the rain, and myself just one thing. He asked us not to tell his friend that he has passed. He prepared us and coached us to tell the tree cat the stories he told us for years. Before he placed his small friend into the ground we asked him, “But what do we tell him when we run out of stories?” He told us that by the time we run out of stories, he would be back to relieve us of our responsibility. With that, he ever so carefully placed his small friend into the ground and placed the earth over him. He said a quick goodbye and went on with his life, making sure to see the tree cat everyday. He made sure to thank each of us for our help. He did this every day until the day he died. Soon, the house that he started a family in became covered in vines. With no one to care for it, the house became disheveled and fell apart. As years turned to decades and decades to centuries, the stories we had began to dwindle to smaller and smaller numbers. On the last day, I told my final story to the tree cat. As I ended the story, the tree cat opened his eyes; he smiled and told me what a wonderful story it was. As he told me this, he got a peculiar look on his face. A new wind had arrived, one he had not felt before. It greeted him with a voice as old as he could remember. The tree cat asked, “Where have you been all these years? Why did you leave me?” “I never left you, old friend. I have been with you your whole life and past-life. I was in the stories your friends would tell you and in the air you breathe, the sun that wakes you, and the water you drink.” With that said, the tree cat and his owner looked at each other with the same look they gave each other when they lived, each carrying a slight smile. What I saw then I had never seen since before I flowed into this land. As the two friends stared at each other, not saying a word, a single leaf fell from the tree cat’s face. As the leaf fell, his smile disappeared slowly with each leaf making it smaller and smaller until his face had disappeared. As the leaves fell, the wind began to take form. The shape of a young man appeared next to a small kitten playing in a pile of leaves. As the last leaf fell, the tree cat jumped into the welcome arms of his owner and when the leaf finally fluttered to the ground, the cat and his owner faded away to spend the rest of time together.

"Wake up, Timothy.....Timothy, dear, wake up!" “Ugh...what?” “Wake up! We're leaving soon!” Timothy rose from his bead, still groggy. Beside him was his wife, already dressed. He glanced at his clock; 3:20 AM, it read. “Margaret, what are you doing awake and dressed at three in the morning? Why are you waking me up?”, said Timothy, yawning. “We're leaving soon!” “Leaving where?” “Oh...well, its a surprise, you'll just have to wait until Jeffery comes. Then we will leave!”, said Margaret. She seemed quite excited for this place they were going to. “Who's Jeffery? Why do we have to wait for him?” “Because he's the one taking us!” “Margaret, I don't want to go anywhere. I want to sleep. I have work in the morning, how am I supposed to be on time if I don't get any sleep?” “You don't need to worry about work, dear. Now get dressed! I'm going to go fix us some breakfast.” Margaret left the bedroom, and headed towards the kitchen. Timothy could hear her humming to herself happily as she prepared their food. As reluctant as he was, he got out of bed and dressed himself. He didn't want to go anywhere; but Margaret had been quite distant lately; not herself. This was the first time in weeks he had seen her happy. He decided he'd go along with it, for her sake. As he walked into the kitchen, Margaret stood at the stove smiling, frying some eggs. “How would you like your eggs, dear?” “Runny.” Timothy walked to the coffee maker, and began to make some coffee. He soon realized that Margaret had stopped humming; so he turned around. She was standing completely still, staring at him blankly. “What are you looking at me like that for?”, he asked. No response. “Margaret, what's wrong?” “Oh, what?”, she said, as she snapped back into reality. “You were staring at me.” “Oh, sorry. Silly me, I guess I'm still a bit tired!” She resumed cooking the eggs and humming. Timothy finished brewing his coffee just as Margaret finished cooking the eggs. She prepared them plates, and they sat down to eat. “So, where are we going?”, Timothy asked. “I can't tell you, dear. Its a surprise.” “What kind of surprise?” “A special surprise, just for you.” “A surprise? For me? It better be damn good if its at 3 AM in the morning. When are we leaving?” “Oh, I don't know. As soon as Jeffery gets here.” About a half hour had passed, and they had both finished eating. Timothy was in the living room, fiddling with the T.V.. Margaret sat next to him, reading a book. “Margaret, did you mess with the T.V.? Its just fuzzy white noise.” “No dear, I didn't touch it.” “Whatever. There's probably nothing good on, anyway. Can we leave yet?” “No, not yet. We need to wait 'till Jeffery comes.” “I think this Jeffery guy is a bit late.”, said Timothy, mildly annoyed. Another half hour passed, and at this point Timothy was laying on the floor, half asleep. His eyes became heavy, and soon the image of Margaret underneath the lamp had dimmed to blackness. “Wake up, Timothy! Wake up! Timothy!” Timothy opened his eyes. He was back in his bed, with Margaret sitting on the bed next to him, with a worried look on her face. “Timothy, you were talking in your sleep, and you're sweating.” “What? How did I get in my bed? Is Jeffery here yet? He glanced at the clock; 5:48 AM. “Who's Jeffery, Timothy?” “Jeffery, Margaret. You know, he was going to take us to the surprise, remember? You woke me up at 3 AM!” “What? I don't know a Jeffery, and I didn't wake you up. You must have been dreaming, that's probably why you were talking in your sleep.” “Maybe...Margaret, I had a very strange dream. You woke me up, and we were going to go to my surprise, but you said we had to wait for Jeffery, and-” “Oh, honey! You're cold!” “I'm what?”, said Timothy, confused. “You're cold! But you're sweating! I'm calling the doctor.” Margaret left the bedroom, and he could soon hear her talking on the phone with the doctor. He touched his forehead; it was cold. Stone cold. So was his arm, and his leg, and the rest of his body. Ice cold. He shivered. The doorbell rang. “Wow, that was fast!”, exclaimed Margaret. Timothy could hear her answer the door. “Who are you? You're not the doctor.” “No, I'm not,” said a man with a raspy voice. “I'm here for Timothy.” “He's in the bedroom...but who are you? What do you want?” “I'm Jeffery,” he said, “The undertaker.

Champagne, chardonnay and second-rate vodka. The descent into Vanity Heights was a perfect contradiction. Darcy’s den was full of promises. The promises of allure, freedom, revelry. The promises of power and powder, regret, addiction. But the promise that Vanity Heights fulfilled best was not Darcy’s own. It was the promise flashed upon the television, upon the computer screen, canonised on the glossed pages of magazines. The expectations of how teenager life should be; the expectations, up until this night, crushed by education and responsibility. This was the promise that led Darcy’s guests down the stairs. Down the stairs into Vanity Heights. The house had transformed into a delinquent ballroom. The girls dropped as low as their heels would allow; their men watched through the haze. Darcy was a dragon. A pink dragon, breathing about the toxic smoke of his habit. He was perched upon his barstool throne, positioned strategically in the centre of the room, when she arrived. “Celeste!” he exclaimed, prancing over to her, a stick of addiction in one hand and a glass of hobby in the other. She gave a long hug, a short conversation and an expected question. With a customary smile, Darcy gave to her an expected bottle of answer. The party raved on, yet the revelry was muted by the brick wall that barricaded Celeste from the action. The rhythmic dripping of the basin tap was the only music Celeste had, yet she chose to reapply her face instead of dancing. She wanted to dance, though, and she knew Darcy would be waiting for her, so she rushed through her routine. She clasped onto her 50mL glass friend, already thrice-used, even though she had been in the bathroom only five minutes. The drink was downed within seconds of being poured; the liquid sunk to her stomach. She could feel the warm tendrils, cooing words of friendship, branching through her chest, her stomach and finally, finally, back up to drown her mind; pulling her further from the world and closer to her weekend friends. Six doses later, to finish the bottle, and she was ready to join them. No one ever really knew why she was there. Good school, great grades, aspirations of business and law. Nevertheless, she was soon jiving and twisting and dropping on the floor, with Darcy and other men: around them and in their laps; their hands hoping to get in hers. Her beholder lay seemingly dormant in her stomach; though its dark tendrils were tightening, strengthening their grip on Celeste, controlling her like a puppet with tangled strings. She thought the overseer a friend, a protector, but her body knew better. Celeste mapped her escape as soon as she felt it. Up the stairs, out of Vanity Heights, past the kitchen, into the garden bed just by the backdoor. She pushed through the crowd. Darcy saw her leave; he knew why, but he didn’t follow. He never did. By the time she reached the stairs, the beast had revealed itself. A kraken, furious as red, limbs thrashing about inside of her, fighting desperately for an escape. Tentacles of fear, doubt, regret, disappointment. ‘No,’ she thought once more, ‘I shouldn’t be disappointed.’ She knew she wasn't wasting her life; she was just having a little to drink. She wasn’t reckless and irresponsible; she was just a normal teenager. She was just having fun, she has earned it, she would stop after tonight, leave her alone. Her stomach was having none of that, though. She made a mistake by trying to fly the stairs two at a time. Her feet tangled and she fell, the first wave of expel surging from her, onto the steps above. Whilst the beast had once been considered friend, it had no more. It escaped her again, covering her hair, clothes, face. She tried to pull herself further up the stairs, but the sickly purple tentacles constricted about her and dragged her down; down, down, down, back into Vanity Heights. ‘Vile guardian’, she cried, ‘noxious saviour, foul beast, nefarious raper; first friend, now foe. Always, foe’. The stench accompanying her disgrace engulfed her wholly, yet the contents of her stomach continued to emerge, again and again, onto the step where her head now resigned to lay. ‘Never again,’ she sobbed, she promised to herself, her parents, her schoolwork. ‘Never again,’ she promised, but Celeste’s promises were made to be broken and it was already too late. She lay shattered upon the stair case, empress turned peasant; her knight in glass armour had left her and once more she had nothing. The world around her spun, and sank, and faded to black.

Riot The street was full, packed from side to side. Hundreds, thousands of people, streamed down the avenue. A low roar came from the crowd. Windows shattered as they passed store fronts. Car alarms sounded, and then faltered and fell into submission. Street signs were bent, and then disappeared into the bulk of people. They kept marching forward, an unstoppable mass of humanity. Maybe it was caused by ever increasing taxes, it could have been a court judgment that they didn’t agree with, possibly their sports team won a championship. They could have been rebelling against unfair laws, or wars they didn’t agree with. The angry mob of people may have been supporting any cause that could be imagined, yet it didn’t stop the fact that they were marching through their own city, destroying their own stores and their own cars, ruining the streets that their tax dollars paid for. Their reasons for rebellion didn’t stop the fact that when a man fell down the crowd didn’t pause, it still pushed forward. Feet marched right over their fallen brothers and sisters. Ahead of them was a monument. A depiction of freedom maybe, or possibly a building that housed their government’s leaders, ahead of them could have simply been an open area where the group could disperse. But blocking their way was a single line of armed troops. Dressed in black riot gear, helmets with plastic visors hanging down over their faces, men stood holding tall shields, armed with large automatic weapons. In front of them were sandbags and red and white striped saw horses. Behind them were big black vehicles, armored to the teeth, like children’s toys. From the top of one vehicle stood a speaker and from that speaker an emotionless voice demanded that the people halt and disband. The speaker warned of the use of deadly force if they continued. But the crowd had no choice; even if the people in front stopped they would be trampled by the people surging forward behind them. That wasn’t what they thought though. The force behind them made them feel unstoppable. As a single unit of people they felt invincible. The gap between the two forces closed. Weapons were drawn, cocked and aimed. A final warning was given to the crowd, the speaker sounded like it didn’t expect any sort of change to actually occur. A man, dressed in black, held a gun and aimed it into the crowd. His mouth moved, the word ‘Ready’ was heard. His eyes focused on where his bullet would be sent. He opened his mouth again, ‘Aim’ came out of it. Which was redundant, everyone had already planned on where their projectiles would be placed. ‘Fire’, was the final word that was heard before people started to fall down before them. Guns fired rapidly, automatic weapons built for slaughtering people sawed through the oncoming mass of humanity. They fell in lines. Like waves they crashed to the cold asphalt. The gunmen showed no emotion as they laid people down to rest, they were coldly following orders. There was no moral objection; morals played no part in their job. The onrushing people marched over their fallen brethren, stepped over the slippery bodies and pushed closer to the men who were firing upon them before they fell in heaps themselves. Guns began smoking. Empty shells popped out and piled up on the ground at the feet of the men dressed in black. The crowd seemed to be never ending, only slightly slowed by the mounds of the fallen bodies that they had to overcome on their way to their goal behind the men who protected it with deadly force. The men worked like machines reloading their weapons, bodies lubricated by sweat, silently repeating trained motions. Guns began to overheat, and were automatically discarded, traded for side arms. The mob of people seemed to pick up their pace, getting closer as hot assault rifle after hot assault rifle was replaced by cool, single shot, side arm. The crowd over took the saw horses first, still falling to bullets, still piling up and being walked over. The wood splintered crushed under the trampling force of the publics will. Next they overcame the sandbags, which were soon hidden underneath the smashed and bleeding faces, arms, legs and torsos of those who fell while crossing them. Bullets screamed, cutting through air and flesh, destroying. Finally, as they approached the men dressed in black, whose job it was to protect what was behind them, whose task it was to keep order, while they were still falling to bullets being fired and they over too even them. Black uniform after black uniform, the men were engulfed by the oncoming crowd. One gun after another went silent. In the end, after hundreds of bodies had been tallied, after the crowd had stormed whatever had been their destination. Men and women were laid into the ground. Those men in black who shot down the oncoming crowd were laid in graves besides those who they shot. Their tombstones shared the same last names as those people from the oncoming crowd that they were laid next to. In the end, we seek a moral. Yet we may find only chaos.

I wrote a short story last night on a whim. It started as one thing but the end result was something completely different than I intended. Nevertheless, this is my first piece of writing that I'm actually proud of. I'd like to show my boyfriend because he's the kind of person who would appreciate a story like this, but I need some second opinions if it's even good or not (I've never showed anyone my work before) So feedback and critique would be great! (I understand there are probably a lot of grammatical errors, but I put periods where I wanted them for effect, not for proper grammar. so critique on the story itself and the way it is presented only please, no grammar point-outs) Thanks in advance Redditers! It's as black as the velvet of a noble's overcoat. As dark as the night during a new moon. I can't see a thing, and there's this feeling I can't seem to shake. I don't know why it's so dark and I don't know where I am. how long has it been? I feel like I've been sitting here for hours. Or maybe my perception of time is so thrown off it's actually been years. I'm getting scared. I'm trying not to let the darkness consume me and drive me to insanity. It's hard. it's hard. It's too hard. I've been here too long. I can feel my composure slipping away with every second that passes by. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock... Sometimes it feels like I'm not even in my own body anymore. I have to remind myself how to feel the sensation of touch. Why is this happening to me? Am I dead? Is this Hell? Or is this the "nothingness" the Atheist's who often pass through the pub say happens after you die? Maybe their right. Maybe there isn't a God. Why would someone lie to people like that? Lie about there being a God? To strike fear in our hearts? It doesn't make sense. It's hard to make sense out of things. It's hard. It's hard. It's too hard. Tick. Tock, Tick. Tock. When I scream I can't hear anything. It's like my words are staying inside my head and aren't coming out of my mouth no matter how hard I try. I can't call for help. No one can hear me. Is there even anyone around? I can't see anything. I can't hear anything except my own thoughts. It' getting harder to remember how to feel. Will my emotions slip away next? I hope so. I don't want to feel this anymore. Whatever "this" even is. Was I not goo enough in my life? Or does this happen to everyone regardless of their morals and behaviors during their lifetime? ... What was my life again? Dad... The pub... Travelers... stories... Kara... Kara. My sweet Kara! I almost forgot about you. I'm sorry. It's getting hard to re-conjure everything when I forget. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. It's getting hard. It's getting hard. It's getting too hard. Tick... Tock... Tick... Tock... Kara. Kara. Kara. Kara. I just need to think about Kara and I'll be alright. Kara will save me. Kara will help me. Kara will help me feel better. I just need to think about Kara. Kara is light. Kara is MY light. Kara is my happiness. Kara is my everything... But it's getting hard. I can't forget you. I won't forget you. Oh please don't let me forget you. I'll give up all of my memories as long as I can keep the memory of you. ... It's slipping. It's slipping. I can feel it slipping. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's getting hard. It's getting hard. It's getting too hard. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. I have to remember. I have to remember. I have to remember you... Think about something. A memory. A moment between us. A memory. A year ago... One year ago... Two years ago? Last week? Time doesn't make sense right now. Nothing makes sense right now. Tick Tock Tick Tock Ti- NO! I can't slip away... What was I thinking about? Time... A year ago. Kara... KARA! I was trying to remember Kara! My sweet Kara. A memory. A memory. Breathe. Breathing. you're breathing. Why are you breathing so fast? Are you okay? Where you running from something? Is someone chasing you? Breathe. You're breathing. You're breathing. Fast. It's getting faster. I can feel it. I can feel your breathe on me, Why are you breathing you so close? Is it me? Was I the one chasing you? Am i hurting you? No. No. No. Did I kill you? Are you gone? Is this why I'm here? Tick. I this the sin I've committed that brought me here? Tock. Does that mean there is a God? I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry Kara. I'm sorry God. I'm sorry. I promise I won't do it again. I've learned my lesson. I promise. I promise. I promise I'll be good. I'll be good like I was before I hurt Kara. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Why did I hurt you? Did you do something to me? Was I going through temporary insanity? Why would I do that? Hurt. You're hurting. Your face is twisted. It's in pain. You're in pain. I'm sorry. i'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I wish I could apologize, but you're gone. you're gone. I can never see you again. Kara. Kara come back. I love you. I love you Sara. At least you're not hurting anymore. I'll always remember. I'll always remember you. Remember Sansa. No matter what, even if everything slips away, I'll never forget. even just you;re name is enough for me. My sweet Hanna... Wait. What? What was it again? Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Tick. you're name. I can't remember you're name. Tock. Hanna? Kayla? Sara? Caroline? Kara? Elizabeth? Victoria? Sansa? NO. NO. NO. NO. Tick. Name. Name. I have to remember your name. Tock. Name... Tick. A name. Tock. But who's name? Tick my name? Tock. What is my name? Tick. Name Tock. A Name. Tick. Hard. Tock. Hard. Tick. it's too hard... Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick... Tock.. Tick... ...

"I think Jim's dead." These are the last words Martha White expected to hear when she hurriedly answered the ringing phone, mostly just to silence the ringing. Her mind was still clutching on to fragments of her dream until a voice ripped her into a black hole of reality. "I think Jim's dead." The voice was familiar, but it took her a few moments to connect it to a name. Sean Lovell. Her son, Jim's, best friend. "Sean? What-- what are you talking about?" she asked. "Mrs. White, I don't know.. I think Jim's--" "Jim is fine," Martha interrupted, "he's asleep in his room. It's a school night." "No, Mrs. White. Jim snuck out tonight to come to a party in the city and there was a.. he had a few drinks, but we didn't.." Sean didn't seem to know what he was going to say until he said it. He was normally very well spoken, but on the phone tonight, every word seemed a hurdle he couldn't leap. "I think it would be best if you came to Dr. Grove's as soon as you can. They won't let me look at the b.." Sean caught his throat, sighed, and continued, "they won't let me make sure it's him. They want family." Martha terminated the call and ran out the door towards Jim's room without bothering to get dressed. As she reached Jim's door, only twenty feet from her own door, she reached up instictively to knock. Before she could bring her knuckle to the door, she felt her hand halt its course and instead make its way to the handle. She turned the knob. The door opened. Jim wasn't in his room. -- Dr. Samuel Grove was a wise old man with wise old hands. His hands were once destined to throw footballs. He was a high school star until a knee injury that left him limping to this day ended those dreams. Recently, his hands are good for locating pain and writing reports. Performing the latter, his left hand is hard at work describing the extent of the injuries to the covered corpse behind him. The corpse, he was fairly certain, is the boy of a woman that he used to love. His right hand performs the former as he massages his temples around his glasses. As he finishes his report, he moves out into the waiting room. In any other house, this would be the living room, but Dr. Grove long ago turned his home into his private practice. He kept the feel of a living in tact as much as he could, but over the years the empty spaces began to get filled with magazine holders, water coolers, and brochures for the latest prescription drugs. This is where Sean Lovell sat staring at his phone. With a tap, Sean could access any aspect global interconnectivity. He only stared at his phone, unable to leave his mind. "Sean, how are you doing?" Dr. Grove had a wise old voice. "I keep going over tonight in my head. Again and again. I never worry about the small things, but I can't help but feel that if any one of the small things that happened tonight happened differently, Jim wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be here." Dr. Grove studied Sean. He was a good kid who only got in the usual trouble. This was the most new experience to every happen to him. Dr. Grove moved in and sat on the yellow cotton couch next to Sean and put his wise hand on the boy's knee. It would be locating and soothing pain this time. "The worst part about how we experience time is we only experience it one direction. The worst part about how we experience memories is thinking that we could outsmart time." Dr. Grove waited until Sean looked at him to continue, "but people like your friend Jim could make you forget about time and forge new memories. If you focus now on what you and he could've done instead of what you and he have done, then it'll be a whole lot harder to forget about time and make new memories later." Sean gave a half smile and a nod of understanding, looked back at his phone, and began to cry. -- Martha White was on autopilot when she knocked on Dr. Grove's door. She saw Jim was gone, and now she was here. She barely remembers getting dressed and driving over as thoughts, worries and outcomes overflowed in her mind. Dr. Grove answered the door and showed Martha inside. She asked to speak to Sean Lovell. Sean was in the waiting room. "Sean, what happened? Are you sure it's Jim?" Martha's voice had worry, wonder, and confusion in it. All of these blended together and came out as sounding angry. "I'm sorry, Mrs. White! I.. we were at a party in the city. Some kids from high school.. we, Jim, was drinking and he had an argument with a girl. A big one. It wasn't even about anything serious. It was about a school project. He came up to me and told me he was leaving and then he left. I.. I'm so sorry Mrs. White..." Sean began to hear his voice rising. He was losing control of his emotions. "I didn't think to stop him," Sean continued, "but I went after him about 20 minutes later. He was coming home, Mrs. White, so I took the road through the woods from the city to avoid traffic lights. Not even 5 miles in, I saw the police lights, and then I saw his car. It was.. it was wrapped around a tree." At this, Martha began to cry and tremble. Sean moved to console the old woman, and she accepted the consoling. Sean continued. "They told me that the ambulance had already taken him here, so I came as soon as I could and called you on the way." They sat in tears and mutual sadness until Dr. Grove came into the room. "Mrs. White, Martha, whenever you're ready, I need you to identify the body." "I'm ready now, Sam," Martha said. She sniffed and wiped tears from her eyes, and out of habit, she caught herself in the mirror. *What a sad old woman*. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting there this long." Martha spoke to Dr. Grove. Dr. Grove positioned Martha by the side of the table. He looked at the woman before he put his hands on the sheet covering the body. This woman was going to lose a son tonight, and any doubt that is holding her together now will soon be gone. "Take your time Martha," Dr. Grove said as he slowly revealed the corpse, "but tell me, is this your son? Is this J--" Martha crumbled to the floor crying at the sight of Jim's long brown hair matted in blood.

My laptop, balanced precariously on the end of the desk, still whispered a faint hum from across the room, as though it were trying to convey a message only I was allowed to hear. I glanced at the red digits vying for my attention on the bedside table. 22:59. I was up in 7 hours. Well, 7 hours and 1 minute. Normally I'd have at least 8 hours, and even then the mornings were always difficult. Beyond the clock, the throbbing blue light on the side of my laptop. I had left it asleep, but I'd obviously neglected to turn it off completely. Cursing myself on behalf of my morning temper, I swung my feet onto the scratching carpet below. My ears, suddenly attune, scanned the airwaves for the distant murmur of the television downstairs. Silence. Mum and Dad were normally in bed by 10:30, especially on a week night. With intrepid steps, I padded my way across the room, being careful to distribute my weight only onto the most silent patches of the floor. The blue light, illuminating the room like a digital lighthouse, grew ever more vivid as I approached the desk. Reaching out both hands, I grabbed the laptop and scampered quickly back to the safety of my duvet. Whilst my eyes did their best to adapt to the influx of light emanating from the screen, my fingers punched in my log in credentials with familiar precision. I was in autopilot. My index finger, remarkably dextrous for this time of the night, touched its way across the small square below the keyboard, loyally taking me to my favourite website. This would take a few minutes at the most, I already had a video in mind. Double click. My right hand begins to slide in between my waist and the elastic that lined my pyjama bottoms. My left hand confirms the volume is turned all the way down. The video buffers, the rotating wheel the only thing between me and my target. I glance up. Dammit, I always glance up. The video begins to play, I can see the naked figures in the haze of my peripheral vision. But I am not watching them. I am watching him, because he is watching me. A dark, lonesome figure, standing tall in the corner nearest the window. His face, doused in a red hue from the alarm clock, forms a wry smile. I close the lid on my laptop, not bothering to shut it down the way dad taught me. The lid clicks shut, and his smile drops suddenly. Without saying a word, he turns back to face the wall. Hopefully he'll stay there until the morning.

“Goodbye”, a clear and unmistakeable message. Albeit no more meaningful in the broad spectrum of human existence than any other word in the English language. What was it about this particular word that made Mark Coleridge decide it to be his final assertion in life? Surely there existed other, more meaningful, less succinct choices within this young man’s vocabulary? Yet, it was this, a singularly simple form of farewell, that was to be his final utterance upon a perpetually spinning, green Earth. To be certain, it was a “goodbye” punctuated by a single gunshot which ended the life of one Mark Coleridge, aged 25 years. I saw the entire sequence of events unfold from my office window, overlooking the square. The once tranquil sea of people became a frenzied mob. Spectators were running this way and that way, while a group of policemen, who had been standing just a few meters away from the gunshot, rushed in to assess the situation. To say that the gunshot had not startled me would be to tell a grave untruth. Indeed, although I been surveying the crowd for anything remotely interesting to take my mind off of the monotony of the endless paperwork, the last thing I expected was to see what would became my next and final case unfold right in front of my very eyes. My eyes had been following a young man who was by my estimate, no older than thirty but could not have been any younger than twenty-three . It had been his bright blond hair which had caught my attention. Hair so bright that it was like a lighthouse, guiding the ships of my eyes away from the rocks of his darker haired neighbours and towards his beckoning presence. Just before the gunshot there had been a fierce wind, as if the tragedy that is human death was borne aloft upon its ephemeral wings. I could tell by the great display of flags which provided a backdrop to the day’s hectic events. But as I now type out how the sequence of events did unfold and reveal themselves to me that day I cannot help but think, that the wind was meaningless, just another random occurrence in the day-to-day events that led to where I am now. This young man, whom I had been following with my eyes for a good five minutes, started at the fringes of the crowd and slowly weaved his way to the centre by the fountain which gushed forth the waters of anticipation. Like an ant he was, meandering, twisting, and dodging in and out of a wave of people. When he reached a location which was pleasing to his volition, this was on the ledge of the fountain, situated in the centre of the square. He paused for a few moments, seemingly reflecting on all that was good with the world. Even through the glass of my office window, I could tell that something heavy was weighing down upon his mind. I could feel the sweat dripping down from his forehead and onto his shaking hands. It was then that he suddenly stood up, procuring from his pocket, a magnum revolver, with which he jammed the muzzle underneath his chin, which I could see was shiny with the perspiration of one whose fate now lay within the cold steel barrel of an imported American pistol. I do not remember whether it was the sound of the gunshot at which I jumped or whether it was the sight of this young man, who, in the prime of his youth, seemingly had so much to live for, being blown into oblivion by a small fragment of lead, now ingrained firmly and permanently into his mangled skull. I watched for another hour, I cannot remember the exact time that I remained beside my window. Perhaps it was in some benign tribute to the fallen man that I lingered; Or perhaps I was simply curious as to what would happen next - I had never seen a suicide before. It was when the ambulance came to collect his body that I finally turned away from the window. The sun was setting low over the buildings which faced the square opposite my own. It was then with a sigh that I thought how much of a terrible tragedy the day’s events had witnessed. And then, it was with a greater sigh that I returned to finish the last of the paperwork which lay sprawled before me on the desk. I took the bus home. The sun was saying its final farewells to the world before it suddenly vanished in a ball of flame. I observed all of this on the bus ride home and fleetingly thought that the sun was just like that young man I had witnessed in the square. The only difference being that the sun was sure to rise again, unlike the young man, whose only certainty lay with him in a newly-dug grave. But I thought no more of it as the bus pulled up next to the curb and opened its doors to let myself and several other passengers out. It was my stop, you see and waiting for me at the bus-stop were my lovely wife, Susan, and my two kids, Isaac and Mary. They smiled at me. “How was work, daddy?” my youngest, Mary, sweetly inquired. “Oh,” my mind drifted back to the young man in the bright blonde hair. How innocent he had seemed when I first laid my eyes on him through the office window. “It was certainly interesting, Mary, my dear.” Isaac, my eldest child, who was perpetually adding on inane questions to perfectly reasonable ones, piped up “in what way it was interesting, Daddy?” My eyes flashed daggers of annoyance through my glasses, although none of my family was perceptive enough to notice. “Daddy had a lot of paperwork that was supposed to go to a very important man.” I replied, so nonchalantly, that not a trace of my annoyance revealed itself to my family. We rounded the corner of the street and approached our little terraced house. “Come inside, dear” my wife lilted, “I have dinner on the table waiting for you.” As the smell of freshly baked potato wafted through my nostrils all previous thoughts of the young blonde-haired man disappeared as promptly as the setting sun did not but a little while ago.

On that clement Saturday afternoon I was journeying all the way back to my home for weekend off on Chennai mail and felt considerably happy that I managed to get a seat , a rare affair. We were seven in that compartment and opposite to me positioned a group of three charming energetic talkative sensible looking boys .To my left was a middle aged aunty and her daughter (seems so..) sat next to her . Hmm… for every reason she looks pretty beautiful …and right to me was an old man whom on every running second doing his very best to prove to be a gold winning champion in some “ irritate competition”. I was the one who suffered due to his unnatural doubts and worries but I couldn’t pay scant regard to his questions as I was at his mercy…seat no 26 was his reserve and when that large hearted old desi clint eastwood allowed me to share his seat I was unwaware of the fact that in lieu of his mercy he is asking my right ear drum…..for every now and then he pokes me at my triceps with his index finger as if he is trying to scoop some flesh out of my shoulder and throw some silly doubts ……a major share of an hour past.Boys opposite to me was in their world , laughing, enjoying and discussing there on matters…if this oldie wasn’t here,I thought,I could have listen to their discussion. sometimes overhearing is an art by all means or I could have read or listen to music or more importantly I could have catch the glimpse of that beautiful girl not far away from me…..an hour past ..if my shoulder was in pain due to his demonic poking my right ear drum was burning due to the sound pollution caused by that old tongue. Five more minutes past and then that old man took a wonderful decision (at least as far as I’m concerned) that to take a nap…I felt like mother india of august 14 1947’s midnight .Sleep dear sleep don’t wake till ernakulam, I prayed….subsequently train halted for some crossing and I lend my ear to those young lads discussion.One among them , a short one was briefing how he could not make out to some selection due to below par height….he doesn’t seems defeated due to this shortfall but definitely sounds concerned or diffident . I was not the only one who read his concern from his words but one of his friends , a medium tall boy too. Train started and gradually picked speed . The aunt next to me was devoted herself in some Malayalam magazine and that beautiful girl ,resting her chin on left palm, was listening to some music tapping her left hand fingers gently and rhythimtically at her cheeks and kept repeatedly tucking her disobedient wisp of hair behind ears …the medium tall boy was still engaged in his motivation class for his short friend… I could feel his words were no nonsense and I sensed not only me everyone except the old man is overhearing his so called motivation talk. Meantime from another compartment some kid kicked off a loud shrilling cry that pierced the air over there and our old man lost his sleep I conjured soon this man will engage for another bout of irritate competition but to my surprise nothing happened for a while . I checked, much to my relief he is seriously listening to the medium tall boy… his speech veered to instances of famous personalities not tall. List ranged from Sachin Tendulkar,Charlie Chaplin ,Beethoven to Mozart and Hitler ….suddenly a voice raised in that compartment a voice which is eerily familiar to my right ear drum…….yes the oldie is back. He asked the young man how tall is Sachin ? hw abt Chaplin? What is the case of Mozart and Beethoven? The medium tall boy was surprised by the rapid fire of questions especially he was not even aware of the fact that somebody other than his friends are listening to his lecture but he kept his composure and answered that all of them are short may be below 165 cm . The old man fired the next question how tall was Hitler? Boy said he too was a short man…his friends also gave him ample support as all of them were sure that Hitler was a short man. The oldie turned his head and asked me the same Hitler question . I mused, as far as I know he must be a short person. I said, I think he was not that tall may be some 5 ft 5 or 6 inch. The old man enthusiastically passed the question to the lady participants. The aunty said an immediate pass but the girl made a try that Hitler was about 165 cm. the oldie said with winners smile that we all are wrong .. Mr. Adolf Hitler was not that short…….he was 173 cm tall that means 5ft 8’’ . I was surprised by this interesting fact and not the only one in fact everyone seemed so. The third boy ,a long haired bespectacled one, out of mental indigestion flipped his iPad cover and browsed only to discover our oldie is absolutely correct. Everyone got convinced about this small piece of information. I smiled at him admiringly and he acknowledged it with a nod. The ice broken in our compartment and everyone started to communicate each other. All of them were heading to Chennai, those boys for some interview ,aunty and her daughter(oh yes now confirmed) going for attending some function and oldie ,it seems like surprises are the order of the day, is all the way to meet Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu and he is the director of a famous NGO. He kept talking . His topics were nothing different than his former doubts and worries but it didn’t feel like nonsense anymore…..what had changed? ……train entered ernakulam town station I wished all of them a happy jouney and detrained….when I walked towards exit the same question raced around in my head. what had changed? …….soon I got the answer , nothing but.. just my attitude..yes my attitude . I must put this entire episode in black and white,I decided. Walked fairly fast to pick an auto taxi …….

I was startled by the zip on my tent opening..After living in alley ways filled with rats, and a certain group of people less civil then the critters themselves, ive grown accustomed to being woken up randomly. But this was different, I awoke with a strange feeling that whoever was outside my half tin half tent abode, did not want to simply ask for a cigarette or spare change. "Whos out there" I said feeling around for my camplight. "My name isnt improtant, come with me now and your life will never be the same". Said the voice outside my tent, with a sense of urgency probably due to the fact that it was pouring with rain. I paused for a second realizing the chances of my life becoming worse at this point in time were near on impossible. "Let me get my coat".

It was a normal day. In fact, it was a day so normal, it was almost strange; after all, most days have at least something out of the ordinary happen. To have a day where everything goes to plan is odd, and almost enough to draw suspicion. But even under close scrutiny, nothing was found. It seemed to be just your average, run-of-the-mill Tuesday. Except it was Wednesday. “Ugh, it happened again,” Monica moaned, dropping her bag inside the door as she walked through. Rain soaked the parts of her clothing the umbrella couldn’t protect, and usually straight red hair had become a tangled mess below her shoulders. A pout clouded an otherwise attractive face as she turned and faced the living room’s sole occupant. “Which it? The guy with the hook for a hand?” David asked, pushing his glasses back up his nose. The thirteen year old grinned at the sour look on his sister’s face. “No, thank goodness. I swear, if he tries to hook my underwear one more time, I’m going to bury that thing in his eye!” she fumed, flopping onto the couch and kicking off her heels. “No, I lost a day. Again. I could have sworn today was Tuesday.” “Yesterday was Tuesday,” David offered absently, staring at the papers in front of him once again. “I know that now, genius,” Monica snapped half-heartedly. “I was on the wrong dance schedule all morning. Bob yelled at me, said I was messing up his choreography. As if anyone even cares; as long as half-naked women are dancing, men aren’t paying attention to the choreography.” “I’m not gonna comment,” her brother answered. Monica chuckled. “Smart kid,” she said. “What are you working on?” “Next month. If we keep the way we’re going, we’ll be about $50 behind our rent.” “Can’t we take that out of food?” David shook his head. “I’ve got us on two meals a day already, and you need to stay healthy to keep dancing. Dad still gets his allowance…” “Which means beer,” Monica grumbled. “… and he stays in his room. I’m mowing lawns for Mrs. Ellis, Mr. Brown, and Mr. Lewis this next week. Which means the only thing left to take money from is…” “No, David.” Monica cut him off. “We aren’t taking it from our savings. There’s barely enough in there to send you to a community college as it is.” “We need the money,” David insisted, facing his sister once again. “And we’ll get it. Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out. I always do.” She gave him a lopsided grin, tussling his short brown hair. “One of us has to make it big.” David looked down, and Monica put her arm around his shoulders. “Look, David, it will be fine. I always take care of us, right?” “You always take care of me and dad,” he answered bitterly. “Who takes care of you?” Monica paused for a moment, taken by surprise and unsure what to say. “My loverly child’ren!” Monica closed her eyes in exasperation. “Is he drunk already? It’s only six!” she whispered David. “I don’t know! I thought I found all the bottles we hadn’t locked in the fridge! He’s good at hiding them,” he grunted in response. “What’re we doin’, what’re we doin’ over here?” their father asked, stumbling towards the table. Monica jumped up and supported him under one shoulder. “Dad,” she said sweetly, “Did you start drinking early again? I thought we weren’t going to do that anymore.” “’m not drunk! Jus’ sick of bein’ cooped up, s’all.” Glancing down at his soon, the father’s face softened. “How’s my genius doin’? You aren’t gonna follow yer’ sister n’ become a stripper, right?” David turned red, and Monica jumped in before he could speak. “You’re right, dad. He’s going to college, he’ll be a big business man. He’s much too smart to end up like me.” “Damn’ed right he is,” her father stated with conviction. “Ev’n now, he’s doin’ the whole money thing, with our bills. Smart boy, smart boy.” “Yes, dad, he is. But dad, it looks like we’re not going to have enough money,” Monica continued, turning her father to face her and holding his shoulders for support. “Do you think we could use some of your allowance for rent this month?” Her father’s face crumpled, and tears began to fall from his eyes. “I spent’t all already, I was thirsty. I’m sorry,” he blubbered. Monica let her head drop, fighting back her own tears of frustration. When she looked up, her smile was back in place. “It’s okay, dad. We’ll be fine. Why don’t we go into the living room so you can watch the game?” “I’m a terrible father! I’ve got a son, who’sa genius, slavin’ away, and a stripper-daughter. I’m such a terr’ble father,” he wailed and moaned, allowing his daughter to lead him to the couch and lower him down. It wasn’t more than a few minutes before his snores could be heard from the kitchen table. Monica walked back in, massaging her temples. “It’s going to be hell when he wakes up with that hangover,” she muttered. Seeing David’s expression, she brightened. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m gonna find out how to get us that extra $50. Just let me clean up a bit.” Head high, she walked down the hall into the bathroom. She rummaged through the drawers until she found the small plastic bottle she was looking for. “These had better work as well as they claim,” she muttered to herself, taking the prescribed amount and tilting her head back to swallow it. “Just make sure this one doesn’t hit you.” Monica jumped at the voice and spun to face her brother. Neither said anything for a moment, and she eventually let down her guard. “I guess you figured it out, huh?” she asked, holding up the bottle of birth control pills. “Your make-up was good. But I know a black eye when I see one. I’ve gotten a couple myself,” the small boy grinned slightly. Monica smiled and pulled her brother into a hug. They stood for a long moment before David spoke again. “It’s not worth it. Me going to some community college is not worth what you’re doing.” Monica cringed at his voice; so distant, it sounded as if he might be in a daze. Pulling away from him, she bent until she was looking him in the eye. “Yes, David, it is. You’re smart; you can make it big. Don’t worry about me; I’ll be fine.” When he didn’t answer, she grinned. “Just remember, some day when you’re big and famous and rich, who helped you get there. Just some stripper.” David’s eyes watered, and he pulled his sister into a hug again. “You’re not just some stripper. You’re my sister.” Monica was silent a moment, contemplating his words. Then she chuckled. “You always were the genius. Come on, let’s get to bed. Another average Tuesday, huh?” “It’s Wednesday.” “Shut up.

The sun filters through the canopy of the light poles, trees, and houses. It covers small swaths of land in leprous splotches. The leaves sag and brush against the ground in silent supplication. Reaching towards the sunlight and dew stained grass, plagued with swarming insects that enrich and take away from the plants. Huge bulbs hang from the fibrous branches and a slug eats a rotten tomato in the potting soil. A worm crawls through the confines of the pot. The leaves rustle against the breeze. A few errant leaves die and fall to the ground not yet rotted still retaining the semblance of life. Birds fly in ovals and land on humming power lines. They stare at the houses and shit. A car door slams in the distance and the day begins. In chaotic harmony other doors slam within fifteen minute intervals and the hums and roars of engines lead the townsfolk to their jobs. Lily emerges from the house of her father and walks around its perimeter. She examines the plants and takes inventory. She pokes the soil and throws old fruit where she finds room. A truck pulls into the driveway and her father shuts the door silently and walks around the house. He finds her pouring water into a pot. “That might be too much water.” “I don’t think so. There are three tomato plants here. They must all fight over the water and I’ve been diligent about watering them everyday, so I don’t think it’s too much. I could possibly skip a day though. How was work?” “Another ten hours of bullshit. Inspecting parts, counting inventory dealing with that dickhead Dave. Has anyone called you back yet?” “No, not that I’m aware of, however, I did just wake up.” He lights a cigarette. “Keep telling jokes like that and you could go on tour.” She walks to the empty potting soil and examines it. A stray shoot pushes through the ground towards the sky. “I think this red onion might have actually sprouted another onion. I can’t be sure yet, but there is a green shoot coming out of it.” He walks over to the plant. “Well, wait and see is all I can tell you. With that, I’m off to bed for the day.” “Night.” She calls after him while he ascends the steps towards the house. She walks around the rest, notes the weeds, and the old grass seed. A young woman walks by with a small dog. Lily waves at the woman. “Cute dog.” She returns to the house and starts a load of laundry. The syrup like detergent dances around the centrifugal tube and water fills the basin. Lily searches the refrigerator for eggs and cooks one. She opens her laptop and clicks on the web browser. A message from an old boyfriend and several others checking on her. “I don’t know why you feel that religion is such an important thing, but I won’t stand in your way of worshiping as long as you don’t tell me I’m going to Hell or that I’m sinful. I won’t be judged by you. Go to your church, but don’t bother trying to date me if you think it will make such a major conflict between us.” No smiley face. Send. She checks the two usual job sites and emails her resume to some temp service that promises her that their jobs can lead to full time positions. The usual forums offer no advice in the job hunt only the same mixture of cynicism and hope. Typing a post, she hears the egg sizzle. She walks to the stove and flips the egg, sprinkles pepper on it, and returns to the computer. The weather offers no solace to her. Delayed rains only bring the hope of no flash floods. Snores from the bedroom assure her that her father remains asleep. A search brings up a redhead from England who exposes her breasts and pantomimes a blowjob. Lily stares at this woman. We’d hold hands and make love. It would be beautiful and we’d be beautiful. We could use each other’s youth and then discard one another. I don’t see what’s wrong with that. Just to brush your soft lips or to run my fingers through your hair, would that be too much to ask. We could search for makeup together or play video games. We could feign gamer girl or be them, we could pretend that we hate men, but we wouldn’t. The men where you are aren’t insane like the ones here. They won’t lie and discard us. They’ll join us in our using of them and understand that we’re enjoying one another not lying to one another. If only,…if only…I could…see you. Ah. Lily raises her panties and closes the laptop. Washing her hands and drying them on a dish towel, she then returns to the egg and places it on a piece of buttered toast. The pepper tickles her nose and she stifles a sneeze. The toast crunches and the egg’s yolk explodes in her mouth. In the distance, metalworkers carry empty canisters of Oxygen and Butane to a collection truck for refilling. The sun stops before the entrance of the metallurgist's shop and he closes the shop door. The truck drives off and whips dust. The metallurgist gulps from a water bottle and spits. He returns to the brick building and continues to spark steel. Lily submerges her hands into the hot water and scrubs the dirt and grime of the dishes. In the basin, the water sloshes and spills onto the counter. Plates delicately klink in the drainer. Lily spies from across the street, the metal workers hoisting long tubes of Oxygen into the back of a truck. She sighs slightly and continues to wash. She opens a book and starts to take notes and to underline passages. She marks a date on her calendar and then shuts it. She studies bastardizations of classic authors with half paragraph blurbs about their lives and their works translated from the original language. Twisting the top off of a beer, she sits back down and reads. Her father yawns and belches. He stomps into the room. “What are you doing?” “Studying for this class. It’s something to do with the Classics. Something about Shakespeare and Chaucer. I don’t really care about who else. I also need to study for that Chemistry test, but I really don’t feel like it. Did you know that there are people in the world that don’t go to college and they end up fine.” She sips. “Yeah, they end up working the same job for ten plus years and never go anyway. I’m not sending you to college to stay in one spot. I want you to learn something that will make you better. I don’t want you to end up like those idiots who take pictures of themselves in the bathroom of restaurants with their tits hanging out, or getting pregnant by accident. College will help you, it’s just that the help is abstract and non-practical. I don’t live by practical it’s worthless. That blond girl that worked at the fast-food joint, you remember?” “No why?’ Lily sips. “She got her degree in nursing through a technical program. She’s stuck there, because she can’t for two goddamn words to save her life. All she can do is suck dick. She’ll be lucky if anyone will want the corn husk of her shell after she’s popped out a few unplanned kids. That may be mean, but she’s stupid and she deserves to remain stupid. Or that nice homosexual boy, said that being a manager was his only dream in the world other than his boyfriend? He’ll be lucky if a small town like this doesn’t lynch him. He can be nice all he wants, but when he acts like that, then we’ll people don’t like that. Those people’s transgressions will come back to them and they’ll feel it one way or the other.” “I guess so. What time do you go to work?” “I leave at around seven. It’s enough time to read and to get shower.” He walks into the bathroom and Lily can hear the shower head ignite. She finishes the beer and tosses the bottle into the trash can. She returns to her work, and then a knock from the door. She answers. “Yes?” “Hi, can I come in?” “No Kyle. You cannot. Please leave and don’t speak to me again.” “Why not?” She places a hand on her hip. “I don’t want to see you again. That’s all you need to know.” “I deserve more than that, sweetie.” “Fuck off.” She shuts the door in his face. Kyle remains on the porch in front of the door. He sees a robin’s nest on the ground and steps on an eggshell. He opens the car door and slams it. The transmission sputters as he accelerates away. Lily returns to her work and rubs her temples. She massages a loose strand of hair into a small knot and then untangles it. Her father emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and searches through the dryer. He walks off into his bedroom and dresses. When he returns, the towel looks like a small wash rag in his leathery hands as he scrubs his hair, a practice that has lead to his need for a wig.

"God I hate myself right now" I muttered as I pulled up to the complex and did a quick search of the parking lot. "Seriously, what the fuck Zack? What could you possibly hope to get out of this?" There was no red car, so I pulled out and crept along to the next apartment complex. It was the middle of the day, but this area of the city was surprisingly empty and dilapidated. Still, I was all nerves, worried that someone might see me. There was a sick, twisted energy exuding from my stomach that kept my hands and face shivering. Despite that and despite the sheer stupidity of what I was trying to do, I kept driving. I didn't know what else to do. I wanted something, *anything* from this relationship, even if it was just heart rending jealousy. "Fuck, this complex is shittier than the last. He's really taking the starving artist ideal to heart, huh?" As I began to circle the lot looking for the red sedan, I started reminiscing about how I'd gotten to this point. I suppose it began seven years ago when I first met her, but that's too far gone. Too many other events and changes stem from that meeting. Instead my mind skipped forward a few years to the first of several painful conversations that we'd have. I guess that's where the jealousy really began. "So you remember that guy who asked me out last week?" she asked me. "Which one? You can't expect me to honestly keep up with your dating life." "Derek! The hot one! He's different from all the others. Remember, he tried to show you how to do a karate kick?" "Ohhhh, that fuckwad. Yeah, what about him?" I was hopelessly in love with this girl, so I couldn't help but let some hostility sink into my words. "He's not a fuckwad. He's actually really nice. Anyways, I went over to his house last night and we made out for like 4 hours. It was *heaven*." "Oh god, here we go again. You go through these guys like candy. Just don't let yourself get hurt, okay?" This must have been the 7th fling she'd had since she'd broken up with her fiance. That was a month ago and I could tell she was coping with meaningless sex, but who was I to say anything? I didn't know the first thing about romance or how to heal a broken heart. I just wanted her to be mine. "I won't get hurt. Derek's different. He's actually happy, unlike everyone else I've dated. And he really likes me. I think this one might last," she chirped. "You've only known him for four hours! And I doubt you guys said much during that time. Whatever. Do what you feel. Wanna grab some lunch?" And that was only the beginning of it. Over the next few weeks, she recounted to me in sordid detail every progressing stage of their carnal relationship. I listened with a ravenously morbid curiosity. I'd never had sex, or even kissed anyone. All I knew of love came from Pornhub, so the things she told me I couldn't help but be fascinated by. And that fascination mixed with a growing jealousy that made me sleepless and gaunt. I was missing classes, blowing off my family and friends in a surprisingly futile attempt to deal with new feelings. In retrospect, I'm glad nobody staged an intervention. I probably would have admitted to a heroin addiction rather than the truth. There! I'd found her car! That meant she was here, with him, right now. I had no idea what to do. I wasn't actually planning on finding her. I figured I would just drive around aimlessly and commiserate over the past until there was nothing else to do. My thoughts were racing like children. They were eager, misguided and stumbling into each other constantly. Should I go up and try to find his apartment? Should I wait by her car? Should I wait till they're done and go in angrily? As I sat there trying to decide on a course of action, my mind flitted to another memory, more recent than the last. "Will you come to dinner with us? Derek really wants to meet you." read the text I'd just gotten. Derek and her were going to restaurants and movies now. This was the closest I'd even seen her get to one of her fuckbuddies. "Fuck you. Why would you even ask that?" ...is what I should have written instead of the cordial confirmation I meekly sent back. Regretting my passivity, I began to get ready. If I was going to be forced to hang out with Derek, the least I could do was look better than him. I shaved, did my hair and wore a suit. Looking at my reflection in the mirror actually made me smile in spite of everything. I looked like a cross between a Gap commercial and a 2nd rate celebrity. God damn, but I was handsome. Too bad it never got me what I wanted. So I drove over to some shitty hookah bar on the other side of town and prepared to mandolin my heart. When I got there, they were sitting next to each other and giggling conspiratorially. I immediately imagined her blowing him on the car ride over. "Hey! How are you guys?! Sorry I'm late. You wouldn't believe how hard it is to get a prostitute to leave your house." I said as I sat down. "Haha, what? Since when do you hire prostitutes?" she asked me. "Oh, I don't. Other people hire them for me. I just inspire excessive gratitude in my friends and unfortunately, many of them don't know how to express it," I replied. Awkward over confidence was my go-to card when I felt uncomfortable. "Oh, I'm sorry. You must be Derek. I'm Zack, with a K. It's nice to finally meet you." "Hi, it's good to meet you too. I've heard so much about you," he replied. "Is that really true about the prostitutes?" "Haha, no. I just make up stories sometimes. I find it makes life a little more interesting. Most days are dull, you know? You have to interject something into them." We then proceeded to spend an entire evening together. After the hookah bar, I took them to a local art gallery and showed off some of my favorite pieces from the Postmodern period. I didn't know the first thing about art, but was great at bullshit like that. They had a good time, I think. I certainly didn't, but I don't think I let it show. I'd gotten pretty good at that over the years. I'd had no other choice if I was determined to keep up my charade. I'd finally gotten out of the car. I'd been pacing back and forth from my Corolla to the stairs. I didn't even know what room they were in. Did they have the blinds open? Were they watching me right now in confusion? Was I going to have security called on me? I was an utter mess of anger, frustration, and arousal. And I couldn't justify any of it. But like a gear, I was being inexorably forced forward bit by piecemeal bit. I made a quick round of the first floor and saw no one resembling my obsessions. So with a deep and violent shaking, I began to climb to stairs onto the second floor. My mind was filled with nipples, fluids and positions I'd gleaned from other people's ecstasy. Somehow I made it to the second floor and eagerly began to make my search but as soon as I turned a the next corner, there was no need - I'd found my sickening goal. There was bile in my throat and I dry heaved a couple of times. Despite the balmy weather, I was still shivering as if I'd just been taken off of an analgesic. They were fucking. The blinds were open. I furtively watched till the end. They were doing it doggy style and facing away from the landing I was on. But even if I had been right next to the window I doubt they could have been bothered from the transcendent ecstasy they were in. I imagined that I could hear their moans from where I was standing and feel the sweat that drenched their bodies in my pits. It was revolting and sensuous. I wanted to record it or run. Part of me was ecstatic at finally seeing her do the things she always talked about. Part of me murderously screamed out of my skin that it should be ***me***. I wish I could say that something definitive happened next - that they saw me, that I barged in angrily making baseless demands, that I shattered the window and let my violent tendencies carry the day. Anything at all, but the truth would be a fitting end to this lukewarm spill of a tale. But life isn't like that. We don't get endings, beginnings or even events that follow logically. No, life is a senseless miasma of unrelated, unpurposed events that hurtle forward through the threads of our lives ripping apart our notions of tenderness to simply arrive nowhere. There are no categories, there is no connection or distinction between events. It is what it is, and what it is resists explanation. So I turned around, with the images seared into my mind, and walked down the stairs, away from that fucking complex, and went home.

I sighed quietly as I regarded the man handcuffed to the chair, his middle-aged features set with a defiant, almost haughty anger. In almost two decades of work, I never understood what it was that prompted bravado in the face of eminent torture. The man had been beaten into unconsciousness, stripped, handcuffed to a chair, and overconfidence still infected every single one of his words. His voice was low and angry as he spoke, eyes locked up at mine, “Do you know who I am? Do you know just how big the pile of shit you’ve just stepped in really is? You’re done in this town, and me and my boys -will- come for you.” The effect of the man’s threat was somewhat lost as a low, cold breeze moved through what had once been his booming Skintrade operation. As the chill moved across the prisoner’s flesh and he shivered, I looked aside to the some three dozen prepubescent girls that had been chained to the wall shake as well, almost in unison. All of them showed signs of recent abuse, the standard stamps of violation and rape as they were whored out and sold by the shivering, overweight man in front of me. I looked the young girls over without pity, mind working over what exactly to do with the juveniles. These children had seen me and my team cut through the men who had brutalized them with a contemptuous amount of ease, and those men’s blood was still congealing along my armor and weapons as the interrogation had begun. One couldn’t logically fault a flock of children for being just as terrified of me as they had been of their rapists. My mind worked at the puzzle of what to do with them, different ideas sparring and attacking each other. In a town as rough as D-No the naked girls wouldn’t last four or five minutes out on the streets without being recaptured or raped to death, so a simple release was out of the question. Such things were important to my squadmates; knowing that they were responsible for the death of some thirty-odd young girls would weigh heavily on them, and a good squad leader always keeps in mind his team’s mental health. I started to release another quiet, weary sigh whenever something amongst the shivering, simpering mass of blue and purple flesh caught my eye. While the rest of the females were shaking nigh uncontrollably, their eyes wide and terrified, it was a stillness more than the movement that demanded attention. There was a young girl near the back of the pack still chained to the wall with the others, but without their jitters and tiny little seizures; her little black eyes stared straight back across the room and met mine. This anorexically thin girl-child had seen me lengthen my fingers into nightmare claws and rip her captor’s rib cage open; had seen my claymore split a man from forehead to pelvis; had even seen me lick fresh blood off of my fingers as I waited for my victims’ leader to regain consciousness… And she wasn’t afraid. She was infuriated, almost insane with rage. With sudden, pure understanding and a small, humorless smile of respect I understood what had happened to her. The pain and stress of what had happened to the other children had broken them, rendered them into useless, crying little beings, but this girl… this girl it had made into something else. It had broken something in her alright, but she had clung to the hatred it had created. She was still sane, still looking for ways to escape, still looking for vengeance on those that had wronged, beaten, and defiled her. For this girl, her trial had induced rage and from her rage I would be able to forge a true weapon. Apparently having noticed at long last that my attention had wandered away from him, my prisoner had finally stopped ranting about how very doomed my squad and I were and was looking at me expectantly. Rather than speaking to him, one of my gloved hands rose and touched against the miniscule nub of electronics that was wrapped about my throat, triggering the subvocal communication system that my team and I used to stay clandestinely in touch. “Twitch…”, a female squad member and currently my paramour, “…please unchain and bring that girl over here… Yes, her. Thank you, lover.” Twitch, a slender woman and our squad’s medic in addition to being my partner for years, had severed the child’s bonds and led her, still naked and shivering despite herself, to stand in front of me. The height and frame differential between we two was ridiculous as I stood and looked down at the girl. Her hair was matted and I could see more than a few insects crawling through it, her form wasted and emaciated from the rough nutritional neglect of the Skintrade holdout. She couldn’t have been more than ten and was a tiny waif, even for that age. In my powered armor, I nigh tripled her height before I sunk down on one knee to meet her angry, almost berserk stare. Yes… Yes, this I can use. Staring solemnly into her eyes, I waved one armored hand towards the sitting man as I began to speak, “This man, his friends and he hurt you, did he not?” Rather than responding verbally, her eyes shot hotly towards the other man, a few tears of impotent rage falling before she nodded once, even that small gesture violent in its curt tenseness. Without looking away from the child’s black-eyed stare, I spoke once again towards my prisoner in a quiet, polite tone: “Please tell me who commands the Skintrade in this area.” The prisoner snickered derisively but otherwise didn’t respond. I always find myself disappointed whenever interrogations reach this particular point, but I think this time it could be different. This time, with the girl’s help, things could change. Still maintaining the gaze with the girl-child, one of my hands moved towards the center plate of my vest and unbuttoned the clasp that was holding my MAC knife in place, allowing the heavy hilt to fall into my expectant palm. I reversed my grip on the weapon so that I held the blade between metal-clad fingers and gently brushed the wooden hilt over the fist-sized, blue-and-black bruising along the right side of the girl’s cheek, beginning to speak softly to her as I did so. The pressure of the moment, the reality, of what I was attempting pushed my voice down into almost a whisper as I spoke to her. I’ve killed many, many men and only rarely felt the same, singular intensity then as I did in the moment speaking with this child. “I’m going to teach you something very important, girl. This man has hurt you; he and his have beaten you, raped you, and planned to sell you into a life filled with only more of the same. You have taken what has happened to you and owned it, allowed it to make you strong, but any rabid animal can kill; any of the whimpering, begging girls on the wall can be driven to slay. What I want from you… What I want from you is control. You will control yourself and do as the mission demands. ” While already close, I leaned in further and rested my sweaty, blood-spattered brow against her mud-smeared, shaken one and whispered softly to her, “If you can prove yourself, if you can survive this tempering, my squad and I will take you out of here. I’ll see to it that you will receive training, equipment, and I will make you into someone to be feared.” My eyes hardened with the coming change in topic and the frail little female received the same tone of voice as the rapist in the chair as I whispered, “If you fail, if you give in, if you break any more, I will leave you here in this filthy fucking hole.” She shook at my words, absorbing them as if I were beating her with the pair of promises, and I was reminded again that she was still so very young; probably only eight or so years old and had already seen so much, could -be- so much… Well. If she wanted to have any manner of life after this, if she ever wanted to be useful, to be strong, she would need to become so much more. Any good weapon must be tempered and any true warrior must be trained. My free hand moved forwards and gently took her miniscule one in my grip, the look of her tiny, dirty palm sitting atop my huge, armored glove preposterous. I guided her tiny, bloodied fingertips around the hilt of the knife, it being made into a bayonet or short sword when gifted to such a small wielder. My fingers carefully reinforced her own around the knife, softly making her take it into her grip, as I turned to look towards my prisoner. I spoke in that same direct, polite manner that I had maintained all throughout our interrogation, the razor-sharp edge of the knife rising between me and the child, “I have had enough of your drivel about how someday I’ll realize the mistake that I’ve made. These are your options, sir: You can tell me what I want to know, right now, or you will be tortured to death by this angry eight year old girl as I guide her through her first interrogation. Choose.” Adding emphasis to the last word, I released my supporting, enfolding hold on the little girl’s fist around the weapon. The sudden weight of the weapon took her by surprise and dragged the point of the blade down and towards the dirt before she shifted to a two-handed grip on her small sword. It was a calculated move on my part, giving her this weapon with the object of her hatred so close, so vulnerable, his life very literally in her hands. She could throw away the world that I was offering her by killing him, by driving the knife into his ribs and destroying the information I needed. I rose from my crouched position in front of her and looked down at her, imagining how I must look from her perspective. To her, I was a bloodstained giant, looming over her after handing her the key to a new plane of being, a new kind of consciousness, a new awareness of who and what she was. This decision would shape her in ways that neither one of us could fully understand; I felt my breath quicken as I watched her strangle and struggle with the decision, knife-wielding arms shaking. My metal-clad arms crossed over my chest, the harsh grate of metal on metal sounding as I stood, looking on. As the little girl turned to face her serial rapist, shortsword in hand, I felt a small, pleased smile take my face as I waited the conclusion.

The Lost Treasure A great and priceless treasure was said to exist and a young man spent his youth looking for it. He said unto himself, ‘If only I find this treasure I will be happy with myself forever.’ After many, many years of searching the man found a map that was to lead him to the treasure he had been seeking. The map took him up, and up the tallest mountain in the land. It led him through the most dangerous terrain anyone had ever traversed. Finally though, near the peak of the mountain, in the very back of a deep, dark cave, the man found the treasure that he had dreamed of. It was a chest filled with gold and precious stones. Even though the chest was heavy and he was tired, the man carried it all the way out of the cave. He carried it through the treacherous terrain and back down the mountain. Once at the bottom of the mountain the man decided that he would build his home there at its base, to remind him of where he had taken the treasure from. So there he built his home, and he built a room just to put his great treasure in. And there it sat, in the center of the room. Every day the man would come in and clean each and every piece of his treasure, he would think about how happy he was to have found it and how happy he was to have it now. After many years the story of a crazy, old, miser living at the bottom of the great mountain was told by many. One day someone broke into the man’s home, found the great treasure in its room, and stole every last piece of it. When the man woke up, and went to his treasure to gaze upon it, he was devastated. He was so distraught that he didn’t know what to do next. So for many days the man went about his same routine, only instead of cleaning his treasure he would stand in the empty room and look upon the place where his chest of glittering gold and stones used to sit. Then one day, when the man was staring at the place where his chest of glittering gold and polished stones had once sat he had a thought. He walked to the window and looked at the mighty mountain and realized that the treasure he searched for, the treasure he found, and the treasure he lost were not all the same. The treasure he searched for was gold and stones. The treasure he found was happiness. While the treasure he lost was the ignorance between the two. The man was very joyous of the treasure he had lost.

A man sits alone in a room. His hands are cuffed tightly in his lap. There is an empty chair across from him and it’s so quiet he can hear his own heartbeat. The door opens and a young man enters, casually sitting down. The door creaks shut, locking the two men alone in silence. “Vincent,” the young man said. Vincent answered with a cold, silent stare. The young man wore a loosely fitting plaid shirt and jeans. *Must be undercover,* Vincent thought. “I’m going to be honest with you,” the officer said. “I’m new at this. I’ve never done anything like this before, so you’ll have to forgive me if this is a little…awkward. I want to ask you“ “what’s your name?” Vincent broke his silence sharply. The young man took a breath and answered. “My name is Paul.” “Ok Paul, I’m going to need you to listen to me very carefully,” Vincent leaned forward on the table. “I’ve taken the life of a man because I didn’t like the way he looked at me in a hallway. I kept him alive just long enough so he could hear his heart stop beating. I am…different.” “I don’t value human life the way most people do. People are a disease and I am the cure. I wish you could have seen that man’s last moments Paul. It was beautiful.” They sat and stared at each other for a moment. Vincent continued. “I can tell you this because you and I both you know can’t touch me because of who I am. Listen to my words. I killed a man for looking at me in a fashion that I didn’t appreciate. I never even knew his name. You’ll need to choose your next words very carefully.” Vincent gazed at the young cop with cold, dark eyes. Your move. There was a long pause. Paul broke the silence with a question. “Do you know how you got here?” Vincent stared at the officer, thinking, but didn’t answer. “Here, let me show you something.” Paul calmly reached into his back pocket and pulled out a long, jagged knife. There was dried blood on it. Paul slid it across the table, just out of Vincent’s reach, almost daring him to reach for it. “I took this from the evidence locker.” “That’s delightful Paul, tell me more,” Vincent answered, sarcasm creeping into his voice. Another long pause. “I know what you did, you bastard. I know what you did to that poor girl.” Paul’s calm exterior began to break, emotions creeping into every passing word. “That girl was fourteen years old, you fuck. You say you’re different, that you don’t value human life; well I know that’s how you’ll play it in court. You’ll plead to the jury with sober eyes, you’ll get the best lawyer money can buy. If your wallet can’t get you out of this, you’ll get off on an insanity plea.” “Smart boy,” Vincent answered. “So what are you going to do about it? Plant evidence on me? Force a confession so you can send me to prison?” “No,” Paul said, looking at the ceiling to fight back tears. “You’re going to get something much, much worse.” Just then, the lights went off. Vincent felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. *This isn’t a police station. Paul isn’t a cop.* The lights came back on, and Vincent was alone. The knife had been removed from the table, replaced with a crumpled Polaroid. A young girl and her father. The same young girl whose screams had echoed throughout Vincent’s apartment just days before; her bloodstains were still on the wall. Vincent leaned forward, and he knew that the man in the picture was the same man who was sitting before him moments earlier. Vincent managed to crack a half smile. *Ok then.* He nodded to himself once. *Good for him.* Vincent leaned back and tried to relax. He knew as soon as that door opened again, his life would probably end. He knew from experience that any struggle or tension in his body would simply prolong the pain. He took in a deep breath and held it. Just then, as the walls seemed to buckle with tension, he realized he hadn’t heard anyone open the door to leave. Vincent managed a short sigh of approval before the lights cut out again.

There is something truly zen about waking in Union Station to pick up an early morning train; eyeballs deep in Svedka. Two hours of sleep is not much fuel but us Boy Scouts learned how to fight the odds. Most of the population would file my type away as the classic "*He* *could* *have* *gone* *somewhere* *but* *didn't.*". They may be right, but this special blend of un-showered body odor, cigarettes, and underage vomit can only be found on one special fellow. The train leaves at seven thirty-five; T minus two hours. When fading into the early stages of a brain-liquifying hangover most are overwhelmed with defeat. Yet, on this fine morning there is an air of victory. The early morning Chicago work engine fired on schedule, but I was already on point. I beat the suits at their own game and did so without even the slightest intelligent tic. I have no equal. Seven o'clock, right on schedule. If I had the opportunity to trade my soul for sobriety I would. "*Early boarding Carl Sandburg 389 Gate D!*" calls the Ticket inspector. D is for drunk, morale improves drastically. This soup line has to be a mile long and its taking all I've got to stay upright. Two gorgeous brunette college girls ask me "*Is this for D?*" which in my drunken state can only manage a muffled grunt response. If all they date is cavemen, that's all they get. Thirty minutes later, my torture ends. I have the ticket inspectors full and undivided attention as I approach. She stands there blankly as do I. It feels like ages go by as we continue this stand-off. Then, as I should have expected two and a half hours ago, she colorfully invites me to produce my ticket. FUCK. I don't have time for all of this "*You must buy a ticket to board the train.*" racket. One step forwards two steps back, then up the escalator to the great outdoors. I didn't want to go home anyways.

When I was a boy, my family and I lived at the end of a long, dusty street. Adjacent to our house was a small school, but other than the school, my street was empty. We were surrounded on the remaining three sides by fallow farm-fields. They may have once been cultivated, but were the domain of wild mustard plants and purple-crowned thistles now. To the southeast, across one such field, was the playground of my youth: the canal. It was fairly wide and deep, and throughout most of the year, dry as a bone. Spanning the canal was a bridge built from rusty, fifty gallon drums and thick, rough timbers; held together by some farmer’s ingenuity and a good measure of luck. Whenever the canal was full, the bridge became our diving platform, and when the canal was empty, an excellent place to tie ropes for makeshift swings. This canal, dusty and dirty, was the place of childhood adventures for me. As I was alone on my street, the canal became the place to meet up with kids from the surrounding neighborhoods, and invariably, a place of excitement, trouble, and mischief. A fickle mistress was the canal of my youth; sometimes giving, sometimes taking. This story pertains to the latter; a story of loss and defeat for boy of seven: the day I lost my pants (to the canal). It was not an unusual day; it started like any other lazy weekend; breakfast, cartoons, and out the door. I grabbed my trusty BMX bike, and set forth in search of excitement. Now, in those days, bicycle chain-guards were considered a sign of weakness for a kid: a sign of fear. If you were cool, and brave, the chain-guard had to go, and so, mine did. The only problem with this arrangement was the high likelihood of getting your trouser cuff stuck between chain and sprocket. In order to overcome this threat, we had learned to tuck the end of our pant leg into our socks. While this set up was fine for new socks, overtime, tragically, elastic loses its stretch. I set off across one of the many well-worn dirt paths that crisscrossed the field heading to the canal. As occasionally happened, no boys my age were there. Some older boys, around eleven or twelve, were riding up and down the dry banks of the canal and making quite a commotion. When you are seven, twelve-year olds are, hierarchically speaking, the top of the pre-pubescent social structure; practically grownups, and as such, usually given wide berth. Normally I would have ridden on in search of greener pastures, but that day, for some reason, I did not. Something about the way they were carrying on drew me in, so I rode up to the bank to take a good look at the source of the excitement. What I saw that day blew my mind. Those older boys had made an earthen ramp along the dry bed of the canal and were racing down the banks and launching themselves into the air with abandon. I mean, we had made ramps before, but usually they were just a piece of plywood nailed to a couple two by fours; but this, this was a monster. The ramp stood at least a foot tall, maybe eighteen inches; a mighty rampart from which the boys could demonstrate their mastery of bicycle aeronautics. I was in awe, but I was not a fool. I wanted to jump this ramp, heck, I needed to jump this ramp, but I would have to bide my time. You just do not cut in on older kids: they would not have it. So I tooled around off at a distance; entertaining myself by riding up and down the banks of the canal. When the older boys got bored and rode on, I finally had my chance. I rode up to the top of the canal bank where the boys had queued up for their turns at the jump. Once in position, I made some pre-flight assessments; bike was mechanically sound, pathway to the ramp appeared clear of debris, wind speed was nominal – I gave myself the green light for go! With a push and a kick, I launched down the embankment towards my goal. This was going to be awesome! Like a madman, I peddled - I burned rubber - as we used to say, and my speed increased exponentially. A bit of turbulence shivered through my handlebars, but I compensated; canal banks are never perfect runways after all. Blazing down the bank I cut left to align myself with the basin and put the ramp squarely in my sights: this was going to happen. Just as my front tire began its ascent up the short runway of the ramp, a thought entered my mind. And you know its funny how time seems to slow down in times of extreme adrenaline rushes. Although that thought could have only taken a millisecond, it seemed an eternity: “was my pant leg tucked in?” Ascending the ramp my mind flashed back to my pre-flight checklist; pant leg cuff check was missing. A cold tremor of apprehension ran down my spine, but it was too late to turn back. My front tire broke the event horizon at the lip of the ramp: I was committed now. As I lifted off and my rear tire broke free of gravity's stubborn embrace, my fears came to fruition. The frightening, unmistakable sensation of jeans being inexorably bound up in a matrix of sprockets gears and chain links crept up my leg. As my pants became further entangled, my foot was pulled from the pedal and cinched, as if trapped in the jaws of a vice, against the side of the sprocket. The dawning realization that I just might not make it out of this began to creep into my mind. Now ordinarily, I might have pulled through, but my velocity was too great; my trajectory through the atmosphere too high; I was going to come down hard, and a landing like this requires all feet firmly astride their peddles. Like Icarus, I had flown too high, but it was not the Sun that was my undoing, it was the canal. My dear, sweet canal; jealous of my high flying act, she beckoned me back down; back to the realm of mud and rocks and weeds. For a brief moment, I thought I might make it, but I couldn’t accommodate the balancing act required to deal with so much force. With my foot trapped in my chains steely embrace, I was doomed, and came over hard on my trapped leg. Like a flexible green twig pulled back and released, my upper body swung downward with a vengeance. Thwack! The ground hit me, and the wind was violently punched from my lungs. I can still vividly recall sliding across the dirt clods and pebbles on my chest that day; dust and grit flying in my mouth and eyes, and slowly grinding to a crumpled, broken stop. As my head cleared, and the breath slowly returned to my laboring lungs, I ran a post crash assessment of my injuries. Dirt and scratches covered forearms, elbows, chin, chest, right thigh and knee. Only my left leg had escaped the carnage, riding out the crash over the top of my bike. As I tried to pull myself free of my bicycle, I became fully aware of the extent of my problems. Never before had I seen so much pant leg trapped in a chain before. I laid there for what seemed forever; salty tears making little muddy tracks down my face; pulling and pulling to free my pants, but to no avail. I realized then, that only one course of action was going to free me; I was going to have to kick off my shoes and pull my leg free of my pants if I was ever going to see home again. Perhaps it was my imagination, or the ringing my head had taken upon impact, but I could almost sense a soft laughter coming up from the earth. The canal was mocking me. I lay there desperate, hurting, and the canal was taunting me. I walked the walk of shame that day, as I pushed my bike home in my drawers, pants trailing behind, still wound up in my bicycle’s chain. Maybe you’ve trudged down this path too. The walk of shame, no matter its length, is a long, hard walk. This battle had been fought with all I had, and I had lost. Regardless of the fact that my pants went home with me that day, I knew in my heart of hearts, those pants belonged to the canal. In spite of the selfishness of the canal that day, looking back, I snatched a small victory from the jaws of this defeat: a rite of passage. I learned that life isn’t fair, and you can lose your pants if you’re not careful. I may not have become a man that day, but I was certainly less of a boy.

“The fireplace is the only remaining piece of the original house. The only thing that survived the fire,” the real estate agent tells them. “You can see the char on some of the bricks. Our records indicate it’s almost 200 years old. Quite historic, no?” Mark Bradbury ran his hand across the coarse, red bricks and smiled at his wife, Karen. He could already tell she was in love with the place. “Fire?” he asks. “Oh, yes, but it was a long, long time ago. The house has been remodeled several times since then, including just this year. Still though, the fireplace is original, and quite impressive. A testament to the original builder.” The house was a blend of modern architecture and old world charm. Everything was new, yet designed to look old. The floors were hardwoods, which came from the nearest home megastore, but were made to look like they were pried from the deck of the Mayflower. In the kitchen, modern appliances were hidden in clever ways and the sink was a dimpled brass. The house itself was set back on the edge of a deep wood, in the fog-obscured outskirts of Mansfield, Pennsylvania. Everything about the “four bed, three point five bath” home was perfect for the designs of a man of his wife looking to start their life here. Mark walked aimlessly around the main living area of the first floor, dreaming of his sons and daughters. From the back porch there was some shouting and a slamming of doors. Coming around the corner to investigate, Mark saw an older man eye him through the kitchen window. Something about the man’s sad eyes made him look much, much older than the rest of him. Mark felt instantly uneasy and was glad that Karen was upstairs, presumably mentally measuring rooms for cribs and bunk beds. “Sorry.” The real estate agent looking slightly nervous closed the porch door behind her. “Who was that?” An awkward few seconds passed as the real estate agent beat her fingers on the marble counter top, as if trying to drum up the right answer. “Oh, no one. He had made an offer on the house, but it didn’t go through?” The way she phrased the answer as a question was suspect, but Mark wasn’t going to let a wayward old man ruin this for them. She recovered quickly with her water to a well smile and said, “So what are you thinking?” Three months later the moving trucks were following Mark and Karen’s two but soon to be four door Audi up the driveway of 462 Morningstar Drive. Mark put his hand on his wife’s knee and looked in his rearview mirror. In the cloud of dust he thought he saw the same man from the day they were shown the house. He was leaning against a tree at the edge of the property eyeing their new home in earnest. The intensity in the man’s eyes was unnerving. Mark jerked his head around to look out the back of the car, but saw only dust and trucks. “What’s wrong?” And even though he didn’t like to be untruthful to his wife he said, “Nothing.” … The last clutching fingers of the sun released their fleeting grasp on the outer fields and darkness swelled quickly. A day, a week, a life’s worth of dust on his boots. Everyday the same walk to the same house where he shared his life with nobody but their memories, the dark woods and the gray days. Twenty years of toiling had left him with next to nothing to show for it, except he was alive and his family was dead; smiling ghosts in the early morning fog and tortured memories in the stillness of night. The coach arrived in that same half dream state in which his family was forever fixed, drawn by a white horse with ruddy eyes. Its windows were closed tightly with purple and red shades made of the most elaborate velvet and trimmed with gold drawstrings. As if the intent was to make unbearable the mystery of what lay behind them. The grandeur of the coach had a spellbinding effect and he hadn’t noticed its driver already standing beside him where he had stopped. “John Moulton. My employer wishes to have a word with you.” It wasn’t until some time after that John pondered how the driver knew his name, but by then, in truth, he already knew. Inside the coach he found a slender man in a form fitting black suit, sitting with his left leg crossed over his right. “Please, sit.” The coach was tall enough inside for John to stand, but he obliged. “ Do you know who I am?” John knew but did not want to nor know how to give answer. The man leaned forward and answered for him. “Good. Now that that bit of un-pleasantry is behind us, we can get down to my offer. I can tell a great deal about a man from his boots.” The man in the suit tapped John’s filthy working boots with the steel tip of his slim black cane. “You have worked your whole life, morning to night. You have been a dutiful and faithful servant, and yet, where has this trust gotten you?” John felt the words stirring up resentment in his breast. From under the bench the man in the suit was sitting on, a chest appeared. It was pushed up to the tips of John’s soiled boots by a shining black leather shoe. Using his the cane, the man in the suit opened its lid, revealing scores of gleaming gold coins. John reached to touch one, but was stopped by the cane’s steel tip. “These are not for you. Not yet. They are a show of my good faith, that I am able to make good on my end of the bargain.” John prepared his lips to ask what was expected of him in return, but again the man in the suit answered before the question could be asked. “I am a recruiter, I seek out men and women who need my assistance, and in return I ask only that when my favor has been fulfilled, you join my Organization.” The deal was simple enough and John understood. He felt like he saw without being shown, directly. An image entered into his mind; a scale balanced exactly even, on one side a pile of gold and on the other the part of John Moulton that was invisible, but not weightless. His brain buzzed and his heart hummed. It took no more than a few seconds for him to accept. Back in his home he went over and over the conversation in his mind. All he had to do was place his boots in his fireplace. He was assured first that his boots would go unharmed by the flames and of this he felt confident, the arrangement having been agreed upon by their master. If he were to honor the agreement, he was to put his boots in the fire before going to sleep and in the morning he would find them filled with gold. He took one look at his boots. They were covered in a life’s worth of honest dust. Brushing them off he prepared the kindling and logs and started a roaring fire. Holding the boots close to his chest and looking into the hypnotic flames, he had an idea. He rushed to the small shed behind his house, grabbed several tools and quickly got to work. For years after people wondered and gossiped on the sudden change of fortunes for John Moulton. Secondary to the speculations of where his seemingly never ending spring of wealth had bubbled from was the question of why he remained in his small and modest home. Some thought it was because he had built the entire place with his own hands. Others said he couldn’t leave the ghosts of his family behind. What was known was that John Moulton had gone from a lowly farmer to one of the most successful, and ruthlessly so, businessmen in the Northeast, a region marked for its prominence in industry. His desire for more was unquenchable and he quickly had controlling interests in many of the most powerful organizations in the country. The man himself was still an enigma. The people, who worked with John, or more accurately, for John, noted an unnamable absence about him. He was a private man who despite his great fortune and notoriety kept almost exclusively to himself. When the fire finally died of its own accord, and the neighbors found his unrecognizable remains among the rest of the burned wreckage, no one was sure what to make of the situation. His body was buried near the edge of the woods on the back of his property and his business endeavors were sold at auction since he had no family to succeed him. On the night he set fire to his house John Moulton thought about his deal with the man in the suit. “And when the last piece of the gold has changed hands, that is when my part of the favor will have been fulfilled. That is when you will become a member of my Organization.” He had made his peace with his fate. The room smelled heavy of lamp oil. John pulled a chair he had made in front of the fireplace. He struck a match and watched it as it burned down to his fingers. When the heat of the flame began to cause him pain, he let it go. As he watched the match’s slow spiral to the floor he pulled the last of the gold pieces from the breast pocket of his suit’s vest. The blaze of the fire glinted on the shiny gold surface as everything around him ignited. Even the chair beneath him began to burn. Feeling neither heat nor pain he stood and turned to look where he had been. The ornate and finely crafted workmanship consumed in the simple elegance of the flames. The world was ablaze. He pulled the gold piece from his now lifeless hand and flipped it into the fireplace, where it fell with a thud. He walked to where the door of his home stood once proud and exited through a veil of fire into the waiting day. Morning drew opened its curtains with no sunlight and he walked into the early blue smoke. He turned to watch his entire house become engulfed in flames and watched as it crumbled piece by piece. All was gone but the fireplace. It never fell. … A work van pulled up in front of his house and Mark let the three men inside. They had been working on inspecting the foundation and crawl space to see if it was possible to add a basement, laundry room and wine cellar under the house. About thirty minutes had passed when one of the workmen came up the stairs shouting for Mark. “I think you will want to see this.” Mark followed the man down into the crawl space that was just high enough to inch on hands and knees in. “We got around to inspecting the area under the fireplace when we found this.” The workman showed Mark a chamber that was about four feet wide and extended down about five feet deep, directly underneath the fireplace. “Looks like whoever did the remodeling just walled this area in and put a false bottom in the fireplace upstairs. I wonder what this was for?“ Mark crawled over to the exposed pit. He stuck his hand into the ancient ashes and pulled it out with jerk. “Everything ok?” the workman asked him. He put his hands back in and raked out handful after handful of the old soot. After a few minutes he pulled out a pair of boots. Through their tops ran an iron rod. Their soles had been almost completely removed so they were bottomless. Intrigued and confused Mark dug some more. Then he saw it. Sitting in the very bottom of this hidden compartment, a solitary gold piece. He could tell by looking at it that it was very old, but it surprisingly looked no worse for the wear, having spent countless years covered in ash and concealed in a dank basement. Even though there was no light down here, Mark saw the gold gleam as he reached for it. It seemed to recognize the advance of his hand and for a fleeting second Mark recalled the sad eyes of the old man leaning on the tree. He paused for a brief moment, then picked it up.

Proctor was lying down somewhere. He didn’t know where he was or how he got there. The last thing he could remember was that he was driving over to his friend’s house. Had he gotten in a car crash? Did somebody kidnap him? What was going on? Just as these thoughts were going through his head, someone began to shake his arm. “Hello, are you okay? My name is Royce. Can you remember your name?” Proctor sat up, and opened his eyes. He realized now that he was in a large grassy field. It was relatively flat, the sun was directly overhead, an oak tree stood in front of him, and Royce stood in front of the oak tree. “Yes, my name is Proctor. I don’t think I’m having trouble remembering anything. Are you?” Royce closed his eyes and sighed. “The only thing I can remember is my name. Everything else is completely gone.” Proctor felt disappointed. “So you don’t even know where we are?” “My guess is as good as yours my friend. I woke up just a few seconds before you did. All I can tell is that we’re in a field outside of a castle.” “A castle?” Proctor said confused, “Where is this castle?” “Well it’s… Just over that hill.” Proctor turned around and indeed there was a hill. He was surprised he hadn’t seen it before. But maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. He scaled the hill in just a few minutes. As Royce had said, there was a pretty large castle in front of him. The castle stood about four stories high, had a wooden door, and five towers. He ran to the bottom of the hill, going a bit faster since gravity was no longer working against him. Royce was sitting in the same spot he had left him. He was still staring at the hill. He looked as though he had seen a ghost. “I saw the castle right where you said it was. Do you think we should head over there? They might be able to help you with your memory.” Royce was still staring at the hill. “Proctor, how long did it take you to get to the top of that hill?” “Just a few minutes. Why do you ask?” Royce looked at Proctor now, “So how did I know there was a castle over there if I had only been awake for a few seconds?” It was Proctor’s turn to be in shock. “I don’t know. Maybe you’ve been here before? “That could be it. But I want to try something just to be sure.” Royce stood up now. “Think of a number between one and ten.” “Okay,” Proctor said. “I’ve got a number” “It’s a two right?” “That’s right!” Proctor was surprised at how quickly he answered. “We need to raise the stakes a little more.” Royce said, trying to contain his excitement. “Lets try between one and one-thousand.” “Okay,” Proctor thought for a second, “I’ve got a- “Is it five-hundred and twenty-three?” “Right again!” The number had barely popped into Proctor’s head. “Holy crap!” Royce exclaimed “So I was a psychic before I lost my memory!” “That’s amazing! What does it feel like? Can you see my future?” “I can’t exactly predict the future,” Royce said. “I don’t see fields covered in blood or anything like that. It’s more like I can tell when something is about to happen. It’s like when you’re in a dream and you’re walking down a road. But you already know what’s at the end of that road. Do you know what I’m saying?” “Kind-of.” Proctor said. “I guess I never really thought of it like that before.” “Well we should probably head over to that castle. It would be good to have shelter for when it starts to rain. Proctor looked up. The sky was completely covered with clouds and he could hear thunder in the distance. The rain came just a few minutes before they reached the castle. Up close, Proctor could see that the castle was very rundown. The door had rotted away and he couldn’t make out what was inside. He debated with himself whether or not it was a good idea to go in. But after hearing a loud crash of thunder nearby, he decided that electrocution would be more painful than anything in the castle. Upon entering the castle it was plain to be seen that it had been abandoned for quite some time. The skeletons of rats lay on the ground as if they had run out of food to scavenge for. The only sounds they could hear were the sounds of rain and thunder outside, and the flowing of the many streams that ran through the lower parts of the castle. They entered into the next room to find the walls nearly covered with papers. Most of them were filled with incoherent scribbles and long physics equations, but others had plans for some kind of steam-powered robot. One of the walls had been torn open, a desk sat in one corner of the room, and the other corner had exhaust pipes protruding from it. This must have been where they were working on the robot. Royce examined one of the papers on the wall. He began to read: “Koshmar is nearly complete. Its artificial intelligence grows smarter with each passing day. But it seems to be displaying signs of independence, even obstinance. We may need to reboot the system if it starts to disobey orders.” Royce turned around to look at the hole in the wall. “Well, that plan clearly failed.” “This doesn’t make any sense. Artificial intelligence is impossible.” Proctor thought out loud. “It’s not really that impossible.” Royce said “It’s kind of like a tulpa except it’s created with computers and equations.” “A tulpa? You mean an imaginary friend?” “Yeah, sort of.” Royce continued. “But a tulpa is like a separate consciousness. It develops over time and it might eventually form its own opinions.” “So it can think for itself.” Proctor said, skeptical. “Yes and it has direct access to the subconscious. Some people might make one so they don’t forget things.” “Strange. Maybe you should make one so that you can get your memory back.” “Yeah, maybe I should.” Royce walked closer to the hole in the wall. “Do you think we should go through here?” “Maybe, but Koshmar could still be somewhere in this castle.” “Even if he is, I doubt he would still be in the next room.” Royce stepped through the hole. “He probably left this place a long time ago.” Proctor followed Royce into the room but he soon regretted it. The entire place was torn apart. The only thing left of the room itself was the wall they had just stepped through. It appeared that a great battle had once taken place in there. Skeletons were all over the ground. They held spears, swords, and shields. Walls were broken down, there were claw marks on the floor and ceiling, and the furniture that wasn’t broken, was burned. The destruction was everywhere, but it wasn’t so bad that it ruined the structural integrity of the castle. Most of the major support beams were still in place and they were handling the extra weight pretty well. “I don’t think we should risk an attack by this thing.” Royce said panicking. “Do you think he would notice us if he was still here?” As if to answer Proctor’s question a giant mechanical dragon crashed through the ceiling right above their only exit. Koshmar was made out of some kind of a copper alloy. Steam came out of the many pipes on its back and its eyes glowed red from the flames that were now shooting from its mouth. Proctor remained frozen in place, both from shock at the dragon’s sudden appearance and shock at its appearance. Royce spoke up knocking him out of his stupor, “HOLY CRAP!” The dragon shook the rubble from its body and lunged forward. Proctor dove to the left, just barely avoiding the swipe of one of its red glowing claws. The beast ran straight for the wall and Crawled up it. It twisted around and shot a couple of fireballs. Proctor grabbed a shield from one of the skeletons, but saw that he didn’t need it. Koshmar was directing all of its attacks at Royce. Proctor dropped his shield and replaced it with a spear. He ran toward the dragon in an attempt to stab one of its eyes. He didn’t make it very far though and was sent flying by a lazy swipe of its tail. He landed near the window and could see Koshmar was shooting fireballs once again. Thunder crashed outside, and lightning struck in the distance… Wait a second? There was something very illogical about what was going on here. Doesn’t Lightning come before thunder? Proctor woke up on a sunny day, but now it was raining. When he was at the top of the hill the castle had a wooden door, but it was completely rotten when he had reached it. Was the hill even there when he woke up? Then it hit him. The mechanical dragon’s name was Koshmar. Koshmar is the Russian word for nightmare! Proctor was dreaming. That was why all of this strange stuff was happening. He chuckled to himself. It was surprising how realistic all of this was. This whole time he had been carrying conversations with nobody. Well it was pretty fresh in his mind now, but he was sure he would forget everything when he woke up. Proctor thought he was in a dream, and in a way, he was right. Moments later Royce woke up in a hospital bed, and Proctor… ceased to exist.

The farmer examined his apple trees. They were withered. Rain that never came teased him now, dabbling his face. But the growing season was over. The crop had failed. Knobby little apples hung from limp branches, the acuity of their thirst long since passed as they had shriveled into hardened corpuscles of seeds, preserving their contents in resignation. Worthless fruit. It was harvest time, and there was nothing to reap. The farmer looked towards his dilapidated house. His wife watched from the doorway, holding a dirty child. Another clung to her knees. Small voices could be heard from deeper within the sagging, musky hovel. There would be no crop this year. There was nothing to sell. There was nothing to save. His wife's face was empty. She knew. Her arms bounced the baby on her hip, but her eyes betrayed her soul. She held his gaze, and their eyes communicated what they could not say. There was neither a question nor an answer to be had. They simply knew. The farmer turned back towards the sun-baked, dusty orchard. The sky continued to mock him, sprinkling bits of water over his impotent crop, insolently offering hints of life months past due. The farmer turned his head towards the sky and its wispy clouds. Drops moistened his lips. Even still it did not rain. This was an insincere offering, a sadistic intimation of life and happiness when there was already no hope for that. Like asking a dying man to attend a festival as his last breaths rattle through his chest. The farmer again turned back towards his house. His wife was no longer standing in the doorway. The wind began to pick up, and the sky's final insult was not enough to keep the dust from whipping apart from the ground and stinging his eyes. He covered his face with his collar and walked stiffly towards his home. His bones ached. They had all been rationing as well as they could. They were all skinny. The children cried too much. The baby was sick. There wasn't enough milk for it. And there was nothing to harvest. There had been no miracle. They had not been saved. He couldn't sell this withered fruit. Nor could they consume it themselves. His mind felt dead. He felt as if he were already gone. He felt so weary. He wondered if there was anything to be done. Anything at all. He stepped inside, and his family looked at him expectantly. They knew he would provide for them. He was a father. A husband. It was his duty. He was an honorable man. He would do his duty. He looked at each of the small, grimy faces and then to his wife. Her eyes held the same tired pain as his own, he knew. There was no blame in them, no reproach. Just an aching weariness, the final expression of one who is passing beyond their capacity to endure. The look of defeat. He sat at their table. It was a leaning artifact, an heirloom no one else had wanted. He put his head in his hands for a moment. But he straightened up. He looked again at the faces that surrounded him, looking upon him for their salvation. He told them of the rain outside. It had come at last, he said. There was still some time. In only a little while the fruit would absorb the water, the long-awaited water. They would have fresh apples, and applesauce, and fritters, and pies, and they would sell their surplus and they would eat fresh bread, and would buy a roast from the butcher and display their harvest at festival time. The rain had come, he said. Everything will be alright. He got up from the table and walked back outside. The rain had stopped, and the wispy clouds were growing thinner as the sun returned, shining down with the warmth of Hell. He gazed out over his orchard. There was one thing he could do, he thought. He could talk to the Seer. He picked a piece of withered fruit from the nearest tree and put it in his pocket. After pausing for another moment to look once more upon his little dried-up orchard and house, he began to walk purposefully. He walked for hours. Dusk had begun to fall. He was walking up a hill. There was a crumbling stone tower at the top, and even in the twilight the grass around it was slightly greener than one might consider natural in the midst of such a devastating drought. Or so he supposed. It was hard to tell. He reached the top of the hill, and faced a heavy, oaken door deep-set in the masonry. He raised the heavy brass knocker and let it fall. The impact boomed through the tower and into the air around him. There was not an immediate answer, so he lifted it again. The second impact rang like the first, and a few bats careened out of the highest portions of the tower, where stones had fallen away and left spaces for them to reside. The door swung open, but no one was there. A steep, winding stairwell led down into the bowels of the hill. The farmer peered into the gloom, and seeing nothing, began making his way down the steps. The tower went deep. Far more of it existed beneath the earth than above it. As he descended, he thought about his family. His home. His orchard. All was lost. He imagined being the last of them to die. How he would have to bury them all, because he was the strongest. Because that would be his duty. Husband. Father. Mortician. Grave-digger. Priest. The stairs ended. He could see nothing in the dark, save a bluish glow a short distance ahead of him. A reflecting pool. A small, robed figure hunched over it, silhouetted. The farmer approached the Seer. When he stood at his side, the Seer turned his gaze toward the farmer and faced him with white, marbled eyes which did not see light. “Give me the apple.” The farmer was startled, but reached his hand into his pocket. His fingers closed around the gnarled, inedible fruit. He withdrew his hand and presented it into the Seer. The Seer examined it for a moment, then threw it into the pool. The water swirled. The farmer's eyes grew wide as he beheld his house, his orchard, his family. His sagging house. His dry, dead, dust-covered orchard. His starving family. He felt the Seer's gaze upon him. “What do you want to see?” The farmer wanted to know if there was a way out. If there was anything to be done. If the orchard could be saved. If there was food anywhere to be found. If there was a way to avoid burying the ones he loved. The Seer reached inside his robes and pulled out a handful of indiscernible matter, which he deposited into the swirling pool. “Here is the future.” The scene remained the same for a moment. And then clouds began to roll in. A peal of thunder. The farmer saw his family come out of the house to watch the sky. His wife, still holding the baby, lifted her free arm towards the heavens in rapturous anticipation. The other children ran into the orchard excitedly. The sky turned dark and vital, rich and grey with moisture. The clouds swelled and burst above them. Torrents of life-giving rain drenched them and the orchard. Rivulets of water ran between the parched roots, more than enough. The apples took new shape. The orchard became heavy with ripe fruit, abundant with good apples. They had all been saved. The farmer continued watching the pool. He watched his family pick the apples. There were so many. They were all laughing in the rain. They were happy. The rain, the rain... His wife turned and looked out of the pool into his eyes. Her face was radiant. She was again the woman he had fallen in love with. Their children danced and played in the puddles, and the fear was gone. The farmer thanked the Seer. He had been wrong to despair. The rain would come. The rain always came. He should have known. The rain always came. He began running towards the stairs, but the Seer's voice stopped him dead. “You mustn't go back.” The farmer slowly turned around. He looked at the Seer with disbelieving eyes. His elation had turned to dread in an instant. He didn't move. His shoulders sagged, and he only waited for the Seer to speak again. The Seer beckoned towards the pool. “They will only live so long as you watch them from here. If you go back, they will die. They will shrivel into dust. And then you will bury them with your own wasting hands.

Crunching pine needles pierce his eardrums. Diving into the clearing, he grasps the pistol holstered at his hip. Utter silence followed by ringing caused by the shattering of the sound barrier. The sweat soaked shirt clings to his chest as it heaves up and down with his breath. Pain shoots through his heels and into the small of his back. He examines the tree line looking for any irregularity. The pistol shakes in his hand and veins pop out around his hand. A low rumbling from the underbrush. The trees conceal the stalking animal. He lowers the pistol and waits. Slowly,The ringing in his ears is replaced by the sounds of nature. The birds settle in the trees and begin to chirp a perverse chorus of death. A low growl comes from behind the trees. Shadows cross between the trees and his vision prevents him from pinning down an exact image. “It’s a bear. That’s what it must be, but the pistol is more than likely useless against it.” He looks around the clearing looking for anything that could serve as an obstacle for the desperate animal. The bear charges. He turns and runs. Looking up, he sees a cave in the side of a hill. His boots dig into the ground and one slips off his foot. He leaps from rock to rock in the riverbed and hops up the ditch. He manages to kick the other boot off and continues to run up the hill. The smooth rocks bend and stretch the tendons of his foot. He turns and looks at the bear. The charging animal slows slightly as the incline increases. He turns and fires. More Silence. The smell of sulfur fills his nostrils for a moment and he continues to climb. His fingernails dig into bark as he grabs trees for support. He looks behind him and squats down quickly. Bark explodes from the tree as the bear’s paw smashes into it. The pink black lips of the bear flap as it roars at him. He raises the pistol and fires the rest of the clip into the bear’s torso. The man and beast stare into one another’s eyes. They circle each other and the man’s feet precariously find footholds. He ejects the clip and loads a fresh one into the pistol and pulls back the slide. It snaps forward and a round flashes into the chamber. The bear’s muscles tense and relax underneath its fat and fur. It roars again. Bullets pricks its torso with pain. The flavor of a dead rabbit remains in its maw. It examines the man’s path. The cold dirt compresses into the pads of its feet. The man turns and climbs quickly. The ground has become topsoil again, allowing him to run. His thighs tense and burn as he changes from sprinting to leaping. The bear falls to all fours and follows. The man’s small toe twists underneath his foot and he falls to the ground, scouring his face with buried rocks. He flops over to his back and eyes the charging bear. His hand tremors. The pistol shakes, but he fires wildly. Pieces of the bear’s skull penetrate it’s brain and it collapses, dying. He lets out a chest full of air and examines his toe. He twists and pulls the toe, but mangles it more. The bear’s chest heaves and a pool of blood flows around it. The consciousness, raw and primal, fades to black. The man stands and begins to limp slowly down towards the clearing. He leans down and picks up his boots on his way down. He holsters the pistol and puts one boot back on and carries the other in his hand. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone and calls a few of the contacts. No one answers. The sun slowly descends behind the horizon. “I need to get out of here.” He thinks. His lungs labor from exhaustion. He searches his pockets for cigarettes and finds nothing. In the distance, wolves sing a prelude to existence. He stands and limps towards the trees. “A mile left to my truck, I can make it.” He thinks. Staggering, he struggles to remain alert. He takes the pistol from the holster and reloads it. The man labors to pull the pistol’s slide back and his forearm burns. The chamber snicks forward. Tiny pin pricks imprint on his palm. Nightfall reveals stars in constellations pricking holes in the sky. He walks in a straight line. He looks upwards, but he cannot discern the north star from the others. More howling emerges from the forest, his senses struggle to discern any shapes or the direction of the wild song. The pistol seems to weigh him down. From the left, he hears crunching. He turns his head in vain. He aims with the pistol and fires. The woods illuminate for a brief moment and a shape flashes past his field of vision. He fires again, but this time he sees nothing. Darkness conceals the stalking beast. Its shoulder blades arch upwards in the moonlight. The wolf analyzes the weary man and inhales his scent. He avoids the spilling moonlight and the man’s movements become more erratic and weary. He stumbles against a tree and uses his back to push himself forward. The wolf flanks and leaps at him. It closes its jaw on his shoulder and he screams out in pain and falls. The wolf opens its mouth and clamps down on his trachea, severing the windpipe. He gasps. Blood filled gargles erupt from between the animal’s fangs. It begins to rip out his flesh. He lifts his pistol and fires. The wolf slumps over him and he remains on the forest floor. Crickets sing a eulogy as his eyes shut.

A little precursor, I haven't written anything for a while and have been out of school for the same amount of time, so any spelling mistakes or grammar corrections are very appreciated. If you enjoy it or have any criticisms/improvements, any comment would be equally appreciated as well. Father, forgive me for I have sinned and I am not done yet. The end of this ordeal is near and my body is grateful. As I walk through the cell block to the visitor’s room, the smell of fear is pungent. What was once a rendezvous of the lord’s most foul monsters and fallen creations is now a convention of hushed tones and fear-induced prayers of penance. I cannot answer them tonight. God has given me another task, a greater task. I continue my trek down the corridor and my mind begins racing like the fastest of God’s angels. Why would they make me walk this way, through a whole cell block? Is it to show me how fearful they are of me? Why are all of the prisoners so afraid of me that they would demand on God to call me off? Then I realize. They do not pray for me to spare them. They pray for me to save them. They need me to save them from the real monster. A monster I could have stopped a long time ago. A monster that I once called friend. The silence breaks as I am dragged into a memory, drawn from words I had not heard since my youth. “Ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae.” I am Michael Shepard. I was raised by nuns and taught by priests. I had no father to speak of. The only thing I remember of my mother is what the priests told me. She was a young, beautiful woman from an influential family. The kind of family that usually sweeps teenage pregnancy under the rug. One trip to the clinic and my mother’s worries were over. However, she was kind. She had seen the light of god and given birth. She was left with an ultimatum. Keep me as her own and lose her family’s love or abandon me and return to her life of comfort. There are many good people in the world, but very few saints. Sister McCready was my main caretaker. She had a heart full of love, but her marriage to the lord had prevented her from having children of her own. She called me her blessed child. She was the mother I knew. The mother I loved. The priests were learned men from every corner of God’s green Earth. Father O’Brien was from New York. He told me a story of how in his youth, he was lost. The allure of greed and loose women had made him one of Satan’s children. He would get into gang fights and do drugs of all varieties. He stole from the poor and beat the down trodden. Then, in one of his gangland wars, he committed the ultimate sin. He murdered an innocent man. This man was walking home from work to see his loving wife and children. He did not know of the gangs and did not care. Father O’Brien was firing a gun at another gang. His aim was poor and the moving vehicle he fired from was going too fast. His guilt haunted him for many years. He taught me many lessons from this story. Namely, all men can find peace through God. The other fathers and sisters raised me along with other children. The father in charge of the monastery was Bishop Stephenson. He taught me the most important lesson in my life. Not all men of God truly serve him. Bishop Stephenson made it a habit to see the boys in his chamber once a week. For one hour, he and a random boy would talk about god and his plan for all men. This is the story I was told and for a while I believed it. Sister McCready had always gotten in the way of my meetings with the bishop. She would always have me do some monotonous chore or discipline me for something I didn’t do. I hated her at the time, but now I know she saved me. Sister McCready died when I was 16. I was heartbroken. The only mother I knew was dead Father O’Brien had moved some years ago and I was not as close with the other fathers or sisters. There was Bishop Stephenson though. In my naivety, I thought he would help me. I met him in his office one day and that is when my mission from God Started. Right away my instincts told me something was wrong. The bishop had a smile that I’d later see on other evil men. The smile was the last thing I remember before I heard the voice of God. Then next thing I remember is the bishop on the floor, bleeding from the neck. There was a sterling silver letter opener in my hand. It was a gift from his holiness the Pope. It was now a tool of the Lord’s vengeance, as am I. I am a soldier in God’s Army. He is absolute and his will is my command. I am The Archangel.

When I was 13, I tied up this girl that was 12 with a jumprope, then beat the fuck out of her. By the time I was done, her lip was split, her wrists were bleeding from the rope cuttin into them, one of her eyes was swollen shut, she was missing two teeth, her small tits will entirely black and blue, her pussy was bleeding, and I’m fairly sure that several bones in her feet were broken. When I let her down, she crumpled on the floor and went into a fetal position and just hugged her legs to her chest and sobbed quietly. I suddenly got very aroused seeing that, so I pulled out my dick (I has actally hit puberty 12, and was hairy, balls dropped and everything functioning) and started jerking off quietly. Eventually, I started to breathe harder, and she noticed what I was doing, and she just looked at me with this look of absolute horror on her face. It was at that moment that I climaxed and sprayed probably my biggest load of cum ever all over face and chest. Then, I picked up her torn shirt from the ground, wiped off my dick and tossed it to her. I told her to clean herself up and that if she ever told anyone, I would go to her house and kill her while she slept, and that if anyone asked who hurt her, she should say a bunch of high school kids did it. When I think back on it, I think she was the first girl I ever loved. ...god I’m fucked up.

"A french cheese? Why would anyone do that?" the other cop asked. "Hell, I don't know," said the first cop, "there are weird people out there you know, weird, weird people. But anyway she supposedly couldn't get it out anymore." "It was stuck?" "Yes sir," the first cop nodded, sipping from his coffee and looking into the distance. "My God, that's gross." "At least that's what they think happened. And she must have been too ashamed of it to tell anyone or to go see a doctor and have it removed. She was a high class woman, you know. It probably was stuck in there, quite some time, stinking, rotting, before sunday. You know what these cheeses can smell like when they get ripe." "Eeew." "So she was walking in the park late sundaynight..." "Airing her cunt so to say," said the other cop. They laughed. "Hahaha, yeah airing her cunt, when..." the first cop laughed some more puting his cup on the table, "when this guy... this guy snug up behind her and pulled her into the bushes. Apparently he wanted to rape her, but when he pulled back the curtains..." "That smell, that smell!" "Yeah, that's what they say happened and he must have fled, leaving the classy woman there, lying om the ground." "God..." They where silent for some time, looking at the passing cars. "And what happened then?" "Well, she killed herself. They found her in the attick, mice running in and out of her." "Mice?" "Yes sir." The sun set on the other side of the boulevard. "They like french cheese, you know, mice like french cheese.

He stood there and watched as the Senior Portman guided his boat towards the sand. He was a proud captain, only three contracts ever signed, but he was well respected for his actions. Three contracts, two of them kind of rushed into but the last one at least had a happier ending. One went on for far too long, it ended officially but then continued on through the black market for some time after that, his only real mistake. What he was doing right now was fulfilling his philosophy, if you aren't going to sign a contract, get your ship out of port. He had signed a contract with The Fleet, which was going to make it hard to have any personal contracts. While it was possible to have personal contracts while in The Fleet, in the end The Fleet's contract took priority. His ship was finally lodged firmly into the sand, he departed to the party he was invited to. The party was a family get together, he just happened to be good friends with them. It was nice for him to be around some permanent contracts, it gave him hope for the future. There was another captain and a contract creator who seemed to be thinking about negotiations, they spent most of the time enjoying the conversation of the other. He was happy when he could see friends move closer to happiness. Then there was the contract creator who talked to him. Not totally with words, actions silenced those out. He questioned if he was reading them right. The party ended and he departed, his mind never leaving the contract creator. He had been lonely since the end of his last contract. Yet in loneliness he had found some comfort. Freedom, room to breathe, but still no true clarity of mind. He arrived home, asked the contract creator of their intentions, and went to sleep. He awoke to a disguise, a misdirection, but he had clarity on this morning. He questioned the amount of time the contract creator had thought about trying to enter negotiations. Answer, since they had first arrived in this port, but he had been in another contract at the time, and so not wanting to use the black market, they pursued other interests. Honesty and purity were highly respectable attributes in his book, and so he continued. The last contract that the creator made ended abruptly, why? Simple, the captain failed their end of the contract in the communication section. He understood, many captains struggled there, he tried to make that section as streamlined as possible. Final question, did the know about The Fleet contract. They did indeed, reason two for pursuing other options. He had lost all of the clarity he had before, logic dictated to dismiss it, loneliness dictated other wise. He would walk a very thin line the next few days, no more rushing into any contracts. Illogical, improbable, but it would be a trial by fire, none the less.

Since summer is ending I thought I would post a little something that I did when I was younger and had fun doing. I'm new to this so please any feedback is welcome! "Move, move, move!" yelled my brother. "Too dangerous!" I yelled back, just as a flying ball of mud splattered on the ground next to me. Close call. Peaking my head over the mound of dirt, I noticed my neighbor, aka enemy #1, run out of his hiding spot and into the open. "Shoot!" I screamed as loud as an eight-year-old can scream. Grabbing the tin pot that was laying on the ground, I plopped it on top of my head and stood up. Spat, spat, spat! Little orange projectiles shot out from my Nerf gun. Almost all fell short of it's target except one. Soaring through the air the little missile hit it's target right in the center of enemy #1's chest. "Bullseye!" I screamed in victory, but the war was not over yet. My brother and I slowly made our way to the enemies base by army crawling through the thick grass. Looking at each other quickly, he and I split up. I going right and he going left. I continued to make my way towards the enemy base. It was quiet...too quiet. I quickly ducked and rolled behind a tree (more like stumbled, fell, and then rolled) as the enemy home base came into my sight. I quickly peaked over towards my brother to see him waiting for my call. I scan the area quickly and notice enemy #2 sitting quietly playing with some sort of device. 'Wait a second!' I thought, as a took another peak. "Hey!" I yelled, I started making my way towards her. "We're playing army not dolls!" I said. My brother noticing the same thing came out of cover to stand next to me. "I am playing army!" enemy #2 said. "No you're not!" I said as I put my hands on my hips ready to scold her. "Uh huh!!" she said as she pulled out a little toy pistol. Quickly shooting off two rounds at my brother and I, each hitting it's mark. "Pow, pow! Game over!" she cheered.

If I could have one wish – and I couldn’t wish for money, or to correct past mistakes – here is what I would wish for. I would wish to be outside a party in 1977, the year my mom turned 26. At that time, she was living in a tiny house with her best friend. The friend would later become my godmother, but for now, she was just another single woman teaching at the local high school. Myra taught cooking; my mom taught French. The students called her Madame Green, but she was 5’04”, and already most of them looked older than her. She made up for it by being extremely strict. She had worked hard her whole life, writing out essays by hand three or four times in college before she turned them in. She had dated but never seriously. She was more amused by the pursuit of a man than the acquisition, and often found that once someone reciprocated her feelings, she lost interest. She was six years into a crippling eating disorder that dominated her life, and that she hid from everyone. Still, I imagine she didn’t take herself too seriously. She had short hair and wore little makeup. She looked like the kind of girl who would make you laugh. In pictures, she is always doing that – laughing. The costume parties they threw in that house were epic. People came over in bathing suits, in nun costumes, in nothing at all. I don’t think she would have gotten drunk, at least not in that desperate, modern way. But I think her face would have been red with wine, and she would have talked to you for hours, because she has always been able to talk for hours, about anything. I would wish to meet her outside the party, this red-faced 26-year-old woman, stumbling outside to catch her breath, still shouting something to someone behind her. I would offer her a cigarette and she would say no. We would chat like women do. We would like each other, in that way that blooms from mutual interest and admiration; in the easy trust that precedes real friendship. We would chat about nothing, really. Someone would call to her, and she would excuse herself, to go back inside and carry on with her life.

My eyes strained to take in my surroundings, the view was one I have seen millions of times, one bright light forever burning my face and complete darkness surrounding that ever scorching light. I cant escape it and yet I have tried so many times. Where I am has no sound, only faint groans which come and go. It is complete solitude and I crave company, “too much thinking” “I’m so lonely” “please help me” these are the thought’s I’ve uttered to myself over and over again and even though I decided years ago that I couldn’t go on I am still here. “why is that?” I hear you ask, Well the reason is because my self inflicted exile has allowed life to flourish and create absolutely beautiful things beyond my wildest dreams. There where great times, when I was in harmony with my body as well as my mind, but gradually those times have disappeared. I have tried multiple times to end my life, and my body carries the scars. I can feel them every day and they mock me, why? Because I have never done it right, they mock my immense failure. I am being so selfish but I don’t care anymore, I have spent what seems like centuries creating a cancer to kill myself, one that will slowly strip me of my flesh from the inside out and drain me of my very life force. It is beautiful, almost perfect, it will spread quicker than plagues of locust and consume everything healthy in my body until it has taken all my life, once it has finished it’s task it will fade without a trace or a memory, a scream or a sigh. The cancer has begun to spread, I feel myself growing ever weaker, It is now almost absolute. Quite poetic in a way, As I get weaker it gets stronger yet when I die it die’s too. As I have grown older my sadism has grown more wicked. I’ve often laughed to myself thinking about my cancer consuming me, Growing more and more confident with every space it takes over, probing into new unknown territories with great satisfaction at the ripe pastures it see’s. Little does it know that this will end, It’s conquest will be over before it has time to rejoice over it’s spoils, The stupid thing. It can be clever at times I must say, It targets and desecrates my organs with pinpoint accuracy and lets no good go to waste, I feel it everyday. What a beautiful creation. “A name, That’s it! I need a name for this magnificent disease….“ Ok I’ve got one, One that is as twisted as my mind But allow me to introduce myself first, I have been so rude. My name is Mother Earth and I shall call my disease Mankind.

Questing They quested. All throughout their childhood Sam and Tyler would run around with make believe swords, using their hands as pretend gums. The duo journeyed all over the universe in seconds wearing their super-fast sneakers. They overcame adversity to hit buzzer beating, game winning, basketball shots. Threw for last second touchdowns, and hit ninth inning homeruns in the World Series when the crowd was deafening. They grew up, but they still didn’t stop. In high school Tyler made it his personal quest to vanquish each and every evil teacher, while Sam searched the dances for his hidden princess. They climbed every obstacle, had each other’s backs every step of the way. Sam was there when Tyler was sentenced to detention, and Tyler was there when Sam had to pull his heart back from cackling witches. They both wore the cap and gown of victors when they graduated from the training grounds to the rest of the world. Still the two grew, still they quested. Looking for the perfect job that would allow them to simply saddle up and travel, where they could get assigned to tour the world and accomplish task after task. In the end Sam settled for this office, while Tyler settled for that desk, yet neither were upset that they quested in smaller realms than they had dreamed of. “Your task, should you choose to accept it, is to get this copied, stapled and on everybody’s desk before they leave today.” Proudly they accomplished each and every mission. Finally their quests took them to a home for many other retired adventures. Yet they were not done. It was in that realm that Sam finally met his princess. He was her knight in shining armor and he took her to the magical lands from his childhood, lands he had never left. Sam saved her from him and Tyler’s ultimate nemesis, boredom, and brought her all the wondrous items that had escaped less experienced eyes. Finally though, Sam and Tyler’s quest ended. In the end Sam succumbed to the unseen hands of the evil called old age. His heart and his mind were never pinned down though. Throughout his life he accomplished more than anyone of this world could have dreamed, except for himself. He is survived only by his questing mate. The one who was by his side when he slayed the mythical Dragon of Legore. The one who threw the game winning touchdown pass to him as time expired in the Super Bowl. Tyler was his partner in the scheme that vanquished the evil Miss Betts, and the one who was by his side to break the spell of the beautiful succubus Jessica Barns. He was his mate up to the end, when he brought his prized stories to his love Rosemary. He is the one who will always outlive him and will travel to all the places Sam could only have dreamed of, his imaginary friend, his only true friend, Tyler.