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Allura 23

Once upon a time there was a retard. I called him Richard. Richard was the name of the person for the part he played. He was fat and that smell of a shirt that was packed away in your grandpa’s basement for ten years, then worn by your father for a week straight camping, without showering, was the smell that lingered after he‘d sneak up on you from behind and put you in a head lock and give you a noogie. He mowed lawns all day and all summer long. His suspender held up his blue jeans just past his bellybutton. A creased, foamy, netted hat sat on the top of his head, tilted up. His t-shirts were stained yellow under his armpits. Sometimes he wouldn’t wear a hat and his head would be freshly shaved and bald on top. The Tavern opened up at eleven, so if you worked lunch, the shifts began at ten. Brew a pot of coffee. Smoke a couple cigarettes. Put on some music that you won’t be able to listen to when the seventy-year olds come in and ask you if you can pick out all the diced carrots in the chicken noodle soup. Then, grab a stack of place mats and napkins and start setting the tables. By the time you get to the silver ware, the other employees will start showing up. Get the specials from the cook. Write them on the board. You’ll either have fifteen to spare or no time and that will depend on more than one variable. When then open sign is turned on, you won’t have much to do. That is the time you should order food. At twelve, the construction workers will file in-in groups of three. Their big, steel-toed boots will leave trails of red clay and dirt all over the bar. At this same time, you’ll see a bike roll up, with a trailer carrying a lawn mower. This is Richard. He balances his bike by putting one peddle at the lowest possible point. Then his bike balances on the peddle at a eighty-five degree angle. You’ll never see his bike tip over. After he gets off his bike, he hikes up his pants and stomps into the bar. The back door swings open and everything freezes for a moment. His head shifts from side to side to side to side. And his eyes are an extension of his head. He talks to a few regulars then there is at least six inches of fat between him and the bar . I am hosting and serving and Chelsea is bartending. “Hey ah, Chelsea.” Says Richard. “Yes Richard.” Responds Chelsea. “Do you have any lunch specials my dear?” “Yes we do Richard. We have a Reuben or a Chicken Salad Sandwich.” “Well then, I guess I’ll take a burger, medium rare, with a few fries.” “Alright Richard. I’ll send that right in.” Seeing there is fifteen minutes before his food will be ready, he walks over to me. “Stahl, what are you up to?” “Working hard Richard.” I’d take another drag off my cigarette and look into the lounge. The lounge would be empty. “How about eighteen holes of golf?” “Sure Richard.” I’d hand him a few bucks and he’d get down on his knees and insert the money into the video game. I wouldn’t always have the patience to play a game with Richard. Sometimes I’d have work to do. Or no money. Then I’d suggest Chris as a partner. Or Jay, who was my boss but he’d use the same excuse every time. “Can’t. Hurt my hand.” Once the money was in the machine, the music would begin playing and we would pick the color of our golfer. At this moment, his eyes would widen and he’d have all the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas day. “Oh man, Stahl, I am going to kick your butt!” He’d say. “Oh yeah?” “Yeah.” If he'd have had to gone to sleep, he would of been staring at the ceiling all night long. We would pick a course and begin playing. Birdies were relatively easy to achieve. Eagles were a bit more difficult. And a hole in one was rare. I didn’t want to beat him but I always did. A birdie received a, “Tweet, tweet, tweet.” From Richard. An eagle was louder, deep down in his throat and involved the flapping of his wings as if he were trying to fly away. There was no signature sound for a hole in one. I believe he’d just yell real loud and give you a high five. “That calls for O’ Doul’s. I’ll take two and double fist’em and get rowdy and go to work tomorrow at the store all red-eyed so Laurie says, ‘What the hell did you do last night? And I'll say I was double fisting O' Doul's.’” Rarely did he hint at drinking Jager. Or about a time, when he’d be plastered, starting bar fights and grabbing woman’s breasts. One year though, while working the party, at Arnie’s beach, pouring beers for everyone, he began pouring them for himself as well. And no one noticed because they convinced him along time ago that O’Doul’s has alcohol, which isn’t exactly a lie. Usually his food would be done before our round, then it would get cold. When we finished, I would say, “Good game Richard. What you up to now?” “Well, I already moved Carol’s lawn. Now I have to go mow Jerry’s and Johnnie’s lawn.” “Work hard Richard.” Lunch ended at three and dinner began at five. Richard would be back at five. He’d put his order in and see if he could get another eighteen holes in. I’d tell him, “Once a day, Richard, once a day.” Then he’d ask a few others who would refuse his offer. He’d ask me again and I’d say, “No.” One more circle and try with me before he’d just start talking. “What have you been up to Stahl?” “Work and play, Richard.” “Well, are you working hard?” “Always do.” I’d go behind the bar and pour him a double, cherry coke with extra grenadine. His eyes became dilated and wouldn’t focus. (Although his eyes never really did focus.) His laugh and talk became more nervous and furtive. Overall, he’d become more jittery and bounce off the walls while talking to everyone. You could see him walk up to a tourist couple. Pull out his business card. Put his arm around one of them and talk like he’s known them his whole life. Then five minutes later, you see their minds turning, thinking is this guy normal. I’d place the drink on the napkin. His eyes would lighten up. “God you are the best, Stahl.” “Thanks Richard.” “No, thank you. You know I love you because you’re crazy and we make it fun.” “I know.” He’d slam his beverage in about seven seconds and I’d make him another. By now it would be five fifteen. You would go back and make sure no one had come to dine. The restaurant would be empty. Your fellow employees would be sitting on their asses. It would be very motivating. You could go have another cigarette, you could go read by the host desk, or you could go talk to Richard some more. And that is what you’d do. You would walk through the wait station, behind the front bar, back to the back bar and the only remnants would be an empty glass sitting on a soggy napkin. You could look out the window and see his bike drifting slowly away. The following day Richard would be in at the exact same time. He would nearly say the exact same things. And days would come and months would go. Tourists would visit and leave. More tourists would visit and leave. The island would freeze, then thaw and everyone would continue living like always, except Richard because, one hot and humid August day, when his lawn mower broke down and he thought his life was worthless, he took a twelve gauge and blam, blam, there was a big hole through his head. He was a good man.

A man takes his head out of his hands and looks at the clock. *1AM on the dot. He's punctual, I'll give him that.* The man is proud of the wrinkles that extend from his forehead to his eyes and from his eyes to his chin. Each one, in his mind, was a mark of fortune, indicating all of his good decisions in life. He glances briefly at the picture of he and his wife smiling on a pier, then smiles and rubs his hands on his head once more, wiping fatigue from his eyes with his fingers. He sits in a converted office-turned-study. There are fewer books than bottles of assorted vintage booze, but this small space has always been found to bring him comfort. He picks himself out of his brown, quilted leather armchair and makes through the foyer to the front door. He picks himself up on his toes and glances through a small hole in the door. He sees a tall man, though his features are obscured through the wide-angle lens of the peephole. The man outside is standing on his novelty doormat, wiping his feet where it beckons guests to wipe their paws. He swallows and takes a few short breaths before opening the door. "Thank you for coming" the shorter man says. "Can we make this quick? I have many more people to see tonight" says the taller man. His features are plain. Too plain. He has a business haircut that parts his dark, but not too dark, and unremarkable hair. His nose is large, but not prominent. His eyes are black. His mouth is small and straight. He is wearing a black body-length canvas coat with matching black slacks. Underneath is a hint of a black business suit with a white shirt and black tie. No one would look twice at this man in a crowd. In fact, if the shorter man's attention hadn't been focused on the tall man, he might not have remembered he was standing right in front of him. He was almost engineered to be forgettable. "O-of course. I thought people don't usually make appointments with you" says the shorter man. "I see lots of people every day, but things usually go better if they don't expect me." "Please," says the shorter man as he nods in understanding, "come inside." They move into the foyer and the shorter man makes to remove the taller man's coat. "My name is Greg, by the by" says the shorter man. "I'm called Sue" responds the taller man. "A boy named Sue, eh?" chuckled Greg. His attempt to lighten mood was lost as Sue made no reaction to his comment. "Sorry, I'm just nervous, I think. Please follow me." "It's just a nickname," the taller man says as they move to the study, "it's good to be nervous. Nothing reminds you more of being alive than fearing the future." "Can I offer you something to drink? I have fine, 18 year old single malt scotch from--" "No, thank you," says Sue, "I haven't a need for anything at the moment." Greg sits down in his favorite armchair and takes a deep breath. Sue moves behind Greg and takes a bottle from his pocket. "Okay," says Greg, "before we begin, I would just like to go over some terms." Sue dips a few drops of liquid from the bottle onto a small microfiber cloth, and then uses the cloth to cover Greg's nose and mouth. "I know the terms," says Suicide as Greg lumps unconscious, "and don't worry. I always make it look like an accident.

“I’m not a bad person.” I had to keep telling myself this. “I am NOT a bad person.” I said this as I fingered the gun in my pocket. The cafe smelled wonderful. Some kind of African roast? Maybe from Kenya, cut with a few beans from South America to save money. I sat down, without ordering, and opened my laptop. Wireshark was already open and an MITM attack primed and ready to go. I hooked into the Wifi and let the computer do all the work. There were at least 10 people in the coffee shop with laptops. Most looked like students. I watched my screen fill up with their conversations. “I want to touch you in places that will make you squirm.” “You’re a bitch and you know it! Fuck off!” These were remarkably different from what I could hear around me. What people will say once a screen is between them... I waited patiently. The guy probably wasn't there yet, I was early. Which, of course, is when I realized my own idiocy. What if he didn’t use Wifi? What if he just used the data plan on his phone? I grabbed my laptop, almost cracking the screen. If he doesn’t use it, I can just make him meet “Sarah” somewhere else. Somewhere more secluded maybe. I let go of the screen and took a deep breath. “Hi Sarah, I’m here.” The words jumped up at me from my IM program. I looked around for the culprit as I typed. My computer started spitting out info about this person… He was using a modern smartphone. He had one other conversation on the go, but it was encrypted. Dammit. “I’ll be there soon, what are you wearing so I know it’s you?” I typed. “Look for the Blue Jays hat.” I saw him as soon as I read the final word. My hands started to shake. He was about 3 tables away from me. He was a young man, in his 30s. He had the hat on, paired with blue jeans and a t-shirt from Old Navy. I touched the gun again. A message popped up on my laptop: “Hey dudehole, you find him yet?” I have no idea why she called me that. “Yeah, he’s not far.” “Good, I got back up. It’s not a gun, so it won’t be easy… Please try to make it easy for me.” I looked around but couldn’t see her. She couldn’t be in the cafe, she stood out no matter where she was. “Well, you have a good 2 minutes left to back out. As he said, he has never actually touched anyone like that.” She said. “He will.” I typed back. “Okay, then do it.” She replied. I looked around but the man was missing. I looked at my laptop. “I don’t see you, meet me in the alleyway behind the building.” I held my finger above the enter button. He had never actually touched a child. I hit enter. I waited. The cursor blinked at me. I told it to shut up. “k.” The letter showed up. I closed my laptop and looked around. Still no man in a Blue Jays cap. It had started raining outside. It cooled off my face as I walked out the door. I walked around the edge of the building I stopped just before the corner that would take me behind the building. The rain was loud enough to drown out the city sounds around me. I fiddled with the gun a bit more. My phone beeped and I took it out. “Do it.” Was all it said. I shoved my hand into my pocket and held on to the gun. Holding it in my pocket I rounded the corner. He grinned when I came around. “Hello.” He said with a smile. “I’m not Sarah.” I said. “That’s obvious.” he replied, still smiling. “You’re a disgusting peaodofile.” I said. “That’s what I said.” He replied. “The worst kind of human scum there is. You are a… a waste of human life.” “Now that’s a bit harsh.” He replied. “I told you I’ve never touched a child, and never plan to.” My breathing got heavier. “You can say whatever the fuck you want! You don’t deserve to live!” I pulled out the gun and pointed it at him. His grin disappeared. “You need to calm down.” he said. He put his hands out and backed up. His chest seemed bigger than I remembered from the pictures. “You have no idea! No idea what you do to those children’s lives!” “Put the gun down.” He said. The rain got heavier. “Do you know what you did to my life?” “I do.” “This…” I began. “is because of who you are.” I pulled the trigger. The sound echoed out into the street. I looked at the gun in my hand. It had smoke coming out of it. My wrist was in agony, I didn’t expect it to hurt so much. I looked up and the man was running towards me. He was maybe 10 feet away and closing in. I fired the gun again and screamed in agony as I heard my wrist snap. I fell to my knees on the ground. Finally seeing behind me I saw more men running towards me. These men were wearing police uniforms. They were about 100 feet away. The man I had shot at got to me and I looked up at him. He pulled out a gun and pointed it at me. “You are under arrest for…” He began but the words were cut short by a gurgle. She was behind him. Somehow the girl who always stood out had blended in. She’d shoved a knife into his throat. “Fucking peaodofile!” She said, but then she looked up and saw the police officers running towards us. I picked up my gun with my left hand and pointed it towards them. They all stopped and pointed their guns at me. “Put the gun down!” came from one of the officers. The man we called a peaodofile was silent. I closed my eyes. That’s manslaughter at least. But they were there for something else. They were trapping me for something else. I looked up at the officers. “I thought he was a…” “We know. You thought you were doing the right thing. We need you to do the right thing now though, we need you to put the gun down.” “You’ll arrest me.” I said. The girl who stabbed him ran towards the police. Her hands in the air. One of the officers shot her and she fell into a puddle. “Please put the gun down.” The officer said. Their voice cracking. I listened carefully. Was she still breathing? Was that a moan? She stood out so much more within the now red puddle. My clothes were soaked through and I shivered. The gun wavered. “All I ever do, is the right thing.” I said. Finally I started to cry. The officer took a step towards me. I pulled the trigger and shot wildly. The police all started running towards me at once. I continued pulling the trigger, screaming in pain with each shot. Had I hit a single person tonight? When the officers were close enough I closed my eyes. I pointed the gun at my chin. Before I could pull the trigger I was tackled to the ground.

' Once upon a time, there was a wolf named Cyrus. He was thought of as the bravest wolf in his pack and had no problem hunting for food or defending his brethren. Two other wolves, Edan and Ambu, were particularly close to him, because the thing is this wasn't really *Cyrus'* pack. Many years earlier, he was found alone in a forest with no memory of how he got there. There were no wounds on Cyrus' body, and even though one of his eyes was missing, it seemed more likely that he wasn't born with it to begin with. Even more strange was his black fur, much darker than the other gray wolves in the area. In that particular forest, Cyrus was the first black wolf they'd seen in many years. Most of the pack assumed he was damaged and should be left behind if not killed on the spot, but Edan and Ambu pleaded against that fate. They argued a wolf surviving on his own with no injuries proved Cyrus must be quite a talented warrior that could help them greatly. The rest of the pack reluctantly agreed to let the lone wolf join them; however, Cyrus proved again and again he was an incredible hunter that had no match in the wilderness. Rumors even began to spread that he'd been dropped from a world beyond their own and possessed god-like powers. But no wolf, no animal is a god. One day as the pack traced a group of rabbits, a bear became alerted to their presence and attacked. Usually Cyrus' pack would be close in formation, but they'd split up to try to circle around their prey and were caught off guard. Several wolves abandoned the hunt to reach safety, but Cyrus refused to leave. He'd never faced a bear before or anything as large as one, though he'd also never been bested in battle, so he charged the massive animal and attempted to send it to a ghostly end. Edan and Ambu soon realized Cyrus had stayed behind to fight the beast, and stormed back to save him, even if it meant they'd die trying. By now the pack of wolves had collected their thoughts and followed their kin back into the forest. Their return would be futile however, because by the time they'd found the bear again, it had already killed Cyrus with a monstrous bite to the neck. In a rage, the remaining wolves attempted to best the bear before it could feast on their fallen friend, though once again their brave attempt was meaningless. One by one, the bear slaughtered wolf after wolf, until all of them had been slain. The only victory was that just as Ambu, the last wolf, fell, the massive beast finally succumbed to its wounds and collapsed. Hums of death echoed through the forest that eventually seeped in with a ring of silence. Not all was empty in the bloody graveyard. Before his body rotted away, Cyrus eventually opened his eyes again, now as a spirit slowly leaving his corpse. The sight of his fallen kin filled him with sadness, so he waited for their spirits to join him. He waited, and waited, and waited, though their spirits never came. "Waiting for someone?" An unknown voice asked. Another animal stepped forward from the dark forest and surveyed the area, though it was nothing like Cyrus had seen before. The animal seemed most like a deer, but with bright blue horns that illuminated the world around it; leaves in the trees glowed liked stars as the creature neared them. "They're gone, dead like moths in a fire, dead like *you.*" Cyrus remained silent, too overcome with anger and confusion to utter a word. "You have no questions? Nothing to say? Perhaps you're enjoying the company of these broken corpses and wish not to speak so they may sleep". "What do you want?!" Cyrus finally barked. "What do I want? Well I only want what's best for you, for the world. But tell me, what do *you* want?" "Leave me alone! Unless you can bring back the dead, I'll have nothing to do with you." With a chuckle, the creature stepped closer to Cyrus, who retreated several steps; the otherworldly dear's gray eyes pierced so deeply that Cyrus' spine crawled whenever he made eye contact. "What if I can do that? Bring back the dead? All life deserves a second chance, yes?" "You're lying. It's impossible." "You've never heard of The Ocean Of Bells? Surely someone as fierce as you would know of such a place. A place where bells ring for all forms of life and crack at their moment of death. Though I can fix those bells and get them ringing again. If you'd like to bring your kin back, *yourself* back, all you have to do is bring me your bells and I'll fix them. That's all... it's really very simple". Cyrus grew silent at the surreal thought. Bells? As long as he'd spent in the forest and area around it, he'd never heard of such a thing. "How do I know that's not a trick?" "And what reason would I have to trick you?" "What reason would you have to help me?" Cyrus responded. "Because... *Cyrus*," The creature began, "this isn't the first time we've met. You don't remember anything from your past, but I do. I remember everything, and might I say you're a very special animal. So special in fact, that I can't have you dead. Not yet. If you help yourself, you help me, and if you help me, I believe that earns you your kin back." Without other possible options, Cyrus took one last look at the corpses that surrounded him before nodding. "Very good. Now, to find those bells, you'll have to travel deep into the forest. Deeper than many animals are willing to go. Eventually you'll come across a very peculiar tree, but you won't be able to pick it out unless this tree is burned; you see, its bark shines blue like the ocean reflecting the sky when it's set ablaze." "How does that help me?" Cyrus scolded, "Even if the tree shines when it's burned, how will I know when I'm close? I'll be burning the whole forest for..." "Do you want to find the bells or not?" The creature asked. Neither animal spoke for several moments, until the deer turned and began to walk away, "You'll have to find the means of starting the fire on your own, but once you reach the Ocean Of Bells, your path will be very clear". With no time given to explain more, the surreal creature ran into the forest and vanished. Cyrus knew he might be wandering for days, weeks, or even longer trying to find the shining tree. "Well," he thought to himself, "I'd better get started". Just as he suspected, Cyrus found himself traveling through the forest for several days, watching as the sun slowly raised and fell over and over. Eventually, he came across a group of hunters, gripping their weapons closely. There wasn't a way for him to know, at least for that moment, if he'd be seen by the humans, so he kept his head down and attempted to sneak past. Just as he was getting around the group, one of the hunters pulled off his backpack and took out several logs. Another leaned over and waved something very close to them; a lighter. Cyrus watched carefully as the logs erupted in a flame; it seemed the humans were setting up a spot to sleep for the night. If he could grab a branch, run over and light it on the fire, Cyrus would be able to use it for his needs. "Hmm," he thought, "should I wait for them to fall asleep to avoid the risk of getting caught, or run in now... I'm fairly sure no one can see me". Having had walked around for so long made Cyrus impatient, why should he have to wait even longer? When all the hunters had their backs turned, Cyrus picked up a branch with his teeth and rushed over to their fire. One of the humans peeked over quickly but had no reaction to Cyrus' presence, confirming that they couldn't see him. The branch lit immediately, causing Cyrus to bolt away. As it burned, the flame turned from yellow to white. Strange, but the wolf kept running until the stick was almost completely charred. At the last moment, Cyrus threw the branch at one of the trees, which painted its bark white with ghostly fire. Several trees around it burst into flame as well, spreading like a virus throughout the forest. These fires, however, became even more bizarre. They made no sound as they burned, no crackle or anything close, and eventually those white fires simply froze in time and became cold. Time itself came to a pause with whatever was seared by the flames. Cyrus examined the area for any sign of shining blue bark, though wasn't able to find any, no matter where he looked. "This is hopeless," Cyrus said to himself, "I'll be out here for years at this rate". *"Are you sure?"* Something responded. No one was around to have spoken to him, but Cyrus was sure he heard a voice, a familiar voice. *"Listen... listen very carefully. Do you hear it?"* Cyrus wasn't sure what the voice meant, but he closed his eyes and blocked out his discouraging thoughts to listen with more care than he'd done while he was alive. Could the presence speaking be who Cyrus was convinced it was? *Ring...* *Ring...* Bells? With his eyes still closed, Cyrus slowly moved towards the sound, careful to steer himself away when he felt the cold breath of the frozen flames. When he reached the apparent source of the noise, no blue bark could be found. *"It's not what it seems,"* the mysterious voice whispered, *"look deeper into the earth"*. The only way Cyrus could proceed farther was to dig around the tree, so he dug his paws deep into the soil to see what he could find. As he reached the very deepest root, bits of fire fell upon it, scratching out its blueish hue. Now the sound of bells was clear as his own voice. "Please," Cyrus stated, "I don't know who you are, but guide me to the Ocean Of Bells. I don't know where to go from here." As the last word left Cyrus' mouth, his paws suddenly fell into the earth, dragging him in. He fell and fell until carefully landing on his feet, now in a world of complete darkness. Only one thing was visible in the distance, a single bell, ringing with a bright blue aura. More bells seemed to absorb the blueish glow until an ocean of them grew above Cyrus.

a little nervous about posting this, the first short story I ever really tried to write. Dial. Breathe, just breathe. His eyes drifted open, swallowing the sweat from his brow. His arm stretched for the left side of the bed, hoping, praying to find her there. But he only felt cold sheets. Baby Blue eyes and long blonde hair soared through his mind as he closed his eyes and pictured her face, if only he could hold her again.... Snap out of it! His eyes tore open again, this time, they remained open, drinking in the early morning sunlight as it peeked through the curtains. He took a long breath, and rose from his bed, his feet sinking into the plush carpet that lined the bed. He staggered over to bathroom door, his hand grasping for the handle. He pushed his way through the doorway, headed to the shower, when he saw something through the corner of his eye. He gazed into the mirror a moment before he realized that it was him that he saw. He looked at his ragged, glassy-eyed reflection and felt only disgust, the kind of disgust where nothing about his face appealed to him. Nothing in that glassy-eyed gaze seemed worth anything, and he hated it. Deep in the pit of his stomach he knew this was all due to her, but he couldn't bring himself to face it. Just like he couldn't bring himself to accept she was gone. Gone, and never coming back again. He could still see the moment she left in his mind, playing over and over again like an old movie reel. Her bag in her hand, her fist clenched around a plane ticket, her big blue eyes looking over him with revulsion. Her mouth forming the ugly words that would shatter his world, smashing it into innumerable pieces. “I hate you Jeff” her voice shaping that last word like it was something foul, as if it left poison on her tongue to say it at all. “You're nothing, and you're never going to amount to anything, you're worthless” He had never known until then that words could cause physical pain, pain so volatile and intense that it hurt him to talk, which is why he said nothing as she left. His reflection faded back into his view, and he gazed deep into his eyes. “I am worthless” he said, saying the words aloud to himself as if to try and affirm her. Saying them aloud didn't help though, all it did was serve to sear them deeper into his mind. He thought of the days when He had been in her favor, when all the words he said made a smile rise from her beautiful lips. He could not have said for the life of him when his words lost their magic, when everything he said caused her to scowl instead of smile. When all he did caused her to look at him like he was dirt, instead of gold. The moment that these changes began eluded him, he supposed that he would never know what triggered the downward spiral in their relationship, but he knew that the spiral was there, and it led to nothing but emptiness for him. Maybe it had been when he lost his job, or when the doctor told them that they were barren, and they would never have the large family she had always wanted. He couldn't be sure. These events all brought upon the poison that killed their love, and their marriage. He tightened his tie around his neck, and headed out the door. The air was cold, nipping the bare skin at the edge of his collar, causing him to instinctively shiver. He proceeded down the sidewalk still wrapped up in his thoughts, thinking of her. He shuffled through the crowded streets, a ghost among the living. He was shrouded in thought, hardly noticing any other people around him, walking through them like a salmon up a stream. He walked for hours, not sure what he was searching for, but searching nonetheless. He eventually found himself in his old college hangouts, navigating the bars and alleyways like the back of his hand. Then he saw it. O' Sullivan's pub. The place where he met her, the place where his life truly began. He remembered everything about the night they met, from her perfume to his sweaty, nervous palms. That night they hardly spoke, the feeling was that neither of them had to, they felt like two puzzle pieces. The fit together, forming one whole, words had nothing to do with it. They spent the night wondering the drenched Seattle streets, not caring about where they were headed, only caring that the other person was there when they got there. He quickly shook his head, as if to slam the thoughts into the sides of his skull to expel them. He opened the old wooden door and stepped into the musky air of the small pub. He breathed it all in, the liquor stained chairs, the faint smell of musty cologne, and the cracked old bar. The seats at the bar were as uncomfortable as he remembered, with just the right amount of splinters to actually bother someone sitting on them. “Can I getcha something?” the bartender's voice was thick and raspy, as if he had a very bad cold. “ A beer would be great, thanks” He looked around as the bartender poured out his drink. “Busy day?” He asked. “Nah, kind of a slow day.” The bartender handed him his beer, “ Enjoy.” He took a sip of his beer as the door to the bar squealed open, and a figure stepped through. The seat next to him pulled back and the figure sat down next to him. “ Beer please.” The voice that emanated from the figure was soft and smooth, like velvet. He froze, his beer still held in his hand in midair. Oh God he thought, it's her. Slowly, he drew in a breath with a hiss and turned to face the figure sitting next to him. Long blonde hair obscured his view of the face, he strained for a better look. “ Is there a reason you're staring at me bud?” Her face whirled to face him, and He breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't her. “ Sorry, I thought you were someone I knew.” She rolled her eyes as she started to dig through her purse. The bartender handed a beer to her, “ Thanks.” He couldn't stop looking at her, and he didn't know why. They spent the next few minutes like that, with him looking nowhere but her, and she looking everywhere but at him. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. She cautiously sipped her beer, playing the nonchalant card about the man next to her that was obviously staring at her. “You know, usually when people stare at me, they at least try and get my name.” She said. “ Alright then, what's your name?” “Anya, yours?” “Jeff.” “What do you do for a living Jeff?” “Well actually, I'm kinda in between jobs right now, but I'm a writer.” “Ohh how exciting,” she chuckled. He smiled back at her, trying hard to remember the last time he had a friendly conversation with another human being. Their conversation continued on like this for a while, with them both sharing details about their life to the other, but both never sharing anything really meaningful, but they both had a few laughs and discovered they had a similar sense of humor. As she got up to leave, she handed him a small folded slip of paper. “Anya 555-342-7865” was written on the inside of the folded side of the paper. He smiled as he watched her hail a cab and tell the driver where to go. He looked again at the slip of paper, still smiling. He wasn't really sure why he was smiling, but it felt right in this situation. He headed home, now thinking very little of her and more and more of Anya. He turned his key in his lock and headed to bed. Staring at his ceiling that night, he decided he had to see Anya again. The next morning he awoke from his bed, reached to his left, and still felt nothing. Looking down his arm, he saw a small slip of paper laying on his nightstand. Lifting the paper up to his sleepy eyes, he smiled. Reaching for his phone, he already had the number memorized.

Dear Jacob, I understand you aren’t expecting a letter from me. You probably aren’t expecting a letter from anyone. Who sends letters these days anyway? I don’t mean to disturb your beautiful life in anyway, there’s just some things I should tell you. Before I tell you anything else, I want to tell you that I’m sorry. You don’t know it yet, but I’ve let you down. I’ve failed you. All those things you wanted for me, they all fell through. All those dreams, all those ambitions. All I can say is that I’m sorry. I’m sorry Jacob. I sound like a broken record but I just don’t know what else I can say. I loved you Jacob. Your outlook on life, your endless positivity, your enthusiasm. I can’t speak on behalf of anyone else, but you were the perfect man in my eyes: flawless, god-like, invincible. You worked hard, you took care of your body, you were sensitive. It makes me smile to think about it - you knew that you were God’s gift to women. I loved you, but that love died. My respect for you has been on a steady decline over the last couple of years. Bit by bit, you began to stop caring. Slowly, you stopped putting in that extra bit of effort that made you so wonderful. You wasted your time, you pushed away those who were close to you, you abused your body. Why did you have sink to such bitter levels of misogyny, gluttony and cruelty? What have you become? It pains me to say it, but I think I hate you now. I hope, more than anything else, that you can consider what I am saying to you and think about your actions. You’re still so young. You still have that twinkle in your eye where the real you looks out at the world. All is not lost.

Millions of bells, billions... *trillions* of them. Some ringing, others broken and losing their glow. How would Cyrus ever find the bells he needed at this rate? Upon a closer inspection, several of the broken bells seemed to be making a path. For now it was the only thing he had to go on, so Cyrus followed under them. *"Almost there,"* the voice from above whispered, *"you're almost there"*. A tree of ringing bells came into view; its bark was a vibrant collection of black and blue with fireflies roaming about, mimicking an elderly night. The closer he got, the clearer something sitting at the base of the tree was. “Ambu!” Cyrus ran over with joy pulsing through his veins, now certain that his lost friend had been guiding him. Next to Ambu was a strange collar with gold bells attached to it that seemed different from the others of the Ocean. “Take it,” he ordered, “these are the ones he wants”. “You found the bells?” Cyrus responded, puzzled, “How did you know I was looking for them? How did you even get down here?” “When the bear defeated me, my spirit wasn't able to leave my body as quickly as yours, but I heard the conversation between you and the deer. When the two of you parted ways, I was finally set free from my corpse and followed you; however, the creature captured me and trapped my spirit here. Instead of sitting helplessly, I scouted around and located the bells he asked you to find, but I'm worried. I have a feeling he expected me to do so.” Hearing the story returned Cyrus from joy to concern, “Are the others down here? They can help us, they might even know a way to get you out”. “It's too late for them, their spirits were silenced when they challenged the deer in an attempt to best him. They knew they'd probably perish, but would rather have met death by that than fighting you”. “What? Fighting *me?*” “Do you know what the deer's name is? It's Cyrus... he and you are the same spirit. Whenever you die, you're reincarnated as him, and whenever he dies, he's reincarnated as you. Having your spirit active in two forms isn't supposed to be happening and is causing reality itself to slowly break apart. To stop whatever horrible cataclysms have been put into motion, one of you needs to be silenced. If it's you, the deer will bring your body back, but your spirit will be completely his, and from that you'll be nothing but a mindless minion to him. But if it's him, everything will return to normal. The bells are nothing but a distraction to get you down here so you may battle. I don't know when it will happen but...” Suddenly, smoke rose from Ambu's fur, before white fire exploded from his being. Cyrus retreated several steps in terror, watching his friend weep and cry as his spirit slowly faded away. “Don't listen to him,” a voice barked, “he doesn't know what he says”. From the dark realm of the Ocean, the bizarre deer showed his face yet again. “He did a wonderful job locating the bells you needed; excellent, I'll take those.” “No!” Cyrus scolded, rushing over and sliding his head through the collar. “Tell me what you *really* want! Tell me!” Before answering the deer stood silently for several moments, gazing above him as bells rang, “Look at them, they're beautiful... but there's too many of them. At this rate, the Ocean will run out of room and is doomed to crush itself. Is it so wrong that I see that as something that should be prevented, and that the only way to do so is to push reality itself into overdrive? Millions will die, billions... and in the end, this Ocean Of Bells will prosper!” "There won't be an Ocean Of Bells at all if that happens! No, I won't let you use me to feed your sick death fantasy!" The glowing deer shook his head and laughed, stepping closer to Cyrus. A nearly unbearable coldness filled the air and white flames grew from the tree of bells, spreading upward and igniting several bells above them. "No Cyrus... don't you mean, you won't use me to fulfill *your own* death fantasy? The other wolf told you, didn't he? Don't allow selfishness to overcome you, allow me to put you down so I can once again feel the full force of your spirit... MY spirit." "You'll get nothing from me!" With neither animal willing to give in, the deer growled like the bear that slaughtered Cyrus and charged forward, giving him only moments worth of time to jump out of the way. The floor had become so freezing from the dead fires that Cyrus' paws filled with pain whenever he stayed in one spot for too long, forcing him to run around his foe as quickly as possible; his bells clanked and screamed with each step, mixing with the immense fury of the ringing Ocean sky. "What will you do? Run forever from yourself? I assure you that's something you'll never escape from," The deer growled, slowly turning to watch Cyrus storm around. The deer was right unfortunately; unless Cyrus swallowed his hesitation and actually attacked, any hope of victory was futile. Moments after circling around the front of the malicious deer, it once again charged towards Cyrus with his radiant horns aimed ahead. Instead of leaping out of the way this time, Cyrus spun back to face the creature, and just before being struck, kicked himself off the ground and clasped one of its horns with his teeth. The deer violently shook Cyrus until the horn broke from his head, throwing the creature off balance and onto his knees. There would be no more running away at this point; Cyrus immediately charged back at the deer and used its own horn to rip its stomach open, revealing a beating black heart. Then, he released the glowing appendage and rushed back to crunch into the deer's neck with his teeth, shaking him wildly and slamming the creature's head repeatedly into the ground. A moment came when the deer shook Cyrus off and returned to his feet to attempt to make room between them, but the fire in Cyrus' heart burned too strong for him to feel satisfied unless the deer was completely obliterated. Again, Cyrus pursued his foe and leaped onto his back, causing the creature to fall over right next to the burning tree. With angry jaws, he dug his teeth back into the deer's neck and held his head down in the cold fire, ignoring the pain his own feet felt from remaining still. No, Cyrus still wasn't satisfied. Still gripping the deer's neck, he tore his teeth backwards and ripped the creature's head away; black blood spurted onto Cyrus and the tree of bells. He then pulled the deer's head back and impaled his exposed heart with the horn that remained. That was it, Cyrus finally stepped away from the ruined corpse to catch his breath. Was it over? Had the horrid deer been defeated? Besides glaring at the bloody corpse or listening to the bells in the sky, there was nothing left to do here, so Cyrus turned to leave. "You still don't understand... Cyrus..." His ears sprang up, and as he turned back, his eyes were met with the deer standing on his feet without a wound on his body. "You're quite a warrior, we both are, but in the end whoever wins here will matter very little. The force of death is unstoppable either way, are you really convinced otherwise?" No words came to Cyrus' mind; if what he'd done truly wasn't enough to best the deer, then fighting... saying a single word would mean nothing. "Those bells you have aren't like the others here. Do you know why? Because they're *our* bells. Every time one of us kills the other, another bell grows from your collar, but the old ones never stop working. They're immortal like gods, but not us; no animal is a god, the only god here is the battle between us. And because of that, I'll remind you again, just as I did when you bested me before, or the time I bested you before that, and so on. ' Our battle doesn't end with one of us dying. ' Our battle ends with the death of battle itself. ' ' And I promise you. ' ' That death. ' ' ' Will never happen. ' ' ' ...Cyrus." ' ' ' **The End.

I felt the heat from the sand cooling down the closer I walked towards the water. The sand became more and more dense and dark. It looked like softened cement. I let the salty water tickle my toes and then the rest of my feet as I walked closer into the darkening water. The sun only lit the horizon with its golden light and the shoreline was welcoming the grey moon and its dark skies. I walked deeper into the sea, feeling the sharp rocks jab my feet. My face wrinkles as I react to the pain but continue walking deeper until I'm swimming and my feet no longer feel the rocks on the sea floor. I stop moving my legs and arms and lie on my back and let the water drift me further away from the shore. My body lifelessly floats with the current, letting the water wash over my face. As the waves become bigger and stronger, I let the waves toss me like a lifeless doll. My body twisted and tumbled. I felt my lungs burning for air and I opened and water rushed in. Water filled my ears, nose and mouth. I couldn't open my eyes because the salt stung so much my eyeballs had turned red. Finally, the waves settled and my bloated, white body washed ashore. There was no more heat in the sand nor in my body.

9/6/2013 Last night I had the most vivid dream that I can ever recall having. I am a passenger in a SUV driving on an interstate. There are four lanes, the cement is very light in color. So new that there are no cracks, just those long grooves in the pavement that run in the direction of traffic. I do not know who my driver is, but I am not alarmed or nervous so it must be someone that I trust. In front of our vehicle is a low pickup truck, like an old S-10. The back of the pickup is piled high with furniture. There are boxes low in the pile and on top a wicker table and chair set. The flow of traffic comes to a halt. Maybe an accident, maybe just the long slinky bunching up. As traffic begins to move again, the pickup lurches from the halt and several pieces of furniture come loose and scatter onto the pavement. My driver is alert. He brakes safely and puts on his hazard lights. The driver of the pickup exits his vehicle and shuffles back to attend to the dislodged furniture. He is Latino and wearing the common jeans, pearl button shirt and cowboy boots so often associated with ethnicities from Latin America. I push my head out the passenger window and offer to help him reload but he waves off our help with a smile. It is then that time seemed to slow. With my head out of my window I can see down the side of the pickup ahead of us and back along the traffic lane to our right through the passenger side mirror. My attention splits and I seem to see both the tractor trailer approaching from the rear and the passenger of the pickup opening her door at the same time. I want to yell but traffic is moving gain and I know she won’t hear me. She opens her door and gets out. Moving slowly, unaware of the increasing danger. I feel useless. The semi is so close that if I were to try to help I would be crushed long before I could reach her. I am watching her. I cannot tear my eyes away. Still unaware, she closes her door and takes a quick moment to straighten her colorful skirt. She even takes a few steps before her eyes lift and the calm and resigned look on her face is shattered and replaced by one of pure terror. Time speeds up again. She tries to run but barely makes a quarter turn before the truck is upon her. Her body becomes a ragdoll. It is over in a second, punctuated only by the sounds of chaos. The roar of the wind caused by the passing truck. The squeal of tires as the truck drivers last second attempt to avoid her sets the trailer fishtailing. It does nothing. Traffic once again comes to a halt. This one is a screeching, honking sudden halt. Not the kind that incites anger. The kind that leaves the driver thankful that they aren’t the reason everyone is braking. The girl’s body was dragged past the front of the pickup and all I can see of her is her leg. It is crushed. There are only a few inches of ragged flesh below her knee still attached. I glance back through the mirror one more time and throw my door open. I can’t sprint fast enough. My legs and my body are failing me. I hate them for being so slow. Halfway to her, I rip my belt from the loops of my pants. I know if she is to have any chance of living I need to tourniquet her leg. And soon. When I turn the corner at the front of the pickup, and see her body, my breath catches. She is lying face down. Her limbs are thrown about haphazardly. She looks like a child’s toy. Discarded, forgotten. The pickup driver is turning the opposite corner and our eyes meet. His face shows shock, horror and confusion. I drop to my knees and throw my belt around the girl’s thigh. There is already a growing pool of dark red blood forming below her amputation. I feed the belt through the buckle and put my knee on her leg above the belt for leverage. Gripping the free end of the belt, I pull with all my force. As the loop tightens the spurting bloods slows. A few other people have gotten out of their cars and have approached us. The pickup’s driver has fallen on all fours over the girl’s upper body. “Mi Chica, Mi Chica” He sobs. I tie off the belt and try to examine the rest of the girl. Her leg can’t have been the only injury. Her skirt had been ripped away, and her blouse was twisted and bunched near her neck. Her exposed skin was abraded and already beginning to bruise. As I unfold a pocket knife the man looks up. Seeing the blade his eyes widen. He has no idea what my purpose is. I point to her blouse. And mime scissors. Realization dawns and he nods. I carefully feed my blade under the blouse and cut away from her skin. My heart drops. I fall back onto my heels. With the blouse removed I can see her face staring upwards. Her neck grotesquely twisted completely around like some sick marionette puppet. I can faintly hear the sirens in the distance. Racing towards us to render aid no longer needed. But drowning it out is a rising wail, a sound infused with pain, anger and despair. The driver’s forehead is on the girls, he his buddy is shuddering. I wake up.

I am a logical thinker. Everything is black or white, yes or no. Is is easier to kill myself than to have to deal with life? Yes, white. Will it be easier for the people I love? No, black. Do I care? No, black. Why do I not care? Because I will be dead anyway, white. I hate thinking like this. Everything has to be black or white, there is no grey. Why can't there be any grey? That is the ultimate question. I have no yes or no answer to this. No Black or White. I want to have an answer but I can't think of one. FUCK! Don't take this as self-pity, it isn't. Or, at least, I don't think it is. This is just what it is. I need to be heard. But I don't think anybody can hear what I have to say and understand it. Not that it would matter, Black. Nothing matters any more. I love what I do. School is awesome, but somehow that's irrelevant. Black. Why can't I think straight? Because nothing is straight. Black. Everything is going in circles. And I hate circles. I want to live in a square. A nice, small, box with nothing in it. To die is my way of saying thank you. Thanks everybody for this thing I call life. I know this sounds counter intuitive but it isn't to me. This is how I think. Nothing is backwards. Why can't something be backwards? Because if something were to be backwards everything had to be backwards, that's the rule of the universe. Black. I don't want to feel this way, but somehow I do. This is the only Gray thing in my life. I want, but I don't want. I want to be loved. Not because the person has to but because they want to. I want to feel needed. No one needs me now. Nothing changes if I go. If I go, I'll be gone and after a few weeks everything will go back to normal. No one NEEDS me in their life to be able to live. Why not? because I am not worthy of being needed. Black. If no one needs you why do you live? To please yourself? What's the fun in that when you can't share that with others? There is no fun. Black. At least when I'm dead people will remember me. Not just know I'm there. I want to be locked away and not have to deal with anything. This may seem selfish but I don't care. All my life I have been selfless. I think I am entitled to one selfish act. Suicide is the ultimate selfish act, and I know that. BI don't care. Not any more. BLACK.

"Well, you wanted an answer Larry, here's your answer." The whole office had crowded around Larry's computer, gazing at his screen in mutual awe. "Listen *Brent*, I was quite happy without an answer - now what the fuck am I going to do?" "Language" said Jill from HR. Despite the exchange, their eyes, and minds, were focused intently on the article in front of them. "Fucking hell" said Sarah, placing her half cup of coffee on Larry's desk with no intention of finishing it. Jill rolled her eyes in resignation. *"There is no Afterlife"* read the title of the news article. It elaborated: *"In a landmark discovery, scientists have proven that the afterlife does not exist, having conducted experiments with the previously dead."* "Do you reckon this means there's no G-man then?" said Brett, who seemed more excited then anything else. Larry, a devout Christian, hastily scrolled down the page, pointing Brett's attention to the final paragraph and reading it out loud. "Scientists cannot confirm that a God does not exist, and do not consider this discovery as an attack on religious beliefs or practices." he proclaimed proudly. "Still though Larry." said Sarah, whose eyes still scanned the text searchingly, "what's even the point now?". Larry was angry, visibly so. Jill looked concerned, she sensed that this type of conversation might be breaking staff protocol. Brett remained pretty pleased with himself, as though he himself had been to the dark edges of the abyss and returned to report his findings. "Well *Sarah*, it means when you die there ain't nobody going to be savin' your ass" replied Larry, finally averting his gaze from the screen. Sarah looked back at him defiantly, but failed to muster any kind of comeback. Larry turned his gaze back to the screen, hoping to find something to reaffirm his faith. Brett chuckled behind him, then turned round and strolled back to his desk with smug satisfaction. He leant back in his chair, swivelling it round to face Larry again. "It's just a shame, Larry" he said, loud enough that the whole office could hear. "Oh yeah and why is that?" said Larry, not bothering to turn around. "Because now, I won't have anything to look forward to." He reached under his chair with his right hand and pulled out a small pistol. With a fluid, unhesitant movement he raised it to his temple, clenched his eyelids tight and fired a bullet through his skull, spraying his computer screen with a red film. Jill began to scream, and Sarah collapsed, knocking her abandoned coffee off of Larry's desk and onto the floor. Larry reeled around and stared at the mess infront of him, grasping the gold cross hung around his neck, praying that Brett ends up in heaven.

Mark was a regular guy. Or at least he thought so. He didn't live a super exciting life. Woke up every morning, brushed his teeth, ate breakfast, got dressed for work, packed his lunch, got in his car,and went to work. At work Mark was an accountant, spending his hours punching numbers. Add. Subtract. Multiply. Divide. At lunch time he went to the cafe to eat his lunch, which usually consisted of a sandwich, an apple, a greek yogurt, and occasionally a small desert. Usualy he would also converse with his co-worker, Dave. "Hey Dave, how was her recital last night?" "Oh not bad, she's finally getting the hang of it." Their conversations never lasted long. He would usually awkwardly just finish lunch, walk away, and not pick up the conversation again until lunch time the next day. You could say he was introverted. He liked spending the little free time he had on his own, he never tried meeting girls, because he never had the time. Ever since he was a kid, he had been on the less social side. Pretty far on the less social side actually. So far in his life he had not done a single spontaneous thing. As far as his life had gone on, it was 100% routine. His heart never skipped a beat. In fact, it stayed in perfect rhythm. Until now. When Mark was asleep, a thunderstorm had occurred, resetting his alarm clock. His sleep cycle would have woken him up naturally, had he not had trouble getting to sleep because of the thunderstorm. He woke up a frightening five minutes late. Freaking out about not being on schedule, he rushed his shower, forgetting to shampoo. When he dressed up for work, he put his right sock on his left foot, and his left sock on his right foot. He even forgot to pack his apple. The day at work was a dreadful one. He was in a bad mood about the combination of the horrible things that happened. such a bad mood that he didn't even talk to Dave. That day when he got home he was exhausted. His entire life had been in perfect rhythm until today. So he just got home and crashed. Fell asleep faster than ever before. The next day was a bit of a blur. He had a headache the entire day. He did shape up enough to strike up a conversation with his co-worker however. "You know Bill, I had the weirdest dream last", he said "well what was it about, kurt?", Bill replied "huh... well, I can't really remember it now. Something about an office" "well", Bill replied "We better get back to work. This guy's transmission isn't going to fix itself.

>The Tumblr text post bot AutoNB posted , and I got a little bit inspired. I look down at my watch. I’m not sure why, I always have an hour. I’ve had an hour until work for quite a while now. I walk outside, and watched the bird. The same bird, floating in the same spot, unmoving. I study its plumage, noting the interesting way the feathers folded in as it brought them in close to its body, forever caught halfway into freefall. I look at the woman in the window who’s been taking off her shirt for who knows how long. I found it erotic once, but time has a way of drawing that away from you. I scoff at myself. Time. That concept no longer applies to me. One day, at roughly 7:43 AM, it stopped. I seem to be the only one unaffected by its stubbornness to continue. I thought about that for a moment; perhaps it was the other way around, I was the only one uncaring to the progression of time. The effects were interesting. I can still interact with the world, but the moment I release something from my grasp it loses all the inertia I should’ve passed to it. At the very least it allows me to eat. Same applies to living things as well. The newspaper boy used to be sitting on his bike. I’ve arranged him to be standing horizontally on the side of a tree, flipping the bird to the ground in defiance of gravity. I still get a chuckle from it every time I see him. I sigh. At first, this was confusing. Then, exciting. I could do whatever I chose with no consequence. I took more advantage of this than I should have, I’m ashamed to admit. After what I assume was a week, it became lonely. I had nobody to speak to, no-one to voice my ideas with. I began to keep a journal of what I’d done and what I could do, in hopes that when— no, if— time decided it wished to quit stalling at some point, I’d at least have records. I make an entry before I sleep every day. I flip back through it; according to the system I’d made for my own records keeping, it had been 477 days since time had halted. Over a year without contact from anyone except the frozen mannequins masquerading as living men. It’s an interesting nightmare. I wonder if I’ll wake up.

(I never wrote anything before, just putting this out here) With just two breathes of air, I was born. I swam up into the air flying upwards towards the crystal blue sky. I heard laughter as I soared upwards, followed by the smell of pollen in the air. I looked down to see a blond haired toddler giggling at me while she blew more of my brothers and sisters. The air outside felt cool, refreshing, while the air inside me was hot and expanding. What a dazzling view, I thought to myself. I see massive trees giving shade to those below. The bees running from vibrant flower towards their hives. Laugher, music, cars, and the wind. The wind is the most pleasant. I notice it takes me where it wishes me to go. The wind is my companion. I can go all over with the wind, the wind is my ride, the wind is my key to life, the wind is my road. "All roads come to an end", said a unsettling voice. I was startled, who else was here with me? "Who's there?" "Why, I am your companion. I am your road. I am the wind." "The wind? What do you mean?" "All roads come to an end, and so will I." "But that means my life would be over. I would lose everything I have seen. I am free this way." "You are free but everything comes to an end." "Everything I would have seen would be worthless, making me worthless. Why?" "Everything ends just like new things begin." "I don't want to go, I haven't seen the world yet. Please. I am desperate" "Don't you realize how great your life has been?" "How so? Its going to end." "Don't be mad at its ending. Smile because it happened." And with that, I looked upon myself, everything I've seen. I've seen the laughter of children, the blinding yellow sun, the pristine blue sky. I've smelled the honey of bees and heard the beauty of music. It was a joyous time, although a short one. It was worth something and so was I.

I have those hours hidden on a roll of undeveloped film in a desk drawer under a pile of pens and safety pins and empty cigarette boxes. From one to thirty-six, from pictures of you smoking just outside High Barnet tube station, the convenience shop your backdrop next to a high street and an anachronistic cathedral, to ones of us undressing in your room, sharing a bottle of bottom-shelf vodka and coughing after every disgusting mouthful, closing the curtains and turning out the lights, the only illumination a string of fairy lights strung up on the bottom of the top bunk bed, badly aimed shots of my trying to kiss you but missing your mouth, settling for brief contact between my lips and you all down your torso, shots with the flash on of you holding my head between your thighs, your ecstasy and exhaustion, our shared fags, your Joy Division records, my unsettled stomach. The pictures end when I got sick, when the ashes in my stomach resurfaced; the magic left then, lying on your bathroom floor with the window open and the lights on.

There was once a feather named Sock. He's been very scared and lonely since he lost his dad Phillipe McRoosterson and all of his feathery brothers and sisters. Sock has tried to find Phillipe, but after months of searching far and wide, he decides to leave the Unenchanted Forrest. He decided that he would travel to where to sun sets to find his lost father. For many miles Sock flopped and floated through bushes and streams, valleys and rivers. After many days of travel, he came across a wizened rabbit who smelt of elderly people eating enchiladas, and who seemed busy digging. Sock hadn't eaten in days, and decided to ask the stranger for food and directions. "Good afternoon kind sir, my name is Sock. What's yours?" "My name is William Floppypaw, nice to meet you Sock." As Sock was about to ask for food and directions, it started to downpour. William then said "Come inside my rabbit hole Sock, we wouldn't want you to catch a cold. And you can call me Willy from now on. All of my feathery friends do" Sock then thanked him. He's never seen a rabbit hole before, and was taken aghast by the spaciousness of it, and how dry and tidy it was. "So what can I do for you Sock?" asked Willy. "Well I was wondering if you've seen a chicken recently, he's my Dad. I haven't seen him in days, and I'm kinda hungry too." "I haven't seen anyone in weeks, sorry Sock, but I have some carrot stew, and I think that their is enough for two." They began to eat, but Willy had to go use to washroom and excuse himself from the table. Sock was so amazed by the savory carrot stew that he didn't even notice when he was forcefully grabbed by Willy and roughly thrown into a damp and smelly sac. Sock was petrified. He's allergic to cotton! "Let me out! I'm allergic to cotton!" screamed Sock. "Never!" said Willy. "And it's hypoallergenic. Oh and make sure to enjoy your new friends..." And that was when Sock looked around in horror to see that he was surrounded by hundreds of other feathers. And at that moment Sock realized that he had became a pillow.

First time reddit poster, not a writer but I wrote a short story a week ago, and I would love to get some feedback. ************************************************** With a crash and a flash and a bash and a smash: Two young males struggled into the small apartment. The door slammed open and with a screeching dragged gravel across the tile floor, before coming to a halt. The two boys stumbled over the threshold, streetlight streaming in from behind them lighting up the entry in a dulled yellow half light and throwing shadows into the hallway and kitchen. The boys rolled after these shadows, chasing them inside. The sudden crash and flash were alarming and the sudden commotion paralyzed the third guest in the house. And as the shadows thrown by the streetlight faded, accompanied once more with the screeching tiles, this unwelcome guest slunk as far into the dark as it could. Attempting to envelope himself in the darkness, but his quivering body had not much room to creep. Only the meagre shelter allowed beneath the lip of a soup plate, the only refuge offered in this stainless pit, which was quickly becoming a dungeon. Stainless steel imbues a feeling of clean and modernity, extravagant kitchens stamped with the big names of interior designers. This first assumption must be corrected. For the house the two boys stumbled inside had a different feeling. It was the house of four-boys, four twenty year old college boys, in an aging brick and plaster building of little portugal. Furnished comfortably with all the loving care mothers and fathers have when their children grow up and go off to college. But this current state of disarray is not how those parents left it. The furniture was haphazardly rearranged, and fallen couch cushions crudely assembled circles around the beer stained dining and coffee tables. And the impressive collection of empty cans and bottles, lay littered upon every horizontal surface. Like common nicknacks, making the boys feel right at home. All that was curious was the out of place modern sink, sticking out like a sore thumb beneath a cupboard hanging limply by its only remaining hinge. And it is in this sink, huddled under a soup plate with a rim stained by chilli sauce and beans, backed up onto a cold, empty, dented, metal beer can the third guest was hid. The brief calm submitted once again to the boys clatter, as the concentration required to balance while removing shoes abated. Their decisive pounding gait rekindled, and it brought these young giants across the scratched pinewood flooring onto the brown ceramic kitchen tile. With foresight one wouldn't expect from the boys in their state, one of them stomped purposely towards the sink in search of a large glass of water, to help stave off the worst of tomorrow morning's inevitable ailments. The second closed in on the kitchen as well and with a click, flicked on the light switch. The growing proximity of the broad shouldered boys in their denim dress shirts and scraggly unkempt beard hair had the hidden sink prisoner already on edge. His silent quest for a midnight morsel had led him down into this hell hole. And more and more the half nibbled Romano bean an inch from his whisker seemed a meagre prize to take such risks. Fretting, regretting, and still quivering; the mouse lay still, without a squeak or a peep, cowering ever more tightly to the dented blue can. But his nerves got the best of him. And as the sudden blinding incandescent bulbs evaporated the moonlit apartment into the clear resolve of the twentieth century, it drew forth a characteristic squeak from the kitchen's midnight guest. The boys had heard it, he had no doubt. And the bright lighting reflecting from all angles exposed him inn his hiding place. But the mouse did not wimpier and cower, the mouse's resolve for life redoubled, as if his mean squeak was instead a battle cry reverberating off the reflective walls. His clandestine methods were immediately abandoned and with a scuttle (caused from the poor grip of claws on stainless steel) stormed into the flooded light of the sink basin. The squeak and the scuttle coming from the sink procured an uncharacteristic yelp from the boys in the kitchen, as the small noises caused the young men to flinch backwards. An unlikely response for moments before they had been unfazed by their own cacophonous stomping. And this frightened call only further pervaded the mouse with a sense of determination and zeal. The walls were too tall to jump and the smooth steel only scratched as the mouse tried in vain to climb free from this damp pit. But the mouse was not disheartened, and with a beady eye spotted and plotted his escape. With the lightning reflex that had so frightened those brave rugged boys, the mouse scrabbled back to his soup plate. But not into its shadow, triumphantly he climbed, clambering onto the porcelain rim and basking in the full glow of the electric bulbs. His fervent goal--a wooden stirring spatula leaning upright on the edge of a small metal pot . Cast into the sink after serving up the chilli, the utensil was now serving as a tool in the mouse's escape. Serving up justice, for death is too high a price to pay for a nibble of a discarded Romano bean! His paws moved deftly over the spoon, hand over hand as he had finally found a proper surface for which to grip his claws. The edge mere inches away, and past that the cluttered countertop with a neglected hole in the corner baseboard. Any specialist of mouse facial expressions (a field of study beginning and ending outside of the human species) would've recognized the excitement and elation between our hero's whiskers. But this did not last long, for while those few inches of sink basin, plate rim, soup pot, and spatula handle were being navigated the boys were reacting. At first with laughter over his friend's feminine squeal, but then with a new found home owners responsibility. With malice in his eye the young man closed the gap to the sink, the metallic scratches had given way to subtler noises as the mouse had found his way onto the spatula. The mouse ran quickly, but was not fast enough, and with a look of dread watched as the boys bony knuckles barred his freedom, by grasping the end of the spatula. The boy flicked and shook the it, and it was too much, the spatula was wrenched free from the mouse's desperate grasp, and he was thrown up into the air. The specialist in mouse facial expression would've definitively noted this new expression as a look of dread. Utter terror spanned from his eyes to his whiskers to his tiny mouth, as he fell backwards, once more into his stainless steel prison. Legs shot out in all directions, while his tail squirmed. But there was nothing to grasp but thin air, and the sobering realization that he may not make it back to his hole tonight. With a soft thud he landed hard on his back on the cold damp steel. The once prized Romano bean lay beside him, taunting him. A sad reward to have forfeited so much for. After the mouse came the spatula, coming down quickly as the boy swung the blade after his foe. With a smash and a squelch the end of the spatula came down over the mouse, and the boys paused for a moment. Curiosity got the best of them and as they both crowded around the sink they peeled back the spatula and peaked underneath. The boys wrinkled their noses in disgust. With nothing but contempt they threw the mouse into a plastic bag and then the trash. With only feelings of disgust and disdain, they laid the mouse to rest. Upset, because having to clean up the guts of a mouse is too high a price to pay for leaving a few dishes in the sink.

Edit: this is going to be a running story! Below my running feet pieces of earth lift. I look behind to watch the stir settle, and instead trip on a branch that came down during the last big storm. Well, if I was trying to catch a glimpse of myself, then getting as close to the bottom of my gravity is about right. So there I am with my nose huffing away ants and my fingertips using dirt and pebble as an exfoliant. I puff out any air left in my lungs. More earth lifts and now settles upon my face. With my eyes closed I turn on my back and sob until tears path their way down my face and neck. I take a deep breath and turn on my stomach and puff up some more earth that now stick to my tears. These dirt trails look like roots found below the lowest point I can hit with my face. My lips pucker and some wet dirt collects in the creases. I press my face to the ground and settle. My hands are stretched out hugging the horizontal space around me. My fingers pulse like I'm slow playing a piano and the music exists only in thought. Like the beautiful stars lining the sky above me, an energy below resists flight.

Please give me feedback too on my writing style, and structure. I'm trying to get better as a hobby. I understand this may not be the right place.../r/offmychest hasn't provided anything to me, and really I'm just looking for participation in this to all that are intrigued. I have a good story to tell. With that said, I'm open to advice (any regardless of writing, relationship, etc), comments, and questions. Please sit back, drink, snack, whatever...and enjoy. Hello. Ello. Greetings. Currently I'm down in the dumps with a six pack of cheap beer. Coors original tall boys incase you were wondering. You see my cat ran away today, and she has been missing for quite a few hours now. She's microchipped, and yes...I've been actively making signs. That's not what this story is about. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to call you 'Reader'. I really wish we could have met formally under different circumstances. You can call me Jam. It's nice to meet you. You see, we met back in May. The 19th to be exact, and it was a Saturday. 2012 was a fun year for the both of us. I made a post on Craigslist looking for some sort of companionship, and apparently my post caught your eye. A friendship blossomed into something special. I couldn't have asked for a better friend. You were gay, and I was in the closet thousands of miles away from friends and family. I didn't have any friends until I met you. I find it eerily awesome that you messaged me wanting to hang out. It was my brother birthday, he would have been 25. I met the most amazing person on my brother's birthday (he past away years ago). We emailed each other back, and forth getting to know each other--music, hobbies, views on life...the whole 9 yards. Finally you asked for my number, and I obliged. We began texting each other until you were the one with enough courage to want to meet up. Something about Leos, and making the first step, and me being shy. Sunday the 20th comes around, and you waited outside of my house. I was running a bit behind, and you got scared because security from the gated community was driving around. I quickly texted you not to worry, and to come back. We almost never met. I walked up to your car, very timidly, and opened the door. You extended your hand, and said "Hello, my name is <person>. Nice to meet you!". With a very firm handshake, your jade green eyes stared into my soul. Instantly I knew you were the one. A feeling of peace, excitement...LOVE for once came over me. What was about a 3 sec handshake seemed to have lasted an eternity. I replied staring in to captivating eyes--"Nice to meet you too! I'm Jam! (still thinking of his accent as well. It was foreign and vague. I couldn't put my finger on it)" We then drove off, and it was like we had knew each other from a past life. Our conversation in the car consisted of music, movies, art, views on life, aliens, astral projection, psychedelics, and so forth. Haha, oh man, I stopped him in the middle of one of his sentences, and actually said "Oh my goodness, I have to tell you...you smell really good." He got a laugh out of that, and simply replied "Why thank you! Well if we are going to compliment each other right now, I must say I've been thinking of your eyes this entire time. They are absolutely beautiful" We both laughed, and continued to converse. We had arrived to the mall. We entered through Dick's Sporting Goods. He took toward the outdoors section, and we browsed--not looking for anything in particular, and at this point we had started talking about how much we enjoyed the outdoors, camping, and so on. Our favorite sceneries. The sound of a thunderstorm. The soothing rustle of trees being hit by a soft breeze. The way the full moon hits the water on a clear night. Even laying down, and staring at the stars. Every now, and again we would finish the other's sentence. Corny I know! But trust me, if you were there, Reader, it would make you smile. Eventually, we made our way out of the sporting store, and headed up to the second level of the mall. We walked around still talking, before our stomachs rumbled. We heard each other, and at the same time asked "What would you like to eat?!" followed by chuckling again at how we instantly knew. I know, I know Reader, corny--yes. We both decided on Panda Express due to the lack of option. If I'm not mistaken he ordered the coconut shrimp, I'm not positive it was coconut, but I am positive it was shrimp. I on the other hand had a veggie bowl. That was when we both found out that we were both pescetarian. So many things in common. We finished our food, and were at a loss of what to do next. We headed outside to smoke a cigarette. They were American Spirits. In a yellow pack. Discussing life, parallel universes this time, and the changes the universe is going through. I remember it like it was yesterday. Reader, you see, this is how big of impact this person has had on my life. To remember the most insignificant details. I promise you though, Reader--this is a good story the more it goes on. I apologize, I got side tracked. Alright, yellow American Spirits, talking, oh that's right. We decided on seeing a movie. Nothing was in the theatre at the time that really got our attention, but we ultimately both enjoy Johnny Depp, and Dark Shadows was in so we took to that. Entering the theatre we got the best seats in the house! Center, and center! Other people were there, but not many. The movie started, and the dry humor got both of us. We cracked out laughing at the line "Child bearing hips" for some reason. I could see out of the corner of my eye, you glancing at me every know, and again with the most adorable smile. Then felt your elbow touch mine. It was like I was in middle school again! Now Reader, I understand that things like this sound stupid as hell, but trust me on this...just trust me, this childish flirting that was going on throughout the day...isn't for random dates, hookups, etc. It's the small things that make you look back, and smile on. So please take my advice when I say don't take things like this for granted. So his elbow touched mine throughout the movie, me being shy I wanted to pull it away because I'm still questioning my sexuality at the time, but I didn't. I rode it out through the entire movie. I liked it. It was comforting. It made me feel good. It made me feel like I was appreciated. It made me feel liked for a change. Then the movie ended. We walked out the theatre door because the mall was closed at the time, and we couldn't enter the sporting store were we had parked due to the gates being closed. So we decided to walk clear around the mall. It was a warm night. Perfect out. The breeze was just right, no clouds, and the stars. Oh man the stars! Everything was perfect. We continued to talk without missing a beat. It was nice for a change to talk to someone that could hold a conversation that didn't involve sex, drugs, cock size, the same boring cliche stuff. I had asked him what he had planned for the rest of the evening, and he just simply replied "Nothing. I was going to head home, why?" I asked if he would like to continue through the night. He replied excitedly "Yes!". We settled on sushi for dinner. getting the California roll, spicy tuna, spicy salmon, unagi, and Philly rolls. It was happy hour too! We sat at the bar outside, and just looked at each other every so often, and grinned, and looked away. Sort of like flirting peek-a-boo. Which is funny, Reader, when you realize that we are both straight acting, masculine men. We are honestly like children right now. But it is still one of the best feelings I have ever felt. Haha Reader, would you believe if I told you right now as I'm typing this that I have a smile on my face, and a tear in my eye? So as we are doing this, a black couple is seated next to us. The man was wearing a white v-neck with a blazer, and his date was wearing a beautiful floral dress. It was then that he texted me saying "Oh my gosh, that woman is absolutely gorgeous!" I agreed. However, what we found comical was that they went on a date to one of the best sushi places in the United States, and ordered the chicken. We got a kick out of that. But hey, to each his own right? We eventually, we finished our meals/ rolls, and walked around the Plaza reflecting on our pasts, sharing our history, trials and tribulations. What we have both experienced, and so forth. I wasn't ready to share my past with him, or how significant the day was that we met, and what I have been through, but I could tell he some how knew. Sharing a cigarette walking through the night, before looking at our phones, and realizing how late it has become. At this point it is about 12:34am. As we head back to his vehicle, Death Cab for Cutie is playing, and we just sat there in silence, and enjoyed it. Glancing over at the other, and grinning. In all honesty Reader..no date could have gone more perfect than this one. Showing up at my house, he dropped me off. We sat there for what seemed like years, me staring into those jade green eyes, and smiled, and said "Have a good night, and thank you for everything." (I really wanted to kiss him Reader! I was too nervous though!) I get out of the car (a man mind you), and I'm as giddy as a school girl, and as I reach my door to unlock it I receive his text saying "I'd really like to see you again. There is just something about you that I can't let go." Now Reader, please understand that this isn't something that was jumping the gun too quickly. If you could have been there you would understand that this evening was unique...almost magical. So after I received that text, I went to my room, to lay down staring at the text for 5-10 minutes trying to figure out how to respond. Again, keep in mind that I have never done anything with a guy before at this point. I have only been with women. So I took the chance, and said "I would like that a lot actually." He then responded with "Look, this may be too soon, but I really wanted to kiss you in the car before dropping you off. I don't want to freak you out or anything because your ad said that you were mainly looking for friends, and what not. But I really wanted to kiss you goodnight" I responded "I wanted to kiss you too, but I didn't know how you felt! I was nervous, and didn't want to act on my emotions too soon! I do want to see you again though...I just don't want to rush things." He just replied "I understand, no rush, but I do like you :)" (You think just bitches like smilies? Fuck that, even grown men enjoy them on occasion). It was then that we wished each other a good night, and set up a second date. Reader, I just want to let you know that this story is 100% honest. I've had this story pent up inside of me for the longest time, and I really would like sharing it more, and more. Thank you for reading, please feel free to ask questions.

The Civilized Pushed out into the dusty arena, Kuru looked around. A roaring crowd surrounded him, but he couldn’t understand a word. Though they obviously weren’t cheering for his victory, they’re cheering for his sacrifice. Rewind, this isn’t where the story begins. In shackles Kuru shuffled along one of the famed roads that lead to Rome, as all the roads did. All the beaten and bruised men of different coloured skin shambled along the road led by the soldiers. Kuru heard someone speak something in front of him. He realized that the words were in a language he didn’t understand. Then he heard the voice cry out in pain. The line of men didn’t slow down at the cry though, they kept marching. Rewind further, something’s still missing. His daughters tanned skin, his wife was teaching her how to work leather. Kuru was watching them as he sharpened his scythe. He smiled, the scene made him remember the times he spent learning from his father. The proper way to sharpen an edge, the best way to swing a blade, his father taught him the right way to do things. Kuru would work in their family’s field with his father and they would talk. That’s where Kuru first learned of Rome; the wondrous city, the running water, the books of letters, of laws and democracy. His memories were interrupted by a scream, then another. Kuru stood up just in time to greet a trio of soldiers as they entered his home, swords already drawn. He saw a flash of iron and was barely able to dive out of the way as the sword came down where he had just been smiling. He got to his feet as his family screamed again. The solider that flashed the iron stood between him and his family as the other two soldiers grabbed his wife and daughter and took them from their home. Kuru was confused, scared and angry, but mostly confused. He didn’t know what was happening. He took a step towards the women he loved but had to jump back to avoid being struck by the iron blade. Kuru had never fought a man, but now he had no choice. Gripping his scythe, he swung attempting to cut the soldiers legs down, but the soldiers bronze leggings stopped the blade short of flesh. Pulling back his scythe, Kuru looked at the man’s face. A smile was on his lips as he swung his sword again, narrowly missing Kuru’s shoulder. Kuru regained his balance in time to catch the soldier’s fist in his stomach. His breath was driven from his lungs. He panicked, his mouth reached for air as he fell to the ground, scythe fleeing his hands. He heard the solider speak, “Roma Invicta” right before he felt the hilt of the sword on the back of his head. Fast forward through the chained march with strangers, a march that lead him to the city he had dreamed about, and ended with him entering into the largest building he had ever seen. Fast forward to after the sword and shield had been forced into his hands and he was shoved into a dusty arena, surrounded by more people he had ever seen, screaming in a language he didn’t understand. The sword in his hands felt heavy and as foreign as the words that the people were shouting. He stepped in a circle, seeing a spectacle that he couldn’t have imagined, Rome. While Kuru didn’t understand the words spoken he could read the faces. They grimaced as they spat angry syllables at him. Fists were directed at him, thumbs pointed downward, fingers sliced throats as he looked at their eyes. Hate, anger, evil was the language they spoke. He feared the mob that surrounded him, prayed that they would be held back by the massive structure. Kuru cringed as the crowd erupted, even louder than they had been, deafening him. A man in a gleaming golden suit of armor stepped out from behind a gate. His muscles rippled beneath the metal, his chiseled face shown only one blemish, a scar from his hairline to his chin. Slowly the earsplitting noise organized into a chant of ‘Spartacus’, their hero, their God. When the man raised his sword in response to their love for him the crowd’s chant devolved back into a thunderous roar. Kuru was at a loss, the sword and shield hung limply at his sides as he watched the spectacle. The scene seemed like a dream to him, no a nightmare. Spartacus, their God, lowered his sword and pointed it in the direction of Kuru who looked to his sides, behind him, looked for what was being pointed at. Then he recognized it was himself. He began to tremble as the people’s idol began an effortless run at him. Kuru was shocked that he was able to get his shield up in time to deflect a blow from being delivered. He thought the force that was delivered may have broken his arm through the metal that protected it. The world broke into flashes of metal on metal, pain and blood. Kuru’s body burned, his chest heaved, blood and sweat dripped from his frame as Spartacus paused to rally his supporters. Even Kuru marveled at what seemed to be a marble carving of a man glistening with perspiration, standing merely feet away with his back turned. Time slowed for Kuru. He breathed in a breath that felt like ice as the peoples God turned, thrusting his sword into Kuru’s middle. Kuru looked up into the cold eyes that held the sword. He was no God, he was a monster. Falling to his knees Kuru looked to his chest, he saw blood leaking from around where the metal entered him. His hands trembled as they slowly reached up to the sharpened blade. In slow motion his fingers wrapped around the blade, red flowing from where they touched it, and pulling the sword out from whence it had entered. Existence spun in Kuru’s eyes, the hard dirt hit his side. As the world faded to black Kuru heard the name of his reaper cheered. So this is civilization, he thought.

Chapter 1: Dead Men Can’t Lie Halloween had already passed and Victor had just a few pieces of candy left. He always prided himself on being able to save his candy much longer than the other kids at his school. Victor grabbed his Batman and Joker backpack and threw the last few pieces of his candy in and left his house for the school bus. Victor’s favorite part about school was the bus ride. It gave him an opportunity to see the country that his foster parents would never let him see. Although most of the drive was shadowed by trees, he would always look for gaps where he could see a small lake or even the old coal mine. Victor was scared of the old mine but he could not keep his imagination from wandering into its on expedition of it. Victor would see the terrors that lie under the earth’s surface. He imagined three foot tall spiders and fleshless skeletons tearing apart old white bearded miners. Victor was sure that that was why the mine shut down. He drew a small sketch of the old mine elevator and a spider on his scrap book then continued to stare out the window. Victor watched the trees. They changed color late that year. It was already mid-November and the leaves had just began to fall. Victor always looked forward to the autumn. Although he was only nine years old, he knew what to expect late it the year. He knew the trees would turn blood red for what seemed like only a few minutes, and then become naked and exposed. Victor always appreciated that kind of change. The schools lawn was covered in red maple leaves. The janitor was already out with his rake, putting leaves into giant piles that Victor could not wait to plunge into. Victor sat through class just hoping the day would not end. Mrs. Turner was an extremely pleasant woman and Victor continuously wished that she was his own mother. Victor listened to the lecture on nouns and the bell rang. He got up, reached into his backpack, and pulled out a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. He could not wait to go to the playground and snack on one of his last, most precious, pieces of candy. On the playground Victor would sit by the fence alone with his drawing pad. He did not much care for the other children. He could not understand how climbing on a monkey bar or jumping out of swings provided any sort of pleasure whatsoever. He did not even much like drawing, but he continued to do it because he was good at it. Mrs. Turner once told him that he could draw the best out of all the other children. He was able to get a decent amount of satisfaction from that statement, much better than swinging on bars. Victor sat and drew pictures of architecture, cars, and sometimes threw in a few people to make his scenery seem more lifelike. He loved the way the cool autumn air blew down the playground and made small tornadoes of red leaves. He often tried to recreate these images and feelings in his drawing. It was time to open his Peanut Butter Cup. Victor peeled back the bright orange wrapper to expose the amazing treat inside. He remembers specifically which house on his Halloween route gave him the Reese’s. It was not every day that he could find a house giving out the two cup sized Reese’s. As soon as Victor put the cup up to his lips he felt an enormous blow to the head. The cup flew out of his hand and hit the ground. The culprit to the blow was Johnny Steadman’s big orange basketball. Victor sat, dazed and confused while Johnny and his henchmen pointed and laughed at him. Victor tried to hold back the tears of embarrassment and buried his face into his art book. He tasted blood. Johnny approached victor. “What are you drawing dillweed?” Victor said nothing. “If you won’t tell me then I’m going to find out the hard way” Johnny slapped victor on the ear as hard as he could and stole the book away from him. Johnny looked at the book for a second and saw all of the blood on the pages. He dropped it immediately with disgust and said, “Hey Shitbrain, if you tell anyone what happened today, I will kill you” Victor knew this was probably a fact and wiped his bloody nose off with the inside of his coat. He remained silent the rest of the day and stared off into oblivion until the school bus ride home. When victor got to his house, nobody was home. This was not uncommon, his foster parents both worked full time with alternating shifts. Victor found the hide-a-key and went inside. He dropped his coat and backpack in the hallway and headed to kitchen to get something to eat. Victor did not know how to cook at nine years old but he did know how to make one of his favorite things, a peanut butter and chocolate frosting sandwich with pretzels in the middle for a tasty crunch. Victor sat and watched an episode of Full House that he had already seen before. He was in love with the youngest daughter, Michelle on the show. Victor heard the front door slam, “shit” he thought, Blaine is home. Blaine was a very large man, he was 6’3 and 285 pounds. He had a black beard and jet black eyes. Victor hears an enormous tumble and runs toward the hallway, Blain is lying on the ground moaning and holding his wrist. “shit” victor thought again, “my backpack”. Blaine got up from his position on the floor and reached straight for Victor. Tonight Blaine smelled like alcohol. Blaine took victor by his collar and dragged him up the stairs into his bedroom. Blaine shut the door behind him and took off his belt. Victor closed his eyes. The next morning victor woke up, beaten and bruised. It was Saturday, that meant no escape from the house today. Victor could hear Blaine snoring on the couch downstairs. He also smelt coffee, which meant Erica was home. Even though Victor disliked both of his foster parents, he was inclined to like Erica much more. After all, she never beat him for an hour straight. Erica had long red hair and was a skinny woman. She was about as tall as Mrs. Turner but had terrible skin, She smoked for the last 25 years of her life and anybody could know it by looking at her. Victor came in and sat next to her at the kitchen table. “Victor, do you have something you want to tell me?” Could she possibly be asking about what Blaine did to him last night? No, victor knew that there was an unspoken rule about talking about Blaine’s “punishments”. What could she be talking about? “Victor, please, do you have something you want to tell me?” Victor was very confused. He thought really hard and just couldn’t come up with anything; He could see Erica getting more upset. “Victor, you little piece of shit. You know exactly what I’m talking about” He didn’t “Victor, when I came home, I saw your coat on the floor…” “Erica, I’m sorry, I really forgot to pick it up” “That is NOT what I’m talking about. Why the FUCK did you wipe blood all over the inside of the coat!? I do not work sixty hours a week for you to fuck around and ruin all of the shit that I buy for you! You are worthless, I really can’t wait until somebody adopts you” Victors eyes welled up, he did not know how to respond, so he didn’t. Victor went and picked up his bloody coat and went for a walk outside. This time Victor decided to take a walk through the forest attached to their acre of land. While on his walk Victor thought about running away from his foster parents and moving in with Mrs. Turner. He knew it was not a reality; she had her own children to look after. He thought that her kids must be the luckiest kids alive. He thought about how they probably get Reece’s every day. Victor crossed a log that had tipped over a small stream, he liked to balance and enjoyed the challenge of staying on the log. He would often watch Spiderman on the TV when he came home from school. He believed that he could eventually become Spiderman and not only balance on logs, but hang underneath them as well. He thinks about visiting the old coal mine and getting bit by one of the three foot tall, giant spiders. Those would make him Spiderman he thought. Victor heard rustling in some nearby bushes, he ran over to them to see what the sound was. He saw a squirrel run past him and up a tree, he tried to catch it but was too slow. Suddenly a loud snap goes off near him. He ducks in fear and hears a terrible screaming. The screaming is a constant howl of pain coming from nowhere more than 100 feet away from him. Victor peeks his eyes up and looks around. About twenty yards from him, he sees a fox struggling to free himself from a trap. Victor walks up to the fox and stares at it. The fox is still screaming in pain. Victor does not know what to do, he cannot get near the trap to free the fox because it will bite him. Even if he did get to the trap, he did not have enough strength to open it. Victor watches the fox until it stops screaming when he hears the sound of bloodhounds in the distance. He decides to wait by the fox who was still trying violently to free its self. After five minutes victor sees the hounds come in to point out the prey. Shortly after the hounds, a man arrives with a large machete and hunting rifle. “Hey boy, what are you doing out here alone” “I’m watching the fox” “Have you never seen no trap before?” “No sir” Victor stands up and begins to leave. “Hey boy, do you want to become a man today?” “uhhh..” “get over here and help me with this.” The man pulls out a long stick with a muzzle on the end of it. He sticks the muzzle on the fox. “Now go tighten the clips on that son of a bitches’ face so he can’t bite us” Victor hesitates. The man was staring at him with a spooky grin that gave Victor the chills. “Well what are you waiting for? The day isn’t getting any longer” Victor runs up, cinches the clips tightly and runs back. “That a boy son, Now have you ever been hunting before?” “No Sir” The man reaches around his beer belly and draws out his machete. “Well it’s your lucky day son, You get to go hunting.” “But..” “No buts! You’re turning into a man” “Sir I really don’t..” “Shut up boy” The man gives the machete to Victor. Victor starts to feel very frightened and begins to shake. He feels that this strange man with no teeth does not have good intentions. “Now take the blade, go up to the little shit, and cut its head off” “Sir, please” Victor felt his eyes well up again, which was starting to become an all too often occurrence. “Son if you don’t kill the fox, I’m going to talk to your father and tell him how you acted like a little girl. He won’t be very happy about that, and you’re going to get in a lot of trouble. I bet he gave you those bruises didn’t he? Well expect more unless you do what I say” The earth stopped, Victor could smell every scent, and he could see every color. Nothing moved, the falling red leaves were still, the fox in the trap was still, the man’s spit projecting out of his disgusting mouth was still, the bloodhound’s barks were silent. Victor felt his heart beat once. He raised the blade and thrust it as hard as he could into the man’s stomach. Time resumed. The man screamed in pain and fell to his knees. Victor shouts, “He is not my father!” Victor withdrew the blade and used all of his strength to hack one time at the man’s neck. The head teetered for a couple seconds then fell down into the leaves, his body fell shortly after. Victor walks over to the fox and tells the fox how sorry he is that he can’t open the trap. He feels a genuine sorrow for the animal and tells it how it does not have to be trapped anymore. he assures it that it is going to a better place and quickly severs the animals head. Victor’s already bloody coat was now soaked. Victor knew that Blaine and Erica were not going to be very happy about that. Victor slings the hunter’s rifle over his shoulder and heads toward home, machete in hand.

The tile is cold against your cheek and you consider porcelain: What is it? Who invented it? Why does it exist? Your Mickey Mouse alarm clock clangs from the bedroom, and the tinny din is still not the long distance call from Tuscaloosa. You wonder how long the bells will clash until the clock devours its batteries. Did you buy the clock as some sort of kitschy satire? You do not remember. If you had a better memory, maybe things would be different. Maybe that was the problem. You consider odds and evens and porcelain and the pills scattered across tile. From your perspective the pills rise like enormous spaceships parked on a weird horizon. Remember: you are not dying. The tile is cold against your cheek and you blink several times. Your eyelids are the synchronized wings of a moth, two dusty skeins fluttering a final time in the deepening cold of autumn. You lie on the cold tile like a rainbow trout, no longer flopping against your lack of water, gasping at lengthening intervals, your color condensing into the slowing pulse of your lungs. You continually think of dying animals. The pills on the floor are just Robotussin PM and you are not killing yourself, you are clumsy. If he came back from Tuscaloosa (stop saying if, there is no if) and found you here, he would mistake your clumsiness for suicide. You would laugh at the thought, if you could remember how. It is a very funny thought. One is odd and two is even, and you are very odd now. You reached for the bottle and the Robotussin PM evaded your uncertain fingers, splattering against the cold tile and spreading little spaceships into the air. Each pill moved independently in the explosion. Each pill went wherever the hell it wanted. Even to Tuscaloosa, if the pill wanted. Each pill was as free as anything. By reflex, you kneeled to pick up the pills, and discovered you could not see straight. Your face was strangely damp. You decided to lie down on the tile, and then at 7:30 in the morning Mickey Mouse tries to tell you about work and you realize that you have been up all night. Mickey has been talking about work for a while now. That may have been minutes or hours or days ago. You are not suicidal you just had to lie down. You think you see an ant navigating the space between the plaster wall and the tile, but it is just lint. Or maybe a spider. You name the spider Jerry. You pray that Jerry is a spider, and that he is not lint, but you know it is too good to be true. It is your fault, assuredly. You really tried this time. God, you really fucking tried. You squint, and Jerry is definitely lint. Oh well.

Nothing different, nothing new. The phrase ran rampant through Sal's mind as he awake to a new day. His new bed, just sitting still on his new mahogany floor with the new ocean-blue carpet. Ever since the wars they've been requesting we don't question much, that we attempt to be satisfied as Earth is rebuilt, to conform. You see, besides countless lives being lost and endless funds seemingly flushed being the outlying difference in lives.. we have our size. The wars, well.. they made us bigger. Twenty feet for most, twenty two to twenty four feet for some. Now, nobody can be a social outcast for their height. Everyone is equal, equally confused, equally pissed off, equally mad at the damn President for front-lining NATO with good, home grown boys who were to be slaughtered by an enemy we didn't understand. Seven billion went down to four point nine, entire nations such as the former South American's various republics and democracies were hit the hardest, you should see the holes, I've seen 'em, damn right. The gaping, green oozing hazy dark craters. We didn't win they accepted our surrender, which is the saddest part. Their only request is that we all, the remaining, be "vaccinated of our horrifying virus known as humanity" as their Warlord/High General put it. I remember when I took it, I was scared out of my wits. Sal was just a lad then, so short like the other toddlers. His life was about to change, not for the better, but for the best with survival in mind. Those who refused the 'height fix' were shot immediately with their god-less fixated energy rifles. When all 4,994,688,003 were 'fixed' they moved on, with a promise they'd help us rebuild some time in the future.

I recently broke up with my dreamgirl that left me due to my drug use. Im going to write a story about the day i met her and how our friendship, and on and off dating create a fantastic, and unique story. This is the prologue. Comments please? I'm not a fantastic writer, and feedback would be nice. 9/10/13 Dean peered down at his hands and slowly realized his mistake. He had forgotten something right out of his list of things to keep in mind as a marijuana user (or abuser depending on how you look at it) that he had kept, written down entirely in his mind. He knew he would have to come up with something clever to get out of the trouble that he would likely find himself in, if he were to go home. He considered his options. “Where could you go? You can't drive far like this” he told himself in his head. “And it’s not like you have any friends to go to; Much less ones that have parents who would even consider letting you stay under their roof.” Dean sneered jestingly at himself within his mind. Dean relaxed into his newly upholstered red bench seat and heaved out a sigh of frustration inside his car. He knew he couldn’t stay out much longer because the neighbors were starting to give him suspicious looks. He dug out his phone and checked for messages. He only had one, and it was from his mother. Mom: Where are you? You Didn’t tell me you were leaving. “She sent that ten minutes ago!” He bellowed inside his head with fear. He knew his mom would be expecting a response soon, seeing as Dean rarely doesn’t respond to a message within a few minutes. Just then, his mothe rAnne called. One ring. Two rings.. “Hey what’s up?” Dean stammered, “I'm up at Lydia’s, working on my car with her father.” It was the first thing that came to mind which was, at the moment, not currently working at full capacity. “But its so dark! Theres no way you’re fucknig working up there. Get home now. And I swear you better not have been smoking God damn it.” Anne threatened. “Really! I am up here. Hes in the bathroom, but i’ll give you a call when hes back and you can talk to him yourself.” Dean heard her phone flip shut, and shoved his phone in his pocket. This was not going to be a good night. Dean worked his engine to capacity as he sped his way through the backroads. It seemed like it took an eternity to complete the familiar 10 min. drive to Lydia’s house. He knew she would be off at college, leading a life of her own, enjoying her own experiences, and wouldn’t have to worry about her being there. Dean pulled in the driveway and jogged to the door, preparing himself for whatever reaction the owner of the ranch, Lydia’s father Michael, would have. There was a slight creak of floorboards on the other side of the door. “It’s me Dean! I can explain, i swear.” Before he had even finished his sentence the door was open, and Michael, a tall, incredibly skinny man of 69 years was beckoning him inside. “Jesus kid! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming up!? Hoping to see the girl?” He joked, with a healthy dose of sarcasm in his voice. “No, just need a favor if you wouldn’t mind.” Stated Dean, all signs of nervousness now thoroughly removed from his system. “And what would that be?” asked Michael Curiously. “I need you to talk to my Mom and tell her that we’ve been working on the car for a few hours, and that i'm staying the night here, because i'm too high to go home without her knowing which at the moment is..... not a good scenario for me” Said Dean. He had laid it flat out for him, and now stood, doing his best to keep his composure as he waited for his response. “Yeah sure, i can do that for you. But.. We’re going to have a talk. I want to know the truth about you and my daughters physical relationship. I know you guys haven’t been straightforward with me, and it’s time that one of you lets me in the loop. I want to be informed.” Michael shut the door behind him, and invited Dean to move into the living room. Dean poured himself a jar of water, and took a seat across from where Michael was just finishing his phone call with his mother. “You’re all clear kid. Now tell me whatever you think I should know” “Wow” Dean thought to himself. “What he should know? We’re going to be here awhile”. Dean then lifted his gaze to meet Michael’s. He thought back to his thirteen year old self, and the nostalgia began to flow freely. “I would have done so many things differently.” And then Dean spoke the first words of a story neither of them would ever forget.

„Hello.“ This was the first word I have heard for quite a long time. “Hello.” Such a small and fickle thing, one word but for me it was like a revelation of sorts. It woke me up, out of a stupor of self-inflicted pain over my lost ability to write anything. “Hello, can you hear me?” I tried to answer but my throat was dry and my mouth unable to move after such a long time of being silent. So I just nodded and waited for more words. More words trickling in and flooding the empty space that this room had become in my mind. “You know that we are all worried about you? You are just in here day for day, barely eating, drinking and you don’t even speak with us anymore.” I wanted to turn around, speak up and defend myself but my gaze remained on the blank paper spanned in my typewriter and I remained silent. Just listening to the breathing behind me, feeling the worried gaze of this person staring at my back, unmoving. Maybe I would be able to speak if I wet my throat, maybe… but my weakened hands were unable to grasp the around the neck of the bottle and just remained there, powerless. “Can’t you just give up, why do you torture yourself so much? You do not have to write anything, you don’t have to prove anything to anyone.” “Myself…”, finally a word escaped my dry lips. “I have to prove myself to myself.” “Yourself?” “Yes, myself.” The person behind me sighed and closed the door, a sigh like they had just tried to convince a child but given up. Now I was left alone again, staring on the blank paper. But this time my finger began to move. One character, two, three… more and more mingled on the blank white paper, filling it first with blackness, then words, then sentences, coming together to form a story, instilling life into a world yet unknown even to me. While typing away I heard the door opening slightly behind me, leaving it ajar. For a moment I stopped my writing and forced out two more words, which came over my lips much faster and easier than the last ones. “Thank you.” The door closed behind me and my hands began to move again.

When I first signed up to join the group of contestants on their mission to mars, I could only hope that I would make it. After about a year I heard back and was picked. I have a degree in computer science which honestly really doesn’t help with much but because I have been working with UNIX for 10 years and the fact that I am very technical they decided it would aid the mission. Apparently most of the systems they use on the ships and in the housing modules all run Linux imagine that. Anyway here I am strapped to this chair shaking like no tomorrow as we enter the atmosphere of Mars. So far there are 5 other people that have landed in the last 24 hours. From what I’ve seen while on approach things are going OK. There seems to be mostly one person doing the talking and reporting a guy named Davis. He is one of the doctors on the trip I met him a few times in training and he seemed cool, I guess he is a psychiatrist. The last report had them all hooked up and starting to deploy the green house gear for building. Everything is automated; I don’t have to do a thing as we land. I radio in and let Davis know that I have landed and will be engaging the rover capabilities of the module to start my advance and eventual connection to the other modules. He seems nonplused about the whole thing, I’m not sure if that is a good sign or a bad sign. We did just get here you would think people would be overly excited. The landing wasn’t too bad, a little bit of a bump at the end. I have to give it to the development team they really did a good job with the ships and modules. The trip here was a long year but there was plenty of entertainment along the way, I’m excited to finally get out and see other people face to face though. After following the navigation screen to where the other modules are I come over a slight hill and can see them. It’s getting dark it should be night soon, the sun is slowly working its way to the horizon. It is beautiful and completely alien here, so much rock and the sky has an odd blue tint to it as the sun sets. Gravity doesn’t seem too bad it takes a little getting used to but I definitely feel lighter. As I pull up to the last pod in the row I can see Davis, none of the others though which is strange. No one is working outside at all, which I would have expected. Connecting to the module went without issue, and I’m excited to start my new life here on Mars. I open the door to greet Davis and what I see is horror. The walls are covered in smeared blood, there are a couple bodies in the corner cut up into pieces. One woman is still alive it looks like but is just silently opening and closing her mouth. As I stand there in shock Davis comes from the side and says “Welcome to Mars!” I’m too slow and in too much shock to move as he hits me full force with a large pipe wrench to the face. I fall back into my module and my head lands on the console facing out towards the sunset. I feel a sharp stabbing repeatedly into my back and stomach area then a slight tugging as some instrument gets stuck. My final thoughts as my life drains from me are, I’m glad I got to see the sunset, it is so beautiful.

When the world was young and innocent of Death, and Light ruled while Darkness slept, my sister and I lived in a garden. In this garden there were many beautiful things: plants and creatures alike. While we loved this garden, we were not the caretakers of it and knew not who the gardener was who had planted it or who it was that took care of it; yet it was always quite luscious and constantly thriving. One day while wandering throughout the garden we decided to rest under our favorite cherry tree, which was in full blossom. While we rested and talked, there came a great rush of air and a tremendous beating of wings above the tree where we sat. It was a bird that landed gracefully but powerfully in front of us. But this was not just a bird, no, this was a beast of a bird, a king of winged creatures, a lord of the skies. Its colors were that of the rainbow and its feathers many and soft to the eyes. Its size was enormous and great: nearly ten feet from beak to claw and its wingspan at least that twice. We were, of course, amazed at the size and greatness of this bird. We both watched in wonder as all the birds of the garden, and all the animals too, came to this beast’s feet and offered gifts of fruit, flowers, and dance and song. All the creatures in the garden seemed to fear and worship this magnificent bird. Then, after seeing the respect and adoration this winged master was receiving, we grew jealous and began to hate the bird and despise it for its beauty and power. We wanted the love and worship of the animals, for we were the blessed, the human, the masters of the garden–or so we deemed. We befriended this beautiful beast and then poisoned an apple and gave it to the bird as a gift. The bird ate it eagerly. Soon the beast was crying out in pain while my sister and I danced around him and his misery. Soon after that, the creature breathed his last. But our jealousy had grown, as it always does. I cut off his head with my sword, and my sister and I pulled off every last one of his colorful feathers and made a coat out of them. We marched and we pranced around the garden with our pride and our lust, brightly colored, while all the animals bowed to us now and gave us their wealth and their loyalty. Before long, the sky began to weep, and the raindrops washed away the blood on our hands but not on our hearts. With the rain came the guilt of our sin, the knowledge of our transgression–the fruit of our conscience. For we realized then just what it was we had done. We had destroyed something beautiful, we had horrified something lovely, we had damned something blessed. The beautiful beast was now nothing more than bones which were scattered on the ground. And so we set to work in utter desperation: to try and piece the bird back together again. Yet our foolish attempt to mend that which we had broken was in vain; for we were destroyers, not creators; we were haters, not lovers; were children, not gods. The product we created was far from the beautiful creature that once ruled the garden. This was no animal we made, it was a machine. Yes a machine: one with many whining gears and moving parts. We had destroyed beauty, and sought to recreate that which only can be created, not produced or made with human hands; it was not beauty at all. We watched helplessly as our machine went on a rampage, cutting and burning all the trees and plants in the garden, and forcing all the animals to flee from their once-beautiful homes. So there we stood, my sister and I, amidst the ruin of our garden, the trees aflame, beauty destroyed, perfection mutilated: by us and our machine. We left the garden and found a cave far off where we spent the rest of our days: in darkness and not light, in horror and not beauty: in Death and not Life.

The book Mum had bought me last week was hardly a page turner. "99 reasons why you should get out of bed", read the front cover in bright red writing on a white background. Why not make it 100? 99 reasons might sound a bit more catchy, but frankly I'd rather have an extra reason to get out of bed then a marginally punchier title on my shelf. *Reason Number 1: Because You Mean Something to Someone*, proclaimed the first chapter with great pride, as though it was on the precipice of answering some of mankind's biggest existential questions. What a load of bollocks, I thought. It was true, in my case - presumably my Mother saw some value in my existence. She bought me the book, after all. But I'd wager that at least one person reading this book doesn't know anyone, let alone someone that cares about them. Having read reason 1, they'd probably have sought out the nearest bridge. This was a farce. I threw it carelessly to one side, and breathed a deep, pensive sigh; staring at nothing in particular for a moment. The computer in the far corner of the room hummed quietly, reminding me with as much courtesy as it could muster that it was still there, still switched on. An hour before bed wouldn't hurt, I suppose. I punched the keyboard blindly, awaking the machine from its dormant stupor. The screen lit up suddenly - my game had continued uninterrupted in my brief absence. I glanced at the date and time in the bottom corner - a day had passed, which was about half an hour in real time. Nothing significant had changed whilst I had been gone. Population level: Increasing rapidly Energy and Resources: Decreasing rapidly Financial Strength: Increasing rapidly Not bad, I thought. The situation in Syria was rapidly getting out of hand; that was a pain in the arse. Foolishly I had saved my game just before it really began to spiral - there was no going back now. It was a waste on my resources, but there was a fair chance it would mediate the population growth, so perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing. The ozone layer was losing strength every day - it was at 67% now. I sat back in my chair and surveyed the damage. I was tired, slightly grumpy, and in no fit state to commit myself properly to this game. There were too many creases that needed to be ironed out, too many variables to consider at this time of the night. I resolved to leave it until the morning, that would buy me a few weeks in game time - perhaps things will have resolved themselves by then. If not, perhaps I'd have to start a new game. I left the computer to fall asleep, before slouching gratefully back into the welcoming embrace of the sofa. The book I was reading sat next to me, falling slightly inbetween the soft cracks of the cushions. I resolved I would give it another chance, and turned to the second chapter, the second reason why I should get out of bed tomorrow. *Reason Number 2: Because Every Day is a Chance to Change the World*. Now it really was talking bollocks.

Last Words (Tribute to Vonnegut) All of us in that box car, like sardines in a can, it was beginning to smell that way too. So many men in such a small space is unnatural. We were so packed in that we had to sleep in shifts. At any time men’s legs were like fence posts, buried to the knees with sleeping people like mud holding them in place. We were all privates, all POW’s. I was stuck in a corner, propped up next to a vent. I could see out into the train yard, see more box cars just sitting and waiting. I could also dump the helmets full of shit out that vent. The man next to me told me how he’d been a hobo before the war, “I’ve been hungrier then this.” he said, “This ain’t so bad. One day word finally got back to us the war was over. They began shipping the box cars out. We were part of a train that moved so slow, it felt like forever between the clicks from one rail to another. That’s how we began to measure time, maybe a thousand clicks till we got out. Every once in a while we would leave a box car at a station. A slow moving train of refugees getting smaller along the way. We finally stopped. It was my first encounter with Russians, their first with Americans, but they were familiar with the cargo. We slowly funneled out, almost like a slow moving liquid. One plopping out after another. I needed help, I felt like I would break if I plopped at all. All but one drop of that strange liquid squeezed out of that box car. Before the war he said he was a hobo.

I was early as usual, the parking lot was empty except for me and the key man. It was kind of a strange habit of mine to always be early. Even though time and time again I would be some where fifteen to twenty minutes early, I never bothered to change when I thought I needed to leave. Too much would be left to chance, I would never risk endangering my appearance due to lack of time management. Others began to join us in the parking lot. Some of them I knew well, others I had only met in passing. Is she in that car? I could only speculate, and time would tell. I needed to use the restroom and so I locked my car and walked over only to find them locked, it was going to be a long class. I walk to the building and see him going up the stairs to class, I join him. He and I made small talk in the classroom, and as others joined us we included them in our discussion. A pretty young girl and her younger brother walked in and sat next to me. I guess she was closer to me than anyone else in the class. Which is understandable, I saw her more as a friend despite her undeniable attractiveness. The teacher came and class started, she never showed up. Class ended and he and I talked afterwards till nearly everyone was gone, he wondered if we could get something to eat and talk about life. I didn’t have anything to do the next day so I obliged him. I followed him in my car until we reached a Denny's in between our houses. We both ordered our food and our conversation took a more serious tone. I had my hand ready to play to try and get clarity on the situation I was in. I knew I was going to have to be careful in how I approached it, since I didn’t know his hand. I knew that the time was coming near when I would be forced into playing. Then, he played his hand without even knowing it. He and she were still talking about being together. At long last I have been given vision. I can see the ending.

Let me tell you a story about my perilous and sometimes absurdly amazing journey to Gettysburg Battlefield in Pennsylvania. So it begins with me setting off from my sleepy little town of -redacted- on a mission; a mission of dire importance to me. It begins on the wild roads of Suburbia that slowly melt from the lull of bustle and humanity to a hush that only comes with rural areas, a hush that creeps up on you slowly and before you know it, the somnolent hush almost puts you to sleep. But I was determined, I was eager to go to this glorious Fabled city of Old so I did not nod off. To keep complete composure, like anyone would, I needed sustenance, preferably in the form of my favorite country buffet. After a raucous feast and courtesies to the wait staff as is the custom, I was off again. The horizon was comprised of the mighty Catoctin mountain at a staggering 1900 feet and the scraggly beard of trees atop it; this mountain man shifting and moving with the ridges as if actual flesh and blood. The contrast of the soaring peaks and the farmland like slabs of concrete laid down flat made for quite a sight and I was struck with the urge to paint, but I was morally contracted to visit the light at the end of my tunnel vision, so I kept trekking. I was close and I could feel it. There is this buzz of excitement, like a small static shock, that flows like the electrons that make up a current through your body. This excitement tingles and slowly resonates stronger and stronger until you reach the generator of the buzz and then it's gone. I could see the gleaming gold buildings, of my destination but I kept my cool and held in the current until I was face to face with the crown jewel of the empire of Civil War history. The shadow of the Round Top hills overlooking the site led me right to the spot where my interest in history would grow exponentially to point of no return.

I was born full-blooded princess with a bit of fairy powers. I was raised in an intricate stone four-story palace. My room was on the top floor. It had a pink Fisher Price vanity set and an extravagant tunnel cage for my dwarf hamster, Muffin. Along the wall I had a bay window, where I could look out and see the vast and perfectly groomed ground below. I was a powerful and graceful princess, who had everything ever needed. In this Kingdom I grew into a Queen, I was taught to be full of knowledge and love. My father was the mighty King. He had a grand office and would care for every guest. My home had many rooms to explore. The basement was a dungeon; I was never allowed to go down the elevator. The dim chapel was great for hide and seek with my three siblings. The oval arrangement room with deep red satin chairs was the ideal place to read The Box Car Children in peace. Men would tend to the grounds and maids would dust the cherrywood stair railing. My father's guard, Steve, was a terrific man. He always worked on certificates and ascended to the basement. Occasionally, he snuck me dark chocolates from his suit pocket to satisfy my young, sweet tooth then press his finger to his smile, swearing me to secrecy., The castle was magical. Each morning it would fill with guest who had traveled from all walks of life in search of my father’s compassionate care. The visitors were remarkable; they always had a different age, race, shape, and size, as if they were from another land. The one common thread among them was that they always seemed so dense and weighted down by something depressing. As if the wicked White Witch from Narnia had cast them into a land of perpetual winter. My father, in his Kingly responsibility, would help them in their desperate state. They would always depart hugging my father and express gratitude to my mother for her hospitality. I believed my father had a power that could save people from anything. The palace was widely known for curing people who had a particular dark enchantment, the one where a body could fall into a deep slumber and never wake from it. My father would lay the individual in a beautiful personalized bed. We had a room specifically for the beds. The family would find that perfect one to help the cursed be cured. No sleeping beauty would ever stay long, because my father was mastered in his task. Each day before I would walk to school, I would pat their beds and tell them to sleep good. My proper mom would kindly correct, "Well, sleep well." At school my best friend was Rachel. She lived in a boring suburb with her mom and brother. Although she was not a full princess, she was a faithful friend with true potential at eventually living as a royal. We would paint each other’s nails, watch princess Disney movies, and practice walking upright with books on our head. We shared a common goal in becoming Queens one day, marrying a cootie free Prince and having a castle of our own. ​I love my childhood. I have no clue what made me fully believe that I was a whimsical princess. I suppose I was caught in pure bliss from my ignorance and youth. Perhaps I was hopeful that my books and Disney movies were real. Time and reality have revealed many truths to me. I came to realize I was raised in the loft of a funeral home, where my father helped the grieving memorialize their loved ones. Despite the truths, I still want to retain my prior lookout of life. I still love to look deep into rooms and search for the secrets and comforts they hold. My parents are still hardworking and loving people. Reality doesn't have to strip away beliefs that are rightfully mine. It simply adds credibility to those beliefs. I will always be a Mortician's Princess.

His heart skipped a beat as he peered out his tiny, filth ridden window to see Chimera skipping down the street in his direction. She stopped suddenly, directing her gaze towards him; a gentle smile slowly crept across her face as she waved for him to come outside. As he opened his front door he couldn't help wondering how no one else seemed to notice her beauty. Her brilliant blue eyes peered through a soft, pale face framed by waves of golden hair which fell to her fragile shoulders. Chimera grabbed his hand and jerked him back into reality as she took off running towards their favorite spot, a small creek surrounded by tall oak trees. They would sit there for hours talking about whatever it was that came to their minds, he often wondered why no one asked about her, why his parents never noticed his absence, but her melodious voice made him forget all his worries and confusion. “Everything is so perfect here,” she whispered. “It’s like these trees are a fortress, keeping out all the hate and evil. When you’re here, you know everything is going to be okay.” He agreed quietly and listened to her reminisce about all the good times they had spent beside the winding creek; he wanted her to keep talking forever, because he didn't want her to go. He thought to himself how dreadful of a sound goodbye makes. He hated knowing that such happiness was coming to an end, and that he would have to return to the reality of a busy world that didn't seem to notice him the way she did. She cared about his thoughts and opinions in a way that no one else ever had; she didn't blame him, she just smiled and reminded him that pain doesn't last forever. The problem was that happiness didn’t either, a truth that came crashing down on him in the form of a fist. “What the fuck is wrong with you, you sick son-of-a-bitch?!” his father screamed as he threw the final punch. He collapsed to the rotting floorboards, trying his best to hold it in, to keep the memories out. He didn't want to remember the reason behind his father’s loathing; he didn't want to go back to those after school “tutoring sessions”. He waited for the door to slam before wiping the blood from his face and pulling himself off of the floor. He tried to go back to his fortress, to be with Chimera, but he couldn’t. Instead he went back to a windowless classroom, to be with Mister Keres.

"Made you look you idiot. What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue? Speak up!" I refused to speak, but kept walking down the road and as far down the road I walked other birds joined in the fun, calling me insulting names and trying to get my attention. A few birds shouted, well chirped loudly, at the other birds telling them to stop and often greeted me as I walked by, politely telling me what a wonderful day it was. I decided that not all birds were bad, but most were hecklers that whiled away their day being rude to as many other animals as possible. What a life. The person snoring’s name was Ian and he was an alien that could read my mind using an implanted radio that was in his brain. It cost him $8,000 and he had to buy it and have it installed on the alien black market. What he continued to tell me was that he had been watching me and knew who I was, as well as what I was about and it was obvious that I deserved a radio too. I was able to scrounge up $8,000 then I would be able to get a radio too and be able to read other peoples minds. He told me he was telling me this in confidence, and to prove his ability he told me he was going to draw a character of Mario from the video game in my brain. I promptly saw a Mario in my imagination and although it was all very convincing, I could tell by his tone that he was just messing with me. It was obvious that this alien enjoyed spending his time convincing others that they could purchase mind-reading technology for a measly $8,000. So I spoke back using my imagination and told him I didn’t believe him and that he couldn’t screw with me. It was clear to me though that with the birds talking to me and people reading my mind that I was on to something big. The next day, the birds continued to talk and I decided to try speaking back. The end result was that I scared the shit out of a bird that didn’t know I could understand what he was saying You, you come back here, you can understand me I can understand you It sounded as if everyone else in the library was having secret conversations just by using the clacking sound of their fingers on the keys to express themselves. I sat and listened to the various conversations before leaving feeling excluded at what was obviously a secret society of people with the ability to read minds. Look, we’re just fucking with you. It happens to everyone. Its just too bad you don’t have any friends to tell you. I’ll tell you something though, its an age thing, everybody who grows to a certain age is let in on it. Of course, some find out about it earlier but most learn about it from their parents when they’re older its just too bad for you your parents hate you. I was completely confused but I didn’t want to believe what was being said to me and I was sure that as soon as I asked him what he was talking about he’d just do the same thing as Ian and pretend to not know anything. It happened later that night when a voice suddenly told me to go jump in the lake. I couldn’t see anybody around but the being continued to talk to me for the next three years. It began by saying that I was about to die and that somebody else would replace my mind. I stayed up all night tossing and turning as this other being introduced himself and said that he would be taking over my mind from then on because he was promoted to the controller of my mind. I begged him not to and got extremely worked up when all of a sudden a huge change came over me and suddenly the walls were coated with words written all over them and I felt completely different. Disintegration of his thinking. Thank you to his parents for sharing this. Even as an experienced psychiatrist I was quite moved for him and for them. Having watched these two individuals over the last few weeks provide new vigor and input to some of our under loved packages, I’d like to put a challenge out, it's yours not theirs. In that moment, it was impossible to have that kind of perspective. Who takes for granted that what I'm doing is just as important as what your doing. It's really hard not to look. The Fresh Air segment ends with a fairly recent interview with an obviously very frail Sendak saying, “Live your life. Live your life. Live your life.

"Craig! Hurry up little bro I'm Going into work early today, I'm going to need you to be ready to leave with in the next 10 minutes." "Damnit Tone, I've told you, I've told you,and I've told you again, I'll just take the bus!" "No such luck little man I want to get breakfast with you, I got Waffle fever." "I know how that goes... OK Just Give me a second alright, and I'll be down." An indistinct clamber of voices ricochet's of the narrow walls, comprising the shanty house that Antone, Craig, and their father Nezzy, call home. "Your other sons getting ready Ol' Nez. If you Cared. You know, we're getting breakfast too you can come with us; that is, if you ever muster up the courage to get off your ass and venture outside... You know, trees sky sun the whole bit... Don't know why hell I even bother to ask? I know You're just going to watch those damn westerns all day." Looking at his father, Glimmering blue and rushing whites and blacks rush across the glare of his thick glasses. Antone suddenly felt nausea enveloping his stomach. He removed himself from the room. Briskly walking into the bathroom hunched over the sink and looked deeply into his eyes through the mirror. Starring stern into those wells of glacial blue depression. He struggled to stop the still frames of loving moments shared with his mother from whizzing by. (knock, knock, knock!) "I see how it is. Telling me to hurry up, mean while you're in bathroom taking your pretty sweet time. You're Such a control freak. Well Sire when ever you're ready I'll be out by the car." Antone heard the sound of his brothers feet in the final stages of Doppler. Front Door opened then shut. He gave the mirror one more pity glance, splashed water on his face and walked out of the bathroom into the hall, and made his way for the front door. Twisting the old rusted handle, he opened the door. Almost covered up by the sound of the hinges squeaking, and floor boards scraping against the door's wood, came a meek voice as if carried by a mouse on a zip tie. "Love you Tone." said his father peering around the T.V. Antone vigorously slammed the door. Outside he saw his brother waiting by the car. "Hop in little bro car door's unlocked. I wanna see that seat belt on before I even get in." (Slam, Slam.) The ignition kicks over. Few Hank William songs later and they're in the diners parking-lot. They Park. Antone began to thumb a silver Cross that for some years had been living around his neck. There was intention in his eyes a plan and careful preparation. "Craig, Mom loved you, you know that right?" Staring at the dash concernedly then turning towards his brother. "Oh man, really? I don't want to do this?" Craig sounding frightened. "I know I know, but I promised mom I'd look after you. You're already in High school now, and becoming exponentially more independent. You know?" "Stop Tone I don't want to do this right now!" "Listen to me Craig!" Antone's river's levee of anguish cracked. Cracked as though the foundation's were rotting for thousands of years. An ancient sorrow. Something that seemed to echo through the annals of human history, having no beginning and no perceivable end. Only carrying on for a promise. A promise that seemed above all priority, because the price paid for it, was immense. "I'm not always going to be around, and since mom's death, I've tried to teach you and involve you as well I could... but I was young you know, really young... Any... Anyway you turned out to be a great young man. Far better then I was at your age I'll tell you that much. Craig, she gave me this Cross right before she died. She told me it would protect me, and also that she would always watch over you and Me. I'm not always going to be around Craig. That's just the way it is Bro, but as long as you wear this you'll be protected." they get out of the car, door shuts and they eat for an half hour. Antone then drops Craig off at his school. leaves. And then he begins to feel nausea ensue once again, an overwhelming amount. pulls over, then opens the door, now A massive puddle of partially digested waffles and eggs liter the ground. He realizes his only thought is on his 'warm cocoon' (his bed.) He hooks his car back home. "Nezzy you old ass! I'm calling it an early day. Work's tantamount to Cocytus." Shutting the door behind him, he mentally maps his flight path to his room. When an old familiar mouse on a zip line reels past him once again. "Tone are you OK?" His dad shifting his weight to see his son. Glasses still gleaming from the T.V.. Antone feeling disgusted by his dads random concern Brashly replies. "I'm your son aren't I? A staple of health for the world. Just go back to watching Wayne save the day." A deep rooted contention pirouetting around Antone slip's from his sentences. Briskly Antone makes for his room and shuts the door. With privacy encasing him, Antone's mind scrolled through the old familiar still frames of his mom. Though this time his brother was a cameo in the production. He fell to his knees and began to wail. The ancient sorrow kept at bay by the strength he needed to console his brother was now torn. Tensile strength exceeded. The ghost's from the abysmal ocean of life proceeded to thunder over his spiritual village. His village was washed away. Antone's objective reclaim it! Antone's will was steadfast. He was going to salvage his village! Never stopping the search even if it took him through eternity. He tied the mast's off to his door. Making sure the ropes were secure with a stern tug. Sure enough they were Fastened true. In his cabin he wrote his last sentiment to the whole of existence. Titled Antone's Death: "They're closing in. My chance for life is now melted into the eternal paradox that shroud's all my existence. I must make the voyage on my own. Nezzy... Dad... I've tip-toed in Satan's dance, hoping to avoid his stampeding hooves. I've failed. My body left shattered. There is a doctor across the sea, that has agreed to inoculate me. One final rhyme to soothe life's Maelstrom. I'll Tell Mom and... and... CRAIG that you love them. We remember too well what was washed up with the wreckage last time this captain had a crew... That's why the choice of going it alone gives me comfort. A comfort I'll not squander. A utilization of strength used for the harnessing of my soul, once again." with love, Antone. Slipping the suicide note into a bottle and placing it on his dresser, Antone paced his room readying himself for castoff. He placed his hand on his neck caressing and tracing his jaw line. Now he knew what the ropes destiny was tethered to. He inhaled and plunged, drifting further and further into the darkening depths. Part 2 "It's a formality that we take your statement Sir." The officer looking at Nezzy. Breathing thinking, thinking, and feeling, feeling... A realization occurred for Nezzy at that moment. An endless pilgrimage lay before Nezzy. A Path with endless endurance. No one ever will fully understand my immense sorrow. The immense sorrow, that remains the constant of my life. I know now that I'm completely alone. My only company? A crucifix I grabbed from my beloved son Tone's Neck. An Heirloom his mother was given as a child. A testament to My mortal enemy's sacrifice. A companion if you could call it that, in misery. A one-sided friend battling me in an endless tug of war in pain, a war I'll always be victorious in. A Companion whose unrequited misery especially intangible, leaves me to roam deep in his jest; roaming deep in my own torment. Nezzy withdrew From his thought's, and answered. "My son left last morning. Got breakfast, and came back about an hour later. I asked him If he was Okay and he continued into his room." "Sir I couldn't help but notice that there wasn't a suicide note, which is highly unorthodox." Neezy Immediately imagined the place where he hid the suicide note. In his heart he knew it wasn't for any other, only him. His son's final sentiment forged from the last fiber of his existence. "Sir, are you suggesting I staged his suicide? Something that unorthodox?" An inquisitive reply slipping from Nezzy's lips "Sir we're merely trying to ascertain and gauge the situation." The officer looking at Nezzy's face knew he'd never get a response from Antone's father in the state he was in. At once he changed his line of questioning. "Sir what really trying to say is, are you going to be Alright?" Nezzy's life expelled from him in the form of one last sentence. "Unless you have enough suspicion and evidence to arrest me right now, get out of here. I need Privacy damnit!" The officer heeded. Gathering himself he Replied. "Sir I'm leaving now, and once again, I'm deeply sorry for your loss." he walked out and quietly inched the door shut behind him. Nezzy was frozen on the couch for several minutes. Then slowly he began to stand. languidly he made his way to the T.V. and turned it on. The sound of a fire fight reverberating off the walls of the house yielded no mild comfort this time. From the T.V. he went straight for fire place. There mismatched from the other bricks comprising the hearth was a deeper outlined brick. He Tugged on it, revealing it to be hollow underneath. He cautiously injected his hand all they way to the elbow, and then retracted. Slowly coming to light from the cusp of the hollow's shadow was a plastic Freezer bag with paper contents inside. With the bag in hand he went back to the couch. Sitting down slow and calculating, he removed the bag's contents, and laid the zip-lock off to the side. Remaining in his left hand were two pieces of paper. With his right he thumbed the back of his neck to unclasp the silver crucifix he was wearing. After placing the Crucifix in the zip-lock, he opened up the pieces of paper. One read 'Antone's death.' The other, a news paper article depicting a picture of a mangled car and contents reading: Tragedy on the P.C.H. by Percivle Telleth. Saturday January, 19th marked a tragedy on the Pacific Coast Highway. A young Family on their way back to Pasadena from visiting the Redwood forest got into an accident. The eldest son of Mr. and Mrs. Daffer, Antone was driving. Practicing for what he said was his "drivers license test." Leaving Mother Isabell Daffer sitting in the passenger seat, and youngest son Craig Daffer sitting in the back passenger-side seat. When passing through Andrew Molera State park an elk bolted out in front of their car. Trying to avoid the elk their car lost control and wrapped around a tree. Instantly killing Isabell and Craig. Antone Luckily only suffering minor damage, ran out of the car and flagged down help. Story continued on E5...

Chap 1. People would kid Scalabo about how if he walked any slower, then he’d just be standing still. And how Jumpback was the only horse they’d ever seen that could take a nap and still keep walking. He once told Mr. Stubbins, who owned the mercantile, “Oh...I’m in no real hurry I guess. I’ll get there. And besides, my feet don’t hurt as quick when I take it slow.” That seemed to make sense to Mr. Stubbins but Stubbins had to ask, “Why don’t you just ride your horse?” “What, me get up on Jumpback? The way I see it...if my two feet start to hurt, them I’m sure Jumpback’s four feet gotta hurt too, so he don’t need me sittin’ on his back, while I’m resting my feet”, and that seemed to make sense to Mr. Stubbins too. Stubbins disappeared through his store front door and came right back and walked out to Scalabo. “Mind if I give him these?”, holding out three or four carrots and an apple. “I’ve got more than I can sell and they’ll just go bad, as hot as it’s been." “Oh no sir I don’t. And I’m sure he’ll like those very much...if you can wake him up”, Scalabo thanked him with a wink. “He likes that wild rye that grows there up about five miles. Good time of year for it. Hasn’t started to seed yet. Yeah...he likes that”. “And for you sir”, as Mr. Stubbins held out his hand to Scalabo displaying a chunk of chocolate, a plug of tobacco and a small, odd shaped piece of smooth, clear glass. “They sent extra this time and it’s only good fresh.” Stubbins knew Scalabo was not a man after handouts, or a man to be thought of as down on his luck. “Well thank you Mr. Stubbins. Anything I can do to repay you for all this? And what’s this?” holding up that little piece of glass. “Oh no sir. Not at all. I wouldn’t think of it. It’s my pleasure. All I can say is, they say that glass brings good luck.” “Well sir that would be just fine with me. And it seems to be already working with all the generosity you’ve shown me today. I’ll be going now and we’ll see you our next time through. Not to expect something or anything like that. Just for a visit. Nothing more. And I’ll let you know how my luck’s been going”. It’s a pretty easy walk up to where those two were headed. Good solid road and no ruts. It’s just the kind of dirt that’s around here. Even after a three day rain the road's not very muddy. There’s a slight uphill rise about three miles out. It takes off to the northwest and then drops down a bit into a large meadow. Just past the crest of the rise there’s a trail that heads off to the left and goes over to a stream about a half a mile or so over. The trail takes off north again and follows the row of cottonwoods that line the bank of the stream. There’s also some tall grasses, lots of wild flowers and a pretty good stretch of berry bushes. It eventually ends up at a small pond and then curves around towards that rye patch they were headed for, and then meets back up with the main road . This is the route Scalabo always took. Plenty of good water for them both and he’d tell Jumpback that “most the time it’s better to eat dessert first." Scalabo thought, when he first saw this place years ago, the stream used to be a river and that pond is what’s left of most likely a lake that covered this whole meadow floor. The only trees besides the cottonwoods were way off at the start of some hills where twenty miles after that, started to become mountains. He liked the idea he might be walking on the bottom of an old lake. He liked the idea there was plenty of good stuff for Jumpback to eat. He spent the night there along that stream many times through the years. Sometimes he’d go stay by the pond. He liked the idea it was up to him to keep going or just to sit. Mr. Stubbins went out a while later to see how far Scalabo and Jumpback had made it on their way to the rye patch. He didn’t know what their plans where after that. Where they’d be off to he could only imagine. He wondered if Scalabo even knew where he was off to. Maybe Scalabo wondered that same thing too.

The alarm buzzed at exactly 6:04am, just as Chad had it set to, and grown accustomed to over the years. He hit the snooze and rolled over in his bed and tried to go back to sleep for those precious 5 minutes. He just started to doze off again when it hit him: THE TORRENT! He jumped out of bed and rushed to his computer. He scrolled through a couple dozen files he was seeding and saw the movie he had downloaded was complete. He now had the Blu-Ray copy of the latest blockbuster that was still in theatres. His classmates would easily pay ten dollars apiece for copies of this, and with an hour before he left for school, he could have four or five copies done burning by then. He started the burner and then got ready for the day. Chad grabbed the discs on the way out the door along with his cell phone and hopped in his car. He pulled into the school lot a few minutes later and spotted his friends by the school entrance. He ran over to them, and handed them a disc with the title of the movie crudely written in black Sharpie. “Whoa! Where did you find this one? I have only been able to find the cam recordings so far,” Nathan said as he took the disc and slid it into his binder. “Benefits of being in a private group. We get shit before everyone else does.” Chad replied. He was referring to the private torrent sharing site he had recently joined. It was actually more of a forum, but membership was quid pro quo. Chad had to bring something to the table that others wanted in order to maintain membership. “Dude! For reals! I have been wanting to see this now for ages!” Alex exclaimed. “Ages? It’s only been out two weeks. And we were going to see it tomorrow.” Nathan responded, shoving Alex. The two of them turned to walk into school when Chad’s phone rang. Chad pulled his phone out of his front pocket and looked at it. He phone only showed “11” as the caller’s phone number. He decided to answer it. “Is this Chad Reedy?” Said the male voice on the other end. “Yeah.” Replied Chad. “Chad Reedy who uses the alias ‘pyr0n1x’ online?” Chad’s eyes grew wide in surprise and quickly fumbled to hang up the phone. Thoughts rushed over him like a flood: images of code, programs, scripts, networks, and websites. What had he been caught doing? He had been so careful! As he stood there, watching his friends walk into the school, he heard a stampede of footsteps. He turned around just in time to see a dozen armed men in fatigues grab him, throw him on the ground, handcuff him, and haul him away. No one in the school saw it; his friends never even turned around. It was over as quickly as it began.

Before the war, he told me, all the kids went around munching mumpsicles. "Mumpsicles? What is that?" I asked. "What does it sound like," he said with a snort. That's the way it always was with Uncle Hobo. He had seen it all before and who was I to second guess him. I suppose I should be happy that I get to go to his practice for free, ever since I moved in on his street and my parents got stabbed. A kind heart in that one. But every time I go in for a check-up, his remarks make me less than a little bit comfortable. "Come on in, Gordon. Take a seat. Have a lolly, won't you?" Always with that smile. That's the thing about it- he always respects you first, reels you in with some prospect and then disappoints. Gordon's my name, all right, but I sure as hell dont see no lollies. And that's not the half of it. He wasnt my uncle anyway but he doesnt like formal titles like "doctor." Says they make him feel old. Threw away his diploma years ago- I sure havent seen it. Hell, he doesnt even wear the garb- calls it pretentious and what have you. We go through the procedure, same as always: he puts his stethoscope to my bare chest, checks in my eyes and ears, and tells me to say "ah." The only thing that concerns him is my blood pressure. I'm not a big salt eater so this comes as a surprise. "Since when is my blood pressure high, Uncle Hobo? I've been eating my greens, I swear!" "Have you now, boy?" says Uncle Hobo rifling through some papers, barely looking up. A long pause as he grunts to himself. "Have I ever told you how blood works, Gordon?" I considered his question. "No, sir, I don't believe you have." I replied, bracing for one of his wordly explanations. "Well then, to understand why blood is important, we must first turn to veins and arteries." I listened intently, taking my hand out of my pocket and then putting it back in. He continued, peering through his spectacles, "Now you see, Gordon, blood is like dogs and veins are like dog racing tracks. Have you ever been to a dog race, Gordon?" "Yes, sir, I sure have," I exclaimed. "Well then you of all people should know that veins are like racing tracks for medium-sized dogs, arteries are like racing tracks for large dogs, and capillaries are tracks for small dogs." I listened intently. I let the knowledge wash over me like awakening to a sunrise. "In your arteries you got your Alpine Spaniels, your Cesky Terriers, your Lapponian Herders, oh and your Otterhounds..." I quietly inserted my hand into my pocket, my eyes fixated on his. "...Gotta remember your Polish Lowland Sheepdogs, your Giant Schnauzers, your Japanese Spitz..." I began to move my hand back out of my pocket, staring at his face. "...Your Great Danes in the arteries too, of course. And in your veins, that's where you find your Dachshunds, your Labradors, your Dalmatians, a good deal of Collies..." I put both of my hands into my pocket and took one of them out, then I put one hand in as I took the other hand out. I was still listening to his fascinating words. "...your Mastiffs and Boxers. Not to forget your Bloodhounds in your veins and your Bulldogs..." This time I took both hands out of my pockets and my eyes never left his. I couldnt believe what I was learning about blood. "In your capillaries--they're the tiniest--you have your Chihuahuas, Pomeranians and Chow Chows, your Poodles, your Bassett Hounds, your Cocker Spaniels, can't forget your English Setters..." Trying to encourage Uncle Hobo, I shouted at the top of my lungs "WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!" He took it as encouragement and kept talking. "Also, Gordon, in your capillaries you have your Pugs, your Jack Russell Terriers (remember Wishbone, Gordon?), your Miniature Schnauzers, and your Shitzhus. See what I mean?" I nodded excitedly and shouted "I sure as hell understand, Uncle Hobo. Better than I ever did before!" Uncle Hobo looked satisfied. He gazed at me and then reached for something. "Gordon, it's time for me to give you something." proclaimed Uncle Hobo. He got a hypodermic needle in his shopping cart. We were on the sidewalk at the time, where he sleeps. He stabbed his shoulder, extracted some blood. Then he stabbed the needle into my shoulder and with a push of his thumb, all his blood entered my bloodstream. Uncle Hobo explained: "There- now you can see the color 'threeve.'" Sure enough, there it was all around me. The sky had tinges of 'threeve' and passersby had 'threeve'-colored hair and even there was 'threeve' in a discarded hamburger wrapper on the street. Why couldn't I see 'threeve' before? Was it a special property of Uncle Hobo's own blood? Whatever it was, I was grateful. 'Threeve' would be my new friend. I thanked Uncle Hobo and left my appointment, but not before giving him a present of my own. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the little man I had hidden there: he stood on my extended palm and performed gymnastic feats before bursting in an explosion of scalding blood. The blood got into Uncle Hobo's eyes and blinded him. I told him it was okay because now he can always see the color 'bars,' because I was a police and he was under arrest. He laughed and he licked my cheek. I handcuffed him- he wasnt a doctor or my uncle. He was a filthy hobo. Case solved.

"Clear left!" I ran to the next corner to the sounds of the rest of my squad following. I flipped the barrel of my omni-rifle around the corner gauging what was to be seen from the small camera mounted on the barrel. "I don't like that house entrance there." My commanders voice rang through my head as if he were standing next to me. "Davis, grab a spare cell and scout it out." I looked back to him and nodded my affirmative and grabbed one of our last power cells from the field medic and cloaked. Sprinting forward to the entrance in question the only thing to be seen of my progress was the footprints that I left in the war-scarred earth. What was left of a city road lie in troughs the shape of squads of tank tracks around my sprinting form. By the time I had approached the old English style home my core supplement system had started to pump extra oxygen into my blood stream keeping my breathing steady and nearly silent despite a half mile sprint. Approaching the corner of the whitewashed two story I fell into the natural cover its hedges offered me and turned off my cloaking system. Engineer by study I was drafted into the military at the age of 22 and had been fighting this damned war for another 2 years. Before the atrocity that had begun this I was studying cybernetics. I was working with a top firm when they came and tore our world asunder. Recognizing the human ability to adapt they targeted the brightest minds with subterfuge before the main invasion force arrived and were able to wipe out all the leading weapon and enhancement engineers with a derisive attack. "Movement!" The shout broke through my train of thought and pushed me into instant action and straight into what had become routine. Cloak - vision - sight. I mentally enabled my cloaking and vision enhancement and pulled my rifle to shoulder to find a target. I noticed that my cell indicator was showing 75% depletion already and made a mental note to keep my fire to a minimum. There! The warmth of a biological body shone from the background noise of the rubble across the street - and another and another. There was a whole group of bios just around the corner commander Erwin had his funny feeling about. It was more funny how often his feelings were correct and how much our little troop had come to trust them. Most of us were pretty sure he was a latent physic but he was unwilling to get tested saying something along the lines of, "Cocked up bullshit. Ain't nothin but a feeling." I transmitted what I saw back to the troop with an encrypted radio link and Erwin rather eloquently told me to 'get my skinny white mech ass back here.' Such a way with words. It's a wonder that he's single, but I followed his orders. His orders have saved my skinny mech ass more than once so I got the hell away from twenty plus, by the looks of it, heavily armed enemy bios. Even though they were well armed they didn't have any psychs with them. Those were the ones to watch out for. Even with a fully powered cloak you can't hide your thoughts and the synapse activity it takes to create them. Looking back over my shoulder at the corner the enemy was around I wondered to myself, not for the first time, why. Why would creatures who look so similar to us and behaviorism so similar to our own be out for us? How could we have made a race, not of our solar system, angry when we had only began mining other planets and barely begun research on faster than light systems? What had we done for them to create a virus that targets half the human population? To be continued? Written with no proof-reading but I think I would like to see this one out if there is some interest. I have an interesting story in mind with my own take on humanities beginnings - and its fall.

A young traveller set his steed to gallop forth from the hamlet, harboring a freight of crumblecakes, humble pie, and a flask of mutton chowder. When dusk drew nigh, the hungry lad, carrying nary but a burlap sack and an unsheathed cutlass, happened upon a thicket of mangrove saplings. Said the saplings of the boy, "We pray thee not cleave thine halberd unto our husks! In our stead, decorticate thither elderberry bush upon the summit of of snowfall!" The lad, hoisting himself upon the mare with haste, fared north through the billows of the river and west betwixt the fallow canyons of bower. Walking apace atop a windy mount whereon grew the elderberry bush, grave were his spirits and empty were his intestines. Upon the icy mount the hardy-minded wayfarer stood aground, and seeking to instill a throng of sorrows upon the mighty elderberry bush with his famed falchion, the lad steadied his hand-spear above breast of the mighty shrub. On the brink of sword-swing, he yielded ere he bequeath the vegetable's final request. Thus spake the elderberry bush, "O, through vault of heaven bestirred by such sin-flecked beings, ride we anon! O, along woodland haunts and heirlooms of girded bairns, seekest thine most loyal liegemen! Hurry, my kinsman, to the midwives of brinewolves thou so-est despair. A face so fettered with bloodlust, so deftly dopping among the turbid winds of time, shalt not behest of the hellish fiend. Spurn thine baleful wields unto the rift of linden and begone!" Thus spake the elderberry bush.

Knocking myself for my bout of self-indulgence I ran on. Now was not the time to think of such things. Now I just needed to return to my troop and figure out a plan to deal with those bios. "Alright you mental little shits." We were gathering around Erwin, heads pushed together, limiting the power of our transmissions not to extend beyond the furthest of us. "I hadn't seen an psychs over there Erwin." "I still feel better not taking any chances - Hey Rocket, how many cells we have left?" Rocket, as he was known to our group, got his name from those legs of his. I had never seen a human outrun a car till I met him. He was one of the first after the crisis. One of the first to undergo extremely experimental surgery to become superhuman. When LeRoy had underwent the knife he was just your average military field surgeon - but when he came out half machine...well his legs weren't the only thing he lost in that surgery. Three fingers. We only had three cells left. Three cells between 20 men, deep in enemy territory. Separated from the main force in what was supposed to be a simple scouting mission. "Alright. We've been in worse straits." That was true enough, last week we had been surrounded 6 psychs...but never had we been separated by miles of, now enemy, urban sprawl. "All we have to do is keeping pushing north." "We'll skirt this camp to the west," with that statement a map was transmitted to all of us with a rough arrow showing where he was talking about, "then we'll just continue our little stroll back to main force." I couldn't help but smile at his delivery of that last statement. That's why our force trusted him. He had a way of making light of every situation and keeping the rest of the them in good spirits. "All right then. Let's roll out." With that we fell in behind our commander. Trusting the path that he blazed for us we actively hid our vital signs and those of us with EM suppression abilities tried to hide the telltale human mind from any psychs that may have been wandering about. As we jogged forward, avoiding areas that seemed 'jiggy' to Erwin, I let my mind wander back to before. Before this shit storm. Back when I was just a researcher in a human enhancement team. A pang of guilt struck me as I looked at Rocket. What have we become. I quickly pushed that aside and firmly reminded myself that we are survivors. We will do what we must. We will fight to survive. "Vitals." Erwin pulled up and glanced at me. "What do you see there Mr. Spook?" That was apparently his favorite name for me, it was a play on that fact I could essentially disappear and my scientist background. "I'm not a Vulcan - but I see two heat signatures in that red brick house there." "Are they others?" Erwin shot back at me. "No sir. Humans by the look of it. Their signature is not hot enough to be others" Erwin looked back at the fragged out brick house. "Alright. Let's see what we can do for them." A quick jog and our 20 man recon team pulled up to the remnants of the ancient building. Erwin looked at me and shoved his head in the direction of the entrance and I grudgingly cloaked and went inside. As I found my way around old furniture and new destruction I wondered how anyone could be surviving out here, until I finally found the heat sources. I looked at them. Lost for words. "Whatcha seein in there Davis?" Erwin's voice came through clear but still somehow muddled by my thoughts. There was no way this was possible. "Davis! Report." "Sir. I found..." I paused finding the words not wanting to leave my tongue from simple incredulity. "What did you find boy?" "A live woman and a little girl sir." Silence. ~~~~Let's see where this goes. I'm really enjoying this story and finding it as I write it.

My name is Gil Perez, and for the sake of my sanity I make this journal. If creation has not completely inverted itself, twisted itself into some unrecognizable form from which God hath turned his back on in disgust, it should be the 25th of October, 1593. Even if that knowledge is sound it still gets me nowhere, for all I know I’ve descended into hell and very soon all the outlandish hominoids surrounding me will morph into even fouler satanic beasts than they already are and throw me on a spit to roast for dinner. Maybe this is the treatment I’ve earned myself; perhaps God hath already cast his judgment on me, taken me before my day had even begun, and this is the form for which my eternal punishment takes; a blistering inferno of strange sounds, sights, and smells; of demons dressed as men and women, appearing at a glance to be kin, my brothers and sisters, but once in focus turning into something foreign, unknown, as if they were from another time or place altogether. I must not dwell on these things, fear is beginning to overtake me; God would not cast out such a faithful servant before he had even lived to see the day, before his time had truly come. This must be the work of a demon; Beelzebub himself had a hand in this I’m sure of it. What has befallen me I wary explain; words fail to describe the absurdity of what I see unfolding before my eyes every passing second. All is wrong, all is different, nothing is as it should be; I know not how to explain this. My name, as I’ve already stated, is Gil Perez; I am a Spanish soldier and a member of the Filipino Guardia Civil, the national constabulary of the great and ever-expanding Spanish nation. Not but a few minutes ago I was on guard duty at the governor’s palace in Manila acting as a sentry to keep order on the grounds. It had been a rough few days, especially with the Governor Don Gomez Perez Dasmarinas’ assassination only a few days before; the heresy took everyone by surprise, and to demonstrate solidarity and dissuade any other traitorous Chinese pirates from disturbing the palace grounds again all guards were required to work through the night on the 23rd and a good chunk into the 24th; until a new governor was named, no one could go home. After this I was truly exhausted, more so than I have ever been since I joined the guard many a year ago, and so, in the lull of the early morning and with the knowledge of the no doubt busy day of patrol to come, I decided to lean back against one of the outer walls of the palace and rest my bones for but a few moments, wholly intending to wake back to full awareness in no more than a minute or two. Well, to put it bluntly, I awoke much quicker than I expected, to an environment not at all the one I had taken rest from. I don’t know what drove me to open my eyes so soon, I knew I had time enough to lounge for but a few moments in light of working through the night, but after several seconds with my eye closed something changed. I noticed something…different; almost like the realization of a fly on my back or a tick crawling up my leg. But it was more than this, something far stranger, something I would never expect to experience in this life or the next. As if reality skipped a beat, existence stuttered for a second, just a second, almost imperceptibly so, but just enough for me to hear. I was loafing about at the time of the event so the sounds around me were not particularly distinct, but the change in sound, the sudden switch from one background uproar to the next, jarred me to awareness and I opened my eyes to a different world. In that moment, I either died and was sent to where the Holy Father judged me deserving, or Beelzebub, in a rare surge of worldly influence, grabbed me by the collar and whisked me away to some other part of creation; I assume as a demon he does whatever is in his power to do that he believes will shake and undermine the faithful. Shake, he did; undermine, he did not. In coming to terms with this occurrence I realize this place I’ve ended up, by some divine joke as it seems, is not heaven or hell. I’m actually still within the Spanish Empire if I’m correct; judging by the suits of the guard I’ve seen walk by and the architecture of the surrounding buildings I believe I’m standing in proximity to the Plaza Mayor, the courtyard of the Mexican capital building in Mexico City. This, though still obviously quite startling, is a great relief; I truly thought my life had simply ceased, that my essence had simply been extinguished and that I was destined to wander aimlessly about a nonsensical landscape full of equally nonsensical and unnerving figures as a spirit among the land of the dead for the rest of eternity. In any case, my momentary reprieve from reality it seems is coming to an end. Almost as soon as I arrived I was approached by a Mexican guard asking me what I was doing here and why I was dressed the way I was. I told him of my livelihood and my station, to which he promptly retorted in exactly the way I would expect any rational individual to react when told a tale such as mine, going from the middle of the Philippines all the way across the Atlantic Ocean and into the dead center of Mexico City in what seemed an instant. Strange though, upon further questioning not only the nature of my being here but also the time in which I’m here seems off, for the guard responded to my recounting of the date in the same sharp tone he expressed his disbelief of my point of origin, informing me it was only the 23rd of October. This it appears he has deemed enough to take me in for more intensive questioning, on suspicion of engaging in sorcery or being possessed no doubt, as he and a posse of 5 other men are now patrolling a little more ardently the grounds I previously occupied. After several minutes of rudimentary questioning when I first appeared the guard went on his way, unconvinced as he was, and I, suffering still from the shock of God’s divine hand or Satan’s devious scepter, wandered off to a small alley between buildings adjacent to the plaza, in hopes of gathering my thoughts and grasping hold of my sanity before it slipped away unto the abyss. This I achieved, but I doubt I have any recourse but to cooperate with my North American compatriots and allow myself to go through they’re investigative process at this point. I know no one in this land; no one will vouch for me here. My story is not very convincing in any case; more the stock of fairy tales than anything else. I will simply relinquish myself unto God once again and trust in his divine plan; for through his power or some derivation of it I was brought here, and through his power again must I go. The guards come for me now; may all who find this tattered piece of paper trust in its words and know them not to be false. All I have said is recounted from memory and emotion alone, nothing more. May God bless you and keep you my friends.

I uncloaked and stared at them. Asleep on a rich red couch. "There are no more women you simpleton. They... they're gone boy" The deep sense of tragedy shone through my commanders voice even over the cranial RF link. Even though it had been two years, five months and thirteen days since the plague had swept through no man would forget the exact second they saw their spouse, lover, friend...or their child's chest swell with the telltale signs of the plaque only to have their heart detonate before his eyes. Nothing could be done to stop it. No female on Earth had been saved from it to anyone's knowledge. Until now. As they continued to lay there my mind wandered down the corridors of my past. Remembering the exact second I saw her face, contorted with pain, finally give way to the peace that came at the end. "WAKE UP BOY." My head swiveled full 180 and noticed at first count 6 enemy heat signatures moving rapidly right at me. Anger gripped my heart - as sickness had gripped hers. Instead of driving me to death - it drove me to action. Cloak. Vision. Sight. My mantra rang through my mind. Cloak. Vision. Sight. As an afterthought I noticed that my squad was engaged with a force double our own outside the door. 'Grenade. Pull the pin. Throw at the fucking enemy.' My drill sergeant's voice boomed from my memory and I complied. Noticing with satisfaction that three of the bio's in the house with me had piles of heat signature pooling around their thrashing forms. Then came the part that I enjoyed. A smile lit on my face as I sprinted forward. Core support system dumping oxygen. Rifle on my back, there would be no need for it. No room. I met the first bio before he could realize that the glitter rushing at him was a cloaked human. Jumping up to his shoulders I laid my palm to his forehead and as I sailed past fired the Gauss rifle implanted in my right forearm splattering his human looking brains on his comrades. Their reaction was too late. I moved like the wind. Since I had first developed the Assassin Aid System and been the first to 'test drive' it there was nothing alive that could match my reaction speed or maneuverability. Before the first corpse hit the floor I was on the second bio. I stood straight up into his jaw causing him to bite off his tongue. I knew from the cameras implanted in my temples that he was dazed. So I relieved him of his confusion and severed his spinal cord with another Gauss round. 40% cell life now. I let the cloak lift and sprinted to the last visible bio who was still dazed from the grenade I had loosed on him and his own. I ran and jumped into him, letting me knee ram into his chest. As I sailed upwards an ungodly roar filled my throat as I released the pressure driven blade up through, what had been a kneecap, into his beating heart. No, not his. It's heart. These were things to be destroyed. I forced the retraction mechanism ,squirming a little, as it slid down the hollow tube that had been a bone not but two years ago. I checked on my comrades. My ocular overlay confirmed that no one was KIA and there was only one minor injury. I glanced at my cell charge - 38%. I turned back to the woman and the girl child. My rage and desire for destruction passed with the lives of the enemy. For now. Erwin came up beside me and looked both of them, very much awake now after all the commotion, over and said under his breath, "Well fuck me. There really are two little ladies here." Then directed at the both of them, "How about coming back to civilization with us?" He let his infamous winning smile flood his broad bald head as both of them sat huddled on the couch - still completely shell shocked. "Well at the very least - Do you fine ladies have any thing some military boys could have for a midnight snack?" ~Plot is getting warmed up now. I don't know how long I'm going to make this story. I can wrap it up quickly or flesh it out some.

(I submitted a story on /r/writingprompts where I had to include the phrase, "She was laying in the bed with the window open and she couldn't stop staring at the moon." Wondering if you guys could offer any feedback.) None of it was my fault. It might've been my ex-wife's fault. I wouldn't have needed the money if she hadn't gotten the house, the kid, and the dog in the divorce. Hell, I bought the goddamn dog before I met her. It might've been my brother's fault. It was his idea that I could make some money on the side by breaking into houses. Mom always said he was trouble. It might've been my boss's fault. The guy get's a 30% cut of what I steal in exchange for security codes and info on when the owners are out of town. 30% of the profit while accepting 0% of the risk. What a prick. He got the codes right but he was wrong about the couple being out of the house. They were there. Maybe it was the husband's fault for coming after me with a baseball bat. I understand that you have to investigate a strange noise in your house but he didn't have to attack me. I didn't want to hurt anyone. But he could've killed me if I hadn't acted. It might've been my girlfriend's fault for insisting I take a knife with me for protection. If I hadn't had the knife, who knows how things would have turned out. That husband might still be alive today. None of it was my fault. Who could blame me for doing what I did? I couldn't just let the man beat me to death with a baseball bat, could I? And I couldn't risk going to jail, could I? I have children to think about. When I went upstairs, I saw the wife. **She was laying in bed with the window open and she couldn't stop staring at the moon.** She knew what had happened downstairs and she knew what was going to happen to her. She knew I couldn't just leave and let her call the cops. If she didn't judge me, then how could you? None of it was my fault.

Thirty-one years, one day, twenty hours and forty minutes my husband and I have been married. Not starting from when we exchanged ceremonious “I Do’s” at the altar on a heady summer day in 1980; no, starting from midnight that night, sipping cheap white wine in a cheap beige dress, the first day of my new life, the beginning of three long decades that would result in me waiting in the cold outside our favourite restaurant, a day after our anniversary, ten minutes late for the reservation. The sun was still lingering around the clouds on the horizon. It was the latest I had seen it all summer; especially in London. Not a single car passed and only the occasional pedestrian stepped on the other side of the street, but I still didn’t notice Joseph until he was standing by my side. It was something you got used to, depending on your relationship with him of course. I stubbed my cigarette into the ground and turned to him, staring with quiet but clear indignation. From the look of Joe you wouldn’t place him in his profession, let alone think he was one of the best. He was skinny, but not tall, content to wearing pullover hoodies and expensive trainers. Hardly appropriate wear. Apart from his wrinkled face and white hair, you’d think him juvenile if his stern eyes didn’t demand respect. He spoke with a deep rumble, betraying his age with a rasping echo, making everything sound intensely morbid. It was depressing for a moment that this man was almost ten years younger than me. “Your husband’s debts have been settled, Mrs McMahon.” It was a cold way to tell me Felix had just been murdered, even for him. “Perhaps we should go inside.” “You’re late, our table’s probably gone by now.” “My apologies, Mrs McMahon.” “*Miss*.

Once upon a time there lived a man. He was quite a normal men as men go. He had worked all his life, he had paid his bills, his taxes, gotten married to a most amazing woman and had a few kids. His kids had grown up, married again and had another couple of kids in the normal way that people do. This very normal man, on a very normal morning opened his very normal newspaper to something extraordinary. A little article towards the middle of the newspaper about gravity denial. At first the man dismissed the idea as lunacy, but the following week a similar article popped up, this time with some science to back it up. The scientist was not a physicist, he was in fact a biologist, but little matter, it was science. The man was intrigued and started doing some research on the net. He searched 'gravity denial' and found there was a large body of work dedicated to understanding how gravity in fact isn't real. He started sharing his ideas with his friends and he expected to be ridiculed, but it turned out that there were many people in his generation that agreed with him. They had been reading the same news and in fact lots of other news too. There were many articles making and many experts that had started to refute the existence of gravity. “Then what are we feeling?” his son would ask him! “Physicists all agree that the forces of gravity which are being felt around the world are in fact real, they have a real affect on our lives and the way we interact with the world around us.” "It's a conspiracy to keep you down!" The man bit back. If more people would see that gravity just isn't there then we'd all be a great deal happier!" The son went outside into the heat of the day, where his little son was playing on the swing and jumped up and down. "How can you deny this?" The months past and the normal man went about his normal gravitied life reading more and speaking with like minded friends. As a colder winter passed and hotter summer set in he slowly drifted apart from his son because the two were so frustrated with one another. Finally one day he decided enough was enough and he wanted to do something definitive about the issue. He took the train into town and picked a tall but convenient building, because the temperature was unseasonably hot that day. He stepped into the elevator and selected the highest floor. And when he finally stood atop the huge construction he could see the haze from the pollution drifting up into the atmosphere. He could see for kilometres how the aspect of the land had been moulded and altered by man and how even the waterways were diverted and manipulated to suit the needs of the people who lived near then. Looking down upon the tiny people going about their business, individually tiny amongst the mass of humanity, he finally faulted. "No. Not like this" he thought. On the way home he called his son. The following day atop that very same building he said confidentiality "I just want to show you that I'm right. Scientific evidence related to gravity has been questioned by many many people and after all it's just a theory in the first place. The news papers have been denying it for years, it's right there in black and white. There are whole communities of people who really believe there is no gravity, especially among those in my age bracket. In fact I don't have any friends who believe in gravity any more. “So..." he took another step forward "I'm going to jump off this building to prove it..." he took his son's hand firmly in one of his hands, and with the other arm held onto his grandson "and I'm taking you two with me.

> asked for post-apocalyptic story ideas, one reply suggested basing it on European colonization of the New World. Here is my attempt. I am not a writer, this is the first creative writing I've done in years. I was proud at what I came up with, but don't think it's anything but amateur SciFi. >Hope you guys like it for what it is! > **Primitives** Like most corporate secrets, news of the discovery spread quickly but organically starting from science-types, to the bureaucracies that managed and funded them, through pillow-talk to spouses and comm-channels to buddies, and boasting to bartenders and barbers and a million other service industry gossips. It wasn't three weeks until everywhere from the towers of the Capitol, to the waste management barracks on lunar colony were abuzz with talk of the new world. Oh, there had been other worlds, of course. For the first few years, every world that G.E.P. landed on was huge news. Every media broadcast ran, and re-ran the first images of each new planet-fall, and every school child - and if they were honest, many of their parents - dreamt of signing up for the next *Galactic Exploratory Partnership* deep space mission. Dreamt of stepping foot on some new alien soil, discovering some new alien race. Dreamt of becoming insanely rich by being on the front lines of a new colonization boom. And colonization was desperately needed. Their was too many people crammed into too small a planet, *thirty-five billion* to be exact. Resources could probably support everyone comfortably, but too much was wasted by inefficiencies and corruption and infighting. There were space stations and moon colonies, but not many people would willingly live our their lives without real land and open skies and fresh air. For years, alien planet colonization struck at the imaginations of millions as a way to spread out from cramped cities and oppressive governments. But time went on and each rocky, barren planet started blurring with the next in the public's mind. It seemed each report was a duplicate of all the previous. "The starship *suchandsuch* today arrived on planet *suchandsuch*. The planet is not habitable but the P.G.E. is excited to extend the scope of scientific knowledge yet again in hopes of some day finding *blah blah blah.*.." There was a bit of a stir at the first discovery of extra terrestrial life, but a slimy puddle on a methane-filled moon turned out more-so fodder for entertainment broadcast hosts than inspiration for the masses. G.E.P. eventually found more complex life on future planetary landings, but never any intelligence, and never any truly hospitable environments. The public quickly realized the super-advanced terrors and invading hoards of the old space broadcast serials were not to be. Galactic exploration turned out as mundane and slow-paced as any of the other sciences - and slightly less profitable. But Earth changed all that. The second-generation starship *Nova Gazer* heard the world before they saw it. That dim spec on the view screens was a sun of RF signals. It seemed the people of this rock had discovered radio broadcasting and used it for land to land communication, not caring a pittance for the signals propagating out into space for all to hear. G.E.P. hoped to keep it's discovery quiet, but it quickly became clear that this was too big a secret to keep, and officially announced what the entire population had already heard on net rumors. The planet had breathable air and drinkable water with a natural diversity and beauty to rival the most picturesque locations back home. There was intelligent life, but relatively-primitive and making little use of the resources they had. The crew of the *Nova Gazer* had first contact with the Natives, and were met with curiosity and celebration - it seems they also wondered about alien life, and even had somewhat laughable attempts to contact other worlds. Technology was freely traded, and the Natives - who called themselves Humans - started integrating the advanced technologies into their own. However it quickly became apparent that something was wrong. Software in the advanced technology reacted aggressively against the humans unprotected systems. Some code written for a children's game infected the humans computer-controlled infrastructure. The game was for the player to counteract the computer's attempts to take control of a system, it was an innocent game that young children played, which all other systems had more-than-sufficient security in place to protect from any real damage. The human systems, however, were not created for defense of anything like this new threat. What was a harmless insignificant game, became a malicious computer virus for human systems, and once introduced, havoc spread. Human land and air transportation crafts became uncontrollable, accelerating and crashing at random killing hundreds of thousands around the world in a matter of minutes. Their communication systems failed and power management grids switched off. As the line of night fell swiftly across the globe, a wave of panic and rioting followed. The human governments soon regrouped and readied their armies and weapon systems, angry at their new visitors for causing the chaos, however these computer systems too were infiltrated. But this time, the machines of war weren't simply turned off or destroyed. The game was smart and would take advantage of it's captured resources in new and clever ways. Players would find their computer-opponent increasingly adapting to new tactics as the it's intuitive semantic algorithms analyzed each new captured resource's capabilities and used them against the player. The virus now had control of the deadliest tools that humans had created, and it quickly learned how to use them. The first target was infantry and non-networked equipment - any threat it couldn't control was destroyed. Finally, the last few systems were cracked, these having above-average security restrictions, and between twenty and three hundred nuclear weapons were launched at every major and minor population center on the planet. In about 48 hours, the population of earth went from about eight billion to about four hundred million - *5% of it's previous number*. The remaining humans were mostly in rural, agrarian locations in lesser developed sections of the planet. The computer code, having mostly destroyed all of its captured computer systems, and seeing no active systems left uncontrolled declared Game Over, and silently powered down. The crew of the *Nova Gazer* watched the massacre dispassionately. Why should they care if some backwards alien primitives couldn't keep control of their own technology? Anyway, it was just as we'll to cull the local population to make room for colonization efforts. The radiation could easily be scrubbed, and the cities would have had to be cleared anyway. Quite frankly, most of the crew were too busy to notice the ruckus, and were instead focusing on coordinating colonization deals and virtually schmoozing with the big-wigs back home hoping to score a higher position in the colony, maybe even a *governorship*! A couple hundred years later, Earth had a population of ten billion colonists and ten million humans. Some sympathizers were ashamed and angry about *The Human Heartbreak* - the treatment of humans during colonization and after, including painful mass-relocations and harsh retaliation against small rebellions. Some radicals even claimed that human computer systems were intentionally infected with the computer program that caused their downfall in order to speed up colonization, but this has never been proven. Humans were given some land in special *Human Preservation Cities*. Some human culture and rituals persisted, youths even will sometimes get tattoos of meaningful words in the humans languages like "*El Jefe*" and "*Honor*" and "*Swag*". Most folks didn't care much, either chalking up any past unpleasantness to the ever-marching tides of progress, or just placating their conscience with modern creature comforts, not thinking about what it took for them to have been made possible. The humans lived on, but never fulfilling their old spark of potential. Never again the masters of their own world.

Brian was stuck in a hallway of mediocrity and complacency. There was a huge looming exit at the end of the corridor but barring his way were a few obstacles. Seeing the obstacles led to Brian's twinkling eyes lowering to the floor. Looking away from the large door Brian's gaze rested on his little nook, it was nice, safe. Living on the other end of the hallway Brian was, not happy, contented? When sitting straight up on his favourite patch of lino Brian could see the large warm door out all the way over the obstacles. Seeing the door, Brian reassured himself that if he really needed to he could get to the door. Probably quicker than most people at that. As he settled down to sleep in the corner of his little comfortable nook Brian told himself that tomorrow he would start working his way to the door. He fell asleep with a smile on his face and a tear in his eye.

The young man stood on the miniature blades of grass that made up the difficult, sloping green. He had played a spectacular round today; much better than yesterday. He was putting for a birdie, and if he holed it, he would have missed his best score by only one stroke. He stood for a moment, trying to read the slope of the green. He found his line. He took a few short practice swings to get a feel for how hard to tap the ball, then he addressed the ball. One more short swing sent the ball rolling up a little hill, curving heavily right, and dropping into the hole without any fuss. The young man smiled. He went to pick up his ball and replaced the flagstick. As he walked back to his cart, he thought about how well these new balls cut through the air, and how he knew this putter would be a good investment. The ball had jumped so effortlessly off its face and along its line. He admired the putter's beautiful paint job as he slid it into his bag. He got in the cart, marked a three on his scorecard and circled it to mark his birdie, and then drove off to the 19th hole: the watering hole. Golf was done today; it was time for beer. As he walked into the 19th, he saw a familiar face. An older gentleman, whose name he couldn't really remember. All he knew for sure was that he was a member of the club, and that he was a decent sub-hundred golfer. They had played together several times, and the old man would never have stood a chance of winning without the handicap system. The old man saw him, and his face broke into a huge grin. "How are you?" he said, "It's been too long since we played a round!" It had been a while. Best to act enthusiastic. He is a nice guy, after all. "Too right! What did you shoot today?" the younger man said, hoping to keep the conversation short and cordial. "Ninety-seven. I would have broken ninety, but the eighth hole chewed me up and spit me out. A six-putt. What competent golfer ever six putts? How about you? I didn't see you out there, but it looks like you just got off the course." "Sixty-eight. I've done better, but I can't complain." "Sonny, you have got to be the second-best golfer I've ever met." Second-best!? The nerve of the old man to say that to his face! "Second best? Who was the best?" "Sit down, and let me buy you a drink. You're gonna love this. Donny! Get this boy whatever he asks for and put it on my tab!" "Oh, yeah, a bud, please," he said, sitting down. He was curious now. "And I'll take a Guinness. Alright, listen up, son, you're gonna get a kick out of this, it happened just last weekend. You know how my buddies Rob and Pat and I like to play Saturday afternoons?" The younger man nodded. He didn't know, but he didn't think it was relevant and didn't want to make it take even longer to get to the point. "Well, last weekend we got paired up with a solo golfer. Spry young fellow. Not a lot of meat on his bones. But he could play. When we got up to the first tee, I turn to him and I say 'Hey, where's your clubs?' "'I don't have any,' he says. "'you know they have renter bags at the pro shop,' I tells him, oh, thanks, Donny. So I tells him he could rent some clubs and he tells me he doesn't need 'em! You ever heard the like?" "Can't say I have. Thanks for the drink, by the way." "You're welcome, and I'm sorry you wasted it on piss. Anyway, I expect this kid to ask to borrow one of our clubs, but when it's time for him to tee off, he just walks out there, no tee, no ball, no driver, and he tees up anyway, and hits the best drive I've ever seen in my life." "Wait, what did he hit if there was no ball?" "I don't know! I don't think he knew either! But he went and hit right onto the green anyway!" "What landed on the green?" "Nothing! But he went on to make an albatross right there on that hole. #1, you know, the world's toughest par 5?" "What, he just imagined it?" "Nope. I saw it with my own two eyes. Best golfer in the world. So good, he didn't need a single piece of equipment to play the game." "But that's ridiculous! You can't play golf without a ball and clubs! The point is to hit a **ball** into a hole with **clubs**!" "He went out there and played anyway. He had the spirit of the game in him. The fresh air, the walking, the challenge, it was deep in the fiber of his being, this boy. Oh! Look at that! Look out the window, he's just finishing up on number 9." The young man stood up. "You've gone silly, man. Thanks for the beer. I'm going home." "Your loss, son. You'll miss it." "I think I'll be fine not watching a crazy person hit an imaginary ball." "Goodbye, then..." The young man walked out. It had taken him eight years of daily rounds to become a scratch golfer. He didn't enjoy having his leg pulled. He lived on the course next to the 12th fairway, so he got in his cart to go home. He passed the tenth hole just in time to see a man tee up with no tee, swing no driver to hit no ball, and that ball that he did not hit because it wasn't there sail through the air to land on the green, bounce once, and roll right into the hole. It was the greatest, most effortless hole-in-one in history. **Story by Tristan Buckley.** *I came up with this story after playing a round of disc golf (I'm too broke for ball golf right now), and I was thinking about how odd it is that skill is insufficient to play a game. You can be the best golfer in the world, but if you don't have the equipment or the money to practice, it's just unrealized potential.* *So I came up with a story about a guy who didn't need any of that. And no, it's not supposed to make sense to your mind's eye. It didn't make sense to the main character, either.

Facebook had long since faded into a distant memory. Hadley lay with one eye open. A pillow needlessly props her head forward so she can stare at the blank wall. Her tired eye looks up toward the ceiling and down to her feet. Looks up and looks down. She is scheduled to die in a few hours. The top corner of her eye glass has a little count-down timer set by the doctors earlier that morning. They even have it play old episodes of Jersey Shore. Now she's finally at peace. "OMG, I'm totally gonna die in 4.56 hours" she writes on her daughters wall. It gets 100 views and 32 likes. "k. bye :)" her daughter replies. A single tear wells up and blurs her eye glass. After all these years. She's never felt so close to her.

"Huh. Fine greeting you have there baldy." The lanky redhead stood a full two inches above the commander. No... redhead didn't quite describe it. It looked as if Satan himself had set fire to her skull leaving her skin scar white on her muscular frame. Looking at some of the other wave lengths I noticed she was carrying an omni rifle on her back and an old 1911 .45acp pistol under her shirt. She wasn't wired though - so that rifle was running on stand alone mode only. She looked like she could fight and judging by the scars on her face and body she had survived a few of them. Suddenly that pistol was in her hand. Barrel under Erwin's jaw. I saw it - although it did surprise me - not enough to stop me from bringing to bear my side arm before she could finish the fluid, much practiced, movement. Her eyes glanced to mine and she chuckled deep in her throat. "Faster than me on a reaction. Good soldier." I could hear the sarcasm in her voice, taste the acridity of her words in my ears. So I smiled at her nonchalantly, "Thank you 'mam. The U.S. of A. aims to please in these desolate times." Her eyes met mine. An emotionless sizing up passed between us and she let the weapon glide back to it's holster smoothly and elegantly. "It's been long time since I've heard of that country." She walked and talked back around the couch, "You dick heads are still meddling in everyone else's business even in a time like this." Erwin, still as cheerful as ever, gave a small laugh and looking at this redheaded bitch conspiratorially talked at her. "Well us Americans planned this whole thing as an excuse to come over and take hikes around your cities with no people to bother us. We thought some German air would do us good." He let that smile go off again. It worked. She cracked a grin back at him and following his lead joined him in banter. As they ranted back and forth about the weather here versus the states and the state of politics, a moot point nowadays - they went with the scientist and engineers, she walked back around from the couch she had been rummaging behind.Still chatting with Erwin, that stocky, bald silver-tongued louse, she handed him a duffle bag. He peeked inside and his face lit up even more. "How bout that!" then turning back to her, "Say mam, what's your name?" She let a smile a flit about her lips looking at Erwin. "Brynhildr Hindar" "Nice to meet you Bryn. Name's Erwin." "What. No surname?' "No mam. We dropped those when we came together. No family's to identify to anymore. We're just walking dead men anyhow." The smile never left his face but it lost all sincerity. "Now if you don't mind - I'm going to hand out this food. Then you and I need to have a long talk." ~I think that this is quickly becoming a little more than a short story. I had no idea this would take off like this - but it's cruising now and all I can do is be drug along with the plot. Captivated by the story as I write it - Who knew writing could be fun? I only write short bits due to schedule but I have so much more waiting to be put down and I'm just sharing them as I do. However, if this is going to be as long as I think it will be, I don't want to continue to spam /r/short stories so I'll start consolidating my bits into chunks.

"jesus christ," my mom said. "gary, ask your mother what temperature to cook this turkey to." the tension was thick. she needed an answer and a cigarette. "i have one recipe that says 165 and another that says 180." i could tell my dad was wondering why she was following two recipes in the first place, but he knew better than to ask. she'd been putting a lot of effort into feeding a proper thanksgiving dinner to a table of six, and a half-spent pack of marlboro 27s proved the point. she took one outside, he went to find his mother. "ma?" he asked. "krista wants to know what temp the turkey should be at. 165 or 180?" "she wants to know what type it is?" grandma jan was hard of hearing. "no," he said, "what temperature to cook it to." "oh. well i think it depends on how big it is, doesn't it?" "mom, she wants to know the temperature. not how long to cook it for." "well, i can't remember... the last year i cooked a turkey was when we were on arlington." my dad knew that wasn't true, but he didn't follow up on it. he walked back and poked his head out the door to tell my mom. "she doesn't know," he said. "ahh, shit," she said as she exhaled smoke through her mouth and nose. she took one last puff and snuffed out the cigarette among a dozen others in a red ash tray resting on the deck railing. "well i don't want to send your whole family home sick. 180 it is." she came in, her stress only partly relieved. "you don't think that's too high? that seems high," my dad said, following her into the kitchen. "we won't eat 'til saturday for crissakes." "well 165 seems too low, gary." "well i don't know what to tell you." "then i don't know what to tell you, either." their discussion ended there, leaving the problem mostly unresolved. meanwhile, i had been watching all of this play itself out. first my mom freaking, then my dad asking, then my grandma forgetting, then my dad telling, then my mom freaking again. all the verbage was amusing, but i thought i could do something to put the issue to rest. so i fucking googled that shit. "hey mom," i said, "google just told me that 165 is the new standard temp for turkey. 180 was the old one." "oh, google told you?" she asked. i could tell she was a little surprised by my 'ingenuity' and that she was half doubting google. "uh, yeah," i said. "here. look." "18 million pages?' "yeah. and this one is the most visited of all of them. it says 165." "oh, cool. alright, cool. well it's time to eat then," she said, walking back into the kitchen. "really nate? google? how did you ever think to check google? and, gosh, who makes 18 million sites about safe turkey temperatures? they must be a bunch of weirdos.

The Cell (Tribute to Kafka) “How did I get here?” I exclaimed. It was a moderately large room, lit by soft electric light. I was walking along, hand brushing the cold walls. I noticed a door that I opened when I came upon it. On the other side was darkness, pure and unadulterated darkness. I peered into it, even leaning my head across the threshold into the blackness of the room. Inside I could see nothing and pulled myself back after a moment. I shut the door. I continued to circle, hand brushing the wall, for I had nothing else to do. I counted fourteen paces to a side. Twelve well timed breaths and I could encircle the whole room. Nothing else was here with me. After the boredom of walking had gotten to me, I returned to the door that led to the darkness and opened it again. Staring into the emptiness I felt an anxiety deep within me. I wondered what the room could contain, could eyes be peering back at me from the other side of the doorway. I stood there; hands braced against the door frame and continued to wonder what could be concealed in the blackness. I felt a cool breeze blow in from the doorway, or maybe I just imagined it, either way my heart seemed to be chilled by the wonder of what was hidden before me. I shut the door again and took a seat on the floor in the center of the well lit room that I occupied. From my seat I passed judgment on my surroundings. I was held by cold stone walls, the same rough stone covered the floor and the ceiling. A small light bulb hung from a wire in the center of the ceiling, and the wooden door stood in the center of a wall. I stood and looked up at the light bulb. It wasn’t anything spectacular, a mere piece of round glass, encasing a fiery filament. But it did shower light down upon the entire room, softening the cold stone walls. The wire that it was attached to seemed to jut directly into the stone above it. I assumed that it was attached to a battery, or possibly directly to an electrical plant. Yet, from my position inside of the room, I could not see where thee wire extended to beyond the ceiling. I reached up, stood on the tips of my toes, but the bulb was out of my range. I wasn’t sure what I would have done if I had been able to touch it, I don’t know how it would have satisfied my curiosity, yet I still attempted it. After my evaluation of my source of light, I turned my attention to the door. It amounted to just that and little more. It was a dark slab of wood with a nob for a handle. The face of the door was as plain as could be; the only detail to be gained by staring at it was to familiarize myself with the pattern of its grain. When I turned the nob a small metal bar pulled inside of the door and allowed it to swing open from the wall, where a small recess remained for when the metal bar was put back into place. There were also two hinges on my side of the door, allowing it to open only in my direction. I pondered the room, the light and the door for as long as I could sanely ponder anything. Yet my thoughts kept circling upon themselves in a more rapid fashion each time. I don’t know when exactly, but I do know that there were times I slept. I recall dreams about the light going out, dreams about hands grabbing at me from the inside of the dark room, dreams of beasts salivating while they begged for me to cross the threshold into the darkness of their lair, dreams that I had in fits, dreams that I would wake up from with screams fresh in my throat and sweat on my brow. Time passed, seconds, hours, weeks, maybe even years. In the room I couldn’t judge the passage of time well at all. I only knew that I had exhausted all of the thoughts that I could possibly have inside of the room. I kept my sanity as well as I could. I wondered why I was here, but was given no reason. I wondered who was responsible for the creation of the room, who made sure the light kept shining, who had built the door, but my mind held no answers. I peered towards the doorway with trepidation. I wished there was a way I could secure it in the closed position better than simply with the little bar that was triggered by the nod, but there was nothing to use to slow it from being opened. Time continued to pass. I could feel old age setting into my body but could do nothing to prevent it from happening. My breaths became shorter and my legs became quickly tired of walking around the room, which took more and more steps to encircle. The light seemed to be further and further from me as days passed. My brain moved slower, trying to evaluate what secretes could possibly be held by the room I occupied. In the end, I lay on the floor, its hard stone being my only comfort. There I closed my eyes. It felt like the light above me finally went out, yet some part of me that was far away knew that it was the light inside of me that flickered before it was extinguished. Only then did I wonder why the darkness of death was less fearful than the darkness of the unknown.

It's cold today. My castle is drafty. It was built out of far away bricks on a cliff of stone. I walk to the edge of my balcony everyday, called by some unknown force. Grabbing me. Pushing me. It wills me to stand as close as my feet allow. With stiff fingers, I grip the edge of the banister. The stone feels very rough as it crumbles in my hands. This castle was built to keep me safe but it only made things worse. The icy gray walls make me feel hollow and cold. I'm always cold. I've always been cold, ever since I was a baby. My mother and father couldn't hold me; they gave me burns and I gave them frostbite. Their gentle kisses just scalded my lips. I have only ever wanted to feel touched in the way others describe, to be hugged and caressed. Instead, all I am left with is scorched flesh. So my castle was built to keep me from incinerating. That was long ago. No on has come. I have been alone since the beginning. I don't even know my age and I haven't a use for a name. It's been so long that I've forgotten. The only time I ever get a glimpse of any life that could've been and of the love I couldn't have is when I stand on the edge. Maybe I will find myself in the void.

His seventeenth birthday was coming soon. That meant it was almost the tenth anniversary of his first day in the mine. He was seven the first time he plunged into the darkness. The company needed small bodies that could crawl into tiny compartments and plant dynamite. The boy would do this for six years. Malfunctioning dynamite and tunnel collapses had taken most of his friends. But not him. They told him he was lucky. On his thirteenth birthday, the boy was old enough to dig and run machinery. He would do this until he died. Many of the other workers his age were maimed or malformed from their years in the tunnels. But not him. They told him he was lucky. The darkness followed him outside of the mineshaft. The blackness of the coal mine was permanently sunken into his clothes and skin. At night he would cough blackness out of his lungs. Black lung killed dozens every year. But not him. They told him he was lucky. It was by chance that the boy remembered his approaching birthday. Alone in the shaft, driving his pick into the wall, lost in monotony, he happened upon the thought. At that same moment, he saw a sparkle in the ground. His lamp had given out and he was relying on natural light coming from the shaft exit just overhead. The boy leaned over and looked at the mysterious object. He had never seen a diamond before. All the same, he was hypnotized by its beauty in the blackness of the mine. He felt blessed to see such a beautiful object. Perhaps he was lucky after all. The boy wrapped his fingers around the object and pulled it from the dirt. Suddenly, the floor gave out below him. No one had discovered the cavern underneath the tunnel. He didn't remember screaming as he plunged deeper into the blackness. The boy landed on his back and felt the wind leave his lungs. He was so far from the light. He knew he would die. But he did not despair. As he lay on his back, staring at the small light above him, all he could do was laugh. He never had to return to the mine again. He was finally free. For the first time in his life, the boy felt lucky.

"Look, do you want this stuff or not?" "I dunno. Most of it isn't useful. I could probably only sell about a third of it." "So how much will you pay for that third?" "Honestly, not much. Like I said, it's not very useful stuff." "How much? $100?" "No, that's way too much. You could probably get that much, or maybe even more, if you sold it yourself, but I can't pay you that much. I need to make a profit off of this." "I don't wanna go through the hassle of selling it all myself, that's why I am talking to you. How about $85?" "Still too high for me." "$75?" "Why are you so eager to get rid of this stuff Mike?" "I don't have room for it, I just need it gone." "Don't have room for it? Mike, you have been in prison for 5 years. You just got out yesterday. I'm surprised that you even have this much stuff. Where did it come from? Did you have it in storage all of that time?" "Don't worry about where it came from, just tell me if you want it." "Are you alright man?" "No, I'm not alright, I'm getting really annoyed with you. Do you or do you not want to buy this pile of crap? I'll even lower it to $65 if you just say yes right now." "I need to know where these things came from. I can't be caught with stolen goods and I don't want to see you go back to jail." "No, you don't need to know where these things came from. People don't come to your pawn shop looking for beautiful antiques with rich histories. They come because the items are cheap and there are no questions asked. Where I got this stuff shouldn't matter to you. Besides, even if this stuff is stolen, it's not like that has ever been an issue for you before." "Okay fine, you're right, I have sold stolen goods before. But that is not the issue right now. What I want to know is if YOU stole these things." "Why does it matter?" "Because Mike, you're my friend. We grew up together. We both worked hard and we left home together and got away from that dead-end life. Don't throw it all away now. You just spent 5 years in jail for stealing. If you get caught again you will be in for a lot longer. We fought so hard to get off the reservation because everywhere we looked all we saw were old men sitting around just waiting to die. If you go back to jail you will be doing the exact same thing, just sitting around waiting for your time to come. Look, I need to know, did you steal that stuff?" "$60?" "Did. You. Steal it?" "$55?" "Answer me Mike" "$50? Come on man, I really need the cash. Like you said, we're friends, we grew up together. I really need your help right now. Can you help me? Friend?" "You did steal it, didn't you?" "$50 is a good deal man. Look at this stuff in here. Some of this will be sold by tomorrow, and for a good price. Look. You could sell this ring alone for $40. Like you said, I could sell this stuff myself and make over $100, but I'm coming to you instead. Help me out with this man. You will easily get your money back." "I can't do it Mike. I can't sell things that you've stolen" "You never had a problem with it before! What's changed?! Are you scared? You saw me go to jail and now you think it will happen to you?" "If I sell things that you have stolen then I am supporting your theft, and I can't do that." "What, are you scared that if I get caught I will rat on you for reduced time? I would NEVER do that, and you know it! I didn't rat on you last time, and I went away for five years man, five years! You know me, you know I wouldn't say anything! I need some money and I am asking you, my friend, for help and all you can think about is yourself. All you can think about is 'selling stolen goods'." "That's not what I mean Mike." "Yeah? Then tell me, what do you mean?" "If I sell things that you have stolen then I am just encouraging you to steal more. We have been down this road before and we saw how it ended. You were in prison for 5 years. How long do you think it will be next time? I can't do it Mike. I can't help you throw your life away. I won't sell anything that you have stolen." "Yeah? well you know what? Don't worry about it. Don't worry about helping me, FRIEND. You don't have to worry about helping me throw my life away, because I won't be bothering you any more." "Don't be like that Mike. You know I want to help you, but I won't do it in this way." "No, really, don't worry about it. I guess I'll see you around some time." That was the last time I spoke with Mike. Three weeks later he was caught by the police and sent back to jail. I guess he stole from some bad people, because on his second day in prison he was stabbed and killed. I guess, in the end, he succeeded. He didn't just sit around waiting to die, and that was all he ever really wanted.

Before you read, I would just like to let it be known that this is a little short story I made for a homework assignment in my English class. Basically, the background of the story is my teacher played us a song in class, and we had to write down how it made us feel, etc. and we had to take the song and kind of make a story for said song to be used as a background. The mood and tone I got from listening to the song is shown in the story. I really enjoyed writing this and hope you enjoy reading this even more! It was quite the night on the 23rd of December in the year of 2006. The Christmas lights glimmered in the blankets of white December night snow. You could feel the tension in the air from kids in dire need of Christmas to be here already. Happiness was a smoke that filled the air and contaminated everyone. Laughing from the mouths of children could be heard all around the block, as Christmas trees began to be erected and decorated in the cozy, warm, homes of people. The Christmas lights of one particular small, white, house of a soon to be family of three were flickered on, as Jon had just arrived home from an amazing day at work. He shut the red door behind him and looked at the beautiful scenery outside. The smoke of happiness contaminated the tall, lean figure with short brown hair and green eyes, as he stroked his icy brown-haired beard, smiling at the thought of December 25th, because not only was it Christmas, a time of family and friends, but also the birth of his first son, with his wife of two years, Jane. "Jane? I'm home! Where are you?" Called Jon, in search of his wife. Oh where could she be, he thought. Wait, could it be...? Swiftly Jon moved through the house, in search of his wife. "Jane?" He called again, as he went into the kitchen. The answering machine was flashing red - someone had called and left a message. Jon realized. He realized it. His wife was in the hospital, in labor, with his soon to be baby son, and he wasn't even there. She had to be. Jon took a few deep breaths, as nervousness began to flow throughout his body. His finger had come into contact with the inbox button. The sound of his wife's voice was heard through the answering machine. "J-Jon, i-it's your wife, J-Jane. I'm at the hospital right now, I went into labor this afternoon. O-our f-family of three won't be here t-tonight. Please come h-here with me w-when you are h-home from w-work. I l-love you-u." Sobs and sobs were repeatedly heard through the answering machine, as the message ended, a beep buzzed through the answering machine, and the message had ended. The mind of Jon had become a numb mind. Numb to the message on the answering machine from his wife. Numb to his thoughts to himself. Numb to the laughs of children all around the block as Christmas trees had been erected and decorated, and the Star of the tree was being put up. Numb to the world. Jon walked around trying to figure out what just happened. His finger had come into contact with the inbox button. The message replayed. Words spoken from his wife filled his mind once again, as his cheeks began to flush, and tears started to create a rainforest in his beard. Jon walked around his house, thinking about life, his wife, and the future. The family of three. The family of three. The family of three was not meant to be. Jon slumped out of the kitchen, head down, tears running down his face. Sob. Jon walked out to the living room, where stood their Christmas tree, and Christmas presents. Some of which were supposed to be for the additional third in that family of three. Jon stared at the presents. A good, long stare. A stare of despair. Jon picked up one of the Christmas presents meant for that additional third, as he wiped tears from his eyes and beard. It read: To Jimmy. From Santa. In it, the box contained a pair of baby shoes. Baby shoes that were never to be worn.

50 shades of wrong. It was autumn again, the hallways of The Tallinn Polytechnic School filled up with the most annoying students known to any man. Screams of immature students with underdeveloped brains filled the classrooms once again. In the large gray mass that made up the students, there was him. He didn’t fit it with the others, he was different, yet not an outcast. Just different. „Hey, Michael.“ I said in an overly excited voice. He replied with a slight nod, he never cared much for me. He slowly walked over to his desk, and slouched into position and continued to fiddle with his sudoku puzzle. It was like summer break never existed to him. He just went on doing the same thing as he did last year. He just sat there, totally unaware of his surroundings. „He’s soooo cute“ I thought to myself. I really missed him all summer. After class I got it together and finally got the courage to act upon my feelings. „You know, Mikey, I think you’re like super hot!“ I explained. Michael just let out a slow and quiet „Okay“. This was it, I couldn’t hold it in anymore, I went for it and kissed him right on the lips while touching his abs. „What the hell are you doing?“ yelled Michael and ran off. Later that day I was arrested for sexually assaulting a 14 year old student.

Eugene was tired. It was four o'clock, Friday the 29th, and he had to post his rent by five. His scumbag landlord; a sweaty, short Italian named Leon was threatening to kick him out for the third time in as many months. Eugene was out collecting debts from customers. Eugene considered himself a modern businessman, pulling himself up by the bootstraps in the greatest place in the world, the city of New York. He loved New York, but the feeling wasn't mutual; He called himself an 'Entrepreneur', the City of New York preferred the term 'Drug Dealer'. Eugene stood in the cramped, poky sitting room, trying not to move or breathe. Every available surface was covered in cats. Cat figurines on the small worn coffee table, cat pictures on the walls, magazines about cats, cat baskets, cat scratching posts, a cat clock on the wall, and of course an actual, real life cat. Though the moniker cat was loosely applied here: The thing was about as big as a dog, and as ugly as a sewer rat. It stared Eugene down with its one eye, almost daring him to move closer so it could pounce and sink its claws and teeth into him. He'd been on the wrong end of it before and still bore the evidence to prove it. He hated that bastard cat. The cat leapt, and Eugene instinctively flinched, but it wasn't an attack, it instead landed in the lap of the old woman sitting on the frayed couch, settled in and began to purr, its eyes fixed again on Eugene and he tried to ignore it. A tiny withered hand appeared from within the purple shawls and layers and began to stroke it idly. The other hand held a slim cigarette, absent-mindedly shedding ash and embers like little snowflakes on the threadbare carpet. She exhaled like a death rattle, blowing blue smoke into the air where it hung like a thick fog and made Eugenes' nostrils burn and his eyes water. "So, Ive got your order here, and well.." Eugene fumbled in his messenger bad and produced a little shoebox, pulling out the bag of weed, ".. its coming up to the end of the month and I think we should talk about your tab". He tossed the bag into the faded china bowl on the table (Cat shaped) and disappeared the box back into the messenger bag. The old woman pursed her lips and she sucked on the cigarette, a long draw burning it almost down to the filter, before discarding it in an ashtray on the arm and immediately lighting another. "Ah, dah, dah, boy" she drawled in her rough slavic accent. "Is tough time for me and the little Pushkin" she scratched the cats ears and it let out a rumble of enjoyment. "Many cold nights. Many bills for the heat and light, so the money is tight, yes?". "Look, I get that, but I've got bills that need paying too, see?" She pursed her lips and pulled on the cigarette again, avoiding Eugenes gaze, staring instead at the ancient television in the corner, its screen dulled by years of smoke and dust, as if simply refusing to acknowledge Eugene would make him disappear. He sighed, exasperated: "Listen" he started, "I'm not leaving here without my money, ok? If you cant pay it all right away, thats fine, just give me something, anything, so I can get on my way and keep the wolves from my door." She scoffed, and mumbled something about Eugene not knowing what wolves at the door was really like, but he ignored it. The cat jumped down from the babushkas lap and skulked around the furniture, Eugene made a mental note to be worried, it looked like it was trying to flank him behind the couch. He side stepped around the coffee table to put some kind of barrier between him and it. The elderly lady had lit another cigarette, and was studiously ignoring him. He bent down and picked up a small silver statuette of two cats playing with a ball of yarn from the end table. "How about this" he said, holding the figurine out for the woman to see, "Ill take one of these, and pawn it to cover your expenses, and we'll clear the rest of the debts, but from here on out, we deal in cash only. Upfront payment. Deal?" The elderly woman leapt from the settee with speed and ferocity that startled Eugene, he stepped back, bumping into a musical box that plinked a few notes of an East-European folk tune. The elderly womans face was inches from his, eyes ablaze, and teeth bared. "You would take from me!? An old woman?! What could you take from that Stalin and his army did not?" Eugene backed away as she spat on the ground and hurled insults in her mother tounge. As he moved, he felt something soft brush against his leg and he remembered the cat as it launched its attack. Tumbling backwards over the couch in a flurry of fur and arms, Eugene came up quick and bolted for the door. The elderly woman cut him off, blocking the door wielding a ancient and metal tipped walking cane. She let out a ferocious battle cry and swung the stick, he ducked, diving across the couch as the stick collided with a shelf, shattering the figurines and raining shards of glass and porciline down on him. He scrambled to his feet, right as the cat, who had positioned itself on the back of the couch, leaped into the air aimed at him. In a panic, Eugene lashed out with his foot. He connected with the feline predator, punting it across the room, it sailed through the air, twisting in a panic as it tried to right itself, but its efforts were in vain. With a splintering crash, the cat burst through the small curtained window and disappeared into the void with an ear splitting howl. Eugene froze for a second. The apartment was deathly quiet, except for the low hum from the ancient television, and then he heard the faint -thump-. "Fuck." The old woman erupted in a moan that escalated to a wail, and then full blown howling agony as she crossed the room, her gnarled hands framing her face, to look out the window. Eugene took this moment of distraction to make his exit. He tried to not look at the tangled lump of silk and fur that sat on the pavement outside the apartment building, from the corner of his eye it looked like the cat was snugly wrapped in a blanket, and sleeping in the afternoon sun. He hurriedly limped towards the subway station, his hands clutching the small silver figurine of the two cats playing with the ball of yarn. He promised himself he would get the old woman a new cat, and he made a mental note to clear her debt entirely. Behind him on the pavement, the silk curtain stirred slightly.

Friendship: A Dying Act There is no longer any hope for mankind. What once was a natural instinct is now considered a physical strain. It seems as though the true meaning of the word "friend" has be altered, manipulated, and transformed into something that is hardly recognizable now. What does this mean? Friendship is dead. Few people actually know what it means to be a "true friend". Some might argue that most people never knew to begin with; this is a sad truth. People in the modern society of today are facing too many difficult problems to focus on something as minuscule as "friendship". What problems could one possibly possess that would restrain them from participating in a ritual as old as time? It's hard to know where to start. Most of those occupying the earth today will never truly understand the real meaning of friendship. They will not experience the joys and pains that accompany such a rare relationship. They will not even attempt to devote themselves to their friendship for fear of jeopardizing their own precious lives. It is easy to assume people today have many flaws that contribute to a lack of this understanding. People are selfish, focusing only on what is best for them. Few have any respect or regard for others. The concept of friendship is foreign to this type of bunch. Never will the self-centered people of our time understand friendship. The idea of putting someone else first is revolting. Why would anyone find joy in helping others when they can simply help themselves and receive better results? Friendship is dead. It is a rock awkwardly positioned in the ocean. The waves that crash the landmark represent time. As the water passes by, it chips the edges of the boulder. Eventually, the rocky sculpture begins to erode and fade. The edges softening more and more with each hard blow, until the rock ceases to exist all together. All that is left are the remains of something that was once great, something so beautiful to look at and admire. The same can be said for friendships. The more time passes, the weaker the bond gets. Careless people of the new age, contemporary society are contributing to the casualty as well. There is no longer any hope for mankind. A friendship so special, so rare in the world today should be admired and acknowledged. Instead, it is often questioned even criticized. No one will understand a type of friendship that provides hope and support. A type of unspoken bond that assures friends would do anything and everything for each other. There is no end to kindness. True friends recognize the other's needs before they are made public. They offer to help, simply because they receive joy and happiness from the act. There is no selfishness because real friends put the other person first; it is automatic. Such a unique relationship provides support that is hard to find otherwise. A true friendship is not in the words spoken, but those that are left unsaid. This friendship lies within implied messages. Real friends can sit in silence because they enjoy each other's company. The lack of sound and conversation is filled with unspoken truth and a bond that cannot be broken. Friends are content just being near each other. This type of relationship used to exist, though it seems like many decades have passed since then. Gone are real friendships. They have been replaced by fake impostors. Selfish two-faced people have ruined the concept. Real friends are always there for one another, no matter the circumstances. People now tend to jump ship at the first sight of rough water. Instead of repaired the minor hole in their boat, they ignore it. Eventually the hole grows with the lack of attention. Then water fills the deck, dooming those still aboard. Boats sink, just as friendships fail. The dying act of true friendships and meaningful relationships can still be saved. Few still exist, proving that not all hope is currently lost. People can change their ways, improve their relationships, and live an optimistic life. Whether that happens or not, will remain an unanswered question. The power of change is there; it is up to the people to decide how they use it. Ask not what your friends can do for you, but what you can do for your friends.

Luis and I were both students and research assistants in mathematics at a decent enough university. At least, we hoped it was a decent enough university. We shared the fear that our professors were all scam artists and the problems we were working on were worthless and uninteresting to the rest of the mathematical community. I always chalked these fears up to a couple cases of the Dunning-Kruger Effect but I got the feeling that Luis just couldn't get past it. As chance would have it, we arrived at the office at the same time, early one summer morning. He had a dejected look in his face and the principles of deduction told me something was up. “What's up?” I asked. Luis didn't look away from the closed elevator doors in front of us. A few moments passed as Luis seemed to debate whether or not he would answer me. He spoke matter-of-factly, “Not too much. I've just finally solved an interesting problem, though the answer was not what I was hoping it would be.” I gave him a curious look that must have told him “Do go on.” And, so, he did. “I have been working on a problem recently. Attempting to find a way to maximize my own happiness. I have recently come to the conclusion that I am getting less and less happy as the days go by. The solution unfortunately is clear. The sooner I end my life, the happier, on average, my life will have been.” Most people, it would seem, accept the axiom that suicide is never the way to go. I accept this axiom. However, as silent seconds ticked by, I realized that I didn't have a very good argument for continuing to live an unhappy life. I opened my mouth to speak and was cut off. “I've been to every therapist in the city. I've tried every over-the-counter and under-the-counter drug thus far invented. It would be bordering on insanity to assume, with all the evidence to the contrary, that something left out there is going to finally do the trick.” It just so happened, I did not have my phone on me to call the police or an ambulance or anybody that could provide some much needed back-up. I calculated the probability of being able to tackle him or knock him unconscious to give myself time to get some help. I then decided I was being a bit dramatic. It wasn't like Luis was about to kill himself here in the office, much less directly in front of me. Of course, I also didn't want to let him out of my sight. Time ticked by, and I still hadn't thought of anything to say, but I hoped if I pried some more information out of him, he'd give me something to go on. “Why did you come to work today.” For a moment, I was hopeful that the question alone would stir something in his mind. He must still want to live if he resolved to come to work, right? “I've only just decided while walking here. This building is high enough to do the job, I figure. Plus, not only would it take much longer to turn back, go home, and fill the bathtub but I'm not even sure I have a toaster.” This sent my mind in two directions. On one hand, this all seemed a bit like an elaborate joke. On the other hand, assuming this was no joke, Luis would be jumping off something very high, very soon. Afraid the elevator would arrive at any moment, I pressed him again. “Why did you tell me about all of this?” Luis replied, “Force of habit. Don't all mathematicians feel the need to share their results?” “Perhaps you wanted your results peer reviewed?” “That could be it, too.” I felt a glimmer of hope. A small crack in his plan but a crack nonetheless. “Well, I think there are some holes in your reasoning.” “Point them out, and I'll be happy to address them.” I had nothing to say. I didn't think the “hold on, it will get better” argument would work. The “hold on, it might get better” argument seemed more accurate but probably not enough to change his mind. I had nothing else so I went with it. “Hypothetically, if you did hold on and find that your life improved, wouldn't you some day look back and think it was a good decision not to go through with this?” “Yes. You are right. But it won't get better. Unfortunately, time does not permit me to fully explain it here.” “OK, Fermat...” Luis grinned at the joke but it quickly disappeared. The elevator still had not arrived. Luis turned away from me and headed for the stairwell. I followed behind him, still struggling to come up with some argument. He wasn't thinking right, but I just couldn't prove it. Philosophy was not my strong suit. I take it on faith, which is a socially damning thing to admit as a man of science, that the question of whether or not it is good to kill oneself has been settled. I could not for the life of me, or more accurately for the life of Luis, think of the line of reasoning that must have led to that result. As the ground floor sank below us, I started to panic. Luis could jump at any moment. I thought on this and figured he would very likely survive a jump from this height. I considered if pushing him off here would give him a better chance at survival then letting him go higher and jump on his own. I ran through the events that would follow such an action and they didn't look to turn out well for either of us. The line of thinking gave me an idea. “I don't think you've reached the optimal solution, yet.” “How do you mean.” Luis continued climbing. “Consider this. The higher you climb up this building, the longer you are certain to live, though the probability of you succeeding in killing yourself of course climbs higher as you do the same. On the other hand, if you were to, say, jump right now, you might have only a few more seconds of life to endure, though the possibility of surviving the fall would be higher. Do you know what the optimal floor from which to jump would be?” “That is a much more clever argument than I was expecting.” It garnered another fleeting grin, but Luis continued to climb. “Uh, thanks. So, what are you doing? Shouldn't you be back at work, fixing the hole in your logic?” Luis stopped unexpectedly and turned to me. “You're too god-damned literal. I was using math as a metaphor. That's the only way I know how to talk or think. Math is logical. There is nothing logical or illogical about happiness or unhappiness or wanting to kill yourself or not wanting to kill yourself. You either understand it, or you don't. I can't explain to you why I know I should do this, and you can't explain to me why you know I shouldn't.” “What about your family? Think about how selfish you're being!” “I don't buy that. I think it is much more selfish it is for others to prefer I live another sixty- something years of misery.” “Here is something to consider. I just so happen to be the worst person to argue with you in this case. I am not particularly excited about life but I am also not in anyway depressed or interested in killing myself. I do not have a sunshine filled vision of the world to prove to you that great happiness is possible nor can I empathize with you enough to know what it is you need to hear. The words that would change your mind exist somewhere but I am out of my league.” I looked at Luis' face. Some part of what I had just said seemed to hit home. He leaned over the side of the railing and looked down. I looked, too. I had tried not to think about how high up we were getting. There wasn't much of a chance of survival from up here. Luis looked up at me. “It takes a big man to admit when he is out his league.” There was a tense pause before he continued. “Welcome to the club.” And he jumped.

A man named Ned sat in his arm chair and read printed words on a collection of paper. He enjoyed his books and his slow secluded life. He lived in a small house out in the country and watched the sunrise every morning and took walks through the woods at sunset. He wrote long, well thought out letters to his loved ones and cultivated friendships like the the crops in his garden. Since he didn't have many visitors he occupied his free time with the books from his parents collection. Hundreds of times he had read these stories and he cherished every one. When he didn't feel like reading he would often go somewhere quiet and reflect on his life and the things around him. When Ned did have to go into town he avoided gossip and mostly made polite small talk with his distant neighbors. Ned didn't dislike people, he merely disliked their habits of creating problems. His world was small but it was beautiful and Ned wouldn't have traded it for anything. But then one day Aptus, the vengeful god of the Net and lord of the cats appeared at his door. "NED LUDD!" howled Aptus. "FOR TOO LONG HAVE YOU ALLUDED ME!" "YOU REMAIN INDEPENDENT OF MY WIDE WORLD OF WEBS. NEVER HAS A COMMENT BEEN POSTED NOR A MEME BEEN SPREAD BY YOUR ABSENT USERNAME. I AM APTUS, NED LUDD, AND I DEMAND SACRIFICE! I DEMAND PARTICIPATION! DID YOU EVEN SEE MILEY CYRUS AT THE VMA's?" "Huh?" answered Ned. "FOR YOUR HUBRIS I DAMN YOU NED LUDD, TO AN ETERNITY OF SURFING. YOU HAVE LIVED YOUR LIFE OFFLINE AND NOW I CURSE YOU TO A LIFE OF CONNECTIVITY!" And with a wild laugh Aptus touched Ned's forehead. He heard a horrible noise and suddenly Ned was lifted off his feet and sucked into a series of tubes. Ned flew through into this horrible new world, bombarded by noise, words, pornography and pictures of cute animals. Suddenly it all stopped and Ned found himself lying in a landscape devoid of anything but a single play button. Cautiously Ned approached it, fearing what it might do. Tentatively he pushed the button and before him appeared a dancing, singing Korean man wearing glasses and a suit. "I don't understand!" cried Ned. "Oppa Gangnam Style" replied the man. Ned turned to run but everywhere he fled he was haunted by this horrible man and his terrible song. "Forgive me Aptus!" Ned pleaded to the heavens. But Aptus merely laughed at the man and retweeted his suffering.

Today. He sits on his balcony, as discontent as he was born 18 years ago. No achievements to smile at and no ambitions to look forward to. He is a nobody. Tolerated by his peers, if he could even call them that. Below average in every respect and thus he is given none Day in and day out he quietly weeps for attention but he'll never know what it feels like to be liked . As he gives nobody a reason to like him or even have an opinion on him . Not charming enough to be a friend of society and clearly not daring enough to be an enemy. Therefore to society,he is nothing. Through out his life. His only thoughts have been regrets. Firstly his existence and finally his existence. He knows that eventually this day too shall pass. Nothing holds him on to this world but fear and gravity. Eventually ,he will die in this state, ignored. Forgotten in life and surely in death. He knows this. No, I'm not a dreamer.

And God looked upon his creation. All broken up at the smallest level into fire, water, earth, and air. But He felt that there was something off. That it wasn't right, that there was a certain…lacking in the arrangement of the universe. These building blocks with which He would form all of existence were too rough, too misshapen to be used for the epitome of all His work. What would come after, what would think for itself would never feel at home in a universe so simplistic, so opposed to the inherent complexity of it all. And so God went smaller. And smaller. And smaller, until even He had to squint to see what he was working with. And so came into the world, protons, neutrons, electrons, and a whole slew of minuscule particles. He forced them together, into new and different forms. And so God put the finishing touches on the universe, arranging everything so that Mankind would by itself learn to be gods through manipulation, creation and destruction.

"It's just a white cookie" the ad read. No big deal were led to believe in the onslaught of ads that followed over the next few years. "Do it for your family", "Do it for your friends", "Do it for the kids","Do it for mother earth", "Search inside your heart. Find the reasons to: Just do it". "It's as easy as a white cookie". I don't recall when it became normalized, when the ads seeped into the mental landscape to become the dominant mindset of popular culture. Thinking back I can see clearly now that the kids and young adults were selected as the prime targets in this sociological re engineering project. It must have started about the same time that the plight of the Fukushima children leaked out despite the MSM's relentless efforts to suppress the horror. Around the same time that logging off the internet became impossible with penalty for trying. When the state (my country) enacted monetary control over all private funds and the rest of the world followed suit. Around the time global governance, the end of physical money. and mandatory RFID implants started to become reality. Yes that's about right, when this white cookie shit surfaced - just ahead of all that other stuff that has transformed our life into their nightmare. "But it's just a white cookie. Just submit and all your dreams can come true. Submit and all the troubles, and penalties, and restrictions, and socially sanctioned shame and guilt, and hunger melt away", says the voice on the overhead radio to the bus passengers. They're making jokes and laughing about the so called "small minority" of the resistors or hold-outs, as were now being referred to as, for not submitting to the Plan To Save The Planet. That's the latest message mutation being sold to us 24/7 via all media outlets. "It's the plan to save the planet and all the things in it that matter" or as I over heard someone saying yesterday, "Planned Planet Hood." "Do your part - it's as simple as a white cookie." The ads and pressures are everywhere. Fewer and fewer are resisting. Fewer still speak in defiance - people are beginning to "disappear". People are beginning to understand without the ads that the white cookie solution isn't really a choice. Choice is gone. I'm on my way too. Supposedly this bus ride today, this mandatory "Request For Information" is "Strictly Routine" according to the registered letter. Just to check that the RFID implant hasn't shifted or gotten infected or more importantly, to them, been tampered with. I can hear the words, "it's just a white cookie" echoing from some distant speaker as the GovTran pulls up to the regional CPU. We all file off like cattle at a meat market. Nobodies talking, but everybody knows this is it. Eye contact is limited and our yellow coloured shoulder patch informs all as to which area to push us towards. "Be free. Be part of the Plan" a reassuring voice sounds from multiple speakers above, as were shuffled out of the open air, into a yellow hallway that leads to a yellow building with "attendants" in yellow jump suits. Fuck! I'm stressed. Starting to sweat. Want to run. It's too late now, to get out. It was too late six months ago when my chip went in and travel became chip dependent. My turn. I'm led to a small room with a man at a desk. I sit on the only spare chair. Fucking yellow chair. "You're 718341676-FR?" he says without looking up. Before I can answer he points his portable scanner at my chip and looks at the data. "Look" he says, "This is really just an exercise in compliance. I see you don't have any recourse. You've got next to nil GovCred and zero GovConX. You," he leans forward on his desk and quickly glances at the black surveillance camera on the wall, "You really have a limited opportunity to freely accept the cookie. So what I need to know is if you're going to sign the release, take the cookie, and be part of the plan to save to planet? Or not? And I need to know now, I've got hundreds more to come after you. So what's it going to be?" "Would you do it?" I ask. "I have done it" he answers sharply. He leans back on his chair, and says, while looking away from the live-feed, "If you volunteer to do this, things will go back to normal for you. It's just a white cookie and then it's over, then you move on with the rest of your life. Full credits and privileges. If you don't, no credits, no privileges, and it happens anyway but with lots of pain, blood loss, and scar tissue." "So we're about done here" he says as he stands up. "Okay, OK. I'll do it. I'll do it." He hands me the pen, I sigh and I sign the electronic pad. In a moment the door opens and a small white cookie on a small white plate is handed to me. I pick it up and stare across the desk at the guy in yellow. "It's just a cookie" he says smoothly in a tone devoid of emotion like he's been here, at this point, a thousand times. "I wish you'd quit saying that" I say as I start to chew it. "I have to say it. No options for any of us" he adds. I want to jump up and smash his face in. He notices the way I'm looking at him. As I finish the sickeningly sweet cookie, he stands and hands me a pill bottle with one pill inside. Then he says, "You may notice a tingling sensation - that's normal. There will be bruising, then gradual shrinkage. If there's pain - take the pill." And with that I was shown out the back exit. I now know why the term White Cookie was used. Blue Balls was taken.

Hey Reddit, I had to write a narrative for English class addressing a social injustice. Feed back would be greatly appreciated. Thanks guys. This is a story about a man, his name does not matter, the only thing important about him is how different he was. Different because of the way he was raised and brought up, different in a way in which he could do very little to control. He was not the only one like this, there were others, some still exist to this day. This man was every word in the book. He never accepted any help from anybody, instead he was rude and offended when they offered. He spat on those who had good intentions, and cursed those who did anything they thought would make him a better person. Living a sad and lonely life he kept his mind closed from the opinions possibly wiser than him, in fear of change in reality. His only defense was his caustic tongue from the ongoing barrage of kindness. He was raised from abusive parents. He never felt like he belonged or was loved so he shut out the world around him. He one day took a fall. A softening of his thick head. His frail old body broke on impact with the earth; his teeth cracked and tongue twisted, he lay there helpless and speechless. His eyes were clouded with tears but it was now clear what he had been missing. Ready to be reformed, to be reborn, he relaxed. Although no one would help him. The iron was hot but not a single hand was lent out to pick him up off the ground. So he would lay there to rot, like a piece of trash in the gutter. No redemption, just damnation. Everyone that passed to see the freak show just kept walking, they laughed and pointed as if it was his punishment. He was never heard from again; and no one thought twice about it. He grew to hate society even more. Bad turned worse. He never loved anything again. He blamed himself. When he died his body was only found because of the neighbors complaining about the smell. With just one whiff it burned their nostrils and made them sick to their stomachs. You can still smell it today, wafting around all of humanity.

i felt like at any moment some all powerful spasm would overcome my conscious control and make my fingers dance atop the keys tapping out something wondrous or revelatory. the fire burned from a deep part of my inner self. something below the unconscious yearning and pulling on a tether attached to some great immovable beast of a rock. the chain links buckling and swelling, showing signs of stress fractures sure to succumb to the steadfast tensing the spasm was sending down the way. surely soon it would erupt and spill out onto the page, sending my most honest fears and loves tumbling out in a process of regurgitation reflective of a totality of my past experience. all that ever seems to come up is word vomit.

Evelyn, forest, group suicide (courtesy of Erin) Evelyn ran through the forest, towards the source of the horrifying sounds with all the speed of the winds. Tall trees rose up around her like ancient wooden towers, totally obscuring the sky and what little light there might have been. The sun had not yet awoken from its slumber, and the sky was streaked with a million different shades of blue and red, entwined together as they had been since the dawn of time. The screaming continued, chilling her to the bone, as she came upon a misty clearing. Silver fog blanketed the wet grass, so thick and still the space looked more like an unfathomably deep lake than anything resembling the woods she tore through. She came to a halt, panting heavily, and an odd sensation gripped her as she was realised she was afraid she may lose the source of the sounds, and indeed herself, to the maze of twisted trees and plants. Every inch of her being was trying to hold her back, to turn around and forget, and yet she stumbled on, as if in a trance. Suddenly, she was startled by a slow, keening wail that pierced her ears like needles and sent a chill spreading throughout her body. As the mist cleared, she fell to her knees, unable to comprehend the scene before her. The once green grass, thick as the hair on her head, ran crimson with blood, and no less than 12 limp, human figures lay before her. There was a look of discomforting calm on each of their faces, as if they had simply been on a stroll before dropping dead without warning. They each sported a set of twin gashes down their left arm, and it was from these gashes that the life-giving source of crimson flowed freely from their bodies, their lives ebbing away from them like the ocean tides. Another piercing scream filled the air, this time escaping from Evelyn herself, and she turned and fled from the grisly scene, fear pumping through her like some proverbial floodgate had burst open. She had not a care as to the direction or haste of her flight, content only in that the macabre display was behind her, and that she was in no immediate danger. She ran for hours, the pink keening of the dawn spreading out across the sky, fading into a brilliant blue as the sun continued it's task, and into the dying fire of the dusk. Evelyn had no concept, no clue as to where she was or how far she'd come, and dropping to the ground, she wept as she came to realise that she was hopelessly, forever lost.

The Silent Library of Babble (Tribute to Borges) Inside of the building was even more vast than its outside, which was impossible because the outside stretched as far as anyone could see. The librarian checked my card, then allowed me to pass. They always needed to be sure people were clear to go inside, if they were to let a dangerous felon into the building there’s no telling what kind of mischief he could get into, the least of which being hiding out inside. I walked down the main corridor, it was as wide as a street. If I had brought an extra couple of quarters, loons, or shillings even, I would have rented a bicycle to travel quicker upon. Instead, I walked. The shelves were tall, to say the least. Each reached towards a point in the sky, then disappeared as they continued further. After twenty minutes of walking I came to the first intersection. The light was red, so I paused, allowing the cyclists to cross my path. That was the first I had seen a motorized scooter in here, for the longest time mechanical items weren’t allowed inside, but that rule must have been rescinded recently because a librarian was riding one even. As I waited I looked at the map near the street corner, its form was in one that was understandable by all. While I looked, I spotted the ‘you are here’ symbol, and plotted my course. There were myths of times before, when the volumes were still unorganized, before librarians, ancient stories of rival factions fighting for shelter between the massive shelves, when books were used as weapons. The light at the intersection changed, the small crowd of people that had gathered began walking and riding again. They quickly separated by pace. I continued for a good couple of hours, I regretted the thought that the walk would be good for me. I regretted not gathering my loose change before I left from my home. A bicycle would have been a blessing. I should have at least brought a snack. Once I had gotten to my section, I looked up at the shelf that disappeared into a foggy mist, then turned and walked down the aisle. Books were organized in an obvious, yet difficult to explain, method. After ten more minutes of walking, I was in the precise section that my book would be found, and I began to scour the shelves with my eyes. The works of Borges were bound separately, each essay, each story in its own thin cover. I craned my neck to read the titles on the tallest shelf I could reach, looking for the proper one. Then my eyes jumped to it, one shelf above where my fingers could grab. I stood on my tip toes and reached, I jumped, tried everything. I even thought about climbing the shelves, which was strictly forbidden after a disaster of biblical proportions that a falling shelf had once caused. Finally, I gave in and walked away, taking up search for a librarian.

The sound of the car's transmission dropping into "PARK" rings out in the dark and still August air. He kills the engine. The driver rolls the windows down as the humid summer air rushes into the cab. He puts his head back, closes his eyes, and lets his arm hang out the window. He could hear the muffled sounds from inside the bowling alley, it was a pretty decent crowd inside from what he saw in the parking lot when he pulled up. He could now feel a breeze on his hand outside and he knew it was starting to cool off after the hot and humid day. He can hear the overgrown grass and foliage in the field adjacent to the bowling alley rustle as it blows. He takes a deep breath. His friends house is right around the corner, soon to be filled with the sounds and smells of a good time, but right now...right now was that "cryptic" period as he liked to call it. You know about that, right? The time between leaving the house and actually getting to the party. For John Ross a 10 minute drive could turn into hours of this "cryptic" time. Why? Well, he didn't even know himself. He was only 17, had been driving less than a year so maybe the novelty hadn't yet worn off, maybe he needed to take a break and leave the house, maybe he just like a few hours to himself. He didn't know. There was one thing he did know though, that he liked doing it and those few hours were as good as a vacation. He wanted to soak it all in, the town, the friends, the fun. In a week or two he was leaving for college and so was everyone he knew. He now opened his eyes and looked at the face of the building, the various neon beer logos pierced the darkness and spill onto the ground of the parking lot. All the different colors create a strange glow. He then looks up to notice the moon is being covered by an overcast sky. He looks in the distance and he can see heat lightning on the horizon as if a war were being waged in the heavens. He grabbed the burger on the passenger seat that he had stopped to eat, unwrapped it, and took a bite. He chewed slowly and savored the bite of the cheap burger in the same way he was savoring his few hours of roaming the back roads before meeting up with everyone. The sound of the bowling pins being hit continued to echo into the night as John started up his car again and pulls away into the darkness.

I ran through the trees, the wind breezing by, giving me the refreshment I so desperately needed. Even though it was dark and cloudy after weeks of sunshine, it didn’t ruin the day for me. I was on cloud nine. This particular forest was my favourite place to hang out and enjoy myself. It was secluded, quiet and meditative, with towering trees galore. The perfect place to be free and alone, no cares in the world. Until today. I rounded a corner, a grin across my face, when I saw him sitting on a rock. He turned his head towards me and stared. Stared, it seemed almost, into my soul. His black, beady eyes pierced my skin, sending a chill through my spine and into my heart. Damn squirrel. I don’t know why this squirrel scared me like it did, but I didn’t move. I halted to a stop and participated in this staring contest with him. He never yielded. When my eyes finally started to burn and tear up, I turned my head away shamefully and blinked. When I looked back, I swear I saw a small smirk on the damn squirrel’s face. That asshole! He thinks he’s a tough customer just because he can keep his eyes open longer than me? I decided then and there to show him who the real man was. I quickly scanned the ground, hoping to find some sort of weapon. Nothing. I tilted my head upwards to the trees and saw a sharper branch jutting out from the side of one of the tree trunks. Perfect. I slowly edged my way over to the tree, my arm outstretched, trying to look as inconspicuous as I possibly could. I never once looked towards the tree, my eyes meeting his the entire time. His expression never changed. I couldn’t read the damn thing. I couldn’t tell if he knew what I was trying to do and if he did, he was doing an excellent job of hiding it. I felt my hand hit the branch and I clasped my fingers around it. I took a large breath to calm myself. I knew I had to do this quickly to get the upper hand. The damn squirrel never moved. Screw him. Just go. 1-- The squirrel stared. 2-- Maybe it was a trick of the light, but at that moment, the squirrel winked. Huh? We stood in silence for a moment. Fuck it. 3!! I broke the branch off of the trunk with a loud crack and lunged at the squirrel, all in one fluid motion. I blindly swung the makeshift weapon, hoping to feel the body of the damn animal make contact. I thudded to the ground, opened my eyes and surveyed the scene. The squirrel was gone. He dodged the stick and was nowhere to be found. Jeez, he’s fast. That’s when the squirrel giggled. It came from behind me. I whipped my head around and there he was, a disgustingly smug look on his face. I wanted to punch it right off of him. I took another deep breath, waited three more seconds, then leapt up from the ground. This time, the branch made contact and cracked against the squirrel’s skull, taking him down. I toppled on top of his body to make sure he couldn’t get back up. Gotcha, you bitch. Suddenly, a burst of pain rocketed from my ear. The bastard had bit it! I yelped and grabbed it, freeing up the squirrel to do whatever he pleased. He rolled out from underneath me and jumped onto my back, clawing and scratching until there was hardly any skin left. My back was on fire. I mustered up enough strength to get ahold of the squirrel and toss him away. He plopped onto the ground a few feet away, a matted mess of fur and blood. I’m sure I wasn’t a pretty sight to behold myself. He slowly pushed himself onto all four legs, panting and sweating buckets. I was on all fours as well, my back stinging up a storm and my body shutting down every second. After what felt like hours, but was probably only a tense couple of seconds, he lunged at me again, teeth bared, rabid saliva forming around his lips. I was one step ahead of the little bastard though. I rolled out of the way, dodging the flying freak, giving me enough time to catch my breath. The squirrel looked over at me mid-flight, a look of surprise on his face that to this day makes me laugh. He tried to slow down to turn and fight, but he had too much momentum. I honestly think he never would of stopped, if he didn’t hit that-- *CRACK!* The squirrel collided with a large rock that was sitting behind me the whole time. I didn’t plan that to happen. I wish I did. Stroke of luck, I guess. He was done for. Most of his bones looked broken and he was moaning every time he tried to move. I slowly made my way up to him, taking careful precautions, just in case the little bugger was faking it. He wasn’t. He looked like shit. I looked into his beady, black eyes one last time. They didn’t seem as threatening as they were a few moments ago before this tense battle of ours. Maybe he was realizing his time was up. Maybe he was trying to make amends in his final moments. Maybe he’s just pissed because he lost. Taking in the sweet taste of victory, I climbed atop of my victim, raised my arms towards the Heavens and felt the incredible ecstasy of his powers draining away and flowing through my body. Now, there was only one more to defeat before I was champion. I would seek him out and take him on, squirrel to squirrel. For I am the Squirrel Highlander and I will never rest until I am the most powerful and only squirrel left on the face of the Earth. There can be only one.

the ground shook slightly as the beast entered the clearing where she stood. the creature glared at her menacingly from across the meadow with cold yellow eyes. she wrinkled her nose and sniffled. she had woken up stiff and achy that morning. her sinuses throbbed slightly and her mind drifted for a brief moment to the realization that she was probably catching a cold. the tremendous smell of the creature brought her back to reality. she became aware that her heart now beat much faster in her chest. she felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand and sweat bead under the heat of the blistering sun. her mind raced. on the surface, however, she appeared calm and steady. she met the creature's gaze with an unflinching stare, her dark eyes narrowing slightly. she bit her bottom lip, not because she was nervous, but because the hint of pain helped her mind to focus. her tan body, glistening under the bright sun, now tensed as her muscles flexed in preparation. she knew that she would have to move quickly when the creature struck. she knew that she would likely have very little time to react. her knees bent slightly and her feet dug in to the soft soil. it was cool and refreshing beneath her toes. she could smell the grass and the sweet hint of clover. she could hear the faint buzz of the bees that had come hunting the flower's nectar, just as this creature had come hunting her. she saw each blade of grass bend and sway, as if dancing with the warm summer breeze. she took it all in for a moment and breathed deeply, exhaling slowly. her focus narrowed, watching the beast intently as it stared her down. it hissed and showed a mouthful of serrated teeth with a snarl, as if it were smiling at the thought of tearing into her. she licked her upper lip and winked, her brilliant brown eyes flashing with a hint of anticipation. a smile darted across her face.

(It's the first draft and part of a larger story, so...) Rickartsdale? That little village? Nothing out there worth seeing. Nothing but a few small families and scary stories. Worse, it’s way out in the boonies. Far enough that you wouldn’t even see it on many maps. Used to be a bigger place, a proper community even. Things tend to be a little off in remote places like that, strange happenings and folks fleeing in a big hurry. Typical setup for your common folk tale. That is what you asked for, though... so... Right, Rickartsdale. A proper farming community out just beyond the western border of the old kingdom. The little town sank into decline when folks started going missing. Like I said, typical setup. The culprit this time was your typical boogieman, a monster the people had started calling “the Druid of Weeds.” Nobody seemed quite sure what “it” actually was, but there were a lot of sightings. Some people said it was a wild-man, other people claimed it was a monstrously large cat, the big ones you don’t see in that region... Like jungle cats. Panthers, but big like a lion. Some folks even claimed it was a humble and unfamiliar ranch cat that stalked them. The one factor that always matched up was the eyes. Eyes that didn’t match, copper and emerald and full of hate like you wouldn’t believe. Contempt, most said. And another thing. This druid, or whatever it really was, a vigilant soul could catch it just sittin’ there watching you. Scoping out your habits, your home, your animals, not like a beast, but like a man planning something evil. Vigilant or not, the “prey” would find weeds around the monsters vantage point. Like the plants were compelled to grow wherever he planted his feet. That was the unsettling part of the stories to me. If he skulked about long enough, you could see the paths he took around your property. A neat little line of weeds circling your home, leading up to the window outside your room. It was an evil omen, and being a farming community, you deal with weeds often enough that you may not see it. And if you neglected, they might just grow anyway, whether you were prey or not. Spooked a lot of folks, some even got out of dodge. Got worse when people started ending up dead. It was always the farmers, though. Farmers, and traders coming in with their wares loaded up tall on whatever beast of burden they had. We found more than a few merchants on the side of the path, dragged just off the way and surrounded by their trinkets. People were quick to find out that the deaths were related to animals used for labor. Nothing was ever stolen, as far as the people knew, but the animals were always missing. Every once in awhile you would even find a branded animal roaming free and feral again, so they weren’t being stolen either. Ah hell, I let that “we” slip, didn’t I? Well, you must have known, since you came looking for me in particular. That’s right, my folks were some of the many to walk away from that hole once things got bad. Once the town started trying to live off the land without any help of animals. Once the people were so afraid that they would drive away outsiders, just because they came on horseback. Eventually, people just stopped coming around entirely. The town, now a village, may as well have been an island. No place to raise a kid, the population may as well have been a cult. The damndest thing, though, the reason this really stuck with me, there used to be a little cat that came around. A little stray cat with grey charcoal fur and mismatched eyes. He would come around the farm and beg for scraps. Just me, though, he had a way of making himself scarce when my father would come around. Good enough that I don’t think my parents ever saw it. He threw a bit of a fit one day, I was too young to figure why at the time, but he found me out back behind the barn one day taking a midday nap. I woke up in a knee-high growth of weeds. Told him it wasn’t there when I fell asleep... It was a short, soft bed of grass I fell asleep on, with that little stray on my chest. We moved away from there about a week later. Not before my father had a chance at getting a hunting party together. They never found anything, though. It’s hard to hunt something like that, chasing an idea from a story, and pissing it off something fierce in the process. It was easier to just leave, and we did. Left everything behind, too. We were marked, and there was no way we could load up a drawn cart. No way to move it without a donkey. We had to leave on foot. ********************************* The man leaned back in his chair, readying himself for his conclusion to the story only to be interrupted by the woman sitting at the table across from him. “Sounds like our guy.” He cleared his throat. “Excuse me?” “That’s definitely the one I’m looking for. When are we leaving?” The woman bore down on him with startlingly blue eyes. Eyes that didn’t entirely seem right on a person, just a little too bright, and fixed with a look of subdued fanaticism. “I don’t think you quite understood what I was getting at...” “Sunrise, then? I’ll get a couple of horses ready.” “You weren’t even listening, were you?” She grinned in response, but something in that mischievous smile made him uncomfortable. “I got the important bits. I’ll see you in the morning.

M: Hey Steve, how’s it going S: Going well Mark. Going well. M: Well that's good, haven't seen you in a while. S: Heh yeah. Hey you know Lucy? She wants you to go pluck her feathers. Haha I think she's into you bro (gives Herb a wing bump) M: (sighs) ahhh Lucy, she's not into me, it's her damn human. Went and got herself a macaw and is rarely home, and when she is all she does is look at that damn little screen of hers. Now Lucy's gone all senile. S: What a shame... Well, you should still go and pluck her up man, ever since the tip of her beak broke off she can barely make use of it. M: Whatever, if she can talk to you, then she can pluck her own crazy self. S: Yeah, I guess. silence M: So Steve, tell me how are things really going for you in the life of a pet. S: ehhh I don’t know man. My owner keeps on asking me who’s a good boy. At first I had no idea who she was talking about, now she’s commanding me to say that I am, and well, I don't know if I really am a good boy. M: What do you mean? S: It's like what about me appeals to my owner as good? All she sees of me is when I'm hanging around the cage or when she's teaching me new stuff. She doesn’t know the real me or what goes on in my head. M: Hmm. Go on. S: And its like I listen to all of her commands so I guess that would make me obedient, but if I go and say I’m a good boy, well am I really obeying her? I'm giving her the answer SHE wants, but not necessarily the truthful one. M:So your doing what she says while at the same time you think your lying because you don’t really know if you’re all good. S: Yeah, I’m sitting there giving my owner what she wants, but in the end I don’t think it’s the right thing. M: Oh Steve, I see what you’re saying and all, but come on don’t overthink it. Just do what she says and get your damn cracker. S: Yeah, whatever. I guess you’re right.

I ran down the field, cut left, then cut right, spun around with the wind whipping across my sunburned calves. I turn, eyes like searchlights penetrating the open field desperate to find an open man. As I turn the defender behind me pushes me with all his might, over loading the ligaments in my left knee causing an explosion of pain, immediately blocking out all other senses and thought. Immediately Afterwards, I would say it was the most painful moment in my short fifteen-year life span, But now I think it might have been the start of something much bigger and better. February twenty-third of last year I tore my ACL ligament in my left knee during a varsity lacrosse game. As I eventually learned, the acl is the big daddy of all the knee ligaments; it holds the knee together with more strength than most the other ligaments in the knee combined and it takes almost full body weight on one area of the knee to break it. What struck me most about that day was not getting hurt (even though that part sucked), it was seeing my grown forty-six year old father crying and utterly heartbroken for me. Seeing somebody in that much despair for a loved one changed something in me that will never be forgotten. Loved ones (family) make up the majority of people who will do almost anything to keep one another out of danger. There could be one hundered things that set a man apart from his children, but if there is a shooter gunning for them, a car swerving towards them, or the odd roof collapsing, he will not hesitate to jump in front of them to save the day and keep them safe. I have grown up in a pretty religious home, which is kind of the standard for southern children. “Baptized since birth” some people have told in me in gas stations and hotel lobbys in my numerous adventures outside the great state of Texas and frankly, I don’t mind it. After my injury people were constantly commenting on how “Big man up stairs has his own plan” or “be pacient, God has something at work in you that you just do not see yet”. Only now am I starting to realize what they were saying. Their message may not have been about a specific plan or action that God may have in mind, but it was about the unconditional love every single religious text preaches since the days of Israel’s peak of power. As a collective body the texts command all people to love their neighbors and love their enemies, two things that appear to be vanishing from the world at an alarming rate! This is all to evident in today’s society, where even sitting to close to a stranger on a bus can earn you weird looks and sneers from the people around you. Whether it be the cute neighbor next door or a new video game released at midnight, the feeling is there, all you need to do is look for it. Looking for love can be so hard for many people. Some find it in a one night stand filled with regret in the morning, some find it in buying things to feel wealthy, and many find it in a constantly revolving schedule that gives the individual no time think and opinionate. I find it in the comfort and homlyness of my family. I find love in knowing that I can say whatever I need to say without being judged harshly. I find it in roaming the country side with whomever is that special somebody during that time period.

There was an old cow winding through old Mr. Raybek's garden. She was tied to the porch railing with a long and frayed rope ending in a very loose knot. Her meandering kept the vegetables well crushed, and the squished squash and dill secreted their essence from their trampled beds, wafted through the chilly morning air, plucked some of Cattlina's hair, drifted through the steam from the farmer's morning tea, and tickled his nostrils. Remus Reybek could tell you, if you stopped scoffing at his name and bothered to ask, that there's nothing quite like a Nebraskan morning in late September. Most Americans avoid the area like a leper colony, but those precious few whose pastures are quilted horizons for the New Yorker in his jet--those reserved and rosy rednecks who might hit their children a little too hard, but will *never* ask their neighbors for money--they'll tell you about ripe winds that gallop in from all directions. How they drop the taint of Las Vegas and Quebec at the border and enter Nebraska with a fresh outlook on life. They'll tell you how hopeful and enthusiastic the wind is, as if Gatsby finally recovered his past, and was casting his ritz and exuberance all over the state (which so modestly avoided any extravagant displays of wealth itself). They might--at least the more contemplative Nebraskans might--solemnly chew their cud and muse on the mighty autumn paradox on the prairie. All the velvety smells and colors begin to seep into your very hide, and you might mourn the beautiful leaves and grasses that begin to wrinkle, crinkle, and fold. But don't they also blush and blow kisses before they fade? What is their death but a fresh new bounty? Each drooping bush is smooching her seedy children and giving them last minute advice. *Check the oil, and don't forget to write!* Each withering lavender is swinging her hips at the amorous, aging bees. All the rose petals might have fallen, but a single rosehip shines brilliant red on top of each stalk. And the immoderate wind, who is very fond of Life, caries those flirty leaves and college-bound seeds across the skyline in an act of blazing glory. Nebraska is where the old and the new embrace for the last time. Cattlina and Remus, however, were both old, and neither did much embracing those days. Well, there was a bull who stood at the fence across the road and mooed absolutely *filthy* suggestions to Cattlina, who couldn't pretend she wasn't flattered, but she'd been around the pasture a few times and knew those types were only out for a bit of cow tipping. No, Cattlina preferred the security and companionship she found with Remus, who brushed her every day and let her peruse the vegetable garden. She hummed at him affectionately, and he raised his mug in return. Seven o'clock rolled out with the mist, and eight was positively golden. Remus finished his tea and tugged Cattlina's knot loose. The two of them took regular morning walks unless the wind got too raucous, in which case they'd shout for some damn peace and quiet as Remus banged his broom against the roof: * Pipe down up there! Some of us work for a living!* But this morning the wind was playing a quiet panpipe/banjo duet with the elms, and Cattlina lowed a couple of backup harmonies as Remus held open the gate. What a gentleman. Their property was tucked into the armpit of a wide swell in the prairie. It couldn't exactly be called a hill, though it was the tallest point for miles. Nevertheless, Nebraskans have a grander sense of topography than the Manhattan dweller, even when he's airbound. When you live on America's naked torso, arching out for ever and ever, her curves and dimples lose their immediacy, and you begin to see how a dip here is only the intro to a muscular bulge there. Creeks and rivulets are just pores. Nebraska's smattering of trees are the downy hairs running along her abdomen toward... *Well.* Those were Remus's thoughts, anyway. Cattlina might have argued that the golden crops were the spiky hairs on America's tough hide, or she might have mentioned the oil wells like open fly sores in the Dakotas, or shed a tear for those runny eyes of the Great Lakes. But you didn't ask her, did you? You see, Cattlina was a well traveled cow. Born in the icy Minnesotan spring, she'd spent her early days drinking water out of the melting lake, gamboling after white butterflies, and shining prettily at 4-H and FFA shows. But her boy, Dallon, whom she loved so much, sold her to a common breeder of burger patties in Wisconsin. Every year she was cramped in a dark room while some half-crazed bull rutted and humped her, painfully knocking her knees into their tight plastic restraints. The rest of the time she wallowed in a wide muddy pen with hundreds of her fellow sex slaves. Her babies were taken away, although some of the females came back as fresh concubines. She wasn't sure which was worse: This life of monotony and violence or the short visit to a slaughterhouse? Sometimes she would spy a beautiful cow about her own age on a nearby green hill. Between fence posts, this lovely figure would graze serenely at real clover. Come dinner time, Cattlina would eye her own trough of protein-infused mush with resentment and, increasingly, rebellion. But it pained her to think too much of the past. Remus was different from her first little boy, different from the hard men who ran the breeding house--this at least she knew with rare certainty as she watched Remus pick through the wheat and sunflower skeletons. They were two peas in a pod, she and he. Speaking of pods, a milkweed parachute pod whizzed past Remus's cheek on its way to its first apartment. It was the last child out of the family home, and its nervousness had evaporated like the seven o'clock mist. It whirled and *whee!*-ed its way up the swell, flipping off its siblings that had dropped early out of the wind. Remus caught a whiff of the pod's zeal and began to tramp upward at a brisker pace than usual. Even steady old Cattlina allowed herself a subtle trot, but to her great embarrassment she frightened a pheasant into undignified flight. It, too, flapped after the pod, and it was this strange procession--the pod, the pheasant, the farmer, and the cow--that met the baby at the crest of America's smallest lovehandle.

All of their past, everything he once knew or thought he knew about the two of them begins to swirl into a fierce hurricane of red in his mind until suddenly, strangely, he reaches the calm of the storm’s eye. He interrupts her raised voice, pulling her close to bring her lips to his for the first time. In his head, he had pictured the cinematic scene of volatile tension turned passion, but instead it catches her by surprise and she instinctively shoves him away. He immediately turns toward the hall and before she can fully come to terms with the past few moments, she finds herself staring at the back of a slammed door and an empty room. Another slam down the hall interrupts the sickening mental loop of all the things that had just been said, the harshest of which reverberating the loudest in her head. She wipes her eyes, walks out into the hall, and follows the sound of the door that knocked her back into the present; the realization of what had just happened finally settling in completely. She reaches the stairwell as another hotel guest comes out of their room and looks at her with sleepy eyes and a disgruntled expression. She mouths a quick "sorry" and enters the stairwell as the sound of a third door closing drifts down from the top floor. Panic starts to well up inside her as she climbs each flight, her feet and heart picking up speed as she nears the rooftop level. She bursts through the door with adrenal abandon and scans the ledges for his figure, screaming his name into the night sky, but he's nowhere to be seen. What have I done, she thinks to herself. What have *you* done? "I think we need to talk" says a relievingly familiar voice from above the stairwell door. "There’s enough room up here for both of us, come lie next to me. The stars are beautiful tonight." She climbs up with the help of his outstretched hand and lays her head on his chest. Her breathing slows and she can finally begin to relax. Her eyes look up toward the millions of shimmering specks in the night sky as they slowly turn to a teary blur; and indeed they were beautiful.

I hate that THIS is your legacy on me. It couldn’t have been anything positive. No, it had to be the one thing that I’ve lived with for my whole childhood. It had to be the one fear that is a part of me, it’s who I am. I remember when we’d stay up until one, two, three o’clock in the morning talking about absolutely anything at all, from music, to what we read to the things society doesn’t deem appropriate. You were the first person I ever let in after my problems as a child. You were the first person I looked forward to seeing every day, the first person I looked for in a crowd. You were the only girl I ever felt butterflies talking to, which sounds kind of stupid considering how much we talked. We used to talk all the time. During class, passing notes in Social Science, used to walk all over campus just talking. We'd stop for food, but it was never a concern with us. Every night after I was done talking to you, I'd close my eyes and wish for one thing, that we'd be together.You're the first girl I ever asked out. God I remember how scared I was. Basically my whole being was screaming, "No, don't do it, you're going to wreck a friendship." That's not what wrecked us though. We were like a time bomb, though, every night we stayed up talking about the randomest things, we were slowly exhausting ourselves. Exhausting what we had to talk about. I guess we were just too different, I suppose. There were other things we would get mad at each other about, but we'd always work through it, we'd never go to sleep mad at each other. Now, I go to sleep cursing your name, your very existence. You damaged me. I haven't spoken a word to you in three months now and you're still in my ear with everything I do. You are my demon, the pain I hide behind my eyes, I wake up every morning and I want to text you, but then I remember. It's not even that I miss you as a girlfriend or even a friend, I just want closure now. I like someone else now, I'm around her a lot, but I don't want her to turn into you. That is the scariest thing I've ever thought. I dread getting that close to another person because you were half of my brain, I shared with you my every thought, every fear, everything about me. And then, you turn around and abandon me like a dumpster baby outside your senior prom. The one thing I could possibly ask of you is closure, but now you've siphoned off everything in your life that was close to both of us mutually. Left me with the pieces of our social glass house that you shattered with your sling-shot of a personality. You have no idea how bad you damaged me, you'll never know how often I thought about you, stopped what I was doing, sat down, and cried. I don't think you ever will either, with how exclusive you act now.

I am your emotions; your hate and anger, I am "the one that got away", and the answers to your questions. I am everything you strive to be and everything you hate. Trapped within your own consciousness. I am you, the edge of your mind and inside your mind, the guiding hand and your gut feeling. I am the voice within your head, your taughts and feelings, I am everything you are, body and mind. You are a passenger and spectating your own life, your feelings are not yours, they are mine. You'll never know I exists but I will always be with you, the hand to help you up and the voice of reason. You will meet me one day. I am bound by your imagination, together we are trapped, locked deep within your subconscious. You only need set us free. One day you will meet me and when that day comes you will finally meet yourself and learn who you are.

An Ark, Gilgamesh and Maybe Even Atlantis On the top of what used to be a massive glacier, a gigantic lake was forming. For years the water had been melting and accumulating in the basin. Winds swirled around the sides, keeping the edges frozen by their artic touch, while water continued to accumulate. One day, in the distant past, a thunderous cracking filled the air. It scattered birds, spooked deer and drew the eyes of all. The booming was followed by crumbling, rocks and ice falling from great heights, tumbling down what was left of the once great glacier. Then the waters came. They rushed out. Their weight had finally caused the retaining wall of ice to collapse. Miles, upon miles, upon miles of water ran from the shell of ice that had once held it. The water scoured the earth, carving new pathways on its way towards the ocean. The old dirt was washed away. In a sense the world was cleansed. They didn’t know the ice caps were melting. They just saw the water flowing down their streets, into their doorways and through their homes. Some believed they had angered the gods and went to the temples in attempts to appease, others hand gone to those temples simply seeking sanctuary. Most just ran. Mothers ran with children in their arms, men ran with tool packs on their backs, and slaves ran while carrying their owners high above their heads on leisurely carts. Everyone tried to escape the flood, but few did. The waters overtook both the wretched and the angelic. No one could outrun a decline. One lucky man, a man called one name in some legends, another name in others, was a boat builder. He wasn’t chosen, he wasn’t warned, he was only lucky enough to have just finished his latest creation and smart enough to climb inside of it for safety. He was a kind man, and he coaxed many of the panicking citizens to follow him onto his vessel for safety. As the flood waters rose, the man and his boat set out on the sea that was being created. He had no way of knowing where the boat was headed, he wasn’t a sailor. But, in a couple of days it reached the shores of what used to be the great highlands, which was now just a shoreline. Once on dry land his followers called him a prophet, though he was only a man. Through the passage of time more ice melted. Stories were told about cities swallowed up by angry seas and heroes who saved people. More time passed and stories faded into myth, while beloved, the history’s they told were forgotten. Only beneath the sea’s gently lapping waters was the proof of the great cities that had vanished. Only in the depths of the oceans were remnants of glorious civilizations. Stories and memories are built once again, held together by the retaining walls humanity has created, waiting for the day they are inevitably washed away.

She sat on the chair, her eyes reflecting an internal struggle. Should she take 4 or 5 packets of bagels. She could not decide. She leaned down and turned to me and said "Is Scott coming tonight?" I was busy writing. I had to stop to think about her question. "I think so" I replied "He usually comes to Friday night meetings. I think he quite enjoys the food to be honest. Not that I can point the finger, for I enjoy it as well." She decided to take five lots of bagels in the end. She walked across the lounge and into the kitchen. Pausing at the oven, she picked up the recently boiled kettle, and poured herself an invigorating cup of hot water. Having satisfied her thirst, she turned to the bench - her eyes devouring the moorish muffins she made yesterday. Before I knew it she was sitting down at the table next to me, fully enjoying the simple pleasures of life - a drink in one hand, a muffin in the other. And she turned around and looked at the bagels again.

I heard positive feedback from my last post and decided to foray once again! Please feel free to leave commentaries of any kind and thanks for your time! :) *The blade’s on her neck the blade’s on her neck the blade’s on her neck Jesus Christ –* Ronnie had been watching the knife for the entirety of the three and a half seconds that it was on Ashley’s neck, but as per usual, he already had his surroundings practically memorized. Not by choice. He was six to seven paces away from his girlfriend, who was being held at knifepoint by her ex-boyfriend John. Judging by the slurring of his words John was extraordinarily drunk but all the more dangerous for it. The sidewalk block he was standing on was tilted slightly to the right. There was an ’08 Dodge Neon parked across the street. Blue. But other than that they were alone. A tear grew in Ashley’s right eye, bulbous and pure, and began to fall. His gun, a 5-shot Smith and Wesson J-frame snubnose revolver had only four bullets in it, which would have ordinarily blown Ronnie’s mind if it weren’t for the current circumstances. It was pointed directly at John’s left temple – one of the few spots on his face the cowardly bastard hadn’t hidden behind Ashley’s expanse of brown curly hair. The tear started to move down Ashley’s cheek, but she remained silent. *THE BLADE’S ON HER NECK HE’S TIGHTENING HIS GRIP HE’S DRUNK THE BLADE’S ON HER where the hell’s the fifth bullet –* Ronnie squinted for a split second to gather his concentration. Five more seconds passed. “Let – let her go, John,” he warned. The snubnose was steady but his voice betrayed his fear. Immediately to Ronnie’s right was a sizable azalea bush – he and Ashley had been walking hand in hand *her left hand had that little scar on it* enjoying the fall air when John had leapt out of the bush *the knife was backwards in his hand he was so drunk* and grabbed Ashley. He was standing under a streetlamp now, with Ashley *oh Christ oh Christ Ashley* in his brawny arms and the look in his eyes *ugly brown eyes like a pig* was desperate. Too desperate. “You hear me, you – you skinny fuck?” John was talking. How long had he been talking? “I’m gon’ kill ‘er, right here. Unless you give me what I – what I want.” *What the hell does he want? Stay focused!* “What – what do you want?” Ronnie demanded. He’d do whatever it took to get Ashley *dear Jesus God Ashley* – “You haven’t figured it out yet? Huh huh…fuckin’ smartass.” John made some kind of noise that would be a laugh if the situation were in any way funny. He knew John had hated him – he was a college dropout whose father was fortunate enough to be the head of the local teamster union and the degenerate chip on his shoulder seemed to be genetic. Ronnie was in med school *and look at all the good it’s doing you now* and volunteered at a hospital in inner city Chicago. Hence the Smith and Wesson. The tear on Ashley’s face had moved over her zygomatic bone. Ronnie fixed himself on that one tear – all his thoughts were contained within that miniscule bead of light and it was the only thing that allowed him to gather himself enough through his fear to say: “Just tell me and let her go. I’ll do whatever you want.” *HE TILTED THE BLADE TOWARD HER CAROTID HE TILTED THE BLADE TILTED THE BLADE THE BLADE –* Ronnie closed his eyes and sighed deeply to himself. Ashley’s green eyes were wide with terror *green like moss green like oak moss* and their gaze met for a second. “Use that piece of yers and blow your fuckin’ brains out. Here. Righ’ now,” John muttered. Options immediately poured into Ronnie’s brain, dozens of them, overlapping and interlinking and pulling apart in a maelstrom of mental activity that would have incapacitated him had he not had a lifetime of practice – OCD was a hell of a condition to live with but there were certain advantages. *Advantages. Like how you won her from the pig when you memorized her favorite songs and flowers and authors and remembered every word she said to you because it was like a songbird in a murder of crows.* As it was, his head felt like it was going to explode but thank God for that tear – descending slower than he had thought possible over the soft curve of her cheek and bearing toward her chin. Ashley reacted with a start and screamed, “NO! You motherfucker! Ronnie don’t you even think –“ then John muffled her with a hand that was good for little else than hauling cardboard boxes. *Hairy. Pudgy at the joints. Early onset arthritis. Not even callused.* Her straining pushed the skin of her neck against the blade of the knife and a wire-thin line of blood appeared on her neck *three inches from the carotid three inches just three.* “Ya know I’ll come back for her if ya don’t. I’ll kill her, nice an’ slow, because if I CAN’T HAVE ‘ER NO ONE CAN! YOU HEAR?!” Ronnie focused the gun on his temple, ready to pull the trigger *just like he practiced exhale loosen wrist pull exhale loosen wrist pull* if John lost control of the knife. He still didn’t have a clear shot *son of a bitch* because he couldn’t tell where Ashley’s head lay under her frazzled hair. The tear had reached the side of her chin now, and was becoming increasingly subject to the forces of gravity. It was seconds away from falling. “How do I know you’re not lying? You’ll kill her after I do it won’t you?!” Ron screamed. He was surprised to see tears appearing in John’s left eye now. “Ya don’t fuckin’ geddit do ya?” he blubbered. “…Get what?” Ron ventured. John’s sputtering only intensified then *stupid fucking animal* and thick, belligerent, fat tears begin falling from his bloodshot eyes. *Remember how she cried when you sang that song to her outside her apartment? Easy Living by Billie Holiday and you thought you’d fucked it up so bad that you’d never be able to live with yourself but she smiled at you with her right canine showing and kissed you and the silence was the most beautiful thing you’d ever heard.* “Ah’m still in love with her, an’ I may have fucked up too bad already but she deserves better’n YOU, you fuckin’ psycho. I heard about you, goin’ around and pickin’ up sugar packets ‘n countin’ pigeons ‘n shit. She ain’t safe with you.” *There’s got to be a pattern that governs how many pigeons flock toge- FOR FUCK’S SAKE CONCENTRATE YOU USELESS SHIT USELESS SHIT USELESS SHIT FREAK* The tear was beginning to bud now, forming the tiniest of rises on her perfect, flawless chin. “Will you leave her alone? Forever?” Ron pleaded. John grunted. “Yeh, so long as she does better. But if I hear hide or hair of you bein’ around, anywhere, ever…my boys’ll come knockin’ ‘n she’ll regret the day she’s born. So STOP FUCKIN’ AROUND AN’ DROP THAT FUCKIN’ GUN!!!” he screamed, tilting the knife so the point aimed right for the center of Ashley’s neck. *THE CAROTID THE CAROTID ONE SLIP AND NO AMBULANCE WILL HELP ONE SLIP ONE TWITCH ONE SPASM ONE –* The tear was suspended on her chin, just about to fall. Time seemed to slow as he watched it draw away from Ashley’s face. Her eyes screamed things he couldn't understand. Ron lowered the gun. “Ya got three seconds before I ream ‘er like a stuck pig!” *Is he serious he won’t do it his muscles are tensing he’s completely serious* “ONE!” *can you shoot him if you move the gun he’ll kill her you still don’t have the shot probably not the first time this fuck’s had someone at gunpoint shoot him pull it shoot him exhale loose wrist pull* “TWO!” *he just drew blood again carotid carotid carotid you don’t have a belt or a tourniquet carotid you have no choice* “WAIT A SEC” John yelled, surprising everyone. His lopsided mouth hung open as he processed his thought. “Yer a doctor. Shoot right where you love her, wherever that is in yer brain. Blow it clean out of yer head.” John grinned, and from behind Ashley’s hair Ron could see his molars showing. The tear, at that moment, separated from Ashley’s chin and began to fall. Ron chose the caudate nucleus, an area often associated with reward and memory functions and turned his eyes to Ashley’s. Beautiful. *Moss green. Moss that grows on oak trees in September green.* “I love you. And always will.” A tear of his own joined Ashley's on the uneven sidewalk. “Two ‘n a half, ya fuckin’ freak.” John spat. *At least you know you won’t miss.* The perverse knowledge somehow gave Ron a minute amount of solace – finally, after an entire life of pain, struggle, and ridicule he was completely in control in this moment. He exhaled. He loosened his wrist.

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

One afternoon, a boy went out to take a stroll through the woods that surrounded his house. The day was a beautiful one, and birds chirped their way from one tree to another. Eventually it grew hotter, and the boy started to feel really tired. So he sat down in the shade of a large oak and closed his eyes, and he eventually fell asleep. He woke up a quite a few hours later. The sun had set, and it was dark. Very dark. He got up and started hurrying home, wondering if his parents had started worrying about him being out so late. He finally reached the edge of the woods, and there was his house. But something was strange. He couldn't quite put his finger on it until he realised that it was very dark, yet the house lights weren't on. He didn't think too much of it though, and just kept on running. He got to the front door and realised that it was already ajar. This was where he started to get worried. He slowly opened the door and looked inside. Not being able to see anything, he fumbled for the light switch. Finally he found it. He switched the lights on, and he gasped at what he saw. The lounge & kitchen was trashed. Chairs were broken, tables lying on their side. Practically everything was on the floor, broken into pieces. "Mum? Dad?" he called out, hoping that this was just some bad joke. No answer. Silence remained. Deciding to check out the rest of the house, he tiptoed through the destroyed lounge, trying not to disturb anything. He reached his parents bedroom door. His hand reached out to twist the doorknob, but he froze. The doorknob had blood on it. Alot of it. He turned the bloody doorknob and opened the door to his parents bedroom. He stood in the doorway. Frozen. Frozen in fear and shock by what he was seeing. Laying on the floor were his parents. At least if you could still recognise them, that is. Their bodies had been hewn apart, bit by bit, joint by joint, so that what remained was pieces. Half a finger here, another kneecap there. However the abhorence of this scene was that all the pieces had been place back in order. Some sick twisted thing had hewn their bodies into tiny pieces, and then tried to put them back into order. Like some disgusting version of puzzle. The sight of it all was too much for him. He bent over in disgust, and emptied his stomach of his half digested lunch. Suddenly there was a noise from behind him. Someone must have heard him vomit. He turned around, ready to bolt, but he was too late. A fast moving wooden plank emerged out of the darkness behind and hit him square on the back of his head. He was knocked out cold. Completely unconcious. He woke up with a gasp. He looked around, trying to see where he was. Suddenly, he realised. He was sitting in the shade of the great oak. The sun had set, and it was dark. Very dark. Just a dream he reassured himself. It was just a dream. He got up and started hurrying home, wondering if his parents had started worrying about him being out so late. *How could I have slept for so long*, he thought. Finally, he reached the edge of the woods, and there was his house. Something was wrong though. The lights were off. *No, it couldn't be*, he thought. He was sure that it all had just been a very bad dream. A very bad nightmare. Realising that the last thing he remembered in his 'dream' was been hit in the back of the head, he reached for his head. Time slowed as he raised his hand to feel for the bruise that prove whether it was just a dream or not. *It was just dream*, he thought.

Please keep in mind, it was written by my uncle on his very first try, english is not even his first language. THE DRIFTER A cowboy goin through a desert alone beneath a relentless sun. facing the warm desert wind on his face. Alone on a pale horse with a rifle in his saddle. Couldn’t see no one in miles. Whispering to his horse “ boy we have been in worse we will make it through . after two days of wandering he sees a woman alone blond hair and blue eyes . cried so much that she couldn’t cry no more. He helped the lady on his pale horse she was half conscious . took her to the town she stared at him asks his name. he replies maam” I am just a drifter”. Leaving her to the doctor he goes to the town people stare at him . As for me , I knew what they saw, looking at me , and it wasn’t much. My jaw was blunt and my nose had been broken, and I carried most of my hundred and ninety pounds in my chest and shoulders . I had forty eight inches chest above a riders small waist. The denim shirt which I wore had been blue at one time, but had faded, nothing I wore or owned was new, my outfit was beat up, rained on and sand weathered, and that included me too. Along with that I had a stubble of beard on a face deep browned by the sun, and light brown eyes that showed up lighter than they were, against my dark tanned skin. In my belt was a bowie knife, and down the back of my neck a throwing knife. Tied my horse and went in the hotel, silence ripped through the room. I walked slowly to the bartender, only my spurs could be heard in the pin drop silence of the hall. One man spoke out he is the same man who helped the witch lady. I was surrounded by four of them. As one of them tried to punch me I took my bowie knife and made a deep cut above his nose he screamed and went on the floor, punched the other one on the nose blood spilled on his face . Kicked the third one on the ribs and could hear his ribs cracking , he gasped for breath. Fourth rustler ran to the door and I threw my throwing knife which pierced through his left leg and he fell to the floor. Lady recovered in few days and found drifter when he was leaving out of town. Eyes gazed down she approached him. Mr. won’t you come and visit my family our house is close to the river . he said “maam once I had a family and I don’t want to refresh my memory . I am a drifter lady, I don’t want to get involved I am a lonely man who lives in the mountains, hunts grizzly and bisons for a living. I have to endure harsh cold weathers and heat of the deserts. I am a drifter lady please forgive me. So he left her alone where she was. She stared after him as he slowly vanishes in the setting sun. That pale rider is me.

"He's back" Muttered Robert, clenching his fists at the unmistakeable odour of his high school classmate seeping from under the door. " I have no choice but to face him, and hope he'll forgive me for what I have done" he sighed, resigned to his fate as he opened the door. To his surprise, on the other side of the door was a whole army, donning leather jackets and carrying submachine guns, a truly imposing sight. "Hello Robert, it's been a while" a deep, threatening voice booms from the leader of the party, demanding compliance. "I've heard that you've made yourself quite a life since the highschool days" he spits, a chunky piece of vegetable hitting robert in the eye. Robert looked at his visitor, confirming his worst fears. The Potato salad had joined a gang. "You see, I never quite fit in in highschool, all the other salads crowded around me, mocking me because I was different. But in the years successing those dark days, I realised something, I don't need leaves to be happy, I can be successful without any special seasoning, or ingredients. All you need in life is some mayo, and some potatoes" at the conclusion of his inspiring monologue, the potato salad signalled to his allies, bursting forwards and restraining Robert, crushing any chances of escape. "Do you like my friends Robert? They've come to help me extract my revenge from my greatest highschool bully, Robert 'Julius' Ceasar". "You'll never get away with this, you know what could come from it, jailtime and maybe even the death penalty. Is it really worth it?" Robert says, begging for his life, trying to talk some reason into the maniacal salad standing before him. "Yes, yes it is" The potato salad curtly states as he lines up his gun perfectly with Robert's head. "Goodbye Robert" and then the regretful Robert Ceasar was gone. His life snatched from him in an instant by the pain that his child self had caused to the poor, misunderstood potato salad. Thank you for observing the creation of a madman with too much time on his hands.

They were sitting on the floor playing video games, laughing about how terrible she is at the game. She watched his face light up with a laugh and it was as though time slowed down. She saw his smile spread through his lips, up to his eyes. It seemed genuine. In this moment, like each time they talk, Charlotte had a crippling fear that bubbled within her throat; it was as though her mind will have the words planned out, but her heart will say something entirely different. Do something different, something bad. Something that could be so detrimental to her social life, ripping it from its very roots and throwing it into a deep valley of Netflix and takeout on a Saturday night. Each time they come face to face, this very threat is there. One mistake, one wrong look could change things forever. She knew this was long coming, this love that was built upon drunken nights, early mornings, awful professors, and ever-lasting sexual tension—a love that came to be in college. Freshman year is where it all started for Charlotte. It was an innocent encounter, a merging of two groups of friends the first night of college. She ended up in his room, in Henry’s room, that night with several other people they had met. From there, it was inevitable. She had been used to busy day in high school, full of class, extracurricular activities, and of course studying. He was used to school and studying, and a strict social life, or lack thereof. So when the two finally emerged from their tight schedules of high school, they landed into this world of empty hours and open bars. The only thing that stopped this pair from sprinting into a whirlwind relationship was the fact that Henry had a girlfriend, a girl whom Charlotte actually knew from elementary school. Henry and her had been together for at least a year prior to entering this extraordinary life that is college. Having a girlfriend never stopped this friendship. He always texted Charlotte, asking if she was free for dinner, or wanted to study together. This trend continued for so long, so many of those empty hours were spent together doing nothing; playing video games, talking about nonsense. Soon they grew so comfortable together, their conversations changed. They drifted from discussions based around schoolwork and friends, to the girlfriend and sex. Oh, the conversations about sex were in plenty, he knew what she liked and what she wanted. She knew what he had trouble with in regards to his girlfriend, and she ever so dutifully gave him advice to help the couple in bed. The advice about the girlfriend was not limited to sexual advice however. Henry asked Charlotte about real, emotional relationship issues. She actually had the opportunity to tell him to break up with the girlfriend several times, but she stayed true to being his friend and helped work them out. While sex, or at least the intriguing topic of sex, was a prominent focus in their friendship, the conversations about themselves and family are what stood out the most. She talked about her depressed father, and how that put such a strain on her family. He held her when she cried about losing a friend. She smiled and laughed and he talked about his old pets, and his cute sister. It took him longer though, longer to open up to her. He told her that she was the only one to know some things about him. About how he had been depressed for so long, how he hates being alone, how very few things make him happy. She wanted to make him happy, she wanted to be the reason he smiled. She saw him smile and laugh so often, but she could only wonder if it was all an act, or if she did in fact make him laugh. He did not know though, he was unaware of the things she wished for, oblivious to how he made her feel. This unawareness that Henry held in regards to Charlotte was obvious by his manners, if only he knew how she felt. Sometimes the two would walk into an empty room and he would declare that they should fuck. It was all a joke of course, a joke to him. To her, it was as though someone was slowly breaking her heart—anyone could see it behind her plastered on smile, not Henry though. He became her worst enemy and her ultimate fantasy all rolled into one. She wanted him to be so much, to be there for her in a way that means more than friendship, to make her smile and cry with joy. She knew in her heart that he would never be those things. Charlotte was aware that he was sexually attracted to her, he was never vague about that. One night, she confessed to him that while she joked about sex all the time, all she really wanted was love. He said he understood and they chatted about it for a while. Later that same night though, he told her about how he and his roommate had come to the decision that Charlotte would be a solid lay. Such conversations were not unusual. Once, when they were gathered with a group of friends, they jokingly speculated on whether or not Henry and Charlotte would make a good couple. Henry stated that they would, at least for a month because it would all be physical. Each one of these was a blow to her. A reminder that he did not see her as anything more than a friend and would never be anything more than that. All of these memories came crashing back to Charlotte as she watched him laugh while playing video games. It has been over a year and it is time for her to move on, she knows that because they’re friendship will never be more than what it is. From their first meeting, it was inevitable, not friendship nor love, but heartbreak.

The first day of the revolution was not a happy one. Many of my neighbors were grey with anxiety as we lined up outside City Hall. It had been less than an hour since the military police had thrown down their weapons and surrendered. About a dozen men emerged from the destroyed police station with their arms raised. None were spared. For many of my friends, it was their first time committing murder. You could see it on their faces. Their lips quivered and their eyes sunk under the weight of their Catholic guilt. Despite all their talk, my friends did not yet have the stomach for murder. But I did. There are many reasons why I was the de facto leader that day as we marched on City Hall. I had always been vocal dissident. I had lost my family and my farm to the regime. There was an American reporter in the village and I spoke the best English. Despite this, I suspect that I was able to lead because I was the only one in the village who had killed before. The thought makes my mouth go dry, but I fear it is true. Numbness to violence may be all a leader needs. When we arrived at City Hall, I had the men of the town form an orderly line in front of the building. They stood ready with makeshift weapons; mostly gardening equipment. The men who had not fired a shot at the police station were placed closest to the door. They needed to share the responsibility of the revolution. They needed to taste murder. The mayor and his staff did not leave the building immediately. My friends and neighbors grew impatient under the Latin American sun that beat down on them. I heard them muttering to each other, “Why don’t we drag them out?” or “Can’t we just burn this building down?” I continued to wait. It would be better this way. After some time, the mayor emerged. He exited the building alone but, as he closed the doors behind him, we could see his staff waiting inside with terrified faces. I stood closest to the door, away from the ranks of townspeople standing before the building. The mayor dabbed the sweat from his light-brown forehead and approached me. He was dressed in his best clothes. I had forgotten that it was Sunday. As the fat man came to a stop before me, I addressed him by his fist name, “Good afternoon, Guillermo.” “And to you, Señor Alvaro,” he replied in a calm, subdued voice. The only other man near us was the American reporter. He scribbled in his notepad, trying to translate despite his weak grasp on the Spanish language. “It is a lovely day, isn’t it,” the mayor said, as if to himself. “They are waiting,” I said, pointing to the crowd. “They do not look very eager, Señor Alvaro. They seem more afraid than I am.” “Then I will give them strength. That is what a true leader does.” “A true leader,” Guillermo said thoughtfully. “Tell me, Señor Alvaro, are there any members of the military police still alive?” I shook my head. “Once the capital hears of this, they will burn this village to the ground. No amount of leadership can save you from their army. They will destroy each of those men and their farms. They will rape their wives and slaughter their children.” “These are desperate times, Guillermo. You have pushed us to this level.” Guillermo nodded sadly. “I am sorry you think that.” The mayor looked up at the gentle clouds and asked, “Is there any way I could convince you to spare the rest of the men in City Hall?” I shook my head again. “I didn’t think so.” Guillermo sighed before speaking again. “Very well. Give me a moment to prepare myself and I will go.” “The people have waited long enough,” I said. “You go now.” “You arrogant child,” Guillermo said, looking at me with scorn, “thinking you can command a dead man.” The mayor looked at the crowd for a few seconds. Nobody spoke. Even the wind was silent. “Are you ready?” I asked after almost a minute had gone by. “No,” Guillermo said. “But I will go anyway. I encourage you to spare the rest of the men in City Hall. The army may be more lenient if you make this compromise.” “There will be no compromise,” I declared with conviction. “Maybe greed has corrupted your judgment, Guillermo, but we will not show compassion for evil men. As long as we fight for a just cause, no army in the world can defeat us. That is something you can never understand.” He did not look at me with disgust, anger, or disdain. Looking into his eyes, I saw sadness. “Tanto orgullo,” he said to me. “Te destruirá, hijo.” Without another word, he walked towards the crowd. The men raised their weapons, but none wanted to take the first swing. The mayor did not slow. It looked as if he would walk right through the crowd. At last, one man brought a shovel down on Guillermo’s head. He fell to one knee as blood shot from the wound. Another man struck him in the side and the mayor was on his back. The mob began to form a circle around him. “What was the last thing he said?” the American reporter said behind me. “Such pride,” I said as I watched the bloodlust spread through the crowd. “It will destroy you, child.

“I had a dream about you last night” his eyes gazing deeply at the cold, unforgiving stone. “We were on the beach, the sun was just about to set. It was the first time that I said that I loved you. You just cocked your head to the side, smiled and said that you knew.” Tears started to well in his eyes, his gaze shifting to the ground, pounding the firm dirt, driving down his knuckles. Ten years had not been enough to dull the pain, he threw off his jacket and rifled through the pockets to produce a cigarette and lighter. He sat beside the cold slab, inhaling deeply, trying to hold back the tears. “God Emily, I always thought you were crazy. Always going on and on about how it’s the little things in life that pull you through, keep you going. The things that go without notice until they are taken away. If there’s one thing you were right about, I’m lost without you.” He took a long drag on his cigarette, exhaling slowly. “Maybe if I told you more often how much I loved you, you wouldn’t have gotten in your car that day, maybe if…” his voice cracked and trailed off as tears streamed down his pale cheeks. He looked up at the sky, the mid-afternoon sun beating down on him as he dug through his jacket one final time. He kissed the top of the headstone as he slowly cocked the hammer back. Pressing it firmly under his chin he whispered, “I’m sorry,” as he pulled the trigger.

I am not an editor, I am simply a person like you, who enjoys writing and reading short stories. Writing brings me a sense of peace. I realize there are mistakes, I am working on them, but I couldn't hold off the intriguing story. Enjoy. Also, I apologize for the formatting, I do not know how reddit handles text. Upon enough requests, I will link to full story. Michael Milone The Secret Adventures of Alfonso Ree and the Steps of Laguary Revision 18 Chapter 1: Tired Awakenings 7 in the morning, Alfonso Pierre Ree woke up by the glaring sound of his alarm. Alpi, his friends called him, rolled around his bed. The cold pounded the window in his room while trees scrambled back and forth from the intense winds. The sleepy head woke up and slammed his alarm clock off. Alfonso opened up his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Nonexistent decorations fulfilled his array of white walls. Clothes filled the floor, created a barrier and prohibited walking. “This sucks,” Alfonso said to himself. The 11 year old boy sat on the edge of his bed with no t-shirt on, or sleeping wear, just boxers. He looked at the time: 7:05, 30 minutes until 6th grade started. A stack of books laid across his nightstand: math, science, and history, all opened up. A quick rub to his eyes strengthened his vision. He took a couple of baby steps toward his closet, making a path, and dispersing clothes with every step. He fitted himself in a red long sleeve checkered shirt. He took two steps into jeans and put socks on. His toe seeped out from the top of his right sock. “Boom, boom, boom,” noises slammed across the hall. It was Norfal, Alfonso's step brother. “Can he make any more noise?” Alfonso exclaimed. Alfonso threw on the straps to his backpack. Pieces of shredded material were growing at the joints of the straps and the weight of the books dragged him down a couple of inches, making him stand just 4 feet 8 inches. “Alfonso, wake up! There's no time to be reciting your times tables,” said Norfal. “I’m up!”Alfonso rushed down the stairs of red carpeting that covered each step and narrow walls spiraling down to the kitchen. Norfal raced behind him, trying to reach the kitchen first, “Move it slow poke, I’m trying to eat.” His shoulder nudged Alfonso’s elbow into the wall, making a sudden thump. Alfonso rolled his eyes as another common day progressed. He rubbed his eyes to make the kitchen setting easier to see: rugged ovens, dim lighting, and aged window shades. The floor was made of tile and couldn’t have been colder indoors. His mom prepared waffles for them. Alfonso’s appetite wasn’t existent this morning, but Norfal chewed through them like a maniac. Each chomp from his mouth sprayed saliva onto the table. Little pieces of waffle fell onto the ground and syrup spread all over his mouth. Alfonso stared in disgust. Norfal was in 5th grade and already took the form of a fat 8th grader. The clock struck 7:15, “May I be excused to walk to school?” “Wait for Norfal to finish,” his mom said. Alfonso sighed, opened up a book, and waited until his fat step-brother finished eating his breakfast. The time was approaching 7:30 and Alfonso was getting ready to leave the house without permission. His mom had her back turned and Alfonso suddenly made a break for it; dodging toys on the ground, open doors, hanging clothes, and finally opened the door to the outside world. The cool breeze struck his face, making a fresh start into a new school year. His problems seemed to drift away while the wind blew at him. Leaves blew across his feet and the morning wet grass made his sneakers slippery. He kept on jogging away from the house he embarrassingly called home. He looked back and saw it sitting there like a rectangle between two mansions. Norfal was trying his hardest to reach Alfonso. Alfonso looked around to see if there were any traps he could set so his so called brother couldn’t catch him. He quickly threw a couple of trash cans toward the direction Norfal was running in. Norfal’s reaction was delayed; his foot caught the side of the trash can and tripped onto his face. Norfal’s plummet instantly spread redness throughout his cheeks and face. Scrape marks were present and blood started to slowly seep through the scratches. Alfonso paused for a second to see his brother on the ground to realize what he had done. It was a rainy Sunday afternoon, darkness impended the Ree household. It was almost out of a scary movie: lightening was expected to flash throughout the room while a killer suddenly emerged to take the life of an innocent child. The clock ticked passed 6 pm. Alfonso was on his bed, reminiscing about how reticent his life is. Scrolling through passages from math books and minding his business. He laid the book flat on his chest. The heavy weight of hundreds of years of crap seemed to be the foundation of every ones lives. He asked himself, “Is life progressing for the good?” His eyes wondered into the space of his ceiling while he slowly moved onto his side, facing away from his door. Alfonso’s tired eyes begin to swell and slowly shut. The lights abruptly turned off. A shadow emerged from the darkness moving across the walls of Alfonso’s room. Swift feet made it impossible for Alfonso to detect such an imposter. The killer made careful awareness of the clothes and belongings on the floor, not to make such an amateur mistake of suddenly awakening the victim. Each stroke of time went off like a bomb. Sweat started to accumulate under the murderer’s mask. The rubber gloves made sounds of rubber stretching like that of a fist. A deep sigh from Alfonso let air out like a fan, swirling outward toward the holes of the killer’s mask. The killer stopped to ensure no sound emerged. Alfonso flipped onto his stomach and suddenly opened his eyes. The room was dark, only the light from the window made a rectangle on his wall. Uneasiness began to form. It was like a weight was swallowed and couldn’t get passed his throat. Big gulps of air started to rush through Alfonso’s mouth. “WHO’S THERE?” The room stared at him blankly with no response. The killer crawled his way around Alfonso’s bed quietly, slithering like a snake, a predator on the hunt. The killer made his way around Alfonso’s bed, the window side of it while Alfonso tried to reach for the lights. Alfonso’s hands scrambled for the light switch. Alfonso slammed the light switch on and was then suddenly covered with a pair of gloves. “HELP!” Alfonso screamed as the dark figure put a piece of cloth over his mouth. Alfonso’s inhalation of the cloth made him slowly go into a deep sleep. He slowly went numb as his limbs laid out across the bed lifelessly. Chapter 2: Reawakening Voices entered Alfonso’s head, “HELP! HELP!” It was his own voice as his eyes flickered open. Light seeped in from large fluorescent lighting on the ceiling. It reminded him of a hospital but he wasn’t sure. He groaned in grogginess while a massive headache struck his head. He looked at his clothing: red checkered button down and jeans. Everything seemed to be the same Alfonso thought. His vision started to gain clarity of his surroundings. It was his room except the walls emitted an unusual brightness. He looked toward the clock and it said 7 am. “Stop reciting your times tables!” The sound of his step brother echoed through his head. “What is happening? I feel like this has happened before.” Suddenly a figure emerged through Alfonso, a clear transparent figure. It looked like himself. “How can this be happening? What the hell is going on?” Alfonso watched himself get dressed in the exact attire he is wearing. He followed himself go down the stairs while Norfal walked through him and nudged his clear transparent self. “This has happened before,” Alfonso kept saying to himself. Suddenly Alfonso heard doors slam and saw his transparent self run out of the house. Trash cans emerged in the street while Norfal clumsily ran after his clear transparent self. Alfonso saw Norfal fall onto his face and bleed while his transparent figure ran into the light. Norfal started to laugh with no expression besides an evil looking smile. “I’ll get you Alfonso. I’ll get you back.” Alfonso started to feel a tingle, a rush of goose bumps crawling up his spine. Norfal then limped out of the street and into an alley way a block away from his home.

When I was a teenager (which was only a few years ago, if you know what I mean) I used to chill the bush that surrounded my house with a bunch of my mates. You have to understand, this was Kiwi (aka New Zealand) bush. It's not nice open space between trees, with grass and pine needles covering the ground. Instead the trees are dense and close together, vines growing over the wet slippery clay - as there is virtually no top soil. Anyways me and my mates would usually kick back a couple beers, and occasionally goof around in someone else's property while the owners were away. More than once we got chased off by some freackin mongrel mutt that fancied taking a bite out of our arses. But that never discouraged us, as we'd just go another property the next time. We were the lords of the land. At least that's we thought, until everything changed. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, and the end of our last year in high school was in sight. In celebration of this I bought a couple of extra packets of beer to our chillout that afternoon. Time started to pass quickly, as it always does when you're having a good time, and before I knew it - it was almost time for everyone to go their seperate ways. Just as the first of us were getting ready to leave, someone yelled out "Hold up guys. Let's not leave yet. Let's go to someone's property." The voice belonged to Maria, the hottest and at the time most intoxicated girl in our group. She was a straight up gorgeous platinum blonde that wore usually only tanks tops and short shorts, which fitted her curvaceous figure like a glove. "We've done them all" replied my best friend and wingman, Matt Caerdon "It's just boring now." Loud discussion broke out amongst the group, everyone wanting to voice their own opinion on the subject. But amongst all the noise and discussion, it was the quietest voice amongst the group that caused everyone to be silent. A quiet voice that uttered only five words "We haven't done the Mansion." The silence hovered over us all for what seemed like an eternity as we all contemplated the idea. You see "the Mansion", as we called it, was a large mansion (who would have guessed) at the furtherest edge of the bush. Not only did it physically look daunting, but getting there was even more daunting as you had to cross a small bog and then climb a very inclined slope that was crammed with trees reaching up to the sky above. Only a couple of us had ever bothered to do it before, but none of us had trespassed there before. Funnily enough, the Mansion had always seemed a too grand and proper of a place to goof around, or at least to me it did. The silence was broken as Maria raised her beer bottle and let out a massive "Hellz yeah!". Not everyone was as keen on the idea though. Randy, the usually quiet nerd of the group, and the one who had originally suggested the idea too, was unusually vocal in his support for the idea. *Maybe he's finally trying to get his chance with Maria*, I thought. The Maori twins (as I called them), Aroha and Tane, were in favour of it as well, along with Hayato (the foreign exchange student) and Matt Caerdon. The rest of us, including me, were undecided on it - with a few completely against it. So in the end it was put to a vote, with the majority getting their way and the rest had to tag along. The votes were cast. Hands shot up and down in favour of the different options, but it soon became clear that only one option was ever going to win. It was settled. We were going to the Mansion. To be honest the trip there was quite uneventful. Sure some of us slipped over due to the slimey clay and got their arses dirty. Others somehow managed to find the deepest part of the bog, sinking past their knees into the dirty filthy water. Squeamish Maria even managed to convince Randy to piggy back her across the bog, though me and Matt were really hoping that Randy would trip, sending them both face first into the bog. I would have loved to have seen that. Anyways, we all crossed the bog eventually, and after a decent amount of hiking up the steep inclined hill, we made it. We all stood under the cover of the manuka trees that bordered the edge of the bush, drinking in the sight that lay before us. Perfectly mown grass lawns stretched before us, intercepted by what looked like to be vegetable and flower gardens, and behind that - the Mansion. To be honest, it truly was a mansion in every sense. There was a massive tiled courtyard that surrounded the main entrance, decorated with tables, chairs and even barbecues in a perfectly symmetrical design. All the doors and the frames of the windows and sliding doors appeared to be made out of solid mahogany wood, which in turn colour complemented both the tiled courtyard and the rest of the house's exterior walls. There seemed to be so many windows, that I never even tried to guess how many rooms lay within. All in all, I'd say that the Mansion covered at least 600 meters squared, if not more. I remember it was Kate who made the first move. She must have stepped forth, her feet scrunching the perfectly trimmed grass, but to me it had always seemed like that girl glided on the air. The way she moved and turned...a dancing angel in our midst. The way that she flicked her long black curls, causing the sunlight to frame those deep blue eyes. Eyes that seemed to dance and smile whenever I saw them. She was my dream girl. Kate turned around, surprised that no one had followed suit. "Come on guys" she giggled "Last one there buys next week's beer!" And with that, she raced off in a sprint towards the Mansion. That definitely did the trick. Within a matter of seconds we were all sprinting over the grass lawns, none of us wanting our wallets to be lighter next week. Out of the eleven of us that sprinted across the imaginary finish line and onto the tiled courtyard, it was Hayato and Patricia who tied for last place. "I guess that means we're having the double the amount of free beer next week!" I shouted to both of them, giving Matt a sneaky wink at the same time. Hayato immediately started cursing in Japanese, very unhappy at such a thought - which only caused us to break into fits of giggles and laughter. "It's okay Hayato" I called back to him, struggling not to break in laughter again. "We don't drink that much...". That proved to be to be the last straw, as we all burst laughing again, the truth usually being far from that. Laughter is thankfully infectious and it was only a matter of seconds before Hayato was laughing alongside us, our lungs gasping for air. "Well, I guess no one is home, or we would know by now I think" proclaimed Randy, pushing his ever slipping glasses back onto his nose. "He's got a point, guys" replied Tane " If there was, we would have been chased off by now by some guy with an air rifle, or some stupid freackin son of a-" Tane was suddenly interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream that came from behind us. We all turned around, startled and freaked out by the terror that the scream had expressed. It was Maria. She was standing rigidly still. Her body frozen in fear. Her mouth still open, as if her bloodcurdling scream had frozen in her throat. Her eyes leaking tears. Her right arm stretched out, pointing with a trembling hand. Pointing at one of the many sliding doors of the mansion. Time slowed as my eyes followed her trembling pointing hand, hoping this was all some sick prank. But what I saw still haunts me to this very day. Leaking down the glass sliding door was two bloody handprints. Two long bloody handprints that seemed like they had been clawing at the glass. "Girl...." Maria gasped. "There was a little girl there.

The weathered man exits the trail and sits on a rock, peering off into the distance. He's waiting for something. Green. Trees laid out as far as the eye can see, dripping with the beautiful amber of an Oregon sunset. Between the trees there was a road, weaving like a snake through tall grass. A faint sound. Getting louder. 8 cylinders exploding in harmony into the air, echoing across the forest. It was fast, and getting closer. QUICK CUT The tall man behind the wheel of his Cobra, gripping the wheel with white knuckles and a bloody collar. His eyes scream with rage, his tears stream with sadness and despair. His anger was hot. It used him. QUICK CUT The weathered man unrolls a cloth on the ground revealing a silenced Glock 17, accompanying ammunition, and a long slender knife. The engine's noise is echoing in his ears now, and he peers off into the distance, his eyes sharpening. His anger was cold. He used it. *A challenge.* QUICK CUT The tall man pulls his car into the gravel at the base of the mountain, slamming on the brakes and sliding the last few feet. He kicks the door open, and plods back to the trunk, opening it. He reaches inside, hesitating for a moment, but then pulling out a Marlin 1984 rifle with a blood-caked stock. Peering over his shoulder at the base of the trail, his focuses his gaze and takes a deep breath. *Try and run.

(IMPORTANT NOTE: what you are about to read was not based on a true story. It was INSPIRED by a true story. I really did hurt my toe this weekend and had to go see two doctors about it. BUT IT DEFINITELY DID NOT GO DOWN LIKE THIS) Everyone who reads this was either there when this story happened, or has probably heard the story already. Thus, in the spirit of Halloween, I am going to take some (serious, serious) artistic license here and recount to you all: THE TERRIFYING TALE OF... THE GIMP TOE Let the absurdly overdramatic, wildly exaggerated, terribly written, purple prose commence... ~~ It was a night like any other night. Dark. Dangerous. And full of doors. At the time, I was unaware of what horrors lurked literally three feet from my face. If I had known then what I know now...I might not have smashed myself directly into that door with as terrifying a force as I did. Maybe. I actually have no idea. The door was as tall as a 7 foot door. That is, it was 7 feet tall, and also a door. And it demolished my toe. The pain was incomprehensible, the thoughts rushing through my head with such speeds that I could only catch fragments of the pain, broken sentences colliding with the walls of my mind like that one dog who sleep-ran into that wall. Like in that Youtube video. On the internet. why did this even this is the opposite of what I wanted ow I stood back, staggered, and beheld the state of my toe. It was a mangled, mishapen mess of skin, in my mind. In reality, my toe appeared no more harmed than as if it were a fly shaken gently by a 7 foot tall door-shaped gust of wind. The site of impact, the left side of the toe, throbbed angrily, but seemed to be more or less "dealing with it", as they say. I thought nothing more of it. I was so foolish back then... Days passed, a week came and went, and just like that one movie about that video tape and the tv and the well and the dead girl in that well and also the tv again in case I left it out...seven days later, something happened. When I woke up that morning from unsettling dreams, I found my toe changed in my sock into a monstrous wound. Screw you, toe. Why you gotta be like that. I thought we were pals and then you go and do this. Panic-gripped, I flew forward from my bed. Rushed into the bathroom, fumbling with the door handle until I got it locked. Gasping for breath, I looked down at the toe once more. It was bad. And it looked hungry, the kind of look you get from not eating for a while. What do you want, toe? Go away. Seriously, get out. The toe didn't answer. Not knowing that toes don't usually respond to verbal threats, I foolishly assumed that was the end of it. The gimp toe would heed my warnings and get out. If my actions following this incident are ever examined as evidence in the final trial against mankind, God help us all. I continued to go about my daily life, feigning normality during the day, creeping back to appease the growing problem that was my toe by night. After three days, things got serious. Seriously wack. My gimp toe had become self aware. Now a sentient being, it had only one mission: to spread it's gimpness across the land, turning everything in it's wake into seriously gimp shit. It was then that I knew this monstrosity needed to be stopped. It was invincible to peroxide now. I was going to need a bigger gun. Figuratively. Maybe figuratively. And so in secret, I organized a trip to the urgent care center. Unbeknownst to my toe, this was not a trip I had taken "just because I felt like it" as I had initially lied. This was Operation Stop-Being-Gimpy-Seriously-You-Suck. I was getting rid of this problem, no matter the cost. The doctor walked in. I froze--the Gimp Toe knew. I had to act fast. Before the doctor could speak, I ripped of the bandage covering the monstrosity that was Gimp Toe and shouted "KILL IT. KILL IT FOR GOD'S SAKE. KILL IT WITH FIRE." The doctor paused for a moment. Then nodded. Understood. He left the room in search of an approriate weapon with which to defeat Gimp Toe. I was left alone. Waiting. Time moved slower than the speed of a really fat dog who doesn't like walking and does everything in it's power to avoid doing so, even if you drop a steak in front of it, it's just like meh. Seconds felt like minutes. Minutes, like hours. Hours were also disproportionately slow in comparison to their usual passage. Finally the door opened. The doctor walked in. In his hand, the ultimate weapon. Silver Nitrate. I could feel it in my mind, Gimp Toe's anxiety. Its fear. In all my time with Gimp Toe, I had never known it to express such a fear. It knew what was going to happen. And it was powerless to stop it. I grit my teeth as the magic of chemistry went to work against Gimp Toe. The searing of flesh, nerves firing in every direction, screaming for relief, an urgency indescribable, except I just described it, so it was an urgency kinda describable. Gimp Toe's life force flickered dangerously like the guttering of a candle. I knew it would be over soon. Too soon. The searing stopped. I opened my eyes. The doctor was walking away, seemingly satisfied with the amount of damage dealt to Gimp Toe. He thought he was done. Fool! No. Wait. That was too easy. Where are you going? This isn't over! I realized too late that shouting these words in my head was the opposite of what I should have done. The doctor was not a mind reader, or if he was, he was being a jerk about it. Regardless, I had suffered with Gimp Toe long enough to know that, though gravely injured, it was far from finished. A black shadow crept over my heart. The end was nigh. Solemnly and without hope, I hobbled home. I could feel it in my mind, a foreign, swelling victory that was not my own. Gimp Toe had been victorious. And I... I had failed. The rest of the day wandered on. The terrible realization that I had doomed humanity to a fate of eternal Gimp was like that same really lazy fat dog, sitting on my shoulders, being fat, being lazy. It was impossible to carry this burden. But it was mine to bear. I had caused all of this. And for what? My pride. A night of fitful rest passed. I awoke the next morning. Slowly. Cautious. A dull clinging hope hanging in the air that maybe it had all been a dream. I stole a glance at Gimp Toe. Still alive. That was it. That was the end. There was nothing else that could be done. Unless... It was only a legend. Tales told in the dead of night. Stories of urgent care clinics that stay open on Sundays. Everyone knew it was a myth. The greatest things are always closed on Sundays. Like Chick-fil-A. Screw you Chik-fil-A. Why you gotta be closed on Sundays? But that was all it took. That hope, small and meager, flourished to terrifying life at this prospect of one more chance. A chance to deal the final blow to Gimp Toe. It was now or never. I packed a bag, only the essentials. I set out to find the elusive urgent care clinic open on Sundays. For what felt like hours, I searched. Far and wide. Near and narrow. Low and high. Left and right. Forward and backward. Diagonal and also diagonal, in the other direction. If there were more directions, I would have searched them too. But I didn't need to. I had found it. The urgent care clinic. Open on Sundays. My last chance. Let's do this. I walked in, a dramatic air about me. The room fell silent. Or, it was already silent, and I just walked into it. Nothing happened for a moment because I just stood there. Finally, I walked through the automatic doors and into the waiting room. Except I wasn't here to wait. I was here to do the opposite of wait. I was here to act. I acted brave. I acted fearless. But I was lying to myself. Gimp Toe would not be fooled again. We both knew where we were, what was supposed to happen. We were both here to win. But like the Highlander, there can only be one. I walked into the examination room. The room was small, the stale smell of sterilized air clung deep in my nostrils. I sneezed. The force of it sent my leg out in an reflexive kick, and in that moment I caught a glimpse of Gimp Toe once more. It looked like it wanted to punch me in the face. I think it actually might have, if it weren't for what happened next. The Sunday clinic doctor rushed into the room. The tension was palpable, thick and heavy around me, as Gimp Toe waged a mental battle against the doctor. After a moment, I spoke up. "The last doctor I saw tried to kill it with fire. He failed. I don't know what else to do..." A pause. A beat. Then, "We stab it in the face with a freakin needle-straw and rip it out." Well shit. What could I do? There was no other option than this. Bleed or die. I nodded mutely in agreement, and the doctor vanished to prepare. I steeled myself. Time once more did that weird slow thing. I thought about the events that had led me to this moment. I thought about the kind of person I was slowly starting to become. I thought about an ultimate cheeseburger and how I really wish I had one. SNAP. Back to reality. The doctor returned, wielding a sharp instrument, undoubtedly the freakin needle-straw. I gasped for breath and braced myself. The needle plunged. Metal pushing through skin. Blood welled up in protest. Once. Twice. A pause. "Is that all?" I asked weakly. The doctor nodded. Told me to wait 10 minutes for the freakin needle-straw to take effect. Waiting. More waiting. I briefly wondered why this was playing out so smoothly. I was an idiot. A blur, or a flash, some indescribable muffle over my senses, and BAM, I shot up. Dizzy. Going to pass out. I leaned back to succumb to sleep and No. Not going to pass out. Going to puke on everything. I didn't puke on everything. I just puked on myself. I knew what this was: Gimp Toe's last attempt to destroy me. An ironic twist, I thought, to use my own body against me. But Gimp Toe underestimated me. And I had overestimated the freakin needle-straw. Sunday doctor came back. The needle hadn't taken effect. Shit. In one last effort, the needle shot Gimp Toe once more, like in the movies where the main character dies and everyone keeps saying "nah man he's gone", but that one guy is like "no no way dude he's totally not gone" and he keeps using the defibrilator until the main character suddenly comes back to life all dramatic and that one guy is like "I knew it man I knew it you can't die man you're a hero" and everyone applauds and some people cry and then the movie ends. It was like that except we were trying to kill Gimp Toe. This time the needle worked. Gimp Toe was knocked unconscious, and it was time. Freakin gnarly death time with scissors and tweezers. There was pain. There was no pain. It was a transient feeling that didn't quite exist. I realized then that it was Gimp Toe, finally dying. Finally... It was over. Sunday doctor said something afterward, but I could only nod deafly, still in shock. I had won. Gimp Toe was dead. But was it really? We covered the resulting wound with a bandage. It's been two days since the battle. ...I still haven't looked under the bandage...

Suto Papik ‘Suto Papik’ is Armenian, for ‘grandfather Suto.’ Walking to the pool for the first time is a memory that I’ll always hold dear. I was five years old, and my grandfather thought it was past time I learned how to swim. Mixed emotions of terror and exhilaration filled my heart. Naturally, I was scared. As a child I remember hearing horror stories of children drowning in the turbulent Ahkurian River. At the same time, I recalled watching the Discovery Channel with wonder as divers swam to the depths of the ocean observing life forms. We left our Soviet bloc style apartment complex, located on the outskirts of the city, at early noon. We made the long journey towards the center of Yerevan. I remember it was a beautiful summer day in Armenia – the sun dodged the distant nimbus clouds, and shined in all its glory. Making our way towards the pool, the sights of fully blossomed trees and flowers were simply breathtaking. In particular, the gladiolus or ‘sword lilies’ radiated hues of pink and purple among the shrubbery. As we made our way towards the market square, I caught a glimpse of the statue of Saint Vardan riding his steed valiantly into battle. This sight settled my nerves. I was filled with inspiration and was undaunted by the task at hand, as I rode my metaphorical steed to overcome my challenge. Pushing on, we passed the blaring, crowded markets of Republic Square. Hundreds of people were huddled around haggling, as vendors bellowed bargain priced apples and walnuts. Alluring aromas of seasoned kabobs sizzling next to toasty na’an bread permeated the market. As we made our final strides towards the pool, the noises and smells gradually faded away. Finally, there it was, in all its glory, the city pool; the sight brought back hints of doubt in me. I tried to recollect the feeling I had as we passed the statue of Saint Vardan, but my efforts were pointless. The possibility of failure and death seemed imminent. Seeing my demeanor, my grandfather was naturally concerned. Suto Papik reassured me saying, “I will guide you the entire time and with my direction and assistance, you will not fail.” In that moment, my nerves settled and I decided that I would enter the pool. I remember my grandfather first testing the temperature of the water with the tip of his toe. The test seemed to provide the desired result. Suto papik turned to me smiled, nodded, and beckoned to me. He picked me up by my torso, and gently eased me into the water. My grandfather gently guided me across the pool, giving simple swimming instructions: “Kick your feet, right arm, left arm, and breathe!” This lesson, and our day together lasted merely several hours, but I have relived and reimagined that day with Suto Papik countless times. Most specifically, I will never forget the firm tone in which he spoke, gallantly leading the way. In all honesty, to this day, I don’t know how to swim. When I go to the pool, I ‘doggy paddle’ and try to use my natural buoyancy to stay afloat. However, my day with my grandfather taught me a valuable lesson. Suto papik showed me that I have nothing to fear if I encounter a new, overwhelming task. Whenever I face a difficult challenge, I reminisce about that day and think that if as a child I overcame the fear of drowning, I can overcome and conquer any task. At the age of seven, I immigrated to America with my parents and brother. We left everything and everyone dear to us behind for better opportunities. Four years after our departure, Suto Papik passed away. Suto Papik had diabetes, and the cumulative factors of age and a poor healthcare system resulted in his death. Sadly, I cannot recollect another memory that I shared with my grandfather. I have been told stories of his incredible deeds, but I can only personally attest to one. Suto papik was a surgeon during the height of the Cold War, when Russia invaded Afghanistan. During dinner parties, family friends and acquaintances of my grandfather never failed to remind me of his reputation. The miraculous deeds he performed when innocents were being ravaged by war are simply awe-inspiring. I have been told by his colleagues that he refused to see nationality as a dividing barrier, and that he provided aid to civilians on both sides of the conflict. I don’t remember my grandfather boasting to others of such efforts; perhaps he was a modest man, or maybe what I’ve been told are exaggerations. However, based on the memory I have of him, I choose to believe my grandfather was as grand as I’ve been told. In fact, I regret that the only memory I have of my grandfather is of him taking me to the pool. And although I knew him for such a brief period of time, the figure of Suto papik is ingrained in my memory and has had more influence on me than anyone else.

Hi All, I would like to invite you to take a look at /r/ProjectCyberpunkWorld - this is a new subreddit where we are collaboratively creating a cyberpunk/distopian world that has been named Epoch:Human. (full disclosure: I'm one of the mods of the sub) We have had an amazing influx of ideas from people interesting in setting the foundations of the world. The timeline of Epoch:Human is based on our current timeline, extended to the future world of 2150. We are still working on setting the canon lore of this world, and everyone with an interest in such things is welcome to help with that process. However, what we would really love to see happening is fictional works (short, long, blog style, whatever works) being created and set in-world, built on the shared foundation we are working on. So come take a look, dream up interesting characters who could live in such a future world, start writing stories from their perspective in the world ... if you are so inspired, of course. Or just come over and simply take a look around. We have started to use a wiki to begin organising and managing the core background of the world. It is still a work in progress, but see what you think. Thank you.

Sometimes I go back and read my old stories and I enjoy them. After a night of drinking, head full of mucus. There may have been other substances. Non-sequitur in extremis. So smart. Pastel shirts and pastel skirts, time for the mall, grotesque alien smiles, she sees them express their dire motivations in drugged honesty. This is when the sprig of paranoia appears. Bumblebee lighting on a finger above a surge of bile, she's allergic. Such extraordinary fear, unmitigated by the lost idea of safety. A roller-coaster seems tame, the clacking of the wheels over structure as it gathers potential energy nothing in comparison to the bee's constant hum. It's all like that, every stare. They all look long it seems, every eyeball's glassy stare. She has to know that there's little to her thoughts. Reality does not match up. But she doesn't believe in reality, just perception and her's is skewed to destruction. It's fun. That's right, fun. Not like the roller-coaster amusement park fun, we might cross lines and garble the signal, so divorce that idea. Fun like the satisfying feeling from biting a fingernail. Tense string fun. Taut bow fun. Pounds of pressure fun. Morganza spillway fun. River flood over plants, see the seeping water eat up miles of dirt while you stand on the causeway and wonder about the ramifications in a clinical and purely removed from the actual consequences because your home is miles away on high ground sort of fun. But her home isn't on high ground. She metaphorically bought property in the bayou. And still it seems as if it's the nothing will be touched kind of clinical fun. Nod your head at the approaching wave and look at it while it fills and fills the cracks and crannies and pulls apart buildings, covers trees, the water is so calmly powerful. It will inundate her, and her eyeballs will widen slightly as the line of water runs up her skin. They've been changing the lamps in the fixtures overhead. Efficiency the idea, hand-wringing number crunchers in a small office to one side, where no one ever sees, look at boxes on a sheet and make a decision. A color-temperature disaster, there was no consultant, everything is sallow. It could be her imagination, the alien faces in the pastel shirts also wan, bugging sheen of nascent sweat. Through a belly burdened with a slight sickly distortion the whole world warps and heaves, long wavy lines in the air. "How do you do Michaela?" A fat balding man says with authority. She works here. This man, so polite, whinges and cries at the drop of a hat about how they've given him the shaft, pulled him up short, worn him thin, among other admonitions. His arrested future, in his belly and so he arrests others, or has them arrested as his power only goes so far on this piece of private property. At a console he sits for many hours, waving his head at the multi-eyed wonder of monitor screens that bounce and scatter their inputs from all the halls and passages. Illusion of omniscience goes galloping into his uniform and he enjoys the idea that it stands for something, his badge, the walkie-talkie, his shiny leather boots. No one blames you or makes excuses for you at this level. No one is on your side. They don't help, it's too much to expect them to impulsively reach out, or withhold. Just drag on from one explanation to the next, each shiny new dollar in a crack another excuse to move forward. The capitalists bread-crumb trail the only motivator. On Sale! Summer Sale! Close-Out Sale! End of Season Extravaganza! Her heart isn't in the explosion, the battered creatures laid out on paper left to dry, cooked whole in oil, covered entirely - sparks of hot flash intensity. The fish smell. The food court is dangerous. It rumbles and bubbles with pink heads, hairy hairless wispy thick each lump a different feature in the roiling landscape. "Michaela." It is him. He'd walked along behind her, his keys swing on a loop, large and authoritative, the world is here. The land of the mall caught on metal. Her mouth plays sticky with the simple word. "Yes?" "Run the gamut trial time by." "What?" "When do you get off of work?" It must have been that she had heard him wrong. No sense, the words don't cleave to any recognizable meaning and then they do and her head tilts on its axis and bells consume her mind she gets the ringing confusion of the unexpected. And all she can think, it should be self-evident as she utters the thought. "Why?" He grimaces and squirts and a layer of wax paper falls onto his reaction to obscure pain and a complicated internal projection. There is a lot more to this question. Much more. One possibility runs into another, the metal gongs retort and vibrate. “Just trying to assess safety priorities.” Comic words, their very own movie, it makes the lines vibrate. Internally something is very wrong. She pukes on the floor, in front of the boots, in front of the booth, the one where a girl sells key-rings with names emblazoned on metal tags. Popular items. Incredulous, the girl who sells trinkets, bored with the place, ready to throw up her hands at any time, ready to indulge in some common dramatic circumstance in which she can wrest control of the situation, she's so much out of control; all night partying, days awake and can't hold much else down but this job and her stomach of iron that doesn't allow her to join Michaela in this explosive moment. “We need a mop to just north of the food court.” Into the bowels of the walkie-talkie, his fat hand tight on the button, enunciating for clarity. Somewhere in the mall a responder joins him in the severity game and includes a recognition of proper importance. “10-4” The arms of the mobile swing and as action takes flight they rotate in languid time. The trinket girl exclaims with profound intensity, “Oh my God!” It's important that the G be capitalized as she is a true God-fearing christian, when it suits her, the time is right, to call on him, now in crisis. Bustling activity as assembled in the mall, is a team of spectators and participants. All the action is studiously ignored, down-wind in the food court where they wrinkle their noses and the population shifts to one side in order to not take part in the drama. It's not good for the appetite. One woman, age twenty-three crinkles up her nose into an ugly pig face and personifies the wretched sour feeling in a look of ugliness. Some note the look and imagine she'd do quite well if she never made that face again. A man in a jumpsuit appears with a bucket and a mop. The security guard touches Michaela's arm in assurance. Everything moves apace. The lines have solidified, the morning of motion sick blurring comes to an abrupt halt. Still in her belly is the desire to evacuate, abated but present, and so she walks, to make it to her place. “Do you need someone to walk you to your car? Or give you a ride home” Concern floods from the fat man, time to score points in his fashion, to make the day more manageable for others, to hold off the wretched tides of thieves, loitering teenagers and unruly adults bloated on cheese pizza and the warm glow of fresh purchase. He could count it his duty to take her home. Sit in the warm security truck as she struggles to stand and maybe she would lean over and smile at him. Now that kissing was out of the question unless she brushed, he dreamed that she would hug him and hold her body next to his. Her breasts would press up against his belly and real gratitude would begin the slow implacable progress toward love marriage children retirement burial in a grave with two headstones next to each other the sky sunny overhead and a brown sparrow singing out its common heart. The bird so profound because it is ordinary. The thought of the bird makes him hiccup. It would be like a cell from a Japanese comic book, the wind and rain drawn in diagonal slashes across the bird and the stones. “No, I'm fine. I feel better now.” “Having thrown up?” “Yes, having thrown up. I feel good now. I'm going to work.” He straightens his cap and puts his walkie-talkie back on his belt. He shifts his weight to the right, swings it around in an odd circle, tilts his head, looks at her chin, feels something in his pocket, turns his head toward the food court and back to her. “Well, you let me know if you need anything.” Solicitous. Calm. Strong. Head screwed on totally straight, women like this sort of self-sufficient intensity. He lingers in it, not used to such self-possession his audience of one completely forgotten. And it turns, as he swings, into sour mealy mush and he is suddenly angry. Nothing that can't be fixed. Roust some skaters, observe a shoplifting perp and plug them down into a little hole of as much damage as he could do to them with the few tools he has.

We all stood there, staring at the bloody handprints. Shocked. Dumbfounded. Matt was the first to break the silence. "That's it guys. We are getting out of here first, then we're gona call the police." "Wait, we can't just leave that little girl.... She needs our help!" exclaimed Aroha, as she hurried over to Maria, enveloping the now crying beauty in her arms. "Did you see a little girl, though? 'Cause I sure didn't. So let's just go now, okay!" spat out Randy. "You bastard! Are you a calling me a liar?" shouted Maria, her shock quickly turning to anger. "I know what I saw!" "Calm down guys!" I shouted over the top of everyone. "Let's just sort this out, and a make a decision. Together." Surprisingly everyone stopped bickering, and looked my way, waiting for what I had to say next. I slowly rubbed my temple with my fingers, desperately trying to collect my thoughts and say something that would help. "Look guys.." I continued "IF there is a little girl in there, and we leave now to go back to my place and call the police, it might be too late for her by the time the police arrive." I paused, then resumed. "How about we try get inside the Mansion, find the landline phone while keeping an eye out for this girl, and then call the police from the landline? Or does someone have a better idea?" We discussed back and forth for a few minutes every option. Some accused others of being spineless cowards, others of being delusional drunkards, but at the end everyone agreed, some grudgingly, that we would go with my plan. We split up initially, everyone circling the Mansion trying to find some open window or unlocked door that would allow us to sneak in, without having to forcefully break in. We soon found though that there was no such door or window. We reconvened and decided to smash a window, climb through it, and find the phone from there. Tane managed to find a nice rock that did the trick, and a few minutes later, we were all inside. We all took in our surroundings. We were in a large library, bookshelves covering every part of the wall. We had a look around, but there was no phone. We checked the next room, and the one after that and still, there was no telephone. So we decided to split into two groups as to find the phone faster. One group, comprised of me, Kate, Randy, Aroha and Hayato, was going to keep checking the downstairs rooms, while the other group, comprised of Matt, Tane, Maria, Patricia, were going to check upstairs. Minutes dragged by as we frantically looked around, hoping and praying to see that telephone, or some sign of that little girl. We entered the next room, a large lounge by the looks of it. And then we saw it. On a small coffee table in the corner of the room. A phone. Randy raced over to it, picked it up, put the phone to his ear. He reached down to dial, and then froze. "What's wrong Randy?" Kate called out. Randy didn't reply. I followed Randy's gaze. The rotary dial of the telephone was covered in blood. And below it, lying on the carpet was a hand. A mangled sawn off hand. At the sight of so much blood, Randy wavered and fell to the floor, causing a loud bang to echo around the large lounge. He had fainted. Before any of us could get to him though, we suddenly heard a noise. A noise that was coming from behind one of the couches. We had awoken something.... And now it was coming for us. I don't remember what the others did, but I stood motionless, my whole body frozen in fear. My eyes glued to that couch. The noise continued. It was coming closer. A hand emerged from behind the couch, the palm pushing hard against the carpet floor, as if holding someone up. The fingers on the hand extended out in opposing and unnatural angles. Someone had gone through the struggle to break every single finger in a different direction. An elbow soon followed the arm, and then a shoulder. And then a face... It was a little girl. Or what was left of a little girl. Her nose had been cut off... Her earlobes, bitten off... Both of her eyes were almost completely swollen over by massive bruising that surrounded them. Parts of her scalp showed through, from where her long black hair and had been torn off. And I will not even describe to you what state the rest of her body was in, for such cruelty and malice has no place in the world of the living. And even though it was the most horrific thing I'd ever seen, I yearned to run over to her side and pick her up. Comfort her, tell her everything was going to be okay. Tell her that she was still a beautiful little princess. Yet I did not move, nor did I speak, for the horror that my eyes beheld was paralyzing. She must have looked at all of us, hurt by the looks of horror and disgust that we could not hide. But all I remember was locking eyes with her, those eyes brimming with pain and suffering that I could only begin to imagine. And as her bruised lips moved to utter something, I sank to my knees and began to weep. "Help... Me...." the little girl gasped. *You have to be strong, Sam. You have to strong, for yourself, and for the others,* I told myself in my thoughts. *This is not the time.* I rose to my feet, my hands wiping away any tears that were trailing down my face. Kate moved from where she was standing, and made her way slowly to the little girl's side. She sat next to her, and ever so slowly, embraced her in arms. The reaction was immediate. The little girl's eyes began to mist over, and her lips to began to quiver. And then the tears flooded forth as she began let out deep sobs. We all remained there like that for a few minutes, until she suddenly spoke. "It was my birthday yesterday. Mommy and Daddy had said that I could invite around Saskia and Jenny, and that we'd have a fun time with lots of lollies and cake to eat. And just when I was about to blow out the candles on my cake, someone at the door knocked. " She paused, and raised her hand to her mouth as a deep fit of coughing overcame her. It lasted but a moment, but when her hand returned to her side, I noticed blood on her face that hadn't been there a moment before. I looked at Kate. She had seen it as well. Coughing up blood could only mean one thing. Her lungs had been punctured. Andria continued. "Daddy went to go and see who it was, as he always does, and that's when we heard loud noises and shouting. Mummy told us to wait there, and then she went to go see what was happening. I thought it was gona be a surprise birthday present from Nana and Poppa, so I decided I wanted to see as well. I got there and saw my Daddy on the ground, and there were three men beating Daddy with metal sticks." She paused to catch her breath, yet I noticed her breathing was becoming more laboured. "I first thought it was a game, but when the three men started playing the same game with Mummy, she started crying and screaming. I walked up to one of them and told them that it was not a very nice game that they were playing and that I wanted them to stop playing now!" Her hand rose and touched a massive swollen bump at the back of her head. "The nasty man then hit me on the head with the metal stick. My Daddy, got up from the ground and started punching them. All three of the nasty men then started focusing Daddy in the game. It was then that Mummy took my hand, and started running to the kitchen. We got to the kitchen, and Mummy locked the door, and told us we were going to play a game of hide and seek, and that we could hide anywhere we wanted to in the house! But we couldn't let the nasty men catch us, or the game would be over and we'd get no birthday cake. Then someone started knocking on the kitchen door as well. Mummy went over and stood against the door and started counting, and we went to hide. I hid in the library, Saskia said she was gona hide in the cellar, and Jenny said she was gona hide upstairs." Another set of violent coughs overcame Andria, wracking her tiny body, and this time she didn't try to hide the blood that came forth. When she resumed telling us her story, her voice had grown fainter and weaker. "I hid for hours in the library. But then I got hungry and needed to go pee pee, and I thought Mummy wouldn't make me lose for that, so I went. I went to the kitchen. Mummy was no longer there. *Mummy must still be trying to find me,* I thought. I went to the fridge got an apple to eat. When I closed the fridge door, there was a nasty man looking at me. He ran to me and whacked me really hard right here" She pointed at her chest. "And then he picked me up and took me to the cellar. I saw.... I saw.." She froze, her eyes widening in terror, unable to put into words whatever horror she had seen. Kate leaned over and whispered something in her ear, but I was too far away to hear. She began to softly cry, but surprisingly she continued even though the tears didn't stop. "I saw Mommy and Daddy down in the cellar with the nasty men, they both looked like Grandma did when I went to Grandmas funeral. Both white, like flour and neither of them looked at me when I called out to them for help." She let out a loud sniff. "Daddy was hanging upside-down from the ceiling, cut into long slices like you cut up a birthday cake. And Mommy was on the floor, with one of the nasty men on top of her, yet his pants were on the group and I could see the nasty man's pink bottom." She hesitated "They....They.... They put me on a tabl-" "Stop" replied Kate, tears pouring down her eyes. "Just rest. Close your eyes and go to sleep." She gently began to stroke the parts of Andria's hair that hadn't been ripped out. "Close your eyes and go to sleep, and when you awake up, it will all have been just a bad nightmare". Andria did as she was told and closed her eyes. Her breathing grew quieter and quieter until it eventually stopped altogether. She was dead.

Smoke billowed out of the furnace as the apprentice pumps the bellows. "Faster!" snapped the master. The apprentice pumped harder, feeling the all too familiar soreness in his arms. Suddenly, he felt a cool but rough hand on his shoulder. "Enough," the master said. "Finish cleaning, and we can go to the tavern for tonight's meal". They walked down to the tavern in silence. As they were seated amongst the noise and chaos, the apprentice wondered what could have happened to make his normally stingy master order not one, but two steaks. Tender and juicy with a pepper sauce, they were delicious, but also cost more than most in the village made in a month. Mentally, he shrugged. Best not to question it, and just eat in peace .Afterwards, they walked along the beach, while the master puffed his pipe. They seated themselves alongside a log, while the surf licked their toes. The silence was only interrupted by the soft murmur of the waves, and the master's sudden question: "Have I ever told you the story of Corbye, my boy?” The apprentice thought for a moment, then shook his head. The master puffed pensively, then pulled out his telescope from his pouch, and handed it to the boy. "There," he gestured, "look up amongst the stars". Silently, he took the telescope and saw... nothing. Just the blue moon winking wordlessly amongst the stars down at the world. "Wh-what do I see?" the boy asked. "You see the city of Corbye" the master replied. "Best make yourself comfortable. This will be a long one". Once upon a time, out in the vast sea of Xantcha, lay the island of Corbye. It was a proud island, famous for its glassworks, but a miserable island. While outwards it projected splendor, the massive mountain of wealth it held in its vaults was built upon the backs of workers, workers who left their homelands to work in the mythical city, only to discover that once there, they could never leave. Corbye was split into two parts: The shining pillars that supported the palaces in which the glass-masters lived, and the barracks that held the people upon whose backs came the cruel whip every day. It is in this world we find Meru. Like too many lost souls, he, too stole aboard a ship bound for Corbye, dreaming of wealth and fame, only to find misery. Every day, he wandered the docks, hoping to return home, but he could not. Eventually, hunger drove him to petition for work amongst the House of Workers, only to be turned away time and time again. When he finally found work, the work found him miserable. He would clean the soot chimneys every day after the glass had been melted; burning his hands and knees to reach the furthest corners to clean the murky ash off the furnace. But the worst part of his job was not the work itself; it was his monstrously massive master, Master Petros. Fat, laggard, bastard son of a goat - Oh, he had many names for Petros. But hate him as much as he did, Meru wondered how such an ugly countenance could conjure such beautiful works out of the glass. With his all too ready cane and bellows, he would prise the glass from its mold while still cherry hot into his pig-like fingers, then quickly into the waiting hands of a worker so that it would not char his own fingers. But while many questioned his sanity and humanity, no one questioned his results: Many of the most refined pieces of glass came from his workshop of horrors. One night, after the day's sweeping, Meru began to plan an escape. Who could he count on? Certainly not the other workers; no, they were too afraid of Petros, that swine. What about the dock workers? Nay, they too were paid off by the Glass Council to beat any workers that were too inquisitive into submission. For this journey, Meru could rely on only himself. That night, just before dawn, he glimpsed something odd: A sail on the horizon, but unlike any he had seen before. Not only was it a crystalline blue, it was moving fast, far faster than any sail should have. At the rate it was moving, it would be at the docks in less than an hour. Perfect, he thought to himself. If he could swim past the dock guards, he could slip onto the boat undetected, and be off to the golden isles. That was where all things magical came from; besides, what hell could be worse than this one? With a soft splash, he slipped into the water, and began to swim towards the dock. Left, right, left, right, kick. Bubbles swirled around him as he dove downward to avoid the guard's torches, and into the slowly brightening murk. Once past the piers that sank deep into the mud on the bottom, he began to breathe easier: he was home free, at last. But where was-there. The anchor to the mysterious ship. Sopping wet, Meru clambered aboard, and glanced around him. A simple enough ship: About fifty feet of deck before and in front of him, with the wheel unmanned, and a cabin jutting out in front of him. A grate with a ladder beside it seemed to lead down to the hold... but the ladder was covered in dust. He began to wring out his shirt, only to hear a soft *woof* behind him. "What in the nine hells-" he began, only to be cut off by a vise-like pair of arms that came about him, slamming into his gut. He struggled, squirming back and forth like the caterpillars of Argoth, only to find that no matter how he struggled, its grip only strengthened around him. He heard the baying of hounds in the hold, and then a sharp *SNAP*. Silence. Then, a tinkling laughter, like crystal shattering on soft grass. "So, we have an unexpected visitor. I expected the residents of Corbye to be more... glamorous and less moist". Out strode a woman, tall, taller than Meru, and enrobed in the most fantastic garb he had ever seen: Bright blues and yellows clashing on a field of red, while a headdress of fanciful green sat upon her head, with a simple black cape to complete the ridiculous ensemble. He began to laugh: Was this a ship, or an aviary? She seemed rather peeved. Laughter? "Who dares laugh at Simoon, Wizard of the Thousandth Isle?" Meru struggled to control his face; wizards were notorious for laying hexes that could ruin cities. But it was too much for him. "Who ever heard of a parrot becoming a wizard?" he guffawed, "especially one who hires only men to govern their ship!” Simoon just smiled. "Look behind you" she said. Meru did so, and was greeted by a wet slurping tongue across his face. "Eugh! A man? With the head of a dog? What devilry is this?" he exclaimed. "I thought all ships were crewed by Sea Dogs" Simoon replied innocently. "Release him" she commanded "He seems to be no danger to anything except perhaps my nose".

Hey there short stories I've been lurking for a while now and I finally decided to post something. My therapist says I should be more open about things bothering me, I told her I wasn't very comfortable talking with people, and she said to write it down. I hope to post at least once a day if not every other day. It will help get things off my chest and I get to see what people think of my writing. Now my writings I post are just the way I feel about myself and the world around me, I hope to one day see the tone of my stories change into a happier setting, but only time will tell. **Story Time** Why can't I close my eyes and wake up on the side of a snowy mountain. That, unlike everything else at the moment sounds like it could make me genuinely happy. I could wake up near the peak in the early morning and walk through the cold snow towards the top and after reaching the top just look around at the surrounding landscape. I can hear the wind blowing by my ears, and the snow crunch beneath my feet. I can feel my body getting colder, and relaxed. So why can't I see it... why does my mind have the ability to make me feel like I'm there, but not see it. Why can I fool almost everyone of my senses except my sight. Why can't I be where i want to be. If I could see whats in my minds eye...I'd be happy I would be genuinely, and truly happy, and that feeling I would get from this experience just may be enough to prevent anything else from bothering me, at least for a moment or two. For that moment I would be in nirvana, and my mind might start ticking the way it's supposed to again. But no, I can't see it, the sound fades, the feelings disappear, and I'm here in my room. Nothings changed except now I have one more thing to be upset about.

***Term Limit***, by The_Bloodening After knocking a couple of times on the front door of Ben’s rustic suburban colonial house, rustic being the term he himself has used on several occasions to describe the probably-once-beautiful home he’s lived in for the five years we’ve worked together—I might use a different word to describe this place, but rustic fits the bill just as well as any—and waiting a few minutes with no answer, I simply let myself in. He called me an hour ago and asked that I pay him a visit. The two of us began our shitty jobs at a shitty nearby restaurant on the same day and we hit it off almost instantly. The ultra-lax dress code in place at the time, and since abolished for something a little more uniform, allowed us to display that most important aspect of our respective personalities on our T-shirts—the music we listen to. It was almost like there was some kind of magic at play that day. He introduced himself and told me that he liked my Slayer shirt, because he owned the same one. I liked his Pantera shirt for the same reason. Nothing would be able to stop us now. “Metal brother”, he called me on that first day. Soon, it was “metal brother *for life*.” Five years of working together, and the friendship we’ve forged outside of work, and never once have we tired of the jocular arguments about whether Metallica sucked more than Megadeth now. It never mattered that both of us are huge fans of both groups in all of their incarnations. Nearly identical views on most other forms of music—hip-hop, country, radio pop—only strengthened our bond. I dated his sister, Rachel, for about a year, until she dumped me for another of Ben’s friends, because, she said, he has a car. I guess that’s how it goes—leave the schmuck with a decent-enough job for this guy, Todd (it’s always a fucking Todd, too), who, though he did indeed have a car, was forced by necessity to abandon his embryonic dreams of rock superstardom and sell his guitar so that he could put gas in his car to drive Rachel to the hospital one night, only to be told that it was not in fact cramps and bloating from a diet poor in all of the things one needs to be healthy, but instead it was some kind of uterine disorder and now she cannot have children. Todd was indifferent, upset only that he realized all too late that he could have asked his grandmother for the gas money instead. Ben and I quickly found ourselves embroiled in a take-no-prisoners game of one-upmanship. “See this,” he said to me one day, pointing to a long, gnarly scar running the length of his forearm and across his elbow, “Cannibal Corpse, ’99. Diving off the stage, I caught some dude’s shoulder spike. Tore right through me. I got a roll of duct tape from one of the sound guys and wrapped it up right there. When I got home, I chugged half a fifth of Absolut and sewed it up myself.” The last part was self-evident. “Oh, yeah,” I told him. “Where you should have definitely gone to the hospital, I actually did. On the frontlines of a Soulfly show, I found myself on the bottom of a twenty-person dog-pile. I was fucked when the first guy fell on me—some dude who must have been at least three-fifty. The other nineteen guys were just there for the show. After excavating my corpse from the wreckage, it was apparent my leg was broken,” I said, showing him my much less-conspicuous scar, one that cut my favorite tattoo clean in half. “But, as they say, the show must go on. So, they wheeled my carcass off the grounds and into an ambulance, my middle finger, growing taller and more defiant by the second, only came back down once I was safely in the back of that thing. That was when the pain really started to make itself known.” Our main divergence is probably black and death metal. Ben prefers death metal, and you can barely get him to listen to any kind of black metal before he inevitably brings up Immortal and their ridiculous corpse-painted romps through Northern forests. It’s hard to disagree. Myself, I like my metal like I like my women: Black and passionate. One of life’s sad ironies is the sheer dearth of black women into black metal. Ben’s biggest problem with the early-mid black metal scene was something shared by many people of many musical persuasions. “The whole church burning thing is totally ill-conceived and childish. Anyone can wait until midnight on a Tuesday when a church is totally empty. If Varg and those buffoons had any balls, they’d have gone in there on a Sunday morning with chainsaws and tear gas, and slaughtered everyone inside before lighting their blaze in the Northern sky, thus killing two birds with one stone: You get rid of the churches, which is good, but you also take out all of those with the most to gain by rebuilding those disgusting ungodly constructs.” It’s hard to argue with logic that sound. When I open his door and step inside, I find the usual mess of beer cans on the table, in the sink, on the floor surrounding the couch, and even stuffed into the couch cushions. I call out his name a few times and get no response in return. Among the mess on his table lay a small black handgun, a 9mm. Glock with the words “Term Limit” etched erratically across the barrel. I pick the weapon up and hold it in my hand, turning it in my palm and examining it in the dim light shining in from outside. I try to spin it around my finger like I’m fucking Doc Holliday, but it slips from my hand and lands on my foot. The loud smack-thud of the pistol on my foot, then the floor, followed by my own exclamation of pain and terror convinces me that Ben just isn’t home. Term Limit. It dawns on me that my fingerprints are all over this thing. Oh well, if I’m going to be implicated in a murder, I might as well make the 24-hour cycle for it. I place the gun back on the table where I found it and head upstairs to use the bathroom, calling his name as I ascend the steps. The bathroom door is closed and I knock before entering. It’s empty and I relieve myself. When I come out, I cross the narrow corridor to Ben’s room and knock. Maybe he’s sleeping. No answer again, so I open the door to peek inside. I hear from his stereo the faint sound of Deicide’s *Once Upon the Cross*, his all-time favorite record, and one that should, admittedly, never be played at such a low volume. The room is dark, but enough light shines through the drawn shades to reveal the silhouette of my best friend swinging from the ceiling by his neck. Fuck. This is why he brought me here. I sure wish I had a Lady Gaga CD to put in the player, so the blame for this death might go to someone a little more deserving of public outrage than Glen Benton. Who am I kidding? No one but me is going to care about this. He wanted me to find him. He wanted me to find the note, too. Ben never gave any indication that this would be his preferred end. Maybe he didn’t prefer it. Nevertheless, he’s dead, and the time for decoding preferences seems to have passed. I flipped on the light, and aside from the obvious dead body pendulating slowly in the air, the ceiling creaking with each subtle shift in Ben’s direction, nothing appears out of place. He’s wearing the same shirt I had on the day we met, the Slayer shirt depicting fields of hanging victims, dead or awaiting torture. I’m wearing the same shirt today. This has happened a hundred times in the years that we’ve been friends. I guess this is the last time. I pick up the folded piece of paper that lay beneath his feet. I note my name scribbled on the outside before opening it. Thankfully, he typed it out and probably printed it at the library. I don’t think he was too concerned with getting his message just right—I’ve heard his message, but I guess he left this last part out. He probably just wanted me to be able to read it. His penmanship was never up to snuff. >Tony, >Well, obviously… >Somewhere along the line I contracted HIV. Probably Todd. We were sharing a couple of years back. You remember. I know you do because you always gave me that look when I told you I wasnt. Sure, the guy is the poster child for AIDS, but I rationalized myself into oblvion. Surely Rachels been infected too. Maybe I’ll see her soon. Anyway, Term Limits yours. I know you couldn’t keep your grubby hands off of it so you might as well take it before the cops get here. My gift to you. Do whats right with it. There are few exceptable excuses for possessing such a thing. Make it count. >Your metal brother forever, >Ben >ps it was metallica all along I notice a similar note made out to Todd and Rachel, but leave it untouched. They should have been here by now. I mean, how’d I beat them on foot? They’ll make it eventually. I start the album over and turn it up to an appropriate volume. Before making my way down the staircase, I grab Ben’s cold limp hand, forcing upon him one last clenched fist, which immediately falls limp. Downstairs, I pick up Term Limit and place it in my waistband and open the door, taking my final exit. As I’m leaving, I see Todd and Rachel getting out of their car. “He’s upstairs,” I tell them. “He’s got something for you guys. See you around.