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Allura 23

The man made his way down the path as the rain began to fall harder and harder until soon it wasn’t much different from hail. The rain hit so hard that by the time he made it to the stream cutting across campus his vision had become completely blurred from the drops on his glasses and the rain dripping from his hair. Then the rain from the clouds stopped and there was a tug on the side of his shirt. “It’s cold out here and you don’t have a jacket. Why don’t you walk back home with me?” asked the woman. The man shook his head and walked faster to get back into the rain and away from the umbrella. Still the woman followed after him with the umbrella above her head. “You will get sick from the rain your clothes are already soaked and we are still ten minutes away from home.” The man again quickened his pace further and the rain fell harder. The woman pleaded with him again to get under the umbrella and walk with her, but he wouldn’t even look at her. Soon the rain became unbearable and the woman gave up on the man and ran the rest of the way home with the umbrella barely covering her at all anymore. The man stopped and watched her run back to the dorm buildings and when the rain started to die down again he felt very cold. He started back home and promised himself that next time it was raining he would get under her umbrella if she was out in the rain again.

Patrick was about a mile out to sea in one of those rugged, plastic, yellow kayaks. He had already had more than a few drinks that afternoon thanks to the all-inclusive food and drink policy at the resort. Looking back for a second, with the double edged paddle resting over his legs, the shore was distant, and maybe it was the alcohol, but it wasn't that scary to be that removed from the shore's safety. At that distance, the waves had died down and were rather mild; they were more of a drift than anything else. The water was a deep blue and the ocean floor was no longer visible. The air smelled entirely like seawater and really the only sound he could hear was a faint breeze against his ears. During that moment he realized how alone he was. A mile away from anyone else, a totally remote maritime vastness, completely unoccupied, lay ahead of him, and he was totally occupying that space individually, and it just felt, well it felt free. It was like a moment of Zen, or experiencing the Tao; it was a removal from society, at least mentally, and was the first thing he had ever experienced anywhere near those lines. The sun above was burning his skin, he knew he would have a sunburn after this was all over, but it didn't matter. Scooping up some of the ocean's water, he cupped it over his head. The cooling effect was like a physical ecstasy. It could have been a minute or it could have been thirty minutes but as soon as this bliss started it began to creep back like coming down from a high. He knew it was an inherently fleeting experience. “What is another mile?” he thought “let's do one more and I'll turn back to shore.” Some reasoning set in, far, far, back in his consciousnesses, but the experience was too fresh. “Fuck it” he thought, and started to put his paddle back into the water.

On April 18th, a broadcast appeared on the television before me, and my breath hitched. Everything around me stopped: the people crossing the road while maybe I should be as well, or maybe my legs were moving without me realizing it? I’d become petrified. My best friend, Aidan, had been found dead in his bedroom from an overdose of sleeping pills. Seeing his face so blissful on the screen made everything around me rampantly snap back to reality, and I felt overwhelmed. All I could do was walk in whatever general direction I thought home was. It’s funny, really: whenever someone chooses to bring their own life to an end, they always seem so happy in the images the news channel decides to add in. It’s fake; if they were pushed to that point, the person was never truly that happy around then. ~Three Years Ago~ “Ness, are you okay?” a boy with choppy black hair sat down beside me while I’d bawled my eyes out on the bench. “N-no, my puppy died… He got hit trying to chase me to the bus stop,” the thought had made me cry even more. He sat in silence for a bit, before jumping up and dragging me toward town. “W-what?!” I was so dishevelled; I didn’t want anyone to see me. “C’mon! If you’re sad, I’ll distract you!” Aidan smiled like he believed in everything he said. That everything would always work out. The death of my puppy had felt so implacable at that time, like nothing else could ever hurt more. I’ve never been so wrong – Aidan was so stoical whenever I’d seen him; it was like the only emotion he ever felt was contentedness. Even when his grandfather had passed away he had only frowned and then remained optimistic for his grandfather’s afterlife. A few times, I had tried to get under Aidan’s skin to see if he was hiding any negativity underneath. I always quickly gave up, however, because he would always find ways to prove to me that everything was okay. Looking back, I really should have pushed a little harder to satisfy my qualms. Evidently, something was disturbing him. I wondered how well Aidan slept at night. Then again, he was there whenever I’d texted because I was really down and out, no matter how early in the morning it was. I felt so betrayed… I’d even tried to emulate Aidan on a few occasions, because he had an aptitude for cheering people up and brightening the mood. Memories kept coming back to me even when I tried my best to push them out. No matter where I turned or how much the falling rain blocked my sight, I kept seeing Aidan standing there in the places we’d once frequented. I just don’t understand. What was he lacking? I doubt it was sustenance; his home life was great: Aidan’s parents are wonderful people. They even treated me as if I were their second daughter. Aidan was well-liked in school, too, by students and professors alike. His future was so propitious. I had a nightmare tonight about finding Aidan’s body full of blood, and even then he was still smiling, telling me he would be okay. I screamed because the sight was just too unbelievable, and then all of a sudden my surroundings changed. I was surrounded by mirrors, and Aidan was reflected, smiling just like always. Then I lost it. I frantically smashed every mirror I could find until I realized they were endless, which led to me waking up in bed. Too nerved up to fall back to sleep, I wandered downstairs and found a note in front of the living room mirror. I picked it up. “Vanessa, I am so, so sorry… if you don’t know what I’m apologizing for, you will soon. Even if you resent me for this, I just want you to know that I’m okay. I’ll be okay, wherever I go. I won’t forget you; it wasn’t anyone’s fault so please don’t let anyone feel responsible. Know that it wasn’t because you didn’t try hard enough to question me because I wouldn’t have told you anyway. It’s just something that couldn’t be helped… I’ll be happier now. I love you. ~ Aidan. April 17th, 10:42 p.m. I couldn’t find the words to express how I was feeling. I just stared into the mirror before me, until my reflection cracked and tears streamed down both sides of my cheeks, dropping onto the floor and shattering like glass. “At least you’re happy, Aidan… good–bye.” Maybe I’ll see you again, someday.

The fire popped. That was the first thing the girl noticed as she swam into consciousness. The second was the perfectly manicured hands held flat to the flames, the shadows dancing salaciously across the supple palms. Some skipped behind the hands along a crisp black suit. Twirled around a blood red tie that hung like a second tongue down the front of a bleached white shirt. Jigged down the pressed slacks. Fox-trotted over the polished leather shoes held flat against the packed dirt. Others pranced past the bloodless lips with the forked tongue that would shoot out, flutter like a flag, then dart back into its narrow hole. They waltzed around the flat nose with the slitted nostrils and the coal red eyes fixed on the fire. Lost themselves in the slicked black hair. His body was tense, coiled, ready to strike. The dying firelight stained his already pale skin a ghostly white. His pinched face snapped to the girl. His eyes widened just a hair. “You’re alive!” he exclaimed. His voice was high, but calm. “I thought for sure you were a goner.” Terror seized the girl. Clamped her lips shut and siphoned all the water from her mouth. Whipped her pulse through her ears. His eyes bore into her as he awaited a response. Receiving none, he asked, “What’s your name?” Words fumbled around her mouth. A few disjointed syllables sputtered out. “Ann Conda,” she finally lied. The man cocked his head to the side, puzzled. “But you don’t look very strong.” Ann stared at him blankly. “Well I’m Slit,” he declared. Slit drew a wicked dagger from his jacket. “And this is my friend, Fang. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Slit held out his free hand. Ann slowly took it, her eyes never leaving the deep red splotches marring Fang’s glistening surface.

Feedback welcome! I really like the idea and want to do it well. Let me know if there are any grammatical errors I missed. thanks! I stop to catch my breath on the 43rd floor. On especially foggy days you can't see the top of the Columbia tower from the ground below. Your imagination doesn't strain to picture it rising up forever. The fog could clear and you would see black windows stretch on for miles into the the sky until you lose sight of it in the distance. This illusion is not shattered from the inside of the building. Once a year there is a fundraiser where firefighters climb all 69 flights of stairs with full gear on to raise money for leukemia. Even if the cure for cancer was on the line, I still would have stripped my backpack off 10 stories ago. climbing these steps Isn't as bad after shedding 50 pounds. I haven't slept in two and a half weeks. I know because I keep a tally of the passing days. 20 parallel lines and four vertical slashes etched into the base of the clock tower in King Street Station are the only reason I know I haven't been here for years. That fucking tower. Home of the only working clock in the city. All the others are simply stopped. Digital clocks and watches are just a series of random numbers. a new sequence every few seconds. The result is a change in perspective, the center of the city seems to have shifted to the station. It is where I first woke up 24 days ago and it is where I always return. So much time spent sitting at the base of that tower listening to the tick tick tick of the second hand. Still climbing. Out the window I see the city sprawl into the distance. Not a sign of life. Not a single living thing as far as I can see. I'm alone here. 56th floor now. Not far from the top. I tried to leave at first. See if there was life elsewhere. Maybe I was unconscious through an evacuation. Maybe there were electrical issues that would explain the clocks. I found that that wasn't the case. Something bigger is happening. Since there are no cars that will start I packed some food and water and tried to leave the city on foot. The fog made it impossible to leave. I must have walked for a day through the thick consuming grey that was heavy as water around me, making it impossible to see more than a couple feet ahead. I tried to tell myself that I just got turned around when the fog cleared and I came out in exactly the same place I entered it. Unwavering consciousness is maddening. After a week you would kill to sleep for even an hour. A couple days in I was in a panic, tearing through medicine cabinets in an empty apartment, I took everything I found. A handful of Valium and Ambien and I just laid there for two hours staring at the ceiling, clear headed and wide awake. Eventually my gaze dropped to look at the pictures on the walls. I felt nauseous. Not from the pills but from seeing the photographs around me. on the walls, on the dressers and bed side table. there were no people in them. Baby pictures with no babies. Empty cribs. Cheap family photo backdrops with no family in front. Pictures taken of people minus the people. I stood up and walked back into the bathroom to confirm my fear. In my frenzy I hadn't even taken a second to look in the mirror. No reflection. I broke the mirror and walked back to the station. 68th floor now. For a while I was in a haze. Almost catatonic. What could I do? For days I wandered aimlessly, my footsteps the only sound I could hear. A couple days ago I broke the window of a house in a more residential part of the city and climbed in. In the living room I sat cross legged in front of a crate of vinyl records. I am unable to see another person but maybe I can hear one. I pull Abby Road from the crate and feel the chills roll down my spine when I see the cover. For some reason the reality of all of this really set in when I saw the empty street. The Isolation and hopelessness of my situation somehow came over me full force while I stared at the sleeve. The familiar scene was all there, the yellow bug on the left, the trees over the peaceful street lined with cars stretching into the distance, but no one in the crosswalk. I knew it would be anything but reassuring at this point but I put the record in and dropped the needle down. There was music, but no vocals. I should have enjoyed it anyway but it was only unsettling. I decided to go with Beethoven while I sat and tried to figure out what to do next. Here I am. Looking down on the city from the observation deck of it's tallest skyscraper. The view is incredible. A vast concrete landscape meets beautiful blue water encompassed be blanket of fog in all directions. Like living in a snow globe. I take a moment to really appreciate it before picking up one of the heavy wooden chairs on the far end of the room. Luckily the glass is single pane and after three or four tries I swing the chair as hard as possible against the window and it finally gives, shattering outward, sending a glistening cloud of glass to the streets below. Looking over the edge, the ground looks miles away. I start to feel a breeze. The air has been still as long as I can remember. In the wind I hear a sound. It sounds like voices. Whispering. incoherent but there is no mistaking it. I take a deep breath. Then, exhaling every ounce of fear in my body, I jump. The street comes rushing toward me a thousand miles an hour, then black. My eyelids are heavy but I force them open. I'm blinded by fluorescent light. Plain white walls and sterile impersonal steel. Hospital. I feel the tubes all around me. The needles. Unnatural extensions of my body. Then a voice. "Oh my god. Doctor! he's awake! Get in here now, he opened his eyes!" A frenzy of motion all around me. Scuffling footsteps. A man in light blue scrubs is hovering over me, shining bright light into my eyes. "Can you hear me? Blink if you can hear me. Are you able to speak?" I understand but am unable to react. My body is not under my control. Dead weight. "Keep your eyes open. Listen to my voice. stay with me!" I can't. My vision begins to blur and sound begins to fade. The voices becoming unintelligible, far away. "just stay with me." Then black again. I wake up and feel cold concrete. I'm confused and all I see is grey. Straining my eyes to look upward I see that familiar tower. It's dead silent except for a Tick Tick Tick from the clock above.

The dead grasslands of Dethecia rolled in golden waves and crashed against the dark horizon. Here, life had become all but a long lost memory. Jeremiah flew wearily and with his crow’s eyes looked over the landscape, which had turned monotonous miles and miles ago. The plains were endless, and he had flown over them for half a day already, had flown under the storm clouds that seemed to go on as infinitely as the dead grass, landing to rest his wings only when a morsel of movement seduced him downward, only to discover that he had mistaken the breeze for prey, or perhaps it had been his imagination all along. Exhaustion began to eat away at him, but his hunger kept him moving. Upon the hard-travelled bark of the darkoak, a caterpillar legged its way toward no particular direction—each seemed as good as any—with many legs it legged, feeling wearily the soreness of long foot after long foot swarming every one of them. As a bloke beetle made its way on the branch of the darkoak, out of many jutting branches the skittering insect chose but one, letting the will of its instinct manifest destiny and govern its fate. Reacting with uncontested decision, never the slightest notion of preconception accompanying, it caught a faint signal that tweaked the antennae springing vigilant from its head. The signal had been faint, hardly significant enough to even consider expending the energy needed to follow it, and then disappeared with hardly a trace, just as it had come. But the bug hung from strings, puppeteer by its indomitable will to be, to sustain—the arduous span of time from the last signal to this had been insufferably long, oceanic; an ocean in which the pitiful thing’s strength to tread had fatigued to the point that all left, it seemed, was to drown—Each antennae jerked about the atmosphere. Nothing. The hope, if ever there were such a thing, may have been a trick of desperation, merely a hallucination all along. The beetle continued along the way chosen for it, chasing the phantom of hope to its end, for there had been none in its wake, nor might there be any along another path, and if there were, the beetle did not possess the strength to elect another branch. The other branches were inconsequential. The world had collapsed. The horizons closed. Existence began and ended—dead—at the cusp of the spherical network of its perception, and within it: the coarse ground of the darkoak and the awaiting destiny—perhaps reward, perhaps not; perhaps consequence. The Hideous Man’s face was shaped like a crescent moon, and the likeness of their shapes was equal to their paleness. Like the moon, this man’s unsightly visage only ever saw darkness. His jaw jutted from it for miles and hung below his mouth as vastly, randomly, and sharply as a stalactite clinging to the ceiling of a cave. His eye sockets were two sinkholes in which his sunken eyes were shrouded in darkness. His hair was a crow’s-nest of long jet-black, greasy strands that seemed to sliver like soot covered worms when his head moved. Even the rags he wore were blackened by ages of filth and ash. Every aspect of his form, save his skin, was kin to blackness: his soul, his heart, his thoughts, his past, his present, his towering prison, the iron bell in the loft, and then the crows—his only friends in the whole world; all of them black. His existence was hardly an existence. Revenge is what kept him alive. There was one item, however, which belonged to him that hadn't an astounding quality of darkness associated with it (at least, not aesthetically). It was a gilded pocket watch that meant all of heaven and hell and earth to him. It was polished and precious, a tangible anomaly that contrasted the ink-soaked sphere in which he had been imprisoned since his childhood. He held the watch dearly to his heart, for it was the only thing of beauty he had in his whole world. He wouldn't dare part with the watch: ever! And if either of his hands were free, he would use it to hold the watch. Whenever he had idle time, which more often than not he did, and enough light, he would stare worshipful into the watch’s face, and watch the seconds hand glide gracefully one revolution after the next. Always with a look of vacancy cemented onto his face, as the hypnotic hand cast its monotonous spell and seized his fascination in order to keep it safe from the tumult that his reality injects into his mind, he watched the watch. He smiles a genuine, but ghastly, involuntarily snarl-like grimace that is the only outward display of happiness that he ever makes, only while he sits in the eye of his watch. Above him, in the darkoak, sits a different kind of watch, a pair of watchers that watch and fixate on the towns indecent, demonic acts of immorality. Not many secrets or hidden deeds remain veiled when these watchers reach the point of starvation. Then these vigil crow's begin to tell the travesties that exist only behind the towns closed doors. Every evening the hideous man sits under the conversation of the crows, never interrupting, questioning, or forgetting the information, his soul heavy and his heart full of sorrow, but only for a moment, then anger steals the rest of the evening... Wyland and Jeremiah are fully aware of the affects their tales cause their friend. Crows will be crows. The two decided to tell the most tragic tale, the tale that belonged to the town’s turnip farmer. This night, trapped, only the thoughts of the farmers fatal punishment as the Hideous man sobbed and quietly whispered "The fate of this townsman shall be decided, when in the grip of the grasp belonging to me". Ready to attack the plagued soul he waits patiently, as silence and slumber takes over the town. It is time… “Last night’s tale was..was..worser than the worst” Wyland explained. “‘Twas about Peter Phyllis, it was, the turnip farmer. He loved his little girl quite a bit more than a father should his own daughter— Wyland tore a dirty ribbon of flesh from the palm of a severed hand. “Poor Abby.” He chewed. “This bloke’s got a pair of field hands, he does; make it difficult to swallow.” “Oh! Stop complaining.

They stared me down with unbridled indignation. I had clearly gone too far. Deep in the Utah desert lies 600 acres of American self-indulgence. A monument built to service the rich and famous delinquents after they have finished playing pretend at the Hilton and Four Seasons. It’s an exercise in excessiveness; a place that exists purely to carry on existing. It’s beyond the plane of common folk. It’s a myth, legend, a fabled mecca where stringency comes to die and cheques and bank notes are fed to the rapacious 125 degree heat. The Amangiri Resort; a granite bed swathed in silk. They promised privacy, and that is what I got. They promised luxury, and it came in spades. Indulgence at its best and ugliest. I snubbed the hotel’s insistence that I go horseback riding or practice my yoga, but I gladly took them up on their twice-weekly hot air balloon rides over the desert expanse. Much to their disdain, I might add, they were very expensive and required a lot of maintenance, and sometimes only ran for me. I loved it. There’s nothing quite like soaring over a sea of hot rocks and sand in a 63-foot high wall of rip-stop nylon, clutching 21,000 cubic feet of boiling air, propelling yourself and 400 pounds of wicker and metal to dizzying heights. It’s something completely else on amyl nitrate after three sleepless nights, I tell you. I could see that the shaggy Indonesian regularly manning our controlled free-fall didn’t appreciate my…”enhancements” to his father’s already outrageous tourist attraction, nor my choice to ride without any clothes on many of our exclusive trips, but he never took action past his single furrowed brow. I was king. Every trip finished overlooking Kodachrone Basin, but what always caught my eye was that labyrinthine mass of water snaking its way North well into Glen Canyon. The opalescent sheen where reservoir meets gravel under the cloudless sky. Lake Powell. Its closest point to the hotel was Wahweap Bay, a simple drive down Route 89 and north up Wahweap Boulevard, but that took you too close to the yuppies at the airport, on their own pilgrimage to this sumptuous tomb. The better way would be straight East, over the immediate canyons and across the scorched wasteland. That’s the way I’d do it. It wasn’t far, a day’s hike or so. I could do it. I did do it, eventually, after the management refused to tidy up after one of my solo binges. Amidst the delightfully polite rage from the owner, and the sullied expression of the maid who was still not quite sure what she had seen in the bathroom, I decided it was time to leave for a while until things settled down. I ransacked the room for all it was worth – which on account of the lack of room service turned out not to be very much. I liberated the fridge of its three remaining bottles of mineral water and took the half empty decanter of Famous Grouse whiskey from the corner. I ripped and tore at the bed-sheet for a makeshift poncho, stealing a strip to secure the open decanter, and pilfered an oddly perfect fitting sombrero from one of the ghastly decorations. I took stock of my supplies; a bag full of mushrooms, my last few amyls, and several tabs of acid, I left $20,000 on the bed hoping it would tide things over with Adrian, and then I left. The stable for the horses was nearby and unmanned, but when I got there I found it desolate apart from a single work-mule gorging itself on food. It would have to do. I set off East, hopefully getting my feet wet before the sun decided to shrink. It didn’t take long for this crusty state to punish my invasion. I could taste its aridity. It sucked the moisture from my tongue as I inhaled clammy breaths, and made my forehead sticky with evaporated perspiration while the hair underneath my sombrero swam and tangled in sweat. Thanks to my God-given skinny frame I didn’t have to face the brutal affliction of chafing, but my years of addiction still turned what was left into an incapable carcass that gave up under the slightest ounce of pressure. My overweight mare was faring far worse, so we made several stops during the trip in which my scorched feet did nothing compared to the delirious high of dehydration. I thought about my hotel room and its freshly restocked fridge packed to the brim with water and ice, or the untouched swimming pool decorating my rear terrace; gallons of life-saving nourishment lying perfectly still. I imagine my stout companion was having similar allusions; dreaming of his gluttonous feast of barley straw and dried sugar beet pulp. I glugged my last remaining water, and decided the whiskey was a bad idea. It was around 4pm when we had our final break. I tethered my ride to a lifeless branch protruding from one of the canyon’s great veins and explored on foot. It was then that I saw Zecha’s neon balloon soar overhead. It was the first trip I had missed in weeks. I couldn’t believe he’d even have the courage to leave without me. I threw my empty bottle as hard as I could, hoping to swat it out of the sky, but it just carried on floating on the wind’s blue current. I’d show him. I returned to my portly steed and set off. I made it to the lake 45 minutes before sunset, so I had plenty of time to prepare. I tied my mule to one of the decrepit trees standing defiantly in the cracked ground. I laid down a blanket and lifted the lid to my Moroccan apothecary box with great care, using my index and middle fingers on each hand to ensure maximum stability. I already divvied up my wares back in the hotel room, so plucking a sample from each selection was easy and efficient work. It didn’t take long to overwhelm me. I fought away the whips and vines that came cascading down, and by some stroke of luck I managed to bat away the moon as it tried to pluck the head off my shoulders – as if it were some bald eagle lugging a shrew to an unreciprocated invitation to dinner. I saw the scorching pinks and rumbling crimsons stacked up on the horizon at various indiscernible distances from my Reyn Spooner Hawaiian shirt and my Chipko flip flops – just out of my reach and a million miles away. This was my undeniable apex of homogeneity. A veritable moment of unparalleled, somehow instantaneous, saudade. An instance tantamount to that singular discovery of indistinguishable and unobtainable clarity hitherto forbidden to the plebs too distanced from oneself to fully realise such an experience. This is to you Indonesian man! You are not your father, so be free and self-effacing – because you don’t deserve it. I had reached a sweltering, uncomfortable nirvana. I could feel the energy flowing through me – billowing in my face – just about knocking my luxuriously stitched hat to the floor with the rest of the dirt. But then I realised. I was in a hot air balloon. Such a place no matter how beautiful should be wholly avoided, especially at times like this. I HAD TO GET OUT. I clawed my way to the exit – to the darkness at the end of this mad kaleidoscope that would guarantee my safety. I longed for the feel of rough earth between my fingers, but I could only grasp at liquid heat. I became blind from my fervour. “Great!” I exclaimed in my bloated coffin, “Now this pathetic French contraption has taken my eyesight. Sancho! Help me!” But the daft animal never came. I wrestled and fought for freedom, punching and hitting the colours’ unrelenting assault, writhing and collapsing into sweltering receipt. Damn my donkey for never coming to my rescue. “Mr Black. Wake up. We have been looking for you.” “Sancho?” The sun shone brightly as I wrenched my face off the ground, prying my dry, bloodshot eyes open to face my equine caller. “Where have you been?” It was Adrian. I couldn’t tell him, he’d never believe me. My skull was pounding. “I don’t know.” Silhouettes shuffled and kicked sand into the atmosphere. “My donkey has been murdered.” I looked over to his prize of a mule, pristine pelt matted at the ankles, hooves coated in dust. Carcass hollowed by the efforts of ravenous coyotes. Dead. "Why did you do it?" He asked. I licked my cracked lips with a sandpaper tongue. "The ass was fat.

His name was Dr. Doctor, PhD. And it still is. For now. But he’s been working—tightening bolts, screwing, driving screws, securing nuts, assembling, and pouring his sweat and genius into his labor: creating. The laboratory was a spectacle to behold, one for the ages. The fiery blue arcs of extreme temperature flickered. His black be-goggled eyes hid behind shields, safe from seeing the consequence of his doings. Almost done! Another burst of oxyacetylene flame and another breath of God, puffed through the pneumatic drill, and— crash! The door swung open behind him, and Buttler lurched inside, dispelling Dr. Doctor’s mad rhythm and hell- bent determination. “Haven’t I told you enough times?” Doctor asked. “Never barge in here while I’m working! You… “You…” “Dimwit?” Buttler, who dearly loved and tentatively sought his master’s approval, aided. “Pre—cisely!” Doctor agreed. “Nitwit!” Buttler lurched closer. Doctor jotted data onto a clipboard. Buttler lurched closer, all but breathing down his master’s neck. “What are you working on, Master Dr. Doctor?” “Oh, my simpleminded buffoon of a heavyset waste of weight, I’ve told you more times than I can count that this project is top secret, and equally equivocal to the aforesaid quantity of times that are astronomically uncountable is the astronomically uncountable plethora of times I’ve told you that I’m in the throes of fabricating a “Bio-Aversive- Frequency-Flux-Inhibitor-Lever,” which endows me with an inapprehensive conscience in so doing, because your chronic retardation leaves you prone to memory lapses; therefore, to confide in you once more is to confide in a deaf dead man, severed of tongue, and equipped with his own rectum as a cranial protection apparatus!” Doctor finished, panting. Buttler’s eyes rolled upward to check the databank in his brain, and he drooled a little, for only a moment. He came back. “Top Secret Doomsday Device!” Buttler Exclaimed. “I remember, now.” “I never said Doomsday Device!” Doctor Exclaimed. “It’s a bio-aversive-frequency-flux-inhibitor-lever!” “Well, what does it do, then?” Buttler asked, eying the web of insulated electric eels slithering out of the walls toward their source, a hip-high lever dead center of the room, neither position of which the doctor had labeled. “It’s complicatedly simplistic,” he explained. “When switched to the position at which you now see it, it does nothing. But when you throw the switch to the opposite side, the device sends a network of electromagnetic impulses via the copious lengths of wire, which subsequently trigger the onset excitement and quickness of what I, years prior, had discovered and dubbed the hidden “bio-aversive-frequency” inherent in all things, which shall then maliciously override the homeostatic disposition of the biosphere on which all biological nuances, including both you and I, depend on for sustenance and preservation, for an indefinitely infinite span of temporal reality.” “I see.” “… Said the blind man!” “When can we finally test it?” “NEVER!” Doctor shouted. “You ignoramus, have you the vaguest, foggiest conception in that mound of mush and mutton you cart atop your surly torso as to what the dire consequence of pulling the lever is?” “I haven’t,” Buttler agreed. “But what hurts my head even more is why you would invent something that you can’t even use?” Dr.

A Boy and His Gun It was loaded. They didn’t know that though. They didn’t even know the gun was in his backpack It gave Jacob a sense of security. He had been nervous before he finally walked out the door with it. But now he knew what he was capable of, he didn’t pity anyone that doubted him. That piece of black steel at the bottom of his bag, hidden beneath his math worksheets, was confidence. It was like having God on his side. At school, nothing else was different about today. The cliques all noticed their members. Friends noticed each other while teachers noticed their favorite students. No one noticed Jacob though. In class he sat in the back. A little straighter than normal, his face was a little more sure, but no one paid enough attention to notice any change in him. The day went how it always does. Jocks mocked the geeks, while cool kids planned parties and nerds worked on homework. Jacob prowled the hallways by himself, like a lone wolf. He stalked the halls like a shadow. He sat in class like a statue. He was a ghost. Jacob was there, but no one even tried to interact with him, luckily for them. No one knew how close he was to a breaking point, he wanted to find out though. He wanted to show them. Jacob wanted to be pushed, to see if he would fall or explode. He wanted to know what he was made of. On break he eyed the cold steel. In the bathroom, behind the doors of a stall, Jacob felt the weight of it against his hands. He pressed the muzzle against his cheek. He felt so hot compared to how cold it was. He wanted to be that cold. He wanted his heart to feel like that icy piece of metal. He wanted to know that he could simply take a life, destroy someone’s world, change the universe and do it stoically over and over. The day passed. Hour by hour, minute by minute, slowly seconds ticked, like the fuse on a bomb. Jacob felt a thrill deep inside, wondering if he would go off like a firework. He waited for someone, anyone to press his buttons.

This thought perplexed me as I reversed my car, headed to another monotonous day of work. I was a single 24 year old, who lived alone, didn't have any pets and very few friends. Strangely enough though, the closet door wasn't the only odd thing that had been happening over the last couple of weeks. I found many a thing not where I left it. The TV was on and on mute when I came back home the other day. My chicken sandwich had disappeared from the fridge this morning. *What could possibly be causing this?* I dwelled on it as I continued my drive to work, and then suddenly a solution came to mind. *Screw it. I'm gona find out once and for all.* I slammed on my brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt. I did quick U turn and start heading back home. A few minutes later I pulled into my driveway, stopped my car and quickly walked to the door. Unlocking it and closing it behind me, I walked upstairs and into my bedroom only to be greeted by a familiar sight. It had happened again. The closet door was open. I decided to put my plan into action. Closing the closet door first, I hurried over to my bedside drawers and opened the top draw, pulling out a black small bag. Unzipping it, I pulled out my video camera. I turned it on and positioned it on my bed, making sure that it can see the closet. I pressed the record button and then carefully positioned some dirty clothes over it, obscuring it from view, yet making sure that the lens wasn't blocked either. My plan accomplished, I headed back downstairs, locked the door and hopped back into my car. Sure I was going to be late for work, but this was worth it. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The day passed like any other day at work. Paperwork, paperwork, and more paperwork. Boss comes by to check on my progress, and starts asking questions. Yes Sir. No Sir. Three bags full sir. Toilet. Coffee break. Repeat. But what really was on my mind the whole day, was that video camera lying on my bed. *What will the video camera catch on film?* The thought plagued me as the hours slowly and painfully inched by. The hands of clock finally struck five, after what seemed like an eternity, and my day at work was finished. I walked very quickly through the office, needing to get home as soon as possible. I could see out of the corner of my eye that some of my co-workers were raising their eyebrows in amusement at the hurriedness of my pace, but I didnt care. I needed to see what that video camera recorded. Workcard punched. Crowded elevator. Underground carpark. Car keys in my hand. Unlock my car. Engine started. Pedal to the metal. My car shot out of the underground carpark and onto the road. I was probably speeding now that I think of it, but at the time, speeding was the least of my worries. *What will the video camera catch on film?* I pulled onto the onramp for the motorway, it usually being the fastest way home. *Fuck.* I had forgotten about the traffic. Cars lined the motorway, slowly inching along every few seconds. Everyone was trying to do what I was doing... Trying to get home. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The sun had set by the time I finally pulled onto the street that I lived on. It had taken me a good hour and a half to get home through that congested motorway, and to make things even worse, it seemed like the power was out for the whole suburb. *Stupid electricity companies doing work at the worst times. Typical.* I pulled into my drive, hopped out and almost ran to my front door. Unlocking it and closing it behind me, I flicked on the light switch. Nothing happened. I let out a heavy sigh, as I remembered that the power is down. Stumbling in the dark, my hands outstretched feeling for the walls, I finally make it to my kitchen cupboards. My hand grasped blindly in the dark, trying to feel for the box of matches and candles that I knew was there in the top shelf. Or at least, was meant to be in there. *Please. Please, still be here...Aah, got them.* Finally feeling them, I grabbed them both and after a few minutes managed to start lighting candles. Leaving one candle flickering by the front door, I lit another one and my way upstairs. To my bedroom. Stepping through the doorframe, I squinted trying to see in the low light whether the closet door was open or closed. *Thank God.* The closet door was closed. Just as I had left it. This, at least was a good sign. Heading over to the bed, I pulled of the clothes and looked for my video camera. It was also just where I left it. It was still even recording. I stopped and then saved the recording, and then I hit play. I was glued to the screen, expecting to see some ghost to appear on the video recording. A minute passed. Nothing happened. Then two, then three. I started fast forwarding it. Still nothing. *Maybe there was nothing after all.* Then suddenly something flashed across the screen in the video recording. I held my breath in anticipation , but the fast forwarding was too fast and I couldn't see anything but a blur. I immediately rewound it and pressed play, and what I saw made my body freeze in terror. A man had walked into my bedroom, opened the closet door, got inside, and closed the closet door. *HOLY FUCK!* *Screw ringing the police! I have to get out of my house.. NOW!* Still holding the video camera, my legs lept into action. I raced out of my bedroom and down the stairs. Almost skidding on the floor, I turned while running, heading for the front door. And then I froze. There was a man blocking the door. In his hands lay my metal baseball bat. A grin escaped his lips as he uttered but a single sentence.

You're laying on this bed, I see right at your eyes, you take me by the waist. You want to make a kingdom out of my body, you're hopping to rip me out of my skin. I'm not thinking, I let go. My clothing is vanishing, yours fly away. You smile at me, knowing that I don't know what's going on. You keep on licking your lips. You bite my chest like a piranha trying to eat it's prey from the inside. I gave you a name and I screamed it as you bite further in. You scratch my back as I get into you. Everything is spinning around me, I'm way out of here. Another fucking bed with the same old princess. You yell. You moan. You ask for more. I might be here but my mind can't be seen nowhere near, I'm acting over impulses. I'm a goddamned animal. You smoke on the joint, throw the smoke at me, you stare as I'm biting your legs. You keep on smiling, knowing what is coming. I manage to make you anxious, you take my face and push it on to you. I have no clue what I'm doing here. I'm too high. I just want to wake up by your side. I don't want to keep on biting on your hips, nor your breasts, nor your lips. I don't want to see you naked again. You stare at me with mercy as you reach another orgasm. You want us to sleep. I don't want to lose you again. I don't want to keep on destroying us. I'm too stoned, I'll take a shower, as I go to the bed again and you're asleep. I'm afraid of this future, I have no idea of what's going to happen next. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. As you wake, you kiss me and then, you're gone.

“I don’t think you heard me clear enough the first time.” The robber held the weapon to his arm. “If you don’t give me your money, I’ll have to take your arm instead!” The doctor leaned back in his chair and brought his hand up to his forehead. He couldn’t waste time thinking about his past. The wall clock across from his desk continued to tick. “Just five more minutes,” he thought. To him this was both good and bad. Getting his next patient out of the way early was a relief, but the fact that the time of the appointment was fast approaching made him uneasy. There was something very unsettling about his next patient. He got up from his chair and walked over to a machine in the back of the room. He set a mug underneath the spout on the machine, and then he pressed the button. A smooth black liquid spilled out of the nozzle and slowly filled his mug. When he was satisfied with the amount, he pressed the button again to stop the flow, and picked the mug up to take it to his desk. He brought the mug to his mouth for a drink, but just as he did so the ringing of his telephone startled him. Not wanting to leave anyone waiting, he set the mug down on his desk. “Hello?” “Good morning sir. Your patient is here, should I send him up?” “Is there anyone else with him?” “Just a couple of soldiers, sir.” “Good, send him in.” “Uh… sir?” “Yes?” His secretary paused as if trying to think of the right way to word the question. “How soon do you expect a full recovery?” “Possibly by the end of next week if all goes well.” “That’s good news sir.” “I’d say so. Maybe then I could perform a surgery. I may be good at psychology, but I prefer to do something more straightforward.” He hung up the phone and reached over to pick up his mug. His hand slipped however and he tried to steady the mug with his other hand. A jolt of pain shot up his arm and the contents of the mug spilled all over his desk. He clenched his jaw and held on to the stump that was once his wrist. When the pain finally subsided he looked at his arm to see if he had caused it any further damage. Two metal bars stuck out from the stump. He could see a few cracks running through them. Thin metal pipes stuck out at awkward angles around the two bars. Some of the pipes were bent, while others had oil oozing out of them. He must have broken some of the valves. The worst of the damage was a thin crack that ran along the length of his forearm. Thanks to his clumsiness it was going to take a lot longer for the nanomachines to rebuild his arm. About a Minute later, the doctor heard a knock at the door. “Come in!” he said as he was wiping a rag across his desk. The two soldiers entered the room. They flanked the patient on both sides and carried energy spears to keep him under control. He was slouching forward like he had been defeated. The doctor could see a few stab wounds on his arms. “We brought the prisoner in for his appointment.” The soldier looked at the doctor’s desk. “Did you spill something?” “Just a little oil. It shouldn’t be too difficult to clean up.” “if you need us we will be waiting outside the door.” He pointed to the patient. “He doesn’t have any weapons, but you should try to be careful nonetheless.” The two soldiers walked out of the room and closed the door. The doctor then got up from his desk and sat down at a chair in a corner of the room. He motioned for his patient to sit in the chair opposite from him. The patient had a somewhat generic build. He looked very similar to the soldiers that had brought him into the room. Except his eyes were on the front of his face, as opposed to the sides. His eyes always made the doctor uneasy. While most robots have lights for their eyes, the patient’s lights were different. They were small, like the light of a laser, making his eye sockets look dark and empty. This was very uncommon in robots. But very common with the disorder his patient had. He stared at the patient’s eyes for a few minutes, hoping that he would ask a question. When he didn’t, the doctor decided to break the silence. “So it’s been about a fortnight since our last appointment right?” “Yes, that’s right. Two weeks.” “Interesting. So have you seen any improvement of your condition?” “I guess you could say so. I haven’t recovered my memory, but I don’t think that I’ve lost anything yet.” “So you haven’t had any more episodes?” he paused to reword his question. “You haven’t had any visions?” “Not yet. None since the first one.” “Let’s recap,” the doctor opened his folder, “at your last appointment you said you relived the final moments of some kind of ancient machine. What did this machine look like?” “It wasn’t a machine. It was a living creature, like a bird, or a cow.” “A cow? So this cow had sentience?” The doctor said, confused. “Well, no. It walked on two legs like a robot, except it was a living creature. It didn’t have any metal parts or lights for eyes.” The doctor was still pretty confused. He couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of an animal that could think for itself. “Why don’t we move on to something else. What exactly happened to this ‘bipedal cow’?” “Okay,” The patient forced himself not to correct the doctor again, “It was 1:00 in the morning, and he was trying to contact his son. His phone wasn’t working, and none of the other devices in his house were working either. It was like there was a power outage, but everything lost power. Even the things that used batteries. At this point he started to panic. He grabbed his shotgun and went outside to see if his dog was safe. The dog started to freak out and began barking incessantly. It sounded like it had just heard a pack of wolves in the distance, and sadly this wasn’t far from the truth. In a few seconds, thousands of robots came running toward the house. They were carrying spears, swords and all sorts of energy weapons. He tried to shoot a few of them down with his shotgun, but sadly the bullets bounced harmlessly off of their armor. The last I saw was the dog getting cut into ribbons by the robots as the man was forced to watch.” “And that was what set you off?” “Yes, I couldn’t remember anything else before what had happened to the man and his dog. So I saw the robots around me as enemies,” he looked at the stab wounds on his arms. The doctor wrote a few more notes in his folder, and then he looked back at his patient. “That will be enough for today. I’ll schedule an appointment for next week, and we’ll see how you’re doing then.” “Are there other people with a problem like mine?” the patient said “Indeed there are others. But don’t worry. You’ll receive the same treatment they received.” The patient seemed a little more hopeful and walked out of the office in high spirits. The doctor sat in his chair for a few more minutes then slowly got up and walked to a calendar by his desk. He felt sad for what he would have to do next. The disorder his patient had wasn’t common. It was a fault in the coding that would cause its victim’s memories to be replaced by the memories of someone from a time long passed. Whether these memories were real or not, he didn’t know. What he did know however was that those who suffered from this disorder would lash out against their friends and family after each episode. This was the third time this had happened to his patient and it needed to be stopped before more robots died. He picked up his pen and wrote the date on his calendar.

Betty turns and kisses her husband. First on the forehead then one for love on his bottom lip. She couldn't tell if what she smelled was her morning breath or him and she didn't care. Sometimes the things you hate end up being the things you miss the most. Betty takes his arm from around her and sets it next to him then stretches a little before getting out of bed. She makes her way through their bedroom tripping over clothes and shoes she had left on the floor the night before. The only light was a beam trickling in from between the curtains and Betty throws them open. "Rise n shine!", she says, seeing her husband laying there; the blanket pulled up to his chest. "Oh Sam.", said Betty, at that moment wanting more than ever for him to still be alive.

“Is that seat open?” a moments pause.... “I said, is that seat open?” The man two seats away quickly got up and left instead of answering the guy’s question. Who asks random people if the other seat at a sit-down restaurant is open? The questioner, a rather tall man with a thick brown beard and wearing a white tee with a rather large yellow stain towards the bottom, had been making a circuit of the room asking each table if their seat was open. Maybe I should just leave the room before the guy gets to me. I really hate these awkward moments with anybody and will do nearly anything to avoid them. In fact, I didn’t even really know why I was still here. I had finished my meal and was just sitting here drinking my coffee watching this guy make his way around..As he drew closer, I went back to my newspaper and flipped to the sports section, hoping he wouldn’t notice me. “Is that seat open?” “what?.... No, no it’s not open.” He sits across from me anyways and immediately grabbed my paper and started reading it. Everyone was staring. After about a minute in he looked up. “I saw that no one was sitting with you and was planning on sitting with you a little bit after I entered the restaurant.” He calmly said this as he was turning my newspaper around. “Why do you read the newspaper at night? Isn’t it typically more of an early morning ritual for people?” I just glared at him. Why can’t he just leave me alone? “Why are you here, sitting with me? What if I was waiting for someone?” He ignored me and continued flipping through the news. This continued for at least another minute and I would’ve stopped him but honestly I didn’t even know how to go about stopping him. After a few moments he abruptly slapped the paper down and looked me in the eyes. “I really like this restaurant, and I don’t like eating alone. You looked bored so I decided I would sit with you, besides who goes to a sit-down restaurant and eats alone?” “Well, I enjoy eating alone; it allows me time to think.” “You’re a pensive fellow; I bet you live by yourself” He said quickly as he was pointing at my bare left ring finger. “And, I bet you don’t have a girlfriend because who has a sit-down meal on a Saturday night by himself?” “Two of us clearly.” “Hahaha! You know I wasn’t planning on eating alone when I came in here. You did see me ask all of those people, didn’t you?” There was a pause as i drank my coffee and gave him the point. At this point i didn’t see a point in trying to take it from him. “Tom, is it alright if i call you Tom? You look like a Tom.” “My name isn’t Tom; it’s …” He just barreled on his way. “Right Tom, I’m going to order a drink. Do you want a drink? You know what? I’m just going to get you one too. I hate drinking alone” As he said this he waved the waiter over and ordered two drinks and then looked back down at the paper for a bit. “You know you didn’t have to buy me that. I make plenty of money from my accounting job and my name isn’t Tom; it’s....” “Listen, I don’t want to sound rude, but i honestly don’t give a rat’s ass what your name is or what you do for a living. I just wanted to come here and buy somebody something.” The drinks came and he grabbed his and downed it in a few gulps. I just sipped at mine and stared across the table at him. A drink later, he spoke up again. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” “Yes, well not really anymore.” Everyone had stopped staring, and i was approaching the end of my first drink. “Why am I making you uncomfortable? Is it that I’m wearing this ugly, stained white tee when I came in or was it that you were one of the last tables i asked? (I assure you if you’re worrying that I chose tables in no particular order, so it is nothing against you). In fact, if you’ll permit me to say...” “It doesn’t look like i have a choice.” “No, no of course not. Anyways Tom, I was going to say that you would make a rather splendid first impression if you talked more. But back to my original question. Why am i making you uncomfortable?” I paused for a few moments and took a sip to buy me more time. “well.... I don’t know. It’s just when i came here i was sort of making the decision to eat here by myself and then you showed up and ruined my night.” “I don’t think that is the real reason and it insults me when you say that ‘i’ ruined your night. Tom ma’ boy, it was an admirable lie you told me there. I bet you don’t even realize it was a lie. Allow me to explain.” “Please do.” “You’re, quite simply, uncomfortable with me crushing your social norms. You’re so used to life just happening for you. I bet you majored in something that would be ‘useful’ outside of college and would have an immediate job waiting for you because you were too scared to try something different. And to top it off, I bet you really didn’t even necessarily make that decision yourself. You allowed yourself to get talked into it, just like you’ve allowed me to call you Tom for the past 15 minutes when your name clearly isn’t Tom.” I was quiet for another minute thinking about what he said. As i was about to open my mouth with a reply, he launched onwards. “I think you were alone tonight because you plainly haven’t just gone up and asked anybody out to come eat with you. You sat here with your paper killing time, really just waiting for someone, anyone, to come talk to you.” Another pause as he gulped down the glass of water the waiter brought, letting it spill all down the front of him in a rather disturbing manner. I quickly got out my wallet gave him five dollars. “Thank you for the drinks but i really have to go.” “Of course you do.... Goodnight Tom.” “Good bye.” I turned and hurried out into the night.

Benji Kingsley I snatched up Sunday’s sports section and peeled it open to a random page, holding it taught and high and close enough to my face that the words went double. I sank low into my chair and prayed—please, oh please, for the love of all that’s Holy, don’t let him see me. I felt unnatural and foolish but, most of all, safe from an awkward encounter with a guy who never ever seeing again had become one of my life’s major goals. I didn’t need to look up. I already knew. I put down the paper, and as sure as hellfire singes ass-hair, Benji Kingsley was standing there looking down at me (I never hated a man as much). “What was the score?” He asked. “A lot to a little!” I said as sarcastically and dismissive as I could. See, Bengji Kingsley was the kid who was always last one picked to a team for Battleball. Not because he was slow or fat or grossly incompetent, which he was, but because he was a loathsome, obnoxious scoundrel. He was a prankster and a good one, too. No one was safe. He would steal for the sake of stealing, never keeping anything he stole unless to frame someone else for the crime. He would alter another student’s answers before passing their exam forward. I remember he once stole official school stationary and sent out letters to parents regarding their child’s excessive absences. Sometimes he would bring the teachers flowers or candies, never out of kindness I’m sure. If he wasn’t playing pranks, then he was showing off with some outwardly disgusting act, like drinking the last sip of soda from a bottle then spitting it back into the container, then drinking it again and spitting it, again and again. Everyone hated him. Any kid would have given anything just to have the opportunity of hurling a blood-red, rough-skinned ball of compressed air and hatred at his pudgy melon-head.. He looked completely different than the way I remembered him. He was trim, not fat, dressed in a beige suit and light blue undershirt. He looked better than nice. He looked important. Uninvited, he sat in the chair at the side of my table rather than the one across it and flagged one of the young waitresses walking by. “Excuse me, sweetheart, won’t you get my friend here another margarita, and I’ll have a glass of ice water, with lemon if you’d please.” “Actually, I was just leaving.” “No, stay, I insist,” he said. “I won’t take up much of your time.” I said nothing, wearing my impatience on the outside. “I’ll get right to it, then. Over the past year I’ve been a part of a twelve step recovery proam, and—” “AA.? But I remember you saying you were allergic to alcohol.” “I am. I never touch the stuff. But it’s become a way to redemption for me, all the same.” “Let me guess—you’re on the step that requires you to personally confront everyone you’ve wronged and apologize. "Bingo.” “How are you ever going to find the time?” I teased. The waitress came back with our drinks, and Benji quickly jotted a note on a napkin and handed it to her along with a hundred dollar bill. The girl was as stunned as I was. She read the note and looked at him and then looked at me and then back at him. He seemed to nod, but perhaps not. After she left he went on with his apology, it was something that I had long since forgotten about. The waitress came back with the check which Benji paid and slipped the girl another hundred dollars, which she pocketed guiltily. We said our goodbyes, shook hands, he left, and that was that. Leaving the café feeling quite good, happy to know that even the worst kind of guy can turn things around, I couldn’t help but notice some kids through the café’s window, pointing and laughing. I felt they might be laughing at me, but I quickly dismissed it because the window was probably mirror-tinted on the inside. I hoped the window was mirror-tinted on the inside.

A blizzard was snowing hard on all the parents cars in the school parking lot. It was the big night of the Christmas play for the Peterton Academy for Children with Bee Allergies (PACBA), and little Robin F. Wells was practicing his lines. This year he would play the wiseman with the frankincense, a challenging role. He nervously glanced out the curtain and there his grandpa Milford F. Wells was taking off his scarf in the second row. Beside grandpa was an empty seat where he set his hat. All the other kids had whole families there, but his grandpa was all that Robin had. Little Robin F. Wells wasn't feeling very spirited, not at all. He sniffed his stuffy nose and wiped a tear from his eye as he walked back to the costume room to put on his robe. It was December 25 but Christmas was nowhere to be found. "Where is Christmas?" Robin muttered. He looked around at the other first graders but nobody noticed his sorrow. They were all too preoccupied with the play about to begin. Robin sunk his head and wept, but then he heard a peculiar voice shout in his ear. "Quick, Robin. There's no time! We can still find Christmas!" yelled the voice. He looked up at his robe costume. It was moving, pointing at the table. Little Robin F. Wells looked up from his sobbing. "Nana, is that you?" "No time to explain! See those syringes over there on the table? You need to pee on them immediately or else the Chronoport will close." Robin's tears were beginning to clear from his eyes. "The Corno-pot? What's that...? But, Nana, Grandpa said you died last month-" "Ugh, the CHRONOPORT is a time travel portal that we can go through to find Christmas, Robin. Weedling on those needles is the only way to activate it. And of course I'm alive- Grandpa was only pulling your leg! I'm inside this robe, you silly boy!" Nana shouted impatiently. "Now, you want to find Christmas, don't you?" Robin looked at the robe that seemed to be moving by itself with no body inside. Was he talking to a ghost? "Yes, I do, Nana..." Robin admitted, his nerves shot. "Then quickly! Pee on those needles!" Nana ordered. "I don't know, Nana. I don't have to go, and besides, this is PACBA, Peterton Academy for Children with Bee Allergies. Those needles are the EpiPens in case all of us students get stung. And Nana... You are dead. I saw your body at the funeral home." Robin stuttered, frightened. Nana then replied, "If I was dead, how could I talk to you, silly boy? Now, never you mind. Pee on it now or the time travel portal will be closed forever and you'll never find Christmas..." There was an odd quality to Nana's voice, but little Robin didn't want to disobey. Having walked to the table, little Robin unzipped his trousers and began showering the 29 EpiPens of all his classmates in a stream of pure yellow urine. The EpiPens were now drenched in little Robin's liquids and Robin's bladder was emptied. The robe that Nana's voice came from was now laughing, first quietly and then louder and louder. "Nana?" yelped Robin in fear. "YOU FOOL!" The bodyless robe yelled. "I'M NOT YOUR GRANDMOTHER." "Then who are you?" asked Robin, timid as a goldfish. "MY DEAR BOY... COME CLOSER AND PULL THE HOOD OFF OF ME. Yes, that's it! Closer, boy! Closer! Pull off the hood! Closer still, my boy," Robin edged nearer with his arms outstretched, his head facing away, eyes blinking. Inch by inch he approached the cackling robe and when his hands felt the fabric, he pushed the hood down, turned his head then focused his eyes. Nothing. Robin saw nothing inside the robe. The laughing had stopped and now he peered down into the darkness of the hovering robe. It was empty, he thought initially. Who was haunting this costume if not his nana? For a moment Robin felt completely alone in total silence. Would he ever find Christmas? Tears welled up in Robin's eyes. Was his imagination running wild? Just then the robe in Robin's hands began to vibrate violently. The ground began to tremble like an earthquake and the lights began to flicker. The costume started laughing again. The robe shouted, "Hahahahaha! You foolish foolish boy! I am not the ghost of your grandmother! I am bees!" Suddenly swarms of bees burst out from inside of the robe, flying and buzzing in a heavy fog. The force of the bees threw Robin backwards onto the floor. "Hahahaha!" They were laughing as more and more flew from the sleeves and holes, filling the room, drowning out the light. Hundreds, now thousands, now millions of bees were filling the costume room. Bees to his left and also other directions that weren't his left. They were still flying out in swarms, flying out the door towards the stage. "You stupid child," spoke the swarm, still pouring out of the robe. "You want to know where Christmas went? Well, we'll tell you- we bees stole Christmas! Hahahaha! We will fly around the world, stealing all Christmas joy from boys and girls! And there's nothing you can do about it! Now come watch us destroy the Peterton Academy for Children with Bee Allergies (PACBA) Christmas Play! Hahaha!" Little Robin stumbled after the billions of bees as they flew backstage and towards Robin's classmates. Robin watched in horror as the bees started rubbing up against the boys and girls, touching their skin. The children started screaming, twitching, and writhing as rashes formed on their skin. The principal Mr. Dover F. Albiston ran to pull the "Bee Alarm" on the wall to activate sprinklers full of EpiPens that would rain down- but before he could, the bees flew into his mouth and out of his penis, killing him instantly. Bees dropped honey on all the audience members' eyes, blinding them in excruciating pain. Little Robin crouched down on stage next to his secret crush Bernice F. Newton, whose bee allergy caused her skin to break out in hives. "Run, little Robin- there's still time. You can still save us... Get the EpiPens from the costume room..." "I can't, my sweet Bernie," lamented Robin. "The bees pretended to be my nana and told me to urinate on the EpiPens in order to open up a Chronoport to travel back in time to find Christmas. There's urine all over the EpiPens so they won't work." "Robin... You can still be our hero. I know it. You've got to save Christmas for us all...Forget what I said about not liking you in math class. You are my one true love..." coughed Bernice with her last dying breath. Robin mouthed the words "I love you too." Overhead the bees were laughing. Robin looked out in the audience and saw the bees flying in and out of his grandfathers nostrils and anus as he lay motionless, dead. Robin became enraged. First they had mocked the memory of his nana, and now the bees had claimed his grandfather's life. "Why?... Why did you bees steal Christmas?" Robin cried at the top of his lungs. "We'll tell you why, Robin F. Wells... We bees have existed for centuries in peace, but only recently we've been stricken with a global epidemic of colony collapse disorder (CCD). We used to think the cause of CCD was some sort of bee-borne pathogen, cell phone towers, or migration, but that's not what's been killing billions of bees each year. Do you know what is, boy?" the bees said. Robin knew exactly. "Christmas cheer. Your colonies are dying off due to excessive Christmas cheer." "That's right, boy, and now we're putting a stop to Christmas cheer, one Christmas play at a time." the bees said. "But why did you spare me? Why haven't you activated my bee allergy?" Robin inquired. "Robin," the bees shouted. "You have been spared for one reason. We have chosen you to become the Bee King. Join us and together will destroy all Christmas cheer across the world. Hahahaha!" The bees brought a crown made of honeycombs and placed it on Robin's head. "NO I AM NO BEE KING! I could never join the likes of you! YOU BEES ARE CHRISTMAS THIEVES AND RUTHLESS MURDERERS! My dear grandpa and my sweet Bernie will be avenged." With that, Robin ran towards the costume room, grabbed the urine-soaked EpiPens and stabbed himself with all 29 of them. He felt the antidote coursing through his veins. Robin's clothes started ripping as his muscles grew larger and larger. Robin ran back to the auditorium and began to urinate on his dying comrades. The bees tried to attack him, but Robin's mightiness had made him immortal. He defeated the evil bees and also notably in his late thirties he opened a moderately successful upholstery business, which was featured on the fourth page of a state newspaper.

She was wearing a black t-shirt, tight jeans, and a gray mesh drape. That was on the first night I kissed her. She shook a little bit. She was nervous, and I missed her mouth. We laughed and looked at the ground nervously. That was on our first date. We laid on a blue blanket for most of the day, in the grassy opening next to Kelly Drive in Philadelphia. I remember how easily conversation flowed. I remember being worried that I was talking too much: not giving her enough time to answer. I remember the breeze coming off the river and her perfume. I remember our first anniversary. We were with our friends in a cabin in the Pocono Mountains. The house was so tucked back into the forest we thought it was the perfect setting for a horror movie. We left the window open at night, and it got so cold she made me put my arms into her shirt holes to keep her warm. I remember how everything slowly fell apart. I moved to Philadelphia permanently. She had her own goals to accomplish in Happy Valley. Sometimes we fought over something, and sometimes we fought over nothing. Late nights out to dinner and casual dates around town turned to lying on the couch and watching TV. She liked to spend time with her friends more than spending it with me. I liked to spend time with my friends more than spending it with her. When I cheated on her I felt no remorse for weeks. It wasn’t really cheating anyway. I had already been planning on ending the relationship for months. It took four weeks to realize I had thrown a four-year relationship away, but my mind was set. I was proud of the way I ended things. I refused all of her calls and ignored all attempted interaction. We were too young. Now I’m standing outside of what seems like a festival. Purple flowers line a walkway to an enormous tent about half a football field away. I can hear children laughing, but they are being hushed. My brand new Audi RS5 is neatly reversed into a spot behind me. I’m wearing my best suit from Brooks Brothers. I even grew my sideburns out like she preferred. I hate my sideburns. I had told her to wait back then. I told her to make sure she wanted me, to make sure she wouldn’t find anyone better. I never thought she would take me up on that offer. I told her we needed to find success apart from one another. I found it. For some reason all of the money didn’t seem so important now. It takes a bit of talking to get into the wedding. She had hired one of her brother’s friends as an usher. He recognizes me. I promise him I won’t say a word to anyone inside. I just ask to be able to see them take their vows. He is visibly drunk and caves quickly. The vows are beautiful. She is beautiful. I see her parents again for the first time in three and a half years from across the crowd. Her mother is an emotional wreck, and her dad seems like he wants to be. There are a lot of unfamiliar faces. They must be his family. After four years you know everyone in a family: Your family. No one pays me mind. I don’t think they recognize me. I was not in shape the last time they had seen me and nowhere near as well dressed. Maybe they just don’t remember me. I thought it was going to be easy to interrupt the wedding. They don’t actually say that line anymore, though. The one I’m talking about. There is no specific opening for me to interject. Instead I watch him kiss her. She seems to like it more than I remember her liking my kisses. I cringe. It is her wedding after all. I cried. The two families and their friends hoot and holler. Her father and his father hug and clink glasses. I wonder how it would be if my father had been there instead. She was crying. He might have been. She started to scan the crowd, waving and smiling ecstatically. I still stood in the back of the tent. It was time for me to leave. I would trade every job offer, one-night stand, and dollar to stand where he stands. You can’t buy everything. Her sister recognizes me as I pass by the open bar. She must have been working her way towards it as the crowd celebrated. She grabs my arm gently. “Christian…?” Her face looks worried. A mix of happiness and fear start to take over. I smile. I wave; pull my arm from her grasp. I hold my finger to my lips. “Our Secret.” She covers her mouth, turns around, and walks away. As I turn I see her order a drink from the bar. I guess this isn’t like the movies. I guess it isn’t normal to show up to a girl’s wedding uninvited: particularly if you planned to marry her yourself before. I laugh to myself. I wonder what could have happened if I had arrived earlier, if I drank more, if I did interrupt the wedding. I wonder how many fists, kicks, and elbows would have met my face. I walk outside and lean against the back of my car. I do not want to be seen by any early departures. I pull out my last cigarette and wait for the tears to stop. She hated me smoking. I try to tell myself it is all worth it. I still have the money, the career, and the lifestyle. I don’t have my best friend anymore, but she has hers. That feels okay to me. She always said you couldn’t have your cake and eat it too. The paper butt starts to burn. I flick it. Time to go. I stand up and stretch. The tears are dry. I turn around and he is standing there. He’s smoking a cigar with someone I don’t recognize. Thank god. I don’t know why, but I decide to strike up a conversation. He has no idea who I am. I guess she really never talked about me. We talk for almost half an hour. I’m surprised no one has realized he’s missing yet. He’s a better guy than me through and through. He’ll have time for the kids. “You got a good one. Don’t let her go.” He puffs from his cigar as I crouch into my car. A smile sits wide across his face. “Never.” I believe him.

*Begin at once to live, and count each separate day as a separate life.* I kept walking , my face dark with anger. "Have you heard?" I heard behind my back. "Those rednecks got themselves in trouble again." Those rednecks. Yup..Those were my brothers. Only people here who spoke with a southern accent, and therefore were proclaimed rednecks. I marched through the hallways. Pushing those who did not step away. To the principals office. Of course they got into trouble today, of course they had to pick a fight *today*. Of course it had to be my brothers. I swung open the door, and it bounced back on the wall. There they were. With their almost identical faces, only I knew the unevenness in their faces. One of the boys grinned at me. Blood seeping through the fingers that held onto his crooked nose. "Nick!-..." I started. "Im fine!" He interrupted me. "Im fine.." Both me and my brothers have straw blond hair, although mine is longer and I usually have it tied up, while theirs usually just stands up straight all messy. All three of us have rather fine sketched faces. Atleast, we used to have. My brothers faces got messed up in all the figths. The principal looked at me. "Listen to me," He started. " This is the fourth time this week your brothers got in a fight!" I closed the door behind me. " You need to stop fighting, or I'll have to call child support!" "No!" I started. "Don't! I'll talk to them, I promise. Just...don't call child support again.." "Listen, you said that yesterday, and the day before and the day before that. I don't think you living with those..." I kept quiet. "Those what?" I asked, sharper than I intended. The principal shook his head. "Just stop them from fighting!" "I told you I would!" " This time you better make it true!" "Stop making it sound like I am their mother!" "That's why I am saying you shouldn't live with your current guardians!" "They're barely ever there!" "Exactly!" Both of us started raising our voices, while the brothers kept quiet and looked at both of us in turns. "Good lord!" I almost yelled at the principal. "get your nuts out of a twist and let us go!" So he did, Nick and Owen following me out of the door. "Thank baby sis-..." "Shut it Owen! This is probably your fault!" "He called us redneck trash!" Nick defended his other half. "And you thought you would prove them wrong by kicking his teeth in?" "Well no but-.." "Well then why did you do it?!" I turned around and looked at the both of them. Nick's hand covered in blood from his nose, and Owen's eye swollen. "Guys! Im serious this time! I don't want to go through the whole child support thing again!" "Like we do!" Nick answered sharply. "THEN WHY DO YOU SEEM TO ACTUALLY TRY TO GET SUSPENDED!" " DON'T ACT LIKE YOURE MOM!" That hurt. Nick knew it did, but all he did was look away. "For god sake.." I muttered. I took a deep breath, and wanted to say something, but we heard terrified screams next to us. We looked to the left and what we saw even managed to baffle my brothers. There was a moment in which everybody seemed to stop. Then panic errupted. Most people just running away, and everybody was screaming. All I could do was stand there and stare. Only dimly aware of the panic around me. Unlike most people told me, it wasn't like everything slowed down. It felt like everything sped up, and still all I could do was stare. All I saw was a man grabbing hold of a girl, holding her down, and feasting on her arms. I swear could hear the girls breaking bones echo for hours in my head. I remember Nick and Owen lunging forward, trying to get the man of the girls arm. I remember lots of blood and panic. And still, all I could was, stand there. My thoughts brought back to zero, my body numb. The man seemed completley unharmed by the punches my brothers kept throwing at him. Quickly they tried to lock him up somewhere.The girl was taken out, and probably rushed to a hospital. I saw Owen walking towards me, and I realised I had just been staring at the whole scene. "Hey.." I heard somewhere far away. "hey! Sis, are you okay?" he asked and looked at me worriedly. I looked up. "Yeah....Yeah Im fine.." I heard myself say, before turning around and walking towards the nearest bathroom. **II** *From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is Eternity.* *-Edvard munch-* "Sit.” A harsh voice told me. I turned around, and faced a strong bald man. “My brothers are missing, I need to find them.” I replied. “Don’t care. You need to sit down.” The man said, and put one of his massive hands on my shoulder, pushing me down. “But-..” I stammered. “Sit. Now.” The man said, and forced me to sit down before walking away. I looked around and tried to find them. It was dark outside. I had been here for hours. Sitting, listening to the sounds around me. Screaming children, crying parents and fearful whispering were the most common sounds. I wondered what every ones story was. The refugee centre in Atlanta. Through large speakers they had explained us what was happening. They called it an epidemic. A virus. Carriers of that virus got sick, high fevers and rashes. Within ten days they would die, and then, within approximately twelve hours, the body would restart. The people who were suffering from this were They said they were working on an antidote, a cure for this. But until then, they advised us to stay off the streets and remain in the refugee centre.

I can talk but nobody can hear me. Wait, I feel it important for you to know I have a hard time paying attention. Since I arrived here I've become agitated and angry, but it's not like nobody cares, a very pretty woman has taken care of me the whole time. She is not always nice though. She puts me in a cold, cold place and tries to drown me, it is odd though because of the manner in which she tries to do it. It's almost as if she 'isn't' trying to drown me with how gentle she does it. This happens every morning and sometimes it seems she doesn't want to do it, at times I think she even hates it. The second I wake up she straps me to a chair and forces me to eat things, mostly it's gooey things that slide down my throat. I like the crunchy stuff, I've become quite fond of it, I would eat it every day if she would let me. The things I eat before I go to sleep are my favorite though, not only do they taste good, but I have a friend that visits me around this time. He takes me to the other place, it's bright and noisy, and if it were not for the amazing things in the other place I'd be perfectly content with staying in my sleeping place forever. There are huge places with fantastic creatures that move around really quickly, but I'd suggest never getting in these things way. One time my friend got in one of these creatures way and it yelled very loud, so loud it hurt my ears and terrified me so much that I started to cry. The other place is not all scary parts, my friend took me to a place with much smaller creatures and other people there. The creatures there made me jealous that the other people were looking at them, too, I wanted them to myself! I told my friend this, but he got mad and took me back to the place I sleep. I try all the time to tell my friend that the lady there tries to drown me, but I think he is friends with the woman as well. I guess the worst part of the other place is the man with glasses, I did not mind the man with glasses up until a week ago. He would poke me with things and sometimes I thought it was funny. The past few times I have been there though, he straps me to a table and does horrible things to my back. Even though I can't see behind myself I know that he is stabbing me. I try to fight it but when I do and the straps start to loosen he calls in one of his friends to hold me down. The day before yesterday, the man and woman took me there and made me sleep, I didn't want to go to sleep but the man with glasses pinched me so hard that I passed out. When I woke up something felt different, I could breathe a lot easier, but I felt my neck and there was a hole in it. I freaked out and started hitting things but his friends pinched me again and I passed out once more. When I woke up this time, I decided not to make a scene, the hole in my neck had a tube going through. At this point I feel helpless, no matter how many times I tell people things they do not listen, it don't matter how much pain I am in or if I desperately need something. Everyday I am horrified at what other people put me through but it's like I told you, no one can hear me. So I'll just ride my creature and make the best of what I have got, hopefully someday someone will hear me.

He swore loudly as he pushed out his last stub, he was out of tobacco again. He smoked too much. Stress was an ill guest but always present, like a disease that doesn’t cure. He pushed his hands against his head with a sigh. “Are you still up?”. God, why couldn’t that leech leave him alone. Couldn’t she see that he had floated between sleep and work for the past months? “No mother, I like sleeping in front of my computer.” She said nothing and closed the door. He would apologize in the morning. The streets were empty, just how he liked it. It made him feel like everyone else just disappeared. “eight pounds.”. The Indian guy behind the counter didn’t look too bright. “What?”. “Eight pounds, please.”. Jesus, cigarettes got expensive. He lit one and decided to take the long way home. Walking through the park always inspired him. The trees in the moonlight had something ghastly but made him feel at ease. He sat down on a bench and looked around, yawning. Except for a sleeping bum, there was absolutely no one. He enjoyed the silence, the city didn’t seem to share his insomnia. It was already getting brighter as he went home. The kitchen smelled like cheap coffee and cigarettes. His mother sipped from her cup and gave him a kiss on his cheek. “I wish I would see joy in your eyes again.” She said. A little bewildered, he decided he would write some more, but what? His head was a mess and his writings reflected his emptiness. In a few months he had written 20 pages and none seemed even close to what he used to write. He thought of the old days when the words and poems just flew out of his pen, the days when he still looked handsome and his closest friends were not his cigarettes. But with every pull his life slowly burned out. And now it was too late for something new, he was useless. He felt tired but couldn’t sleep, like the energy was slowly draining out of him. He was laying on his bed, thinking, when his eyelids suddenly became heavy. His eyes closed and for the first time in days he slept. He dreamed that he was standing in the park again. But there was no moon, only a dim streetlight. A sound from behind startled him. The bum was standing there, looking up. “What are you looking at?” He asked. The bum answered “The stars.”. “But I don’t see any.”. “That’s because you’re not looking.”. He lifted his head and stared at the thousands of tiny lights glimmering in the night sky. “Who are you?”. But the bum was gone. His eyes were suddenly wide open and he sat straight up in his bed. In the darkness of his bedroom, he could only see his computer screen. He sat in front of it and started writing. Just writing.

Quick thing before I post the story. this is my first real attempt at a short story, I just finished this for a creative writing class, and I would love any criticism you guys can offer. Quick Edit: I don't know how to make paragraphs. every time I try to indent, it turns it into the green text. I apologize. “Shots!” Everyone was cheering as I poured the vodka into the one ounce shot glasses. Five shots in all, one per person. Ten o’clock, Friday night, no one had to wake up in the morning, no one had to go to bed early, and all we had to do was get drunk. It had been a while since I’d been drunk. The last time was July 3rd, when I blacked out on rum, proudly proclaiming to my friends about how I was going to be a pirate, right before I lost my cell phone, threw up on my best friends childhood bed, and passed out on the bathroom floor, half naked. I don’t remember much else from that night, but my friends told me I had fun. But I digress. “Charlie! What are we toasting to?” across the kitchen, sitting on the marble top counter, was Keira, looking at me inquisitively. “You know,” I said back, glancing at everyone in the room, “you guys are my best friends. I want to toast to being here, with you, right now. I never want to leave this city!” We clinked together our glasses, and slammed the shots. * I glanced around the circle I was sitting in, and tried to figure out what playing cards everyone else was holding, and whether or not I should take another card or pass. I took a hit. “22” Peter said as he handed me my new card. I lost again, but I didn’t mind, because it meant I just got to take another drink. “Alright guys, with that. . . I think I’m going to bed, before I pass out on my floor.” I started standing up as I said this, but it had been at least fifteen minutes since I stood up last, and the alcohol had caused me to forget how. “Whoa there, Charlie boy!” Keira stood up quickly and saved me from falling over. “Why don’t you let me walk you back to your bed?” She was amazing. I had only met her a couple months prior, but she was easily one of the best people I knew. She was sweet, caring, always willing to help me when I needed it. I had been in love with her since pretty much the moment I saw her. I was standing in the middle of the grocery store aisle, wondering how hard it could possibly be to find a loaf of bread, she must have seen the look of confusion on my face as she walked up and asked me if I was lost. I had never seen anyone quite like her. She was shorter than I was, but somehow seemed to always tower above me. I think it was the confidence she displayed, versus the confidence I had always lacked. As she walked up to me, she kind of skipped, which, as I learned, was just how she moved. She had something almost musical about the way she spoke, always with a soft voice, always managing to make me feel like we were the only two people in the world. I wanted to tell her how I felt for a long time now, but didn’t want to ruin our friendship, but tonight was the night. I hadn’t planned on it being the night, but the alcohol in me had other plans. “Hey,” I said as she laid me down in bed, “can I tell you something?” and before long I was telling her. And I kept telling her. It was all coming out of me, and it kept coming. It was hard to see her face in the darkness of my bedroom, but after my eyes adjusted I could see that there was no expression on it. I think after a while, I was just talking to lengthen the time in which she hadn’t said “yes” or “no” yet, and regrettably I ended up using the word “destiny”. I don’t remember in what context. After about ten minutes of me talking, I had ran out of stuff to say, and I looked at her. “Okay” she smiled down at me. I don’t remember the last time I was this happy. I looked her in the eyes, and leaned in. Before I knew it, I was kissing her, and she was kissing me back. She pushed me down on my bed, and climbed under the covers with me to fall asleep. * “You know what today is, right?” I glanced across the room at Keira sitting on my couch, staring at me with those eyes I had grown so accustomed to. I had never seen so deep a shade of blue as when I looked into her eyes, I felt like I could drown in them. “Of course I know what today is,” I responded, “The Bruins are playing the Blackhawks, how could I forget?” I knew this would slightly upset her, but I can’t help it. She scrunches up her nose and furrows her brow at me. Admittedly, I said this just to see that look. “Keira, I’m kidding. I know it’s been a year since we’ve started dating, today.” Her face lit up. She smiled. I would do anything just to make sure I got to see that smile every day. “I have a plan for us. Why don’t you go home, and come back around seven, I’ll have everything ready, deal?” She came over and kissed me on the cheek before leaving my apartment. I took about ten minutes to set my DVR for the Bruins game, that part wasn’t a complete joke. I got in my car to drive to the grocery store. God, there’s never any parking available here I thought to myself as I drove around the parking lot. What’s this idiot doing? Another pick-up truck parked on two spaces at the same time, classic jerk. Finally I find a spot in the back of the lot, luckily I don’t mind a short walk. Walking through the same aisles I was in when I met her, I start grabbing everything I’ll need for our dinner tonight. A pack of chicken breasts, shredded mozzarella cheese, shredded provolone, I already have eggs and flour, no need to buy more. Panko bread crumbs, finely shredded Romano, oregano, lemon zest, garlic powder, vegetable oil, and some extra virgin olive oil. This should be all that I need for the main course. About two weeks ago I ordered a 1973 Montelena Chardonnay from the Chateau Montelena in Napa Valley, California. It arrived a couple days ago, and I had been keeping it chilled in my refrigerator waiting for tonight. I got home and started to prepare the meal. I took a couple of cooking classes in college and had seriously considered becoming a chef for quite a time, until Keira convinced me that advertising was where I needed to be. I needed just over an hour to make the meal, which was perfect because I only had two until Keira was coming back, so I had just enough time to cook, shower, shave, get dressed, and set the table before she got here. I started off by cutting the chicken breasts in half, horizontally, and sprinkling them with salt, setting them aside for about twenty minutes. I then mixed the mozzarella and provolone in a bowl. After I set that aside, I started whisking a tablespoon of flour with a single large egg, I did this until it was smooth. In a separate dish, I tossed together the Panko bread crumbs, Romano cheese, oregano, lemon zest, garlic powder, and ¼ teaspoon of pepper. I went back to the chicken and patted it dry with a paper towel, before I started to soak it in the egg mixture, one chicken slice at a time. I immediately transferred the chicken to the Romano mixture and coated both sides. I poured 2 ½ tablespoons of olive and vegetable oil into a non-stick skillet, and waited for it to get hot on the stove. After that was heated, I put the chicken cutlets on the skillet, and cooked until they were golden brown, and then for about two more minutes. After removing the chicken from the stove, I sprinkled them with the mozzarella cheese mixture, and baked in the oven for about 12 minutes. Finally, I garnished the chicken cutlets with lemon slices, and set everything on the table. My Lemon Chicken Romano was finished. It had taken about half an hour longer than I had anticipated, so I had to shower quickly. I skipped shaving, and got dressed in my best suit. Keira didn’t know this, but tonight was the night I was going to propose. I heard a knock on the door. She was here. “Uhh, just a minute! Be right there!” I yelled towards the door. I was running around my kitchen making sure I had everything ready. The chicken was on the table, all ready, still warm. The wine was chilling in an ice bucket on the counter, and the ring was in my jacket pocket. Now if I could only find my jacket. I ran to my bedroom, it was still hanging in my closet, of course! I threw it on, and ran out to open the door, taking a moment to catch my breath. There she is. Hair falling down past her shoulders, waving in the slight breeze. She was wearing her best red dress, it went down to just above her knees, and she was wearing matching heels. She was the single most beautiful sight, I’d ever seen in my life. “Are you going to let me in?” She chuckled as she said this. “Oh! Of course! I’m so sorry, it’s just…You’re…I mean…” I was at a loss for words. I literally could not tell her how beautiful I thought she was. She came in, and moved towards the table. “This looks delicious!” She exclaimed as I pulled her chair out for her. I didn’t know what to say, so I simply smiled at her. I sat down opposite her. “Keira. Before we start eating, I have to tell you, this past year has been the best year of my life. I had never been able to commit to anything before you. I never had a relationship last longer than a month or two, but there was something different about you. I never thought I could be a better person, until I met you. And now I am, and it’s thanks to you.” I pulled the ring out of my pocket as I kneeled down, “Keira. I know I ask a lot of you already, but I’m just asking one more thing. What do you say?” I was smiling, I was positive she would say yes. Why wouldn’t she? I looked into her eyes, and watched as she started to tear up. This was going to be the best night of my life. * “Charlie, where are you going?” Peter was standing behind me as I put all of my clothes into my bag. “I don’t know, Peter, I just can’t stay here, okay? The longer I’m here, the more it hurts.” I zipped up my bag, and walked over to put my laptop into my computer bag. “She said ‘no’. It’s not the end of the world.” “She didn’t just say ‘no’! She said she couldn’t. . . . She told me she didn’t love me anymore.” “Charlie, you can’t just run away.” “Peter. . . If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s running away.” As I said this, I was standing in my doorway, patting my pockets to make sure I had my phone, keys, and wallet. I hugged Peter, and told him I’d miss him, before asking him one more time to come with me. “Charlie, I can’t just leave. I have a job, and a girlfriend here.” “So did I, and look where that left me.” I’m not going to lie, saying goodbye to Peter was one of the harder things I’ve had to do, but it was time to move on. And I’d see him soon enough, I’m sure. I hope. * As I was driving, watching the trees fly by, and the street signs come and go, I realized that I had no idea where I was going. I was on the freeway, heading east, and that’s all that I knew. I had a couple thousand dollars to my name, and a full tank of gas in my Nissan, I was going to go as far as I could. Listening to Of Monsters And Men as I drove, I watched the sun set. * I had been driving for about three days. Only stopping at night to rest for a couple hours before I felt awake enough to keep driving. I had spent two hours the day before talking to my dad on the phone as I was driving through Northern Colorado. “Are you sure this is what you want to do, son?” He sounded worried. He always sounded worried when he talked to me. “Yeah, Dad, I’m sure. I couldn’t stay there anymore.” He supported me. “I need a change of scenery. I think I’m going to go back to school. Become a chef like I had talked about before.” “Why do you want to leave such a good job?” My mom was on the phone, too. She loved driving with her friends, and being able to point to a billboard and say “My son made that!” She didn’t quite understand how advertising worked. “Do what you need to do, son. Don’t stop.” My Dad again, he always understood. And even if he didn’t, he acted like he did, for my sake. We talked about other things, as well. He told me about my brother, and how he’s doing much better recently, and he’s getting back on his feet. I guess my sister got a new job, which didn’t surprise me. She switched jobs often, but never had a hard time with it. Out of the three children in my family, she was going to be the successful one, that much was clear ever since we were little kids. “Well Dad, I think I’m going to pull over for the night. I love you.” I didn’t tell him that nearly enough, but he always knew. * It had been seventy-two hours since I first got in my car and started driving, and at this point, I couldn’t drive anymore, unless I wanted to drive into the ocean. Portland, Maine is where I ended up. I drove to the nearest diner as I pulled into town, I needed a bite to eat before I started looking for apartments. I saw a couple “for rent” signs as I was driving down Main Street, maybe I’ll start there. “What can I get for you, Hon?” I heard the voice call as I looked up from my menu. I couldn’t speak. Walking, almost skipping, over to me was a girl, that seemed just a bit shorter than I was, talking in almost a musical way, her long brown hair falling past her shoulders. She was positively beautiful. “Well?” She was looking down at me with eyes so green, that they rivaled the forest. “OH! Um . . . Sorry. I don’t know what’s good here. Any suggestions?” “You’re new here, aren’t you?” “Is it that obvious?” I laughed a little as I said that. “I just drove here from Oregon, today.” “If you need someone to show you around town, I’m always up for making new friends” her face lit up as she said this. “That sounds wonderful.” I stuttered out. “I’m Charlie.” She smiled at me. “Autumn.

You hear about it all the time now, I mean, people just started disappearing. Kids first. Easy targets I guess. You'd hear stories about girls who disappeared in the woods of Maine. Inner-city kids, vanishing. All over the place. Just gone. We knew. I mean deep down, we did. Something in our psyche expressed it in our culture. Subtle shit, movies where children were possessed or disappear. Slenderman, I guess, was I guess the big one for a while, but that was years ago. Back before shit really started to get bad. My name is Ian. The reason I know about this stuff, about what's really going on, is because when my daughter was nine she was taken from me. Not by some monster, not by some disease or accident. If only she was so lucky. She was taken by the government. She was taken from me and experimented on and now, I don't even know. Okay, let me tell you how it all started. Actually, I can't really tell you how it started, the law books have been locked up a long time now, decades. But I can tell you what I think happened. You know those laws, the big ones, the long motherfuckers that nobody spends the time reading. Well. Shit started getting added in, bit by bit, stripping us of our rights. Nothing horrifying at first. No big jumps, nothing drastic, and like a bunch of frogs in hot water we just sat there and took it. Like we were the lucky ones in the Jacuzzi. She was eligible. That's the word they used: "Eligible." Like she was the luckiest kid in school because we were allowed to pay for healthcare. You know, she was never really all that sick. That's the fucking thing. Just a little cough, never bad, and she had really dry skin. God, she hated that, she just wanted to have nice skin. She'd see the pictures of these beautiful models, and she'd come home from school and tell me that one day that was going to be her. She wanted to look like that. She had the prettiest smile too. I'll never forget that, must have been pretty much the best damn thing in the world. But you don't know the stuff they do. You get there, and it's this beautiful facility and the people at the desk are exceptional. And they take your picture and you get this slick looking white card. On every one I've ever seen these people have these smiles. Like there isn't anything that could go wrong with the world. The kind of smile that says "Okay, I'm here. I made it. I finally made it." and we wait, and we wait, and we wait. and when they finally do see us they won't let her see the doctor with me in the room, because I wasn't "eligible." And she looked at me, with this little scared, sad smile. And gave me this little nod. Like it was all going to be okay, because she was going to be brave. And the door slid closed. And that's the last time I ever really saw my Anna.

Borders Many things separated the two men; language, skin colour, laws and culture. Most importantly though a thick black line stood in between the two, not in reality, but on a map. Standing face to face on that line, they were all too aware of each and every one of their differences. On one side was Vin, holding a still smoking gun, on the other stood Luis and a dead rabbit. Both men were red in the face from yelling at the other, but neither understood a word that was being said to him, which was probably for the best. Luis raged about Vin being an animal, less than human, a cockroach scavenger that was as worthless as a piece of dirt. He raged on about how Vin and his people were a plague, killing everything that was beautiful. Luis wished that the devil, that Vin was, would go hide in his burrow of a home. Vin cursed right back. About the greedy abomination, the oppressor, that Luis was, holding other people down and taking everything from them. Luis was an evil force that kept food from the poor. Vin knew that if he just leveled the gun in his hands he could make the world a better place. The two men stood inches away from each other. Each aware that the imaginary black line was the only thing keeping them from each other’s throats. Unseen by the two men, the things the black line on the paper made them forget, were all that they had in common. The map didn’t show the winds that blew from one man’s yard to the others. The line that sliced rivers in half on paper didn’t stop the waters from flowing across it. The boundaries weren’t observed by plants and animals as they meandered back and forth over clearly defined margins. Luis and Vin were focused on their differences. They simply didn’t know that their children’s fate would be determined by their commonalities. Red in their faces, Luis and Vin were too focused on that line that divided them right now to see past it and look towards the future.

I didn't think he would do it. I looked into his eyes, and he looked back with a sort of acceptance. he was holding himself up over the edge. As the hand opened and he began to fell I saw a moment where he mouthed my name, and his eyes conveyed something to me. He fell, and he fell. At one point he would die, but neither him nor me new when. This was the perfect death for him. Dropped into a pit of his deepest passion. His death put me in a deep depression. Everyone expected it of me when they heard what had happened. But they did not expect the actions I would take and what I would achieve out of my downward spiral. Some might say that I tryed to follow him in his descent. Only I knew what I had seen in his eyes that day. With my arms over my head I sat by a table. Nowhere special. noone special. People have allways passed by, some with more significance than others, like passing anecdotes of varying importance. At first I wished for someone to pull me out and free me, but as I sat there by that table, with my arms covering me from the blandness of my world I felt nothing. I felt so little that I was at first shocked by my apathy, but I learnt to surpress that as well. In the bag next to me I had a weapon. It was waiting for me, longing for my hand to grip at it, to caress it. I let my arm fall towards the bag. I kept my eyes closed. I breathed slowly. I reached down and pulled it out. With my eyes shut I pushed the table away. I began to dance. my fingers grasped hard around my weapon, and my moves were as random and as gracefull as the feelings I had repressed. I counted my steps. The hallway was familiar to me, yet I was not certain of where I was going. I never did know anything, i just knew what I didn't feel and what was denied to me. I would grasp it. I would take this one chance. She never saw me as that kind of person. at night when the wind blew and we heard the wild animals in the distance, and the cool breeze of the night welcomed us I allways saw in her eyes and her soul that she was content, and I knew that was her failure. Or was It mine? It depends on what you see as important in life. "What are you thinking?" She would ask me. This question again. I would smile, and say "you" or something similar. I loved her. I tried to love her. I stuck with her for she was what I needed. I was what she needed. We had our different reasons, but we were allways on the same path. the cold began to take us. Yet she continued to smile. As she fell asleep I went inside. I saw our son. He lay on the sofa, sleeping silently with not a worry on his face. I cried that night. Whenever I saw her smile, his kindness or the happyness they expressed i felt a deep sadness. But I did not let it show. It would only give away what would happen. One night the old man visited us. I saw that same look in his eyes. the one he gave me before. The one I allways saw. I held my weapon again that night and I danced with what I hid.

The choice was simple. I could pull the trigger, one shot, and I could save my family. Everyone but her, the only one I truly loved. Were they worth it? Were those who pushed me down, made me a depressed lonely soul worth saving just so I could save the few I love? I checked the time on my watch. 3:48. 12 minutes left. I clicked off the safety, and walked up to her. "I want you to shoot, honey. I'll be with you up there, someday. I'm not worth all of their lives. Not all of them. I love you, but you have to let go," she whispered to me. I started sobbing, and sat there for what seemed like only a minute, just to spend her last moments of her life with her. I checked the watch again. 3:55. I was running out of time, I had to choose. I was torn, and no decision would leave me happy. I paced around the room, trying to find a solution, to make things right, to not have to make the choice that would eventually kill me either way, that was all my fault in the first place. It was 3:58. 2 more minutes. I pulled the gun up to her head. "I'm sorry for this. I'm sorry for everything, for all of this. It wasn't your fault. I love you." I felt the trigger for awhile, and just thought. Thought about what I was going to do, thought about what I could do. I took the gun, put it up to her head, and slowly pushed down on the trigger.

The writing is a bit choppy due to the vocab I had to incorporate, but here it is. Sort for the lack of paragraphs. I slowly strolled into the restaurant, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible. I kept my head down, as if some sort of wandering eye might notice my appearance. And there the man was, sitting in the corner booth. He had a nebulous feel about him, as if I wasn't even sure if he was really even sitting there in front of me. But it was all real, almost, just almost too real. All of his emotions just seemed to barren, as if any sort of expression was some elusive happening. His face was desolate, so void of any uniqueness an overwhelming neutrality washed over me. His posture, formidable, his manners laudable, his movements so conscientious and exact, yet his face so bland. It was almost disturbing. It was like staring into an infinite loop of television static, a bland mesmerization permeating every ounce of my body. Even though his stark aura would have seemed to hypnotize every living entity in a mile range, his presence was hardly noticeable. I sat down in front of him, ever so gingerly, as if I had made a wrong move he would viciously pounce or I would elicit a din and alert everyone of my being there. To my surprise he gave me a cordial welcome "Good afternoon, how are you today?" He said in a cool, subtle, and ceaseless tone. "Fine, fine." I replied. He could sense my nervousness and lapse of repose. I suppose I had never encountered such a enigma before. He was rather empathetic, and did his best to keep me calm. I placed the envelope from my jacket in his hands, and he carefully tucked it away into his pocket. After which, he placed his hands on the table, palms to the ceiling, in a very deft and exact manner. He spoke in innuendo, as if he was trying to avoid confessin. He preferred implication rather than a cold matter-of-factness. I suppose that's what I needed at the time, any statement which held a lick of reality would have sent me into panic. The gravity of the matter was just too much to handle. I quickly tried to calm myself, seeming serene yet not apathetic. I didn't want him to think any less of me, even though it would be the last time we meet. He then opened his mouth, speaking slow and cool, making sure I understood the message he was trying to convey. "I am willing to help you, in fact I am glad to help. And I don't mean to impose or offend you, however you have peaked my curiosity and I can't help to ask why? Don't feel obliged to answer, I just raise the question because I have never done such a job before." He didn't seem very vehement about knowing, but I supposed I owed it to him. I opened my pursed lips to speak, and my chest fluctuated due to my massive amounts of bottled emotions. "It's not really one thing I suppose. I just want to subdue that routed feeling. I usually happy, even extatic, it's just that I feel a serf to all the things around me. There is no moksha from this endless cycle, just a perturbing repiditiveness. I know it seems ilocgical, probably even erroneous to you, it's just..." "It's alright." He interjected abruptly, yet neccisarily. "I understand, I've felt that way an innumerable amount of times, I just guess you could say I'm an optimist." I was dumbfounded, I would have never expected he was cappaible of such warmth. I gave him the closest thing to a smile I could manage and said "I'm ready" I said in an almost languid tone. He slowly reached under the table and into his coat pocket. He looked me in the eyes, and I reciprocated, and I nodded reassuring him. A loud "BANG" erupted from the booth. My body slumped over,my face hit the booths soft leather padding, and blood slowly trickled forth. He stood up, and calmly walked away, disappearing into the night. Anon, all of the patrons of the restraunt had quite an incredulous look on their face. They didn't know quite what was going on, nor will they ever.

I can only imagine what it must be like to smell fresh wild flowers in bloom or the sound made by autumn leaves blowing in an October breeze. How it must be to feel fresh snow fall upon a frozen face or the taste of a cool rush of ice cream against a tongue warmed by a southern summer. For though I have created these things and done so in hopes of perfection I will never see them or anything my brush has painted for that is my curse. To create something so beautiful and marvelous as life, yet never to live it myself . Merely to have the knowledge that is there, somewhere just out of sight. My children spend there whole lives trying to live as if me, but if only they knew my one true wish was simply to live as if them.

I've been writing letters to my future self for a while now. This is one that I recently found from a while ago, and it really hit home for me. ********************************* Dear future self, One day, you will take her for granted. One day, she will just be a normal part of your life, part of your routine. You will think that since you've been together for so long, you won't need to even try anymore. When that day comes, I want you to come back to this journal and read this passage, because I have a few things to say to you. Firstly, fuck you. You're an asshole. You'll probably try to rationalize taking her for granted, telling yourself that you're still a good guy and it's her fault for not trying harder. Don't delude yourself, you're an asshole and you need to accept it. You are the antagonist. Secondly, stop and think. Think of before you met, and how lonely you were. Think of those late summer nights that you spent alone, outside, on the deck of your porch just wishing you had someone to share your feelings with. Think of how happy she had made you when you first spoke, and how ecstatic you had been when she told you that she liked you. Think about how in-love you were, once upon a time, and about how you wanted nothing else but to show her sweet, romantic gestures just to make her smile. And finally, think of her. Think of how she must feel now that you no longer open the door for her, or kiss her on the forehead, or tell her she's beautiful. Just stop and think. Lastly, if you're truly out-of-love with her, try to fall back in. Remember those simple, happy moments: staring at each other from across the room, and laying on the grass, and talking walks and holding hands. Remember why you fell in love in the first place. Remember how that old couple responded when they were asked, "How have you two managed to stay in love for so long?" "We just never fell out of love at the same time." Lastly, remember that if none of that works, it may be time to let her go. Even though it scares you, even though you fear change, quit being a pussy and just tell her. If you can't keep her happy, let her find someone else that will. These are your rules of love, future self. Remember them.

From the long lush valley below, Miranda hears footsteps steadily increasing in volume and intensity. Her many travels over the years has taught Miranda a great deal, and the perils in them has heightened her senses and awareness enough to hear the stranger from a great distance. His distance has been steadily decreasing for the last few days though, despite Mirandas efforts and long runs throughout the nights. His old wooden staff is buzzing with increasing intensity for each step he takes, and he doesn't seem to tire or pause for even a moment. The only wielders of such magic, are either bounty hunters, assassins from the mage guild or great mages said to have lived a long time ago. He must be sent from the mage guild, for why else would any wielder of magic seek her out with such ferociousness? The tracking has been going on for days, forcing Miranda to cover her tracks and flee up into the great peaks of mount Mazra. Any time she covers her tracks, the stranger halts and starts chanting in an unknown language, then continues directly towards Miranda with an increased vigor and speed. It is as though the wind whispers into his ear her every move. Miranda has observed him from a distance, as she's trying to catch her breath in the cold winds of Mazra. All these years of running about has given her great stamina, and the ability to track and hunt any animal for days without resting. This has proven invaluable to her these last few days, as without these skills the stranger would have caught up with her days ago and no doubt rendered her into a pile of ash steadily disappearing from the strong winds of the mountain. The rumors of the wielding of fire from the mages in the mage guild has not been exaggerated, as she has seen the effects of this up close. Not a single body remains of the rebels that fought the mage guild, they've all been rendered to ash and smoke an scattered throughout the kingdom. Her outspoken nature and short temper has brought her into trouble before, but never into anything she couldn't fight or talk her way out of. Maybe she shouldn't have interfered with the guilds actions of killing all the black crows and black cats in the kingdom, but her empathy for animals had made this impossible at that time. And the apprentice mage that tried to kill these innocent animals deserved any single one of the arrows impaling him she thought. She could hear his chanting now, the air is vibrating from the sound of his voice, and the dust is unsettling behind her in a great cloud. How could he have gotten so close so fast?, why is he after her?, and would her friends ever know what happened here? The mountains seems to quiver by the sound of his chants, small pebbles seems to loosen from above and rain down in increasing amounts. Even the bigger boulders seem to come loose and threaten her safe passage. Suddenly a great chunk of the mountain comes loose and makes her passage way a dead end forcing her to turn around and face her tracker. She could hear him around the corner, the chants becoming ever more powerful and the air around her vibrating with an incredible force. Instinctively she draws her trusty bow aiming for the sound of his voice, as the dust renders it impossible for her to see beyond the tip of her arrow. Any second now any of the rocks above could come crashing down on her, rendering her unconscious and defenseless. And there is not a thing she can do to prevent this from happening, as she is trapped here in this dead end with the stranger right around the corner. "SHOW YOURSELF!, COME CLOSER SO I CAN PUT AN ARROW IN HER SKULL", she heard herself yell furiously with a great tremble in her voice. Her hearth is pumping out adrenaline through her system, and she could feel her temper coming into play. Suddenly the dust blows away as the loud chanting stops and there's a figure but 20 feet directly in front of her, staring at her from beneath his worn hood. She lets loose the readied arrow on her bow which hurls towards the cloaked figure at an incredible velocity. The arrow splits in to two pieces right down the middle only feet away from the strangers chest, without him moving as much as a muscle or chanting a single word. He seems to be able to wield powerful defensive magic with the use of his mere thoughts. Miranda quickly draws another arrow and fires it at the stranger, only for it to stop in the middle of the air, then slowly descent to the ground. "Congratulations", the stranger voiced. "Congratulations on your 15th winter among the living". "I see you have improved your archery since last time I saw you" Miranda looked perplexed, she didn't expect these words from a strangers mouth. Who was this stranger? Was he not there for the sole purpose of ending her? "You may not recognize me, but I recognize you. I've followed you for days trying to keep up with your speed, and tracking you where no tracks can be found. It's not been easy, but with the right kind of persuasion and the power of magic, I've finally caught up with you", the stranger uttered. "Who, who are you?", Miranda asked still breathless from the pursuit. "I am Prodigiosus, the heir of your uncle, the force from the south, I command the winds and earth to do my bidding" the stranger pronounced. "I've been observing your progress since you were a child, forever keeping a watchful eye on you and those who have sworn to destroy you" "I'm here to join my forces with you in your fight against the mage guild, You'll need the powers of a mage by your side to be able to fight them", Prodigiosus said. "I have no fight with the mage guild, it's all just a misunderstanding", Miranda uttered. "What they are doing goes against your very nature, and they have been gaining power for these last years, soon beyond their own control. They're slaughtering the black cats and crows because of the fear that they might be spies from the witches of the south. Cruelty of this sort because of such a primitive emotion is unworthy of any wizard, it goes to show that the mages have lost control of themselves and their emotions." Prodigiosus said. Prodigiosus and Miranda spent the night talking about the mage guild in front of a campfire that seemed to appear from thin air. Before Prodigiosus stood up and said: "My presence is required elsewhere Miranda, I've been absent for too long. But know that my powers will always be by your side, the wind will always be in your back and guiding your arrows towards your enemies. It will always reveal their scent while cloaking yours, and it will always whisper the right words in your ear when you need them the most." Suddenly the winds started to pick up, and created a wall of dust between Miranda and the stranger, as soon as he disappeared from sight the winds quieted down and the dust wall vanished from sight. He was nowhere to be found despite Mirandas best efforts. After some hours rest and warmth near the campfire, she thought about the great journey that lie ahead of her, and realized that it had just started.

Two Students and a Math Test. By Matt Jones Harriet wasn't like many of her classmates, she was always looking for some way to pass her classes yet she never wanted to study. Harriet was truly lazy; however, her friend Julie had a little more drive and desire to pass her classes but yet her studying didn't help her enough as she was near failing Math. One day in the dead of winter Harriet walked up to Julie as she was putting her books away in her locker. “You been studying for that math test tomorrow?” “Yeah” Julie replies. “I don't know how I'll do on it though. Even while studying most of that material just went over my head.” “I don't want to fail again, there wouldn't be anyway for me to pass the course then. I have a sixty-six in there and the semester ends in two weeks.” Harriet says. Julie seems puzzled by Harriet's response, “well what you think you or I can do to get a better grade?” “Well we can you know... Cheat” Harriet says. “You're crazy if you think you can get me to do that. I don't want to get in trouble, my parents will ground me for the rest of the year.” Julie pleads. “Stop being such a wuss” Harriet says. “You're not going to get in trouble. I've cheated before, I've yet to get in trouble.” Julie puts away her books and slams her locker shut. “Fine, but text me right before thirteen period ends though. We'll figure out someway to do it.” Julie walks off and as she does Harriet shakes her head with a sense of arrogance. “I know it. I know I will pass that test and that class. I just know it.” She thinks. As much as she self-assures herself of the success that her devious plan will grant throughout that day she began to have second thoughts: “what if I get caught?” or “this isn't right”. These thoughts and others plague her mind. At lunch she was confronted by her math teacher, he was a nice man which made the thought of cheating on a test made by him troubling to her conscience. In the hallway he stops as she is walking towards him going the other way, “Harriet”. “Yes, Mr. O'Hara” Harriet responds. But she already does knew what words were going to come out of his mouth. “Have you been studying for tomorrow's test?” He asks. She knew if she had said no he'd condemn her there, but if she said yes then he wouldn't do much other then possibly question her if she was truly genuine. “I'd rather have him think I am a liar then a no-good quitter.” She thinks. “Well have you?” He asks again, but this time a certain level of anxiousness can be felt from his words. “Sorry about that, I froze for a moment. And to answer the question, yes I've been studying. Off and on for the past week.” She says hoping that he'll buy her lie. “Well continue on and study some more tonight since tomorrow is the big day.” He tells her. As she smiles and hopes that the conversation will be over he begins to walk away. “We'll I got to be going. I'll see you thirteen period.” He tells her. The two begin walking their separate ways; Harriet feels a sigh of a relief. But he turns around for a moment. “Harriet, you need to do well tomorrow. Your going to fail the semester if you don't.” Near the end of twelve period Julie was in her science class and as always near the end of the class the teacher let them line up at the door. Julie got out her cell-phone and noticed she got a text. The text was from Harriet. “Come, meet me at the water fountain near the doors after thirteen period.” “She can't be serious about this” Julie thinks. “She's nuts.” After the bell rings, Harriet and Julie go to math class for thirteen period. After that class the final bell rings and most people leave the building. Harriet and Julie meet at the water fountain. Harriet seems rather secretive, as she keeps checking to make sure no-one is watching. “Look, we only have five minutes to pull this off. Now listen to me as I will tell you what we're going to do. Don't interrupt me, okay?” Harriet asks. “Alright” Julie responds. “Just make it so we don't get caught.” Harriet gets out her cell-phone. “I will quietly open the door and get to his desk grab the test that has the answers, and take a photo of it on my phone. I'll send you it later.” “Seems easy enough” Julie replies. “What am I supposed to do?” “Be a look-out.” Harriet tells her. “Make sure that if someone is coming, tell me so I can then leave the room.” As Harriet enters the room stands Julie alone right outside the door. A few teachers walk past her, a few say hi, and others give her looks of disapproval. Disapproval of why she would be standing there fifteen minutes after the school day had ended. “Come on, hurry up.” Julie says to herself. In the classroom Harriet has found the test she was so desiring for. She found a good edition, one with the answers and work for the answers in pen. She feels safe, glad, and successful. She has found the jackpot. She gets out her cell phone and takes two photos of each side of the paper, gathering up all the information she can get. She puts the test back where she found it and quickly but quietly exits the room. With happiness she looks at Julie. “No need to really study, just memorize answers. It's perfect” “If you say so” Julie says. “Now, are you going to send it to me or what?” “Are you sure you want it? You seemed rather against me doing this in the first place.” Harriet asks. “You might as well. If I get caught I'll get in trouble anyways for being the look-out.” Julie says. Harriet sends her the photos when she gets home. She sits up in her room, yellow as a sunflower is her room. She sits at her desk. She has managed to connect her phone to her computer as the images of the test are on her computer. She precisely looks at them, copies down the work and writes the answers, as well as the work that foes with it, on a piece of paper. As she completes the task of copying it down it hits her – she must be able to pass without it being suspicious. “I must change the work I show” she says to herself. After many tedious hours of studying she drifts off asleep on her desk. Suddenly a noise wakes her up. She acts frantic. “Whose there?” She says out-loud. No response. But she does notice that her phone is alerting her she has received a text-message. When she grabs the phone it says it's 10 PM. She fears she won't be able to get back to sleep tonight after sleeping for over four hours in that nap. She opens up the text she got, it's from Julie: Don't correctly guess all the problems, put wrong things down for a few of them. This doesn't worry her too much, as she was planning to do that anyways. But she is glad that her and Julie are on the same page. That night she falls to asleep at twelve o'clock. The following morning her alarm signals her to get up at six thirty. After spending half and hour getting ready she grabs her book-bag and heads off. When she gets to school Julie walks up to her, awaken as ever thanks to the coffee she is drinking. “So did you study? Are you ready”? Julie asks her. “Yeah I studied. I think I'm ready.” Harriet says. “Well good... I deleted the photo you sent me of the test. I wrote down the work before I did so it's all good. No need to worry then.” Julie says. “I also deleted them” Harriet says. “Well I will see you in thirteen. Be ready.” Julie tells her before she walks off. In third-period that day in study hall Harriet sits there bored as usual. But it hits her, “I need to study” she thinks to herself. She asks to go to her locker and there she desperately looks for the paper she wrote from the test. “Home, I forget it at home!” Harriet quietly says to herself as she comes to the sad realization. She walks quickly back to study hall. There she gets out her cell-phone hoping she didn't actually delete the photo. But she did, she deleted it. She cannot go home, her parents are at work. She can't pretend to get sick, she's done that too many times. She must face the test, but she must tell Julie first. She texts Julie saying how she forget it. Throughout the day there is no answer, no response at all from Julie. As she walks into thirteen period Harriet awaits Julie. When she comes Harriet quickly walks up to her. “Did you get my text?” Harriet asks. “No, I left my phone at home to be sure of you know, us not getting caught.” Julie says. “I forgot my the paper where I put the answers at home” Harriet says. “Can I see yours quickly?” Julie puts down her folders on her desk and gets out the paper, but the arrival of Mr. O'Hara stops her from giving it to Harriet. “I am sorry” Julie tells her. After everyone completes the test and the school day has ended Harriet walks up to Julie in the hallway.“So hows feel to know you not only passed the test, but passed the class?” “You could of still passed it. You could of still remembered the answers and not realized it as you wrote it down. You seem like you just gave up after you realized you forget it at home.” Julie tells her. That next day Harriet seemed to distance herself from Julie. Shame and jealously plagued the emotions of Harriet. Going into thirteen period Harriet prepared for the inevitable, that she failed the test and thus failed the class. But in thirteen period class they received the tests from yesterday. On the top of Harriet's a note from Mr. O'Hara appears on it. It says, “Sorry....But I won't be seeing you next you next year, because you passed the test and the class.” But how, she wondered. How did she pass the test, could have been because she had to study the formulas for some of the questions and thus it could of stuck with her? Maybe she did remember some of the answers? Or maybe she did actually know how to do it all along but her self-doubt blinded her to realize that. Either way she overhears Mr. O'Hara in the hallway with Julie. Mr. O'Hara is whispering to her. “How could someone do that? Cheat!” He asks her. “I am sorry. I just, I just...” She tells him. “Well, of all the people to cheat off you choose the one student whose failing. The one student who had to take this class again, you picked him. You should of really just asked for help instead of resorting to this.” He tells her as the sound of Julie crying begins. “I am sorry to have to do this, but you are going to be given an F for this test and because of this you will have to repeat the course next year.” As the two walk back into the classroom everyone stares at Julie, whose makeup is smeared due to her crying. Julie looks at Harriet with confusion.

You were laying in your bed when you died. It was a heart attack. Nothing very profound or scandalous but it claimed your life just the same. You left behind no heirs, no wife, no lover, nothing. Your staff did not even try to save you. They let you die there. Just as well they didn’t bother. Even if you were to live, you would never truly be the same again. Trust me. And that was when you met me here on this ashen hill. “Wait. What? What happened?” you asked, “Where am I?” “You died.” I said very monotonically. There was no sense in pulling punches, not now. The answer to the question was both what happened and where you were. You just did not know it yet. You could not understand then. “I…I was trying to sleep for the night! I was a healthy man!” “Do not be afraid. Everyone dies.” I said, devoid of emotion, for they served no purpose any longer for where we were. You started to look around. At the bottom of the hill that you and I stood upon was molten lava, in front of us, in the not too far distance, was a foreboding and terrifying cave. Above us roared the mighty thunder and the lightning illuminated across the sky. Both screamed and stretched, and made their presence known, across the blackened sky, seemingly, at least to you, out of anger. “What is going on here? Where am I?” You asked, as your eyes were skyward. Your fear was tangible and your confusion was well pronounced. “I told you. You died.” I replied. Without hesitation and without bringing your eyes down to me, you asked once more but pointing to the sky. “No. I meant, what is going on up there?” you asked with a mix of wonderment and angst. “That is the All-Father and The Mother.” I replied matter-of-factly. Your eyes finally lowered from the sky and toward the personification I had taken so that you could see me, although your eyes struggled to gain focus at first. I appeared before you as a man, dressed in simple and forgettable garb. You continued in your confusion as you asked, somewhat rhetorically, “The All-Father and The Mother? What? And who are you?” Your questions were starting to get faster, which indicated both aimlessness and anxiety; and your nervous energy was oozing from your aura. I comforted you a bit. “Yes. The All-Father and The Mother. You were taught about them on your planet, perhaps not by those names. You have heard of Ovid and Anaxilea in your studies.” Your eyes blinked and face twitched some. Your countenance changed instantly to that of fear. Had you been living, your brow would have perspired with beads of sweat. Though, at this point, that would not happen to you. You simply asked me another question. You had many, though just a few were voiced to me on that day. "Why do they make so much noise? Are they upset with me?" “No. We are all indifferent. There are no emotions in our justice.” I stated back at you. You knew exactly what I was talking about. “There are emotions in everything!” You screamed at me. To which I replied with the same tone I had taken from the very first words we exchanged with each other. "Amongst mortal men and women, yes. Ours is a justice you could never truly know and may never truly appreciate. It is outside of the realm of possibility for beings, such as yourself, to fathom." “Then they can save me! Tell them to save me, stranger.” You stated, thinking that you were a cunning one and could win this argument, as if it were one. There was nothing to argue. There was nothing to discuss, though you seemed as though you wanted to so I obliged. “They have no jurisdiction here. There is no saving.” I said. I almost felt sorry for you as you stood there and looked bewildered. Your mind immediately went to dark and unnecessarily bleak places. It was as if you didn’t understand that you were already dead. And with that, I continued, “You are taking that to mean something cryptic. Don’t. It is just the way of things. There simply are the choices you make while you live and what has been decided is dispensed unto a man whence his mortal days pass.” I said as we both walked down the hill and towards the lava. I stepped onto the lava first. My feet rested upon the fiery seas of volcanic ooze unscathed. It was no different than resting them upon the soil in the reality from where you came, and I waited for you to follow. I knew you would not be led onto the lava without my insistence that you accompany me. And so, I reached my hand out for yours and assured you that you would be unharmed by the scalding fiery liquid. “Come, take my hand. Don’t worry about the lava…” I said knowing my own capabilities in this realm. “I will protect you.” It was then that your eyes caught mine for the first real time. You suddenly knew who you were speaking to. "Zauriel?" “Aye. It is me.” I answered. Deceiving you served no purpose. You took my hand and stood atop the lava. You looked down at your feet with opened mouth. You were astounded that you could feel no heat and no pain; and that you were not claimed by the torrid liquid. Not long after, your eyes did rise from the lava and they looked back outward to the cave just across the lava on which we both now stood. From what you could see the opening was black as darkest night, the thunder and lightning roared above you once more and you were reminded of what I said about All-Father and The Mother. You were reminded that they had very little say here; so much so that the All-Father and The Mother chose not to speak. The thunder and lightning sufficed. Your gaze returned to the cave and immediately you knew what you were looking at. It was the realm to the Underworld. It was the gateway to the Queen of the Damned. “I think I know who lives down there.” You told me. You did not know that I could read your thoughts. You did not know that I knew what was to happen before it would. “I know you do.” I replied reassuringly. “Perseph-” I silenced you and I interrupted. “It is better not to state my sister’s name outright. It only calls you to her attention quicker.” You swallowed hard though your fear would not disappear that easily. “So she does hate me! So there is a sense of revenge amongst this! There is emotion, Zauriel! You lied to me!” You exclaimed in anger and fear. I simply looked to you and spoke, as I had all along. “I did not. There is no emotion. My Sister, the Underworld’s Queen, is simply serving her function to justice. She executes the justice. You have made your choices in your life and you have to go to her for what is rightly to be granted unto you.” "And what is that?" you asked me. “Punishment.” I said. “Why?” you inquired once again, this time your tone was accepting. It was because you knew why. You knew why you were here; though I reminded you. You needed to hear it. “You lived an unjust life. The harm you inflicted onto others is harm you also inflict upon yourself…here.” You fell silent as your eyes moved from my face to the cave of the Underworld. You recalled, just then and more vividly than before, the very instances that you knew I was speaking of. You felt shame and hesitated to even look in my direction out of some form of embarrassment. You weren’t used to being spoken to so candidly and knew, deep down, you could not deny what I had said. I remained silent, my gaze transfixed on your person. Before long, you spoke up once more, with a shaky timbre to your voice. “This has to be a bad dream. I can’t! No! I didn’t have a choice!” “Yes you did. Everyone has choices.” I reminded you in a friendly manner. You were going to yell back at me that it was not true. That your presence here was because of something else, something outside of your control, but you stopped. Swallowing those words and that line of thinking was a difficult thing for you to do. You were growing angrier, and more frightened, by the moment. I finished my thought, “People are the sum of their choices. The ones you made got you here. Though all is not quite over, just yet, for you.” Your eyes widened and with great impatience you spoke up, “It’s not? How so? Tell me, Zauriel!” you insisted. "My Sister has allowed me to give you a choice. We are just, after all." You nodded your head with such nervous haste. “Yes, thank you, thank you, thank you! What choice?” you anxiously, and happily, inquired. “You can either go into the Underworld, subjected to unspeakable and unfathomable punishment that has a definitive end. I know you want to ask so I will answer before you do. I do not know when the end is. There is no time here.” I paused for a moment before I finished my thought. “Or I can take this away forever. You shall not know physical anguish by The Queen’s hand. The Underworld’s Kingdom shall not hear your soul’s screams. You will be left alone. For always.” You stopped for a moment and thought. You could hear the voices of the damned scream out from the cave. Fear overcame you. You started to twitch. You were extremely afraid of what you did not know and so certain of what you thought you did. "You know what I am going to choose already don’t you?" “Yes.” I answered. I did not want to lie to you. There was no point in doing such. You pondered some more. “Then what is the point? Just give me what I was going to choose.” you stated unpleasantly in depressed, yet angered, resignation. “That is not how it works. Each man is the sum…” You interrupted me with a wave of your hand and turned away from me. Your anger had returned to you. “Each man is the sum of his choices, yes I know, I get it!” I said not a thing, despite you being incorrect. You did not know, in the true sense of the word; not yet anyways. “So I would be alone? Away from here?” You repeated the offer back to me, to be sure you heard correctly. Immediately, you continued. "What’s the catch, Protector?" You addressed me by the title many in your universe knew me by as you pivoted to face me again. I answered you honestly. “The catch is that you will be alone.” You thought about it, though you thought about it incorrectly. You thought you were able to evade your justice. You believed yourself to have been granted a great deal, and for the countless crimes against humanity that you had committed. You thought yourself an intelligent and cunning person. What it meant to be alone, in your reality, was not the same as it is here amongst the dead. “I choose to be alone then.” I remained unmoved and silent. You did not like that. “Did you not hear me, Protector? Was I unclear? I choose to be alone! Make it happen and rid me from this place!” “Are you sure?” I wanted to give you one final chance before I made anything permanent. “Of course I am sure!” You shouted at me. Without a moment wasted, you were suddenly in a void. It was a complete and true nothingness, where there existed no time and no one else for all eternity, without reprieve. You would think on what got you to where you ended up, on my words; on your brief stay in what you thought was your hell. It would not be until later that you realized that the choice, the real choice, was between two separate hells. The gods would have their justice. A man is simply the sum of their choices and you would hear me say that in your head over and over again though you could not voice your discontent with that adage or with anything else. There was no one to voice it to. You were one with nothingness and, eventually, it was one with you… **Author's Note**: This story is loosely inspired by "The Egg". Also, the name Zauriel is taken from the comic book superhero by the same name. Although, this Zauriel is not the same character.

A fearful and sweating man walks into an old stone church, dips his hand into its water, painting a cross upon his shirt. He continues pace 'til he meets the oldest and wisest of priests, Bowing, Kneeling, revealing horns of the greatest beast. He says "Father I've sinned and I've prayed, I've prayed and I've sinned, yet no matter the strength of my prayer I sin again". The priest being the oldest and wisest of suit, couldn't help but chuckle thumping his small worn leather boot. The man raised his head almost cracking his horns atop the ceiling, nearly furious at how the priest was feeling. He repeated once more what he had just said, stroking the unearthly horns upon his head. "Please father you see each time I sin my horns beginnto grow, surely as sure as heaven you must know". Once again the old priest stomped a worn boot and let out a laugh, the man jumped from his knees, horns bright red displaying his wrath. You damned old fool tell me the way, to find the light to rid these horns that stay. The old man nearly fell out of his seat. Hunched over, hands waving, stomping his feet. The man's horns grew twice as large and twice as red, as they crackled like Hell's fire atop his head. You know nothing, you're foolish, you're stupid, you're cruel, laughing at my pain as if a dunce hat in school. He turned craving holes in the stone roof above. The old man grabbing his arm as he tossed and shoved. He said, "I'm sorry young man but I could not refrain, from the simpleness of the solution to solving you're pain. You see though you have horns, you did not burn when you walked these holy walls riddled with concern. You did not smoke, choke, simmer, or sadder, when you dipped your hands in the holiest of water. You see these horns you touche, you taste, you feel, have never truly been something real. Though they weigh you down and hold you back, the mark of the beast you seem to lack. For you see every man has his horns, it is the most common of things, for without our horns we would never appreciate wings.

Her daughter entered the room and stood in front of her, cross legged, teeth gritting. The girl was searching for a break to politely interject, but mother had the stage, and there was no indication that she would be passing the conch anytime soon. The girl waits. Finally, through furrowed brow, tightened fists and pursed lips she whisper "mommy, I really have to go potty." Mother stops. She tilts her head to the side, and looks down at the girl. "Honey, that is rude. Say you have to use the "restroom." Now go on ahead." The girl prances away. The spotlight returns to mother. "Now where was I…that's right. I was ten centimeters dilated, and then Gunner started crowning as soon as my legs were in the stirrups…" The Gymnastics Waiting Room No. 5. My Own Public Miracle. A college professor of mine once told me that a non-smoker never offended anyone. I think back to that advice whenever I'm in a new social situation. Everyone knows the unwritten rules - you don't talk about politics or religion. In the sense of good test, there are also other less divisive topics that should be shied away from. You want to talk about that horror movie you just saw with the killer that uses an icepick attached to a weedwacker? Wait until after dessert. Aunt Mary's laser hair removal procedure? Not at the church Christmas pageant. What about the labor and birthing process of all three of your children? Apparently acceptable in any situation. I'm not sure when it happened, but somehow speaking about the human birthing process is exempt from our unwritten book of couth. The "miracle of life" has become a tale that every mother feels is necessary to share with their friends, enemies and innocent bystanders. Don't believe it? Try this little test sometime. Ask a co-worker the following three questions, and you'll bound to get answers similar to the ones below. Q: "Hey Jill, did you vote for Obama?" A: "Uh, that's kind of private." Q: "Hey Jill, what do you think about the whole abortion issue?" A: "Yeah, let's stay away from that. More potato salad?" Q: "Hey Jill, how long were in you in labor with Tommy?" A: "Well, after my water broke, Ted and I went right down to the hospital and got in the delivery room. I swear they put those forceps on ice before they use them on you. Anyhoo…" When my wife was visibly pregnant, she would get the typical questions of how many months, when she was due, and if we knew the gender of the baby. "These people are so nice, kind and concerned!" we thought. Sadly, we fell for the bait and switch. Most mothers took a sharp turn from general pleasantries to a tell-all of the birth of their own child, available as a full on Director's Cut, Criterion Collection Three-Disc Bonus Digital Copy Behind the Sheet with Best Friend and Mother in Law Commentary. Complete, uncensored and unabridged. Now On Demand. Labor and birthing stories were shared with us everywhere. Grocery stores, banks, swimming pools, doctors offices, schools, meetings, festivals, and even restaurants during the meal were all fair game. Today, the tainted space is my childrens' gymnastics waiting room. Gunner's mother is delivering her monologue to a captive audience of five mothers, eight children, two fathers, and the receptionist. Not one person is batting an eye at the mention of the screaming, the pushing, and the fluids. Walk into this monologue two minutes late and you're in the middle of a rough script reading for "Alien IV: Expulsion." I don't know why speaking about childbirth in public has become as acceptable as talking about the weather. I do know, however, that the best coping mechanism is ignorance. Because ignorance allows us peace. Dolly Parton once stated that her husband had never seen her without makeup, and that he was perfectly fine with that. Disney characters are prohibited from taking their costumes off in the park in an effort to "maintain the magic." And if my repressed memory serves me correctly, my own children simply appeared on this Earth. There were no labor pains, contractions, or forceps - just a perfectly clean baby, with a round, formed head, already wearing a perfectly fastened cloth diaper. That Vlasic Pickle stork sure knows how to deliver. The details keep getting better. Take this actual transcription from today: "My water broke right at the farmer's market!" "Oh, mine just let loose at Wal-Mart!" "Well mine happened right in the middle of Olive Garden!" Thanks. I think I'll grow my own produce from now on. This one's the best: "My husband and I tried for two years before we got pregnant with Gunner." Stage left to the man sitting right next to her. He doesn't even look up from the crossword he's been staring at for the past half hour. I watch him write "MISERY" in a four letter box. Maybe this talk of childbirth gets a free pass because it's natural. Or because some consider it a miracle. But it's no miracle - we know the science behind it. A true miracle cannot be explained. For example, somehow my son managed to switch a talking Elmo doll to Spanish that doesn't even feature a bilingual option. If that doll is reading this, por favor no me maten en mi sueño, demonio Elmo. In an effort to help reduce the verbal outbreak, I present a brief list of situations where a complete description of childbirth is acceptable: 1. Speaking to a doctor in the confines of a steel, windowless room only accessible using key codes from two separate briefcases. 2. During a special "Pep Assembly" in front of an entire high school population on day before prom. The band then closes with a rousing minor key arrangement of "In The Mood." Class has ended, and my daughter enters the waiting room while mother concludes her monologue. I scoop up my children and we make our way out, taking care to dodge the verbal tosses of epiderals, umbilical cords and vernix. We are stopped at the door by a small child, no more than two. I glance back - mother is looking at the boy with adoration, so proud of her personal romance trophy. This is Gunner. In twenty minutes, I have learned every detail of his life up to this point, including his less than immaculate 24 month conception. I take a moment to pity the child; his life will forever be an open book narrated by his mother. "Run," I whisper before sidestepping and exiting. We stop at a fast food restaurant on the way home. My family is now safe from the waiting room birther. No longer will my children and I suffer from the disgusting tales of before, during and afterbirth. We get our food and sit down. Behind us, two senior citizens are at a table enjoying their coffee, speaking loudly.

I never could get my hyper drive to put me just where I wanted to be. It wasn't too bad, mind you. Relative to the dozen-lightyear jumps I usually made, the 10^-10% discrepancy only ever added up to a few hundred KM off target. I usually just made sure to punch in coordinates far enough outside of any major gravity well, and never had much of a problem. In fact sometimes I'd even make a game out of it. Calculate the center point between a planet and it's moon, or a sun an it's planet (relative to mass), and guess which side of the first Lagrangian I'd end up on. This time, though, the coin landed on its edge. Initial readings put me smack dab on the fulcrum, split even relative to the two competing gravity pulls of a dirty green gas giant and it's watery blue moon. While I wondered if leaning to the side of the cockpit would pull me to one side or another, the radio came to life ripping my out of my daydream. "Quit farting around up there and burn into orbit, you're not getting paid to pick your nose," came a smokey, but feminine voice. Charming. "Roger. Punching full burn, initiating orbit," I replied, then thought a beat about the voice on the line, "Hey, who's this? Ain't Eric supposed to be running dispatch tonight?" "Eric called out. This is Frex, I'm new," was the kurt answer, with the audible annoyance and scruffy accent that painted a full picture of the kind of lady that works for an interplanetary cargo company in the outer colonies. I punched in a few keystrokes, then hit the button to initiate orbit. The ship calculated the thrust and direction needed for a near perfect orbit into a landing -- a problem that would have made a 21st century high school calc student stay up half the night -- in the time it took for the button to un-depress. I smiled for a second in anticipation, and hit the intercom button. "Hey Frex, do you like tacos?" I asked into the radio. "What??" the voice half yelled, noticeably caught off guard. Butterflies! I rolled with it... "The ship's showin' 8 minutes 'til docking. What do you say you meet me then, and I'll show you this taco place I know in Lambda sector?" I messaged back, with a grin in my voice. I quickly heard the distinctive click of the radio connection cutting off. I sat back with a laugh as the outer hull started glowing with reentry heat.

“As long as my fiancée doesn’t find out.” Jenny wasn’t a busybody. Really, she wasn’t. Maybe she could have put the other phone down sooner, but when she heard her soon-to-be brother in law on the other line, she couldn’t help herself. The line had died immediately after, and she didn’t hear anything else; but what she had heard was enough. Jason was definitely cheating on her sister. Now, Jason had never done anything to her, personally. Nor had he actually hurt anybody in the family. But Jenny knew he was bad news from the time Emma first introduced him. He had long, black hair that was always greasy, with beads and feathers in random places. He was tall and lanky, and always wore black clothing no matter what the weather. And he perpetually wore a collar. A collar, with spikes, around his neck. The multiple tattoos lining his arms and torso didn’t help matters either. No, he was without a doubt a scoundrel. Even her most basic, open-minded questions brought forth unsavory answers: What do you do for a living? Drummer for a band. Of course. What kind of band? Punk-rock genre, with slight grunge influence. Emma had stepped in then, turning the conversation to less damning topics, but Jenny had heard all she needed to. This, boy, was nothing more than a wannabe band member her sister would end up having to babysit and take care of six months into the marriage. And that was assuming he would stay faithful for any amount of time, which she strongly doubted. The man never even smiled. It didn’t matter if he was taking a picture, eating, sleeping, or touching his fiancé. His bored scowl never seemed to slip. The only time she had seen him close was when her sister had announced her pregnancy and the ensuing engagement. He had smirked. But of course she was pregnant. Her beautiful, innocent little sister was now carrying this excuse of a man’s child. Which was why she was in her sister’s house in the first place; they were planning a baby shower. And even if Jenny didn’t approve of her sister’s choice in men, there was nothing that would keep her from giving her niece or nephew the best shower she possibly could. Their father had been happy to hear the news, but with his health Rob wasn’t able to get around very easily. He had insisted they have the baby shower at Emma’s home, and take plenty of pictures for him to enjoy later. Jenny’s heart went out to her father; raising two daughters as a single working dad had taken a huge toll on him, especially since he never remarried. He had done whatever he could to make sure their every need, and many times want, was met. As the older sister, she had acted as the mother role in Emma’s life; tutoring her, mentoring her, and advising her. She loved her sister deeply, and would do anything to protect her. So when she picked up the phone and heard his voice, she didn’t put it down. Jenny stood with the phone against her ear, line dead, in shock from what she had just heard. She had fully expected for Jason to cheat; he just looked like the kind of sleaze-ball that would take advantage of Emma. But she had never guessed that he would do it two days before his child’s baby shower. That was simply unforgivable in her mind. The question, of course, was what to do with the information. Her first reaction was to go straight to Emma, but she quickly decided against it. Her sister knew she didn’t like Jason, and would think that she was making the story up. She needed proof, which was exactly what she was going to get. The next day, she downloaded an app that let her record conversations on her phone. Hiding in her sister’s bathroom, she waited until Emma had gone out on an errand run and Jason was alone working on the living room. Their phone was a bit older, and had no caller ID, so she didn’t have to worry about him seeing her number. After working deciding how she would disguise her voice, she called. The phone rang a few times before she heard Jason’s gruff voice. “Hello?” “Hey, Jason, it’s me,” she said, whining her voice just a bit. “Me? Who is this, Karen?” he asked slowly. “Yes, of course. I told you I would call” Jenny said, biting her lip in anticipation. “Yeah, I know. Look, I’d love to help you out, but I can’t right now.” “What? Why not?” she whined again, her heart pounding as she waited for his response. “I’m still preparing for the baby shower. Emma’s really excited, and I want to make it special for her.” “So what about after?” she asked playfully. “Yeah, I could come over after. Which subject?” She blinked. “Subject?” “Yeah; which subject does Jared need tutoring with?” “Uh… it’s math. He needs help in math,” she said quickly, her face flushing. So much for evidence… “Really? He was doing well in it. Huh; teacher must have bumped him up in difficulty. Well tell him I’ll be available to come over on Thursday.” He said, and hung up. Jenny gritted her teeth together as she hung up; that had not gone as planned. He tutored? What mother in her right mind would want their child to spend time with that man? Frustrated, she left the restroom and went back to work. It wasn’t until the morning of the baby shower that Jenny decided confrontation was the best possible route. After all, Jason was in the wrong. There was nothing for her to be worried about. She found him finishing up the decorations in the kitchen, waiting until her sister had run another errand. “Jason, we need to talk.” Jason looked up at her, his face as unreadable as ever. Squaring her shoulders, Jenny walked up to him, stopping when she was inches away from his chest. “Okay,” he muttered, raising an eyebrow. Jenny had to resist the urge to slap him then and there. How dare he act as if he wasn’t the scumbag here? “I overheard your phone conversation the other day. I know.” Jason’s eyes grew as his body tensed; so he did have more than one expression after all. She couldn’t help but smirk slightly; victory was hers. “And don’t think I won’t tell Emma about this,” she continued. “In fact, I was planning on talking to her as soon as she got back…” “No!” Jason said, his voice a bit higher than normal. “No, don’t tell her; I know you don’t like me that much, but please, don’t say anything to her yet.” “And why shouldn’t I?” Jenny asked, a bit indignant. “Look, just let this play out, alright? If you do, you’ll get to see her reaction when I tell her myself. I’ll even push the credit to you if you want. Just please, don’t say anything to her yet.” Jason’s voice sounded so sincere that Jenny had a hard time maintaining her smirk. He really didn’t want to get caught. Even though it was probably too good for a guy like him, she nodded. Jason’s face relaxed, returning to his normal bored expression as he turned and continued decorating. Jenny waited a beat before returning to her designated decorating area. Emma was going to be saved from this man; she had done her job. The hours to the baby shower passed quickly as preparations continued, and it wasn’t long until the guests started arriving. Emma was radiant, smiling and greeting all the guests in stride while her sister made sure everything was going according to plan in the background. There were games, snacks, pictures, and gifts given as each of the guests congratulated Emma on her upcoming baby. Jason stayed behind his fiancé, nodding at everybody respectfully, shaking the hands of men who regarded him with the same expression Jenny wore. After a while, he disappeared into the kitchen with the excuse of checking on his own gift. The party was beginning to wind down by the time Jason returned to the living room; many of the guests had already left, leaving only a core group of friends behind. Catching Jenny’s eye, he smirked. “You ready?” she heard him whisper. Before she could ask what he was talking about, the doorbell rang. “Hey, anybody home?” a strong voice rang out as soon as Jason opened the door. Jenny stood with her sister, completely lost in what was happening. A tall, handsome blond man strode through, sporting a thousand-watt smile, tight leather jeans and gauges. Glancing around, he threw his arm around Jason’s shoulders and looked at Emma. “You must be Em’. Jason’s always talking about you; though you’re even better looking than he describes.” He drawled in a slight Australian accent. “And that’s saying something,” another voice agreed from outside. Three more men came in, all wearing similar clothing. Two looked as though they could be twins and had shorter spiked hair, opposite the blond man and Jason, while the third had his styled in a mohawk. Each was carrying two boxes covered in wrapping paper. “Trust me; the guy never shuts up about you. Though now I’m beginning to understand why,” the mohawked man continued with a smile of his own. “Emma, and everyone else, these guys are the rest of my band.” Jason motioned to each of the members respectively/ “The twins are Aaron and Alex; don’t worry about trying to tell them apart. I’ve been playing with them for a couple years now, and I still can’t half the time. They play keyboard and backup guitar. The man with the ridiculous hair is Jonathan, who plays base. And this is Chase, our lead singer and guitarist,” he finished, turning back to the group. “Guys, this is my lovely fiancée, Emma, and her sister Jenny.” It was the first time Jenny had ever seen him smile. Chase raised an eyebrow as he looked at Jenny. “Na, mate, this can’t be Jenny. She is much to pretty to be the bridge-dwelling troll you always complain abo-” His thought was cut off as Jason’s elbow found his stomach, though that didn’t stop Chase from laughing. Jenny considered being offended, but decided against it as she watched the rest of the band instantly mock Jason. “Anyways, Jason here said you were having a baby shower for the little one,” Chase continued, turning back to Emma. “And since the idiot decided not to tell us if it’s gonna’ be a boy or a girl, we kinda’ ended up planning for both,” Aaron (or Alex?) joined in, hefting the large box he was carrying a bit higher under his arm. “Thank you so much!” Emma gasped, motioning them to where the boxes could be placed before giving each of them a hug. Jenny stood silent, still unable to wrap her mind around what was happening. This is what the phone call was about… “What’s the matter, love? Cat got your tongue?” Chase asked, winking at her as the group walked back from the gifting area. To her credit, she didn’t faint, but Jenny was sure the blush she had could light a dark room. “Thank you all so much!” Emma repeated, tears threatening her eyes. “I can’t believe you went to all this trouble for me.” “Don’t thank me; it was your sister’s idea,” Jason said, motioning towards Jenny. Jenny’s hear leapt into her throat as Emma turned to her and engulfed her in a hug. “I can’t believe it Jen! You did this for me? This was so thoughtful of you!” she squealed. “Of course,” Jenny said, awkwardly returning the embrace. As she caught Jason’s eye, she saw him wink, smirking at her, before turning back to his band. “Well, do you guys want some refreshments? We’ve got plenty left over; though we’d better get our share before letting Jonathan near the table.” The group laughed good-naturedly as the stouter man crossed his arms in mock offense. “Besides, we need to reschedule our next practice. Jared’s mom called; he needs help with math again, and I offered to tutor him Thursday.” Oops. “We’d love to, mate,” Chase said, and the group made their way towards the kitchen. Emma turned back to her sister, smiling brightly. “Thank you so much, Jen. You really are the best sister a girl could ask for,” she said, hugging her once more. “It… it was Jason’s band. They’re really the ones who went to the trouble,” Jenny said, glaring at Jason’s attempt to hide his smirk. “But you always know exactly what to do to make me happy. I know I can always count on you,” Emma said, squeezing one more time before she let go. “I’d better check on them; I’d hate to run out of food if they’re still hungry.” As she walked into the kitchen, Jason raised an eyebrow at Jenny. “Happy now?” he asked, still grinning. Before she could answer, he turned towards the kitchen. “Uh, Jason?” “Yes?” he asked, glancing back at her. Jenny bit her lip nervously. “I actually have a bit of a confession.

This is a story that I've been working on for about a month now, but have been tossing around as an idea for close to 6 months. This is a short proof of concept/idea section that won't actually be in the full story, but gives a good understanding of what the book truly stands for. The theme of the book is to display why the idea of a superhero would never truly work in today's society, as they and their goals would be corrupted, misinterpreted, and misunderstood. Hope you guys like it, please feel free to leave any feedback (I'm only in high school, so don't expect it to be beautiful). As I walked down the street, a lead pipe splattered with blood in my right hand, and a dirty clown mask being carried in my other, I slowly wondered about how many people I had hurt that night. When you pose yourself as something greater than yourself, like a hero, you're much more aware of who you're hurting when you do the things that heroes do. If you stalk a guy because you receive a lead, and find out that he frequently mugs people, and you go to his usual spot and break his nose with a pipe, you're probably not just hurting him. You're probably hurting all the people who depend on him, like his kids, or cancer-ridden mom. You're probably fucking over his entire month because he is too afraid to go outside in fear of you standing outside of his door, ready to pound his brains all over his house wall. Anyways, after about a minute of walking down the street at around 11 pm, rain pounding the ground like bullets, I quickly realized how big of a mistake it was to be carrying those two things in my hand. I pulled the mask over my face, making sure to fit the strap that fit so snugly over the top of my head just perfectly so that each strap went perfectly on top of my ears. As for the pipe, I pulled out a wet rag and wiped the blood off, and put the weapon inside of the backpack. I threw the rag out in the next trashcan that I walked by. I decided I was done now, and that I would start heading home. It was getting close to 11:30, and I still had some homework left. Fuck. I started to head for the overpass. The overpass was the quietest, darkest, and most lonely place in town. I walked under it in complete darkness, and as I walked out, I became a completely different person. While superman had a telephone booth, and batman had a cave, places where they could hide their identities when nobody was looking, the Cleaner had an overpass that he would walk under as the masked man and walk out as a high school junior. The mask went in my bag, and the pipe was shoved further down so that it didn't just awkwardly stick out of my bag. I headed for the car, as the rain began to stop. As I approached the red Civic, the rain began to pick up again. I threw my bag in the back, and scurried into my seat before I could get drenched. After 3 tries of trying to get the car started, it finally worked. Fuck, I need to get that checked out. I started home, and began to think about the man I had saved earlier that night. Just an innocent guy, probably walking home from work, or a coffee shop, or something like that, only to be confronted by a guy with a gun and a desperate face on. I swooped in with the pipe, swiftly knocking the gun out of the assailant's hands, and throwing him down. The older gentleman, the victim, fell back in shock, to see a guy, about medium build, wearing a black hoodie and a clown mask, wielding a lead pipe. One swipe, and that was it. The assailant stood up in a wobbly fashion, leaving his gun, holding his bloody face a minute later, and quietly whimpered as he walked back into the darkness in which he was so familiar with. I looked at the man, almost expecting something from him, but no, not even a thank you. At least he didn't freak the fuck out like some of the other people. I pulled into my driveway, trying to be as stealthy as possible. It was about 11:45 by now, and I knew which of my neighbors stayed up this late, so I tried not to alert anybody. I walked in through the side door, locked it, and walked into my kitchen. From there, I could see my mother, passed out on the couch like usual, surrounded by her drugs, her crack, her pot, her heroin, and whatever else she used these days. The amount of poison that she injected and allowed into her body was unfathomable, similar in the sense to letting a cobra bite you once a day. I tiptoed up the stairs, creaking my bedroom door open, and quietly laid down in my bed without turning any of the lights on. I took my backpack, the one full of things and shoved it under my bed, along with my black sweatshirt and pads. Slow night. Easy gig. I was too exhausted to do my homework. I'd do it before class, or something... It was one of those sleepless nights that night. Not just a sleepless night, but one of those. Yeah, shit. The nights where you were tired enough to the point where you felt like you could just go to sleep but had too much on your mind to even try and relax. Sean, I thought. That fucking guy. That asshole. He can't do anything right. No, I'm not thinking about that tonight. Relax. The night is over. That mask isn't on anymore. You took it off, remember? Yeah, now take it easy, and focus on getting some rest. But no. That mask wasn't off. Maybe the physical mask, the mask that I slipped over my face so comfortably, but not the one that represented the Cleaner. When you start to become a superhero, you wake up every morning as you, and then you put on a mask and go save the world somewhere else. But over time, that doesn't happen. You become that superhero, no, he INHABITS you, like a parasite, until it gets to the point where you aren't waking up as yourself and putting on his mask. You're waking up as him and putting on the mask of your own face. I thought about all the people I hurt, but it was all in good health. But was it really? Sometimes I really don't think that there are heroes in this world. Only villains with good morals. As I thought these thoughts, all the people who judged my character, all the people who wanted to hurt me, I fell into a depressed sleep that would haunt me in the morning with bags under my eyes and a morning sleepwalk. Edit: Formatting.

A young man is granted the accumulated knowledge of the human race, able to recall any piece of information available to him just by asking out loud. He loves it at first. he spends countless hours using his ability; he used it in his courses to get ahead, on his masters thesis, at his job interviews, and it got him exactly where he wanted to be in life. He has landed a job at a high tech agency designed to transport information around the globe. His job is simple; he goes in, then answers his own questions until it is time to punch out. Several pay raises and holiday bonuses later, he becomes tired with this idea. The man loses sense with the feelingof simply not knowing. He has lost the mystery of life, the aspect that wonders what a magician really does to pull that rabbit from the hat. He began to lose touch with his purpose on this planet. What is the point to a life without mystery? He yearns for it desperately, asking himself for it every day, but no one on earth seems to know his purpose in life. Nobody has ever learned - in school, on the streets or anywhere for that matter - the purpose for this man's life. He is devastated. He yells at the top of his lungs, pleading for one person within the entire human race to know why he is here on Earth, but no one knows. He goes ballistic. He needs to get rid of this stupid gift. He starts screaming, demanding to know how to reverse what had been done to his mind, but he has no such luck. He knows everything in the world, except for the way to remove his curse; he knows everything in the world, except for who he is.

Carlos I remember the day I received the letter quite well. I had gone to class in the morning and worked a delivery shift afterwards. Arriving home, I checked my mail. Usual financial bullshit and an inconspicuous envelope from my university. I decided to check such first. I was a bit of a barbarian opening mail, no real technique just ripping and tearing until I could pry out the enclosed papers. I wish that this time the papers were ripped along with the envelope. I stood stunned in the doorway of my 1 bedroom apartment as I read the heading, “RE: Whiteworth, Jonathan Financial Aid Eligibility Revocation,” my lower body sunk against the wall as I cradled my head fighting back the salty tears of spoiled dreams. I just sat there for a while without caring to finish the letter, incapacitated. Not really sure for how long, may have been an hour, perhaps even longer. The header delivered the dagger, the subsequent sentences would only further twist it. When my head stopped spinning and I garnered enough strength to stand up, I decided I needed some fresh air. I put my shoes on and just began to walk. No destination in mind, I would just walk until I wanted to go home, and then I would. I walked up and down the musty streets of New York in my own world, never had I paid less attention to my surroundings. The term “shellshocked” resonated in my brain as my legs continued churning out the blocks. My body was functioning but my brain was stuck in neutral. I had caught a marijuana possession misdemeanor a few months back and I guess financial aid department had caught wind of it. I was advised by the public defendant that so generously helped me that it was a possibility I would lose eligibility. But I was never really the type to cross bridges before I got to them, so it remained filed somewhere in the back of my mind like a fuzzy childhood memory and I continued on with my life. Until today. I was now at the bridge. “JOHN” my fathers voice bellowed through our modest apartment. He would scream my name everytime he wanted my attention. This one had a little calice to it. I took my time to get up and slowly walked down the hallway. Halfway leaning into the doorway I see him in his chair. “Yes?” I’d say he was drunk and losing his bets, based on the empty beer cans and fourth quarter of the Monday Night Football game illuminating the messy room. “I can hear you in there talking to your little girlfriend using my telephone. Keep it the fuck down.” “Thats my television” “You mean my television, and are you being a wiseass to me?” “Not really” “Not really? You and Mr. Funny guy cracks,get the fuck out of my face loser” I spun a 180 and walked heavily down the creaky hallway back to my room. He had basically summoned me in there to have a confrontation. I imagined it made him feel better as he pissed away his paycheck on underperforming teams. Could never tell what was worse, his drinking or gambling problem. Occasionally I would hear a knock on the door, which my father would answer and allow a few men into my living room, which was allegedly the exact way my mother had left it. They would ask him if he knew the ‘juice’ was running, for which he would answer yes and they would calmly ask him to not make them come back this week, then they would leave. My mother died giving birth to me. I lived with my father my entire life, he put a roof over head and some cheap food into my stomach but thats about it. He seemed to favor emotional abuse rather than physical, probably because it was harder to prove in court. Also I kind of let him get away with it, not really knowing what the technical term for what he was doing was. I felt he always blamed me for my mothers death, he thought of me as the thing that took my mothers life rather than his son. I murdered my mother he used to tell me. It began to infest itself deep in me that I actually did. I felt like a murderer. I was depressed and a recluse throughout high school. I went to school, paid for my own lunch from money earned off stolen lawn items and came home to study and sleep, repeat. Not many friends, a few associates and got into a lot of after school fights, the typical trouble kid spheel. I just didn’t give a fuck about anything really. As puberty progressed I became smarter and smarter, I excommunicated him the morning of my 17th birthday. Fending for myself hand to mouth for the last six years, working various waitering and delivery jobs on the weekend to pay for rent and food. Wouldn’t say I ate well, Hot Pockets, water and cereal were staples of my diet. I just kind of made due and got by. I had dreams of accounting graduate school and obtaining a well paying job. I’d eat a Hot Pocket for breakfast, lunch and dinner every day for the rest of my life if it meant never having to smell the mix of alcohol and cigarettes that poured out of my fathers wretched blowhole ever again. Somewhere between 23rd and 4th I came to the conclusion there was no way I could come up with the money. Not this year, not next year or the year after that. Not by delivering pizzas and waiting tables. My degree would be left unfinished and I would be destined for an existence of low paying jobs chasing my own tail, whacking off. These thoughts swirled in my head along with how nice it would be to have someone to turn to for help and support. I scrolled through my contacts looking for ideas and came across this dude I used to know from the restaurant I worked at, Rosabellas. His name was Carlos and he got fired for suspicion of stealing from management. Before all that, he had given me his number and told me if I ever wanted to make some extra money to give him a shout. Kind of shady but who was I to judge. The contact had been unused up until now. He picked up on the 5th ring. >“Who’s this” >“J-John” I squeaked out. >“Who?” >“John from Rosabellas, you told me to call you if I ever.. >“Yeah yeah I remember you, white dude with the Converses and combover, right?” >“Yep, I’d like to talk. Can we like meet up or something?” I muttered not really knowing if he really knew who I was still. >“Can’t tonight but what about Thursday, say 11. I’ll pick you up in the alley behind Jahzar’s Electronics on 38th” Before I could even confirm, the line was dead. Not really sure what I had just gotten myself into but it gave me hope, I started the slow walk back home. I felt lifeless, mental and physical fatigue leaving my body almost limp. If you would have told me the day prior that a dude named Carlos might be the saving grace to my graduation and career, I would have laughed long and hard in your face. But there I was, desperate and for all intensive purposes Carlos was my new best friend. The next three days dragged by. I had a black cloud floating above my during each, I could not shake the feeling. Just a deep, aching sense of unknown. I tried to get some better food in my stomach. I got McDonalds twice one day and KFC another night. Even though I began counting every dollar amount I spent and could visualize myself going backwards, I needed something heavier in my stomach than frozen food. I struggled with my studies and work during these days. Thursday finally arrived but that aching feeling had only grown. I took care of the days business and basically remember none of it, it was all a blur, all a passing moment until eleven. Eleven. I leaned against a tagged wall in my favorite sweatshirt with my arms crossed. There was a foul odor protruding from an open dumpster a little further down. I tucked my nose into my hood as it continuously seeped into my nasal cavity making me gag. I lit a cigarette, and then another one. The chain smoking didn’t really help the nerves that much, just a wicked addiction I suppose. Fingernails chewed damn near to the root, I kept telling myself I would kick the habit, never delivering. I illuminated my phone which displayed it was 11:20. I let out a heavy sigh. Still no sign of him. I decided to call him again. “Hey, uhm how much longer you thinking?” I asked tentatively “5 more” “You said that 15 minutes ago” Once again he didn’t even care to give me a response. Just hung up. Quickly becoming his trademark. I been waiting here nearly 30 minutes already and he had the nerve to say 5 more with an attitude. I felt like his bitch. I needed him way more than he needed me, and I didn’t even know what I would be doing for him. The chinese spot was the only place still open. Occasional apron bearing kitchen slaves speedily delivered bags to the dumpster. A young delivery driver carrying multiple bags over his shoulder lugs them into to his trunk. He opened his drivers side door and the car oozed sharp computer sounds. He noticed me and made a special point to generate direct eye contact over his half cracked, heavily tinted window. He was probably wondering what the hell I was doing here. Not a bad question. I pulled out a flask I had brought and felt the burn of the whiskey sting my throat. I had lifted it from my old house before I left. As I reached to put it back in my pocket, bright headlights flooded the darkness as a large truck silhouette rocked back and forth along the uneven pavement of the alley. I wasn’t sure if this was Carlos or not so I held my position. The truck came to a stop directly in front of me. A man flicked his cigarette out the window and pointed towards the passenger side rear door. I climbed into the truck which contained two men. Both seemingly hispanic males, the driver younger than the other, who which I believed to be Carlos. I could tell by his bald spot. Neither seemed to be in a great mood as I said “hello” and received no response. Apprehension began to set in. This no longer felt like a promising endeavor. I desperately wanted to kick open the door and run down the alley but I steadfast. As the driver put it into gear, raising the the radio volume I could feel my stomach lining evaporate. After a series of more reggaeton songs played than words spoken, the driver swings us into the parking lot of a Red Roof Inn, located in a neighborhood I had never been to before. It had an extra sense of unfamiliar, perhaps the sense of unknown infused with the random location. I unscrewed my flask and burned another hole with the whiskey. My torso trembled a bit as I climbed out of the car and followed the two into the motel’s main hallway, but the legs kept us going forward.. We stopped in front of Room 169, Carlos took a key out of his pocket, swiped it, and unlocked the heavy faded red door. I followed the two into the room and the younger one closed the door behind me. One of them The only thing within visible sight was a tripod, set up facing towards the bed. >“Carlos, what the hell is going on in here? Why the camera?” >“You said you needed to make some extra money right?” >“Yeah” >“Okay well, get ready to earn some money” he snaps back. >“What do you mean man, you’re freaking me out” I could feel the younger one touch my lower back and then the bottom of my sweatshirt and begin to lift it up. I turn around and deliver a swift kick to his gut, knocking the wind out of him and sending him a foot or so backwards and to the ground. “Stay the fuck back” I barked. Carlos was in between me and the door, the other one quickly regained his composure in the adjacent corner of the room. “Relax kid, you’ll be paid handedly. You got the perfect face for this type of stuff, you’ll be a star, trust me.” “I’m not gonna be your fuckdoll, what does this look like. I need money, not my ass pounded.” Carlos did not like this as his weird smirk turned to a look of anger. We were looking at each other but I was still aware of the younger one behind me. In the reflection of the lamp I could see him slowly advancing on me. In one motion I spun and brandished the matte black six shot revolver I had stolen from my father before I skipped town. “Back it up Ricky Martin” I screamed. He took three steps back towards his corner of the room. “Give me your wallets, watches and phones” I said commandingly. They both laughed, which infuriated me. Angrily, I let a shot ring out which caught Carlos in the knee. He screamed in agony bleeding crimson liquid on the tan carpet. “Cough the shit up, lets go. I ain’t fucking around hombres” The younger one tossed his items to my feet, which I stuffed into my sweatshirt pocket. Carlos was still in shock that I actually shot him, and was not really able to abide to the command. I put my gun to his head held it there steadily. I ran his pockets, found his phone and wallet, both which were covered in blood, eventually also removing the watch. I even ripped at the chain of his crucifix, which hung from his neck over his dress shirt. It came off with one firm pull. Stuffing it all in the same pocket as I backed my way out the door, gently closing it behind me. Other hotel guests were peaking their heads out of their doors, I pointed my gun at a couple of them and they stuck them quickly sunk back in. I began to sprint through the parking lot holding the pocket of loot steady. I ran for blocks and blocks. My legs wouldn’t let me stop. Until I finally came across a park in another part of town I did not recognize, which seemed safe enough. I entered the park and took inventory of the stuff in my pocket. I’d say close to a thousand dollars worth. It’s a start I thought to myself as I sat on one of the swings gently rocking. Reaching for the flask, I held it in my left hand, burning my throat until none remained. I lit my last cigarette and held it in my right, I eventually fell asleep on that swing clutching both.

It was late that steamy night, a Thursday or Friday judging by the relaxed crawl of visitors in the open-air restaurant. I don't entirely remember how I got to Jakarta- I was still jet-lagged, drugged, and operating almost exactly at the opposite of California time. "I remember that shit from last time," I asserted quickly. We shuffled up the stairs to meet my travel buddy's Indonesian friend, a cook at the restaurant. There were tables full of elderly Indonesians, well-dressed for the evening and smoking American cigarettes. A few old ladies shot us glares as we giggled and gathered behind the counter. The cook pulled out his fine glass pipe. "Alright, I need you to pack this. I'll find a place outside." He had a good-sized amount of crumbled, brown marijuana on the counter, but as I looked up, I noticed about four or five healthy green plants, sitting on the counter in plain view. I began to work with his pipe while he and some friends stood out in the hot air of Jakarta's tropical night. It held a deep and venial fury, something full of a promise that I couldn't even begin to fathom. I knew it only because of the sickly pace that it stirred up in my virgin heart, a rapid beat that I held onto in the fear that somehow, my foreign odyssey would not give me the thrills I'd been desperate for since my youth in America. The bowl was about halfway full when an old lady stood up. She began yelling in Indonesian. I couldn't understand, but I heard hurried, clumsy footsteps from downstairs. The cook dashed back to the counter, grabbed the pipe from me and pushed the plants into a compartment underneath. Tiny, ominous red lasers flashed across the walls. I ran outside onto the porch, where a few others were still scrambling confusedly. My travel buddy's eyes locked onto mine, wide with fear. "Jump!" he yelled, and he flipped off the balcony into the grass below. I took a deep breath and followed. Crashing onto the wet grass, I hoped to avoid the few, scattered lights. We ran to the end of the grassy area that demarcated the restaurant's property. Ahead, a jungle loomed. My friend rushed into the forbidding realm. "Are you kidding?" I choked. "They have dangerous animals in there!" "Would you rather get shot?" he replied as he continued ahead. At a loss, I followed. We soon came to a wooden bridge, and a small clearing. I was nearly across the bridge when my friend stopped in his tracks. About twenty yards in front of him, a large, predatory cat eyed us. Its eyes flashed green as it paced forward. My buddy ran, and I too hurtled back towards the bridge. The cat took chase. I ran faster than I thought I could, but just after I crossed the bridge, the cat caught up to my buddy and swallowed him whole. I fell to the ground in horror. Satisfied, the cat licked its lips and retreated back across the bridge. I stumbled to my feet and looked around. After I took a few steps back towards the restaurant, another threat appeared. A maned lion growled at me from just a few yards away. My breath caught in my throat, but then I exhaled and spoke up in disbelief. "Hold on, hold on...there are no lions in Indonesia! I must be dreaming!" I ran back to the restaurant as fast as I could, hoping to catch a last glance of that beautifully savage world, but the earth crumbled beneath my feet. The sky burst, and I awoke to another rainy weekday, late to class.

Just below my bedroom window was a bush. In that bush lived a bird I called Jerry. When I would spend time in my yard cleaning things up and trimming things, Jerry would sit atop the bush monitoring my duties. When I would sit on the deck with my friends, Jerry would sit atop his bush watching our every movement. One Saturday afternoon, I was trimming hedges and when I got to Jerry’s bush, he flew up into a nearby tree and watched intently, making sure I properly remodeled his home. After I was done, he returned to his home and sang a wonderful song of happiness. I put out some high quality seed for him to munch on and a fresh bowl of water for him to bathe in. Jerry was the most cared for wild bird on the planet, at least in my mind. He was like a beloved pet to me, even if I never got to hold him or touch him. I showed him my affection the only way I could, by giving him a nice home and the essentials for life. He showed his appreciation by singing me songs while perched atop his home that was the bush under my bedroom window. Sunday morning, Jerry woke me up with a beautiful bird song. I greeted him from my window, to which he paused, let out a soft chirp, and continued on with his song. I went on with my daily activities after briefly checking on Jerry’s food and water supplies. I returned home from some errands and invited over a couple friends. As we were sitting on the deck discussing worldly affairs and enjoying some drinks, Jerry popped out of his bush and took perch atop his home. Karen noticed him immediately. “That’s a pretty bird. I wonder what kind it is.” I explained that I had spent hours trying to figure out what kind of bird Jerry was…”Jerry?” Yes. Jerry. I had grown quite fond of him as he seemed to also be fond of me. So, I named him Jerry. One day, when I was in my yard taking care of my garden, I didn’t see Jerry in his usual spot. I called out for him, by name, and within seconds, he was perched atop his home. He had grown so used to my voice saying his name that he came on command. “That’s kind of silly.” Karen didn’t seem to understand the bond that Jerry and I had. I gave him a home and he gave me beauty. “That’s cute.” My other friend, Carl, wasn’t as perceptive to all this as Karen. He said things like, “That’s gay,” and, “Fucking weird.” I told him if he didn’t like it, then he didn’t have to listen or talk about it. Jerry wasn’t like my other friends. He didn’t express feelings of prejudice, and didn’t say things that were hurtful. He only showed magnificent beauty and appreciation for my affections. I truly believe Jerry could sense the emotions that were being radiated from the deck that night. Carl’s uncaring bigotry. My disappointment. Karen’s mild sarcasm. All of those things lent to the events that followed. Carl stood up and started walking towards Jerry. I strongly suggested that he sit back down, but he continued. “Carl, just leave the bird alone and let Shawn have his little fantasy.” Carl, unwavering in his decision, stepped up to the bush, tried to snatch Jerry from the top of his home, and sent Jerry flying in a maniacal fashion. I jumped up and ran over, just as Jerry made a shoddy landing in the nearby tree. I snapped at Carl, telling him to leave my house. His merciless presence was no longer appreciated in my vicinity. Carl mumbled some things under his breath as he walked around the side of my house to get into his car. “That was…interesting.” Karen exhibited compassion towards the situation, but still didn’t seem to be entirely sincere. “Poor little thing looked pretty flustered.” I tried calling Jerry back down to his home, but he remained firm in his position, perched on a high branch of the neighboring tree. I presumed he needed some time to compose himself and evaluate the situation before regaining his trust and returning to his perch atop the bush. It wasn’t until after Karen left and it was clear I was the only soul left in the yard that Jerry timidly made his way back to his perch atop his home that was the bush below my bedroom window. I graciously welcomed Jerry home with some fresh seed and a clean bowl of water. I greeted him and he respectfully chirped in reply. Jerry was always polite and well mannered, not like the people whom I thought were my friends. Jerry was a true friend, which made it all the more difficult when I found him lying under the bush the next morning. I had awakened to silence, which was puzzling, as Jerry had been my alarm clock for months prior. Fearing that Jerry had become disillusioned by the previous day’s commotions and decided to find a new friend, I went to his home that was the bush below my bedroom window. Seeing him lying there motionless, I said his name in a voice that was dreadfully quavering, only to find my call unrequited. I slowly reached in and cautiously scooped Jerry into my warm hands. He let out a painstakingly soft chirp, which I knew was probably his final word. I told him it was okay; that he didn’t need to say anything. As a single tear ran down my cheek, I told him that I truly appreciated all the beauty and warmth he brought into my life, and that I would never forget him. As he lay, cradled in my hands, I watched, sitting on the dewy grass next to his home that was the bush below my bedroom window. I watched as he let out one breath…two breaths…three breaths…and then he was at rest. I placed Jerry’s delicate body into the hole I dug for him under his favorite perch and gently covered him with the soft soil that had long ago sprouted his home that was the bush below my bedroom window. I whispered, “Farewell, my friend,” as I smoothed over his new home and made sure it was packed down tightly. Monday morning I was awakened by a beautiful bird song, one not unlike the one Jerry would sing to me. I excitedly jumped out of bed and ran to the window, hoping to see Jerry sitting atop his home that was the bush below my bedroom window. As I peered out the window, only to find that there was no bird in sight, I realized that the song could not have come from Jerry, as I myself had watched him breathe his final breath. I myself had placed him into the ground and covered him. Where was the singing coming from? I turned to walk to my bed and as I was sitting down to ponder the mysteriously celestial bird song, I know I saw Jerry fly from his perch and off into the sunrise. Jerry made an appearance one last time, if only for my own comfort, to sing me a song, and to bid farewell to his home that was the bush below my bedroom window.

While the power of the world rests in the many, the few seize it and buy it with promises of a Better tomorrow. The man climbs aboard the tube wondering if he will call in sick tomorrow. As the super rail glides along its track adverts flash pass blinding you with their promises. "Run faster! Jump higher! Never be tire-" "Have you been wronged? Ca-" "Come and se-" "Buy it no-" "Buy i-" "Buy" He shakes his head grumbling about how he hopes his wife doesn't burn dinner. As time passes he notices the super rail isn't slowing for stops but instead gaining speed at an alarming rate. The screen in the front of the car turns on and the face of ALo, the onboard announcer appears. She smiles as she says, "The better corporation has deemed your lives forfeit on the account of declining profits. Enjoy being a part of economical growth and have a nice day!" The man who screams in fright while he wonders why an ordinary man such as himself must die for a better profit. As he relies his life is coming to an end his last thoughts are of all the things he bought from Better corp. and he hoped it all burned with him.

Thinking about her makes him want to split his head open. The image of her, undecidedly staring at him, after he confessed his feelings, just won’t leave his head. He tosses and turns, unable to sleep. The sweat beads in his palms and forehead causing the sheets to become balmy, making them even more comfortable. As he tries to pull on his short wiry hair, the moment plays in his mind over and over. He remembered how he committed to it as if he was going over a cliff. Yet, as he struggled to walk to her, the ground felt thick, like drying concrete. It was balmy summer day and it made her curly dirty blonde hair shimmer. He could see even the kinks and the broken strands as light danced off of them. Yet, his mind was so focused that he couldn’t remember what she was talking about. When she noticed him, he could feel his entire body became heavy, even though it was trembling. But he had come too far. Like staring down a ski run that seems impossible, he knew the only way to go was forward, and he choked the words out, “I like you. I think your beautiful. Please go to prom with me.” “... ... ok? ...” Yet he could see the look of terror and discomfort in her face. Her friends’ faces bursted, and they could not contain their giggles. He didn’t remember how much time had passed, but next minute or two were of awkward silence. She was too surprised and taken back to respond, and he swallowed every word he could muster to the bottom of his stomach. The bell rang and she scampered away, giggling and gossiping with her friends. Her wonderful shimmering hair becoming brown as she went inside, and disappeared in the crowd. Later that day he would be told that she already had a date. Furthermore, he would learn that everyone had known what had happened. Tomorrow would come and he’d be the laughing stock of the school. But it didn’t matter, his heart had been ripped out. Even now, as he tosses and turns...crunches and stretches...over and over, he still feels the not in his stomach it. Trying to calm himself, he counts his breaths, letting his body become still and his eyelids heavy. But to no avail. In a fit of frustration, he tears off his sheets. He wants to take his mind off of the real world. He wants to escape. And he boots up his favorite video game--figuring that slashing skull pirates and traversing dungeons will make him forget. He plays for hours on end, not noticing the time that is passing, or worrying about waking up late. Finally he slays the giant spider and defeats the dungeon. As he is returning the magic crystals to the princess he notices her hair also shimmers in the sun. Yet it is perfect, long, and silky. Not a strand is broken or kinked. She has a radiance that can be felt for miles. Even when bowing, his face to the ground as he presents the magic crystals, he can feel it. Still she is fair and humble when she addresses him. “Arise my hero. You have fought valiantly, saved my people several times, yet we nay know the land you come from.” She bends over, lightly grabs his cheeks, and kisses his forehead. However, she notices something this time. “ Yet today, oh brave one, something is troubling you. Is it not.” He knows she can see inside his heart. It is not surprising, her being a royalty, and magical. “ Well...yeah there is. But I don’t think you’d understand.” She smiles warmly, still holding his cheek. “ Please indulge me. I cannot repay the great debt my kingdom owes you but, if I can heal the scars in your heart, it might come close.” He grasps her hands and returns them to her and stares out to the kingdom. 15 minutes have passed and the sun is now setting. The entire sky is filled with orange clouds. Soon it becomes night time and a the stars, mere single pixels, flicker in the sky. He sighs, “ There is a girl, actually just like you. In fact, even though she isn’t perfect, she is more beautiful. Today, I told her just that fact.” “Oh well then she must have jumped into your arms.Many a lady long for you to sweep them off their feet.” “Actually she didn’t say anything….she probably thinks I’m a dork.” “.....may I take your pardon….a dork?” “She doesn’t feel the same way about me, ok. I’m nothing to her.” “ Oh hero. Be thine under a spell? Everyone in this kingdom knows you are as noble as they come. And we are lucky to have you.” He shakes his head and tosses discards his sword. It lands perfectly straight in the ground as it always does, before blinking and appearing once again in his scabbard. “ But you don’t understand ...Here I might be a hero, but I’m reall just a normal teenager. There is nothing special about me.” “Again you speak lies!” “I’m telling the truth...this isn’t even real. You’re not real!” “ I hear it not, nor do I accept, oh destined one. I implore you, please heed my words.” He merely stares at her. Too exhausted to respond. “While we know of your bravery and your heroism. It is not for this reason that you are loved. We see the kindness and generosity in your heart. I see it, even now. And I don’t need magic. If this other princess is blind to your soul, than she is not fair.” She embraces him. “ You are a good person and more than deserving of affection that is as real as you say I am not.” Those words echo in his head that morning. And, although he is haunted by her face her words give him strength. Everyone at school has probably heard of what happened yesterday. He sees them sneak stares and hide their laughter, but he is more than aware. Walking through the hallways, he feels naked and exposed. It is if a thousand eyes watch and scrutinize his every step. Then he sees her. And he freezes. And time stops. But he starts it back up again. He pushes, shoves, and inches is way toward her. And even though people are taking out their cell phones and crowding around them, he doesn’t care. At this moment, when every fiber in his body fights him, with only his will to push him forward, he wonders if this is what bravery really is. He sits next to her and without hesitation …. “You know. I meant everything I said, and the offer still stands.” He can hear the murmurs and the beeps of videos being recorded. She lifts her head, letting her curls fall down her face and wisp her freckles, and grabs his hand. “ I’m sorry I can’t.” ….while smiling…. “ But we can still talk… oh hero….

She Ran by Karl Verkade …to be read with accompanying soundtrack The night was cold and thin. The air was scantily clad in such a way that she felt that if she could but stop for a second, she could reach through it and grasp time. Arrest it, stop it, bring back the years of hope, before the years of inevitably set in. But she did not stop. She ran. Air is a precious commodity; one she had taken for granted until it was all she had. Tonight she chased it; she felt as if her lungs could not get enough of it. With each new step, a new shallow breath, and a new resolve to continue filling her chest with the last thing in this world that was free. She knew that if she stopped, the night would end; and she did not want the night to end. The colors were too vivid. First the reds…the piercing reds. They swept out of the night sky in such an instant that she did not have time to witness their origin. But there they were. Swirling, brilliant reds that swept her up like she scarcely remembered. Indeed, did she even remember it? Or was this the embodiment of a shadow she always hoped to one day remember. The color floated around her as she ran, keeping up with her; perhaps even lagging back a little so that she could keep up with it. She could not help it; she began to be entranced by its brilliance, though she dared not slow down. She peered into it, trying to imprint upon her memory every detail of its stunning lifeform. Then suddenly, did it change? The reds were not quite as flowing as they once were. They moved a little more awkwardly. She knew she had seen that movement before, somewhere. Then she remembered. Yes! The reds were walking! Alongside her they walked, still dancingly keeping up with her every running stride. Their shapes became more and more human. She recognized one of the colors. He looked into her eyes with the love that said that it was already finished; there was nothing she could do to ever spurn that love. Then another color touched her shoulder. She whirled her head around just in time to catch the shape of a life that spoke of a bond with her that nothing but tears could form. In an instant, the motherly shape was gone, but reformed next to the figure on her other side, walking arm in arm with it. She almost stumbled. Something had touched her heels. She turned her head around long enough to see a child following behind her. It was a little girl…a little girl without colors. She skipped and sauntered, without a care in the world, but all the time keeping up with her. She wondered at the child; she wondered at childhood. So happy, so light; all its cares are immediate. There is no sense of that fact that time will one day have its way. No one tells children the truth. From somewhere behind the child, deep in the distance, she thought she saw another red. A different red. But she couldn't be sure; she had to keep her head straight onward, to immerse herself in the air, in the night. Nor did she have time to worry about the new color, or the child, as the brilliant reds by her side had split into multiple colors, each walking at its own pace somewhere by her side. They were dear to her…some moreso than others. All looked at her with varying degrees of knowingness. One in particular. He looked at her with a seriousness, and a questioning. His was by far the most tender touch, but not the most knowing. She slowed slightly, gasping for breath as she did. She turned to look at him, but her gaze was interrupted by the new color, now creeping along the horizon next to her. It was a dark color, and threatened to swallow the red she now fought desperately to keep. She reached out for him; but slowly he faded, and slowly the dark approached. She had seen this before. In an instant he was gone, and in his place were two other brilliant reds. One for whom she cared, one with whom she was comfortable. The dark color approached. She tried to outrun it, but it was of no use. It swallowed up the two colors just as it had swallowed the last. She now saw that it was not a darkness, but a deepness. A deep red that spoke of something she knew all too well. It sent shudders through her life-stained body. The shudders continued as she ran. And continued. Until she had unknowingly discovered that she was quite at home with the shudders. She did not mind them. In fact, the deep red had mixed with the brilliant red so much so that neither color was now better or worse for the mixing; but they were more real. Then, just as she was about to acquiesce to the new deep and brilliant red, it suddenly birthed a figure. And she hated. She hated its curves, and its smoothness, and its beauty. It tore from the rest of the colors, revealing its blackness. And then, in horror, she watched as it reached back into the deep and brilliant red and pulled from it the loving figure. He looked at her as she ran with the same, unquenchable love as before, as he faded off into the distance with the beautiful black figure. She ran harder; and at her heels she felt the child again. She turned again to look, and now saw a young lady, walking warily behind her. She knew that look; the colors had replaced the innocence. She had never been sure which was more desirable; but now she knew that neither could ever coexist peacefully with the other. The deep, brilliant red circled around her and comforted her. It did not split into its native colors, nor would it ever again. And she was grateful. Now there was another color. It crept out from behind her. She turned to look; were the colors coming from the child? But it was no longer a child, or a young lady. It was a young woman…a young woman with a war in her eyes, between childlike hope and the lamentable wisdom of the inevitable. She recognized that look. And she ran faster. But she could not outrun the new color. It surrounded her, and here and there penetrated the deep and brilliant red with its yellow haze. It was a tired color…so tired that it was almost transparent, and blended in with the night in such a way that at times, in her gasping for air, she would inevitably suck in its yellow weariness as well. But she did not mind. A little weariness might even be nice…it made her feel as if her running was accomplishing something. Accomplishment. The reds spoke nothing of that. She wondered at her life, and for the first time, looked upwards. There were no colors to see through…just the night sky. The vastness looked down upon her as if it knew her. She slowed a little, letting her inconsequential state settle in over tired bones. The yellow crept wearily into her upward gaze, and she knew the child at her heels was now a woman. She did not turn, but ran onwards, knowing all too well the look in the pursuing woman's eyes. There would be tears, resolve, the tiniest glints of echoes that were once laughter; but most of all, the yellow weariness. Her legs were tired, her lungs empty. She inhaled without the benefit of air, as the deep and brilliant red moved underneath her and helped her forward. The yellow slowed her enough to where she could look around her a bit; she discovered trees…big, green trees towering over her on either side. The deepness carried her down the small, inescapable path made by the foliage, and the little child softly padded around in front of her. The bright eyes of the child were now furrowed under a wrinkled brow, and the once beautiful cheekbones now protruded in a manner unworthy of the years and wisdom that made them such. At first she blushed with the hardness of the old woman's gaze, but then stared back at herself with the same knowing inevitability. The old woman took her hand in hers, and walked her down the path. She tried to run to keep up, but could not; the old woman dragged her softly and silently onward, as the deep and brilliant red carried her, the tired yellow enveloped her, and the green trees lapped gently at their own dust which formed her body. And she stopped running. It had been a miserable night, and they were excited to be able to go into the alley and play today. They bounced the ball against the cracked bricks of the tall buildings, and he even let her win a few times. But this turn, he was going to win. With all the bravado a big brother can muster, he slammed the ball at the corner of the building where the curb met the bricks. The ball ricocheted down the alley, towards an oncoming truck. As it did, it dislodged some old newspaper crumblings, and in the tired yellow light cascading onto the alley through the old buildings, they saw it. His sister screamed and went running back through the shabby aluminum door into their mother’s apartment. But he couldn't move. He stared at her. They drove down the alley. What a miserable day. The night had been cold, and whenever the nights were cold, he knew it would be a long day. He watched as two children bounced a ball against the side of the grimy building. The ball got away from them and in the tired yellow haze peering through the buildings, he saw the ball dislodge some old papers; and underneath it, he saw another one. They stopped the truck and walked over to the body. It was not her…it was never her; it was a shell. He wondered who she was. They picked her up, and he knew that beneath his gloves, there was coldness. But her open eyes seemed peaceful; somehow that brought him comfort. He looked into her eyes as the red of the bag enveloped her body, and she was gone. It was then that he noticed the boy. He hadn't moved, but was staring at them with large, questioning eyes. He nodded at the boy as they carried her back to their truck, and attempted a smile through his mask. The boy was motionless. "We're just taking her someplace where she can rest," was all he managed. "I know what the green trucks mean," said the boy bravely. "But you've never seen this before?" The boy shook his head, fighting back the tears for which he had been taught he was too old. The man stopped, and pulled his mask off over his head. He looked straight into the boy's quivering eyes. "It's very short. Don't waste it." He looked at the boy. The boy looked back at him. Not knowing what else to do, he slowly turned away, leaving the boy standing alone in the alley; older, whether he wanted to be or not. They put her in with all the rest.

(This is a crosspost, I wrote this as a response to a writing prompt in the "Writing prompt" subreddit.) Rumors once said that there was a place in the Kowloon Walled City, where you could write a message to the past. People whispered about it in hushed tones. You could ask people where to find this place, but all who speak of it, won't know. And those who know, won't speak of it. When I first heard of it, I had overheard an angry old Cantonese man rambling to himself as he walked down the damp, dark hallway to his apartment. Like any other hallway in the Walled City, it was grungy as hell. Sparks screeched out of loose wiring pinned to the wall. A dim yellow bulb hung bare like a hangman from a wire. It flickered, casting light to the blackened walls and floor, water dripping everywhere. I was walking back to my apartment too, and had to follow this old man through the narrow hallway. He was a neighbor in a sense. Everyone in this goddamn city was a neighbor in a way. When you have to rub your dirty grimy elbows with every other monkey in this fuckin cage, I guess it makes you all neighbors. I had heard this old guy was crazy. I'm talking about a - staring at a wall, screaming curse words, and then curling into a ball in a pool of your own piss - kind of crazy. Word was, a year ago, he kicked his grandson out of the apartment, told him to find a job, and provide some income for the family. The kid goes out, tries to join a gang the next day. The kid tries to rob someone as initiation into the gang, but instead gets brutally murdered. Something like that. The kid was gone. I heard the old man's wailing night after night, until he resolved to whimpers every night, and finally a desolate silence. He's completely mad now. But as I walked behind him that night, I heard a certain determination in his voice. I couldn't understand the guy perfectly, I only knew a few words of cantonese myself, being a foreigner. But I started paying attention to his quiet rambling. It sounded like he was speaking to someone. Asking questions, chuckling, telling stories. Strange was typical for him, but I could tell something was very off. That's when I heard him slip the words. "Cafe Minerva". I've never heard this man speak a word of english before today, in the 4 years that I've lived next to him. I've heard him yelling at his pet cat, heard him buying things at the market, heard him muttering to himself. Even heard him through the walls when he hired that hooker from the first floor. But never have I heard him use a single word outside of Cantonese. He reached his apartment, and fumbled with his keys. He giggled when he finally found the key. Unlocking the door, he went in. A few days later, I was having a drink with another white friend who resided in this shit cavern of a city. We sloshed down beers as we watched the football game on a tiny television screen near the top floor of the east side, the game barely recognizable on the screen through the static. The smoke from our cigarettes swirled in the sticky air, and glowed under the neon lights that lit the dim room. The neon light flickered on and off, like the stuttering soul of this dilapidated city. "You ever heard of a place called 'Cafe Minerva'? " I asked my friend. He frowned and ashed his cigarette in his empty bottle. "I've heard some stories about it. They say it's the Devil's front door. I've no idea where it is exactly though." He was fluent in Chinese and Cantonese, unlike me, so he had a much better idea of what was spoken in these dark corridors. We were both ex-pats, globetrotting, and met a series of unfortunate circumstances that got us stuck in this city. "I heard old man Chang muttering something yesterday as he went home, and he mentioned 'Cafe Minerva'. It unnerved me for some reason." I told him. "You would think I'd be used to his craziness by now." "Well, they don't tell you much about it, they get especially hushed around white guys like us, but I heard about it when I was getting a haircut at Leung's shop on the seventh floor. Some lady next to me was telling her barber that there was a place where you could write a message on the wall, and whatever you wrote would be sent to your past self as a message. Sounded like some folklore bullshit to me, so I didn't pay too much attention" he explained. "Did you catch where they said it was?" "Not exactly. She mentioned the North side of the city, near the middle floor." I nodded. We watched the rest of the football game in silence. Several days later, I was headed to the North side of the city, trying to find the shoe smith who could repair my dress shoes. I was hoping to land a job interview soon outside of this city; to finally have a chance to get the hell out of here. But the only nice shoes I had were a pair of leather dress shoes that were pretty torn up, that I got for the price of a meal and a half. I had to get it fixed. I wandered the halls, hoping to see the Chinese symbols for "Shoes" that my friend had written on a piece of paper for me, so that I could find the shoe smith. The air was thick, and smelled like oil and moss, a damp scent that bothered my nose. No matter, I kept on searching, wandering the halls, until something caught my eyes. It was an old sign, something that looked like it had come from an European coffee shop a decade ago. It was made with wood and metal, and had a simple picture of a coffee cup engraved on it, with steam rising from the cup. My skin crawled when I read the words... 'Cafe Minerva'. The sign was mounted on the wall, a dark corner at the end of an empty corridor filled with garbage. Barely noticeable, I was surprised I saw it at all. Yet it looked so out of place, this sign, surrounded by boxes with chinese characters on it, and all the other garbage that this city could produce. My gaze fell on the wall under the sign. Handwriting covered the grimy wall, markers, pens, and a few people had even engraved their words with a knife or stick. The entire wall was covered, words over words, messages over messages. There was no way to read any individual message, as words were written over each other over the years. My eyes scanned them all, my mind still trying to comprehend what I had found. It was like an insane asylum's message board. Near the bottom, I found a familiar handwriting. They were basic words in Cantonese, and I understood them. I pieced them together. "The greatest gift is life" it read. It was Old Man Chang's handwriting. I could have recognized it anywhere. I saw it on his own apartment's walls whenever I glimpsed into his room when I walked past every day. Shaken, I walked back to my own apartment. When I arrived, I took out my keys, and went in. My apartment had a terrible stench. A stale scent of death lingered heavily. I gagged, almost vomited before I ran out into the hallway. Looking back into my room, I noticed a dark stain on the wall near the floor. It was speckled with dead flies. It looked like an old blood stain, seeping through the wall from Old Man Chang's room. Shaking, I knocked on Old Man Chang's door. Nothing. As the fear crept up my spine, and the world spun in slow motion, I leaned back and kicked in his front door. Immediately I turned and heaved, my vomit splattering on the hallway floor as my senses were overwhelmed with what I saw and smelled in that instant. The withering remains of a man lay on the floor, dried and decomposed blood splattered on the floor around him. Dried blood patterns covered the walls. There were no flies, no maggots. No life in the room, even those who feasted on death. I tried to piece together a hoarse scream, but could not. But how could this have happened? I left my apartment this morning, I would have smelt this terrible odor of death, I would have noticed. I saw Old Man Chang just the other day! I was confused as I ran, and called the police. The detectives who finally showed up with the coroners, explained to me that my neighbor must have been killed by his grandson, approximately a year ago. They found a butcher knife on the ground with the grandson's prints. The old man's wallet was out, with cash splayed out over the table. Apparently, the boy had tried to rob his grandfather, and then murdered the old man as part of some gang initiation. This was a year ago. The kid must have fled the scene, and never came back. The detective looked unfazed as he explained it to me, as though he were reporting the weather, a daily occurrence. Then he suggested that I see a psychologist. He had a hard time believing that I had lived in the room next to Old Man Chang for a year with his dead body rotting next door all this time. I should really get myself checked out, and probably find another empty room to squat in until the smell airs out. I thought about my neighbor's scrawled message on the wall under the Cafe Minerva sign. Old Man Chang must have been the one who killed his grandson originally. But after a year of crushing guilt, he found a way to send himself a message in the past, and allowed his grandson to live, and kill him instead. I left the Walled City in the weeks after that. I found a job that took me close to Shenzhen, and eventually to Beijing, and I found myself making my way back to the United States. I heard when they razed the Walled City in the 90's. In that demolition, they destroyed the walls, the garbage, and the crime rates. But they also destroyed the darkness, a moment of magic, a place and time in this universe where something uncanny occurred. I saw in the depths of that dark city what it meant to be a human. I saw what it meant to feel remorse, and to atone for sins. I saw humans slide from being men into becoming beasts, but in the midst of the smoke and dripping pipes, in the shadowy corridors and flickering lights, I saw a soul, the shuddering soul of the city, and goddamn it was beautiful.

Seriously, you do it. I don't want to. .................................................. Harvey Gotwalt glanced through the one hundred and twenty-seven feet of thin, unsupportive air that separated his pulse from an abrupt cancellation. He felt his heart sink; not because he was scared, but because he had always feared his death would be as dull as his life and it looked like it would turn out that way. Jumping from any of the neighboring skyscrapers, gleaming in the horizon, would have granted his suicide an honorary mention on the seven o’clock news. Maybe even an article in tomorrow’s morning paper, an event that would have been the definite highlight of his simple, understated life. He had though, as per usual, accepted mediocrity. He was currently standing in the short, squat Seer’s building. It stood outside the circle of downtown skyscrapers, as though it where a picked-on short kid who’d been pushed to the outside of a playground game of marbles. Likely, when he landed among the rubbish bins of the alley bellow, his corpse would serve only to inconvenience the garbage man. And indeed, Harvey had not even managed to make it to the top floor, the access to which would have required a security card swipe in the elevator. He had, instead, inserted himself awkwardly through a bathroom window and lowered himself onto a cement ledge that should not have, by any law of physics, allowed room for the shapeless and gelatinous mass of his food-baby. He had scooted perilously along the ledge, peering over his shoulder at the ground, as if to select a proper target for the water-balloon-esque explosion of intestine and yellow goop he imagined (due to his lack of knowledge regarding human anatomy) would be his impact...

Two broke musicians sat on the curb in front of Murphy's Bar drinking forty ounces out of brown paper bags that crinkled when they grabbed the bottle by the neck. Billy with his low top sneakers and brown leather jacket picked up a rock and flung it at a rusty dumpster with some vulgarity spray-painted red on the side. Zach moved his fingers around the fringed hole on the knee of his blue denims and did little of nothing else. The DJ at Murphy's came over the outside speaker with his golden voice echoing “This one's for all the single ladies out there!” The crowd inside Murphy's screamed with drunken delight. Billy reeled his head back and howled, “FUCK YOU!” then he cleared the phlegm from his sinuses and hocked a fat gob of spit on the concrete. “You got a problem with single ladies Billy boy?” Billy picked up a few more rocks and pelted the side of the dumpster till it was humming. Then he set his beer down and leaned back on the flats of his palms admiring, not for the first time, the crude street poetry written on the waste receptacle's side. “Mike Walker is a crusty load sock, sounds like a band name.” “I like it better as an album,” said Zach as he brought the bottle to his lips again. Billy grabbed his bottle off the ground, but before he took a drink he pointed at the sign of the bar and said, “You bring Zappa back from the dead to rip a guitar solo and these bitches would vomit blood, but you bring up some coked up it-girl to sign off-key for two hours and everyone loses their shit. Music ain't the same anymore Newman, just a bunch of fabricated shit masquerading as art.” Zach shrugged, “They seem to be enjoying it.” “Because people don't know what they fucking like.” “You think?” he asked, “Maybe you just don't know what people like.” Billy shook his head and swirled the beer around in his bottle. “You know what I'd like,” he said, “I'd like to go to that new bar on 8th, order one of those fishbowl drinks, you know the one's that've got a whole fucking fruit salad in 'em? I'd like to drink one of those, then make my way across the street to Jensen's guitar shop. I'd like to saunter up to the counter, drop my jeans on the floor, and piss all over that motherfucker's counter for giving me ONE-THIRD of what my Epiphone was worth. Then I'd take his head and smash his face through the fucking display cabinet. THAT... That is what I'd like.” “Damn...” Zach reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of menthols. He lit one and took a slow drag, “Wouldn't even share that fishbowl?” Billy chuckled, “Fuck no, but I'll tell you what. I'll take that pretty bass guitar of yours hanging behind the counter and hit him in the balls a couple times.” Zach blew out a crisp puff of white smoke, “Nah, I ain't got nothing against him, I sold my baby, same reasons as you.” “I sold it 'cause I had no other choice.” “You had a choice. Sell your guitar or live on the streets ain't much of a choice, but it's a choice all the same” Billy spread his arms wide, spilling some foam on the sidewalk. “Well we're doing a great fucking job avoiding that aren't we?!” He took the bottle back and drained half of what was left, then he wiped his saliva on the sleeve of his jacket. “Fucker could've given me half.” “He could've given you nothing.” Billy massaged his forehead with his fingers, “I know that.” He took another swig. “But I'd rather be pissed at someone else than myself, at least I can forgive someone else.” He motioned his arm towards the pack of cigarettes Zach left sitting on the ground, “Think I can bum one of those?” Zach handed him the pack then the lighter. “Thanks.” They sat in silence and smoked their cigarettes, letting the sounds of Saturday night crash over them in waves. They watched a group of college kids make their way down the street stumbling and swaying. One of the guys in the group was having trouble figuring out how three people were gonna fit in the back seat when he noticed Billy and Zach staring at him. He pointed his finger at them and shouted, “UGH!” A girl in the back of the car screamed “Get in the fucking car Matt!” The guy named Matt stumbled back then made his way into the car without a shred of grace. They watched the red lights fade in the distance then disappear as they made their way around a corner. “We live another day Billy.” “I wouldn't call this living.” Zach flicked his cigarette into a sewer grate. “I don't know,” He shrugged then took another drink, “I always figured that as long as my heart's still beatin I can make it back up. Digging and scratching maybe, but as long as my heart's still beatin I still gotta chance. Might be shit of a chance, but you know what Billy? Not all singles are gonna be hits, but that sweet bass... Oh, that sweet bass just keeps on rolling.” Billy looked at him for a long moment before saying, “I hate you.” Zach laughed “Oh I know,” then he put his hand on his on Billy's shoulder and shook him, “But I love you buddy, don't you fucking forget that.” Billy let a smirk creep over his face, then they sat in silence and finished their drinks, because there was nothing left to say.

Last year, I read a short story about a society where people lived forever. Half of the people procrastinated because they had all the time in the world, so they were lazy. The other half were constantly being productive because they wanted to do as much as possible with all the time that they had. At the end of the story, it is revealed to us that many people commit suicide because everything that was to be done had been done by people born earlier (grandparents, parents, etc...) I do not remember the name of the story nor the author. I am hoping that I gave enough details for someone to help me find the story. I would really appreciate it if someone knew the name of the story or at the very least the author. Thanks.

“Once more, Mr. White.” Dr. Chapman stared intently at his antique pocket watch as the machine started to hum. “Eight thirty” he thought to himself, as he recorded the start time of this test in his pocket book. His eyes glanced up once in a while to check on what Mr. White was doing to the machine. He leaned back in his chair, and it let out an old wooden squeak. Sometimes a voice would be heard mumbling on over the low drone of the machine, even though Mr. White wasn’t talking to anyone. With a raised voice, and without looking away from his work, Mr. White spoke, “we can only fail so many times, Doctor. We’ve been at this for days!” Dr. Chapman sat up in his chair and rested his watch on the desk in front of him, giving Mr. White his full attention. “I would have to disagree with you Mr. White. There is one thing you must remember when working with time.” Dr. Chapman’s chair rolled out of the way, and his shoes clacked as he strolled towards Mr. White, stopping at the top of the short stairway. Mr. White looked up at him, and the doctor continued his thought, “there’s always enough. Time, that is.” It was like second nature. Dr. Chapman stepped down the stairs, running his hand through his thin, grey hair. As he walked down the stairs, the machine became much louder He had to almost yell to talk with Mr. White. “Do you remember when you agreed to be my partner on this project, Mr. White?” Dr. Chapman reached into his coat pocket, realizing the familiar weight of his watch was not present. “Of course I do. It was December of 1987. You had contacted me with some--” Mr. White was sharply cut off by Dr. Chapman. “1987. Thirty years ago. Do you remember how long our planning and theorizing phase lasted?” “Yes sir. Uh, about 11 years I think.” Mr. White changed his tone, “Are you okay doctor? You look a bit uneasy.” Dr.Chapman was uneasy. He had left his precious watch back on his desk. He disregarded the comment, and carried on with his lecture, “And how long did it take to build this monstrosity of modern science?” He motioned up and down the length of the machine. It stretched twenty feet in both directions, five feet back, and was six feet tall. Made up of thousands and thousands of tiny gears from various watches and clocks, all surrounded in glass, and the only control panel was right in the center of the machine, with a very simple interface. On, Off, Go, and a small window to set a time, date, and location. “We just finished a month ago, Doctor.” Mr. White was becoming irritated with Dr. Chapman and his insultingly easy interrogation, and let out a frustrated comment, “I really don’t see where this conversation is going, Doctor.” Dr. Chapman laid a hand on Mr. White’s shoulder, and wagged his finger with his other, hoping to hide how uncomfortable he was without his watch. “Mr. White, my point is that we've spent all this time developing this machine, and you want to quit after a few day of failed tests?” A sudden boom came from within the machine, shaking the rusted pipes along the wall, filling the air with red dust. Everything seemed to be in working order, all gears intact and still spinning, but now the machine was silent. Dr. Chapman’s eyes widened and his face paled, transparent almost, lowering his head in shame he ascended the four steps, and took his place back at his desk. He ran his fingers through his hair, and held his head low in his hands, forgetting the comfort he seeked in the weight of his watch. “What happened?” said Mr. White. “We’ve done nothing wrong this time. All that happened was the machine just went silent, which, should not be possible. Let’s take a look in the power room, maybe the problem is there.” Dr. Chapman and Mr. White both looked towards the door to the power room. Dr.Chapman made sure not to forget his watch this time. Massive amounts of electrical cord could be seen emerging from the cracked door. They both got on their feet, and Mr. White opened the door for Dr. Chapman. Bending and crouching through wires, the men made it to the back of the room where a computer monitor showed the status of all the machine’s power supplies. “Nothing seems to be wrong, Doctor. All levels are normal and there’s no fluctuation anywhere. All circuits are in check and so are the fuses.” Mr. White looked up at the doctor with apologetic eyes. “I guess you’re right Mr. White. We can only fail so many times.” Shaking the walls, a boom thundered throughout the warehouse again. The familiar hum of the machine starting up took over as the boom died away. “Oh look! It’s fixed, Doctor. Let’s go see what it’s doing.” Mr. White tried to get the doctor excited about the event, but Dr. Chapman let out a defeated sounding sigh. “What’s the use, Mr. White? We’ll just fail again.” They looked silently towards one another for a moment, then heard an easily recognizable voice come from outside the power room. “Once more, Mr. White.” The men froze, and Dr. Chapman quickly pulled out his pocket watch. He gazed down in disbelief and astonishment. Eight Thirty.

Mark Hand married Mary Marks, beget Job Hand, and was haunted by the financial meekness of his youth. Mark's father, Les Hand, possessed less fiscal solvency than a pack of deer, the herd having at least one buck. Young Mark swore he would not always live so meagerly and that when he grew up he would be an adept business man. In fact, one could argue that only once did he ever fail at a business endeavor. A newly unteened and wed Mark bought at a great discount a large section of land in southeastern Pennsylvania from his dad's brother which had been his uncle's legume farm. So that is to say Mark bought his relative's peanuts for relative peanuts. Shortly after this acquisition the Pennsylvania state government came around wishing to buy the land with a more than generous offer. Mark devised a clever strategy where in he would sell them the land save one acre, the land his house was on. He drew up the legal document and the government unwittingly signed it. When state officials realized what had happened he offered to sell them both plots, the acre of land and the now trademarked scheme they had fallen for, at a laughably unreasonable sum. They declined opting to teach Mark a lesson instead. The government proceeded with their plans and built their facility that would encapsulate the Hand homestead. And this is how it came to pass that Job Hand was born inside a high-security prison. Job was born at this house on a Monday. He should have been born on a Sunday, but his mother, a very religious woman, refused to labor on the Sabbath. Job would spend the first 18 years of his life on that one acre of land comparable to a manslaughter rap without release for good behavior. Job though was a very well-behaved kid. This was owing to the caring, teaching, and ministering from his Bible thumping mother. Mary Hand instilled in her son the belief in a vengeful God. She told and retold the stories of God's wrath. The fear of God would be strong in Job. Often Job would find himself staring past the beautiful white picket fence as well as the electrified chain-linked fence into the yard of the prison. The things he saw would make him grow to fear equally the punishments of man as well as the wrath of God. Three days after his 18th birthday he left the walls of the prison for the first time. He was leaving for college. He left the state pen for Penn State, heading up state from "up state". The new environment would cause Job much anxiety. He worried constantly of the morality and legality of his every action. He would spend an entire night hoping that he had exited the crosswalk completely before the red "stop" hand had appeared. He only ventured from his dormitory for class and for books from the library. His roommate tried to loosen up the intense Job, but to little if not no avail. He would comment to his friends that Job had a virtually inaudible chortle almost as if he was afraid that God would hear him laughing. Job studied theology as his mother wished. She hoped her son would become a fire and brimstone preacher. He also studied business as his father sternly advised. His father wanting his son's bank account not to be like a male kangaroo's toilet that is to say containing jack shit. Oh, how the Hand family loved their animal analogies. Despite Job's anxiety, his studies moved along quite swimmingly and was well on his way to fulfilling his parents' wishes for him. That is until his last semester before graduation. A professor would open his eyes to a new idea: forgiveness. It was Father John who entreated his students to remember that not one of us is perfect and the corollary that we would all make mistakes. He taught that God allowed into his fold those who had sinned yet asked for forgiveness. This wasn't a radically new idea to Job he had read it in the Bible, but he had never heard it preached by an authority figure who possessed a scientifically provable corporeal body. Job would become quite smitten with this new God that did more than just smiting. Job became more relaxed. The intensity of his fears diminished. He felt free. He began to take this new found freedom out onto the campus. He began convorting with his fellow matriculaters. Drinking and sex would enter his life. For this is how freedom manifests itself on college campuses. Eventually, Job would become free of all fear. Where freedom once caused Job so much anxiety it was now an addicting adrenaline rush. Drinking and drugs enhanced that feeling. It was under these stimulants that Job would hurt one of his fellow students. Not mortally, but severe enough for Job's freedom to be taken away from him. He was sentenced to 18 months and would be sent back to his old state pen. Not all the way back within the walls of his childhood home, but confined nevertheless by the concrete walls of the prison. At first Job thought he was being punished by a vengeful God, enraged that Job had lost the true way that he walked during his youth. He would come to fear God again. He got down on his knees and was ready to renew his fearful life when a thought came to him. Would it matter if I did this if God was just a vengeful God? If He was only this would not His back always be turned to me? For I did forsake Him. Even though I have sinned and done evil the fact that I am still here is proof that God still wants me to do good. This means that God must be a loving and forgiving God. Maybe, it is not that I should fear Him and fear making mistakes. Fear even the freedom I have to do so. Maybe, it is that I am to be responsible and accountable for my actions. That is what I was sent here to learn. Something so very simple yet hard. For Job, fear and self pity were so much easier than freedom and responsibility. Job was released and walked for the second time out the gates of prison. His incarceration over, but his conviction just beginning. He had learned in 18 months what he hadn't in 18 years. He took with him his remodeled desire to do good and his new found responsibility, and lived a very good life indeed.

...and she tried, to move them around before every bite she took, but it was no use for it kept rearranging the letters in her alphabet soup to spell out strange words and dark and horrible thoughts. Some of the words she did not even fully recognize and she found herself stupidly sounding them out like the teachers had taught them to in reading class in her school far off in the city near the sea. All before suddenly realizing what she was doing and hurriedly swirling with her spoon and taking another bite. Until the bowl of slowly, yet persistently, self-rearranging letters was eaten. Now consumed, she no longer considered them and excused herself to go outside to play in evening sunlight of a lingeringly warm late august afternoon. She could be seen from the window of the kitchen plying in the grass and near the trees and in her imagination as is the way of young children when the magic of the world and the magic of their minds coalesce and anything can still be anything at all. And she ran and played as the setting sun cast long finger shadows through the turning autumn leaves and branches of the tress. Shadows that reached out gently, and yet persistently as the yellow sun receded into orange and red as it crept inevitably towards the horizon. And she played, and laughed and pretended and forgot all about the strangeness of the letters that moved so unusually. she even forgot most of the words, so big and strange to her that they were virtually meaningless. And then the sun, at its final glimmer, stretched the shadows out just long enough. and the slow and yet persistent self-rearranging letters inside her stomach that had not forgotten her, had completed their message. And in a moment, the shadows and the sunlight and the girl were gone.

Duality (second half is in the comments- it was too long for me to post up in one piece and I'm not cool enough to have a blog to post this on) He must have fallen asleep. Suddenly awake, he sat up, the bed bobbed back and forth. Until he awoke he hadn’t realized that he was sleeping. He wondered if enlightenment was like that. Then he remembered his predicament, how the days just blurred together. White walls, white floors, white sheets, it all blurred together like foamy white bubbles, just white interrupted by more white. It all was beginning to feel normal now. Even the nurse had white skin, white hair, white scrubs and a little white voice that innocently asked him, as it always did, “Are you going to get out of bed today Donald?" Oh no, he knew what this girl-- parading around in white—was up to. He wasn’t insane in the ways they thought he was. He could see the truth through their lies. He could see everything. He saw her little white cap, her bleached white teeth, and her white little name tag that had the name Becky imprinted on it. “Donald,” her voice sounded so sweet, so sincere, but even though her voice sounded sweet he knew it was salty, he knew it was the voice of a white lie. That was all it was. “Your daughter is here to see you. She’d really like it if you came and said hi to her.” No, no, no! His daughter was dead. He knew that, washed away in the water, the terrible water. It took her away from him. Now with its white lies, with its feigned innocence, it wanted to take him to her, to the bottom of it all. Alone and adrift, at first it’s a completely new experience, so open yet so confined. It felt like he had been lying in the raft for so long, it smelled of him, it was beginning to contour to his body. He looked out to see the little waves getting their tops blown off. They blurred together, one white cap after another, an unending sea of white broken waves. The salt from the ocean was all that was left behind as the sun evaporated the water from the raft, a powdery sheet of white. That colour had become his nemesis. Why did I have to wear a white shirt that morning? Even the sky was white, in every direction, like white walls boxing him in. His thoughts were past the point of scaring him. He was becoming used to their frantic and panicked way of bounding around in his head, the same way they would in the head of a psych ward patient. Now dehydration felt like it was setting in, his dry mouth tasted like hospital food, like tap water. His thoughts were moving slower and slower, as if he was on some sort of mind numbing drug, but it was just the lack of water, the drying of his brain. He wondered about his daughter, she had been with him. Was she safe now? As the cruise ship was sinking he had looked for her. That’s why he was stuck here on a second-thought life raft, it was the only thing he found floating when the ship finally left him. Trying to remember more was like being in an unfamiliar city in bad weather, his mind was foggy and sluggish. “What’s my name?” he asked himself over and over. If only he could remember… He looked down at his shirt. He still had his name badge on from the cruise check-in, “Mister Gray, that’s right. I’m Mister Gray” Donald rocked back and forth in his white bed holding his knees to his chest, repeating what had been his mantra for as long as he could remember, “Can’t get out. Can't get out.” Salty tears streamed down his face, how much longer could he hold on? The doctor looked as if he had done this every day of his life, leaning unenthusiastically against the solid white door frame, his eyes were focused on his iPhone instead of the white clipboard, “Donald, you can't stay in bed forever. It would be good for you to get up and stretch your legs for a bit." Donald knew better. Just because his name tag said ‘Dr.’ on it didn't mean he could trust him. Oh no, he couldn’t trust this whitewashed liar one bit; no more than he could trust the rest of them. The doctor lied as boldly as his eyes did, telling him he was safe when he knew he wasn’t. Oh no, he wouldn’t give in… “You’re not real. You just want me to get back into the water. You’re just tempting me to let go of it all! No! I won’t!” The doctor sighed and slipped his phone back into the top pocket of his white coat, “Donald, look around. There isn’t any water in here. It’s an empty room. Until you come to grips with that, there is nothing anyone can do for you.” The waves rocked his tiny boat back and forth. “Mr. Gray,” he muttered to himself, he felt the need to remember. “My name is Mr. Gray.” Remember the boat? It was so beautiful, so big, amazing. Its white hull reflected the sunlight, it was so bright he had to shield his eyes at first, dazzling. It was the first time he had been on a cruise... and it definitely would be the last, whether he lived or not. The cabin they gave him was small, plain. Just a room of white walls, a white bed, white pillows, it was so plain and boring. Then again, he would have to be insane to want to remain in that room for any waking moment on the cruise. Everything was outside of that room, a world so beautiful, full of colours, not boring, not white. Sandy, his daughter, booked the whole trip. It would be their vacation, just for them. His girlfriend was upset about the whole thing, but this was his daughter, she would always be more important than any other woman in his life. Seconds ticked by slowly, he felt like he was staring at a clock whose hands never moved. The sun beat down on him, a florescent white globe in the sky. Minutes seemed to stand still, with that same white light burning his skin. Did the hours even pass, or did they just hang in the air like the sun, burning holes into his psyche? He didn't know how much longer his mind could make it. The cool, refreshing, water lapped at him asking, telling, demanding, him to take a dip in it, wash all that sweat off, get cleaned up. It would be safe, just try it. It tempted him. In the distance he saw rippling black clouds, glimmering with lightning, like weasels in a plastic garbage bag striding towards him. They inspired fear, fear that made him think he may start seeing his life flash before his eyes. He smiled to himself; they never mentioned this in the brochure. Never told you how unforgiving the ocean was without man-made comforts. They forgot to bring that up. Once you checked in, you didn’t get to choose when you checked back out, only the ocean did. The waters were getting choppier and choppier, tilting the raft more and more. It was like they were trying to get his attention, telling him, warning him, about the task they were planning to undertake. Maybe this was the end of his cruise? "I NEED TO STAY ON!" He yelled it, he thought it, it consumed him. The men were grabbing and pulling him to "bathe him", they said. But Donald knew if fell off it would be his end, he may never be able to get back on. They grabbed and pulled at him, with an erratic and unsuspecting rhythm. White sleeves, white pants, white arms. He struggled against the colour. It tried to consume him, tried to wash over everything that was. In the struggle they were all becoming a sweaty white mess. He could taste salt as an arm brushed against his face. He could feel the cold sweat wash down his forehead and cheeks. Then he felt a shockingly cold splash of water. He had known it was there, under all of this, the real daemon of this nightmare. The water got everywhere, down his legs and up his shirt. That was when one of the male nurses shook his head and said with disgust, “He pissed himself again.” They stepped away for a moment. One pulled out a radio and said something into it that Donald couldn’t hear over the heaving of his breath. The struggle had taken a lot out of him. A moment of calm passed. Then, in through the white door frame stepped the largest black man Donald had ever seen. He billowed through gracefully, like a fog or a mist. With each step he seemed to glide, ominously, closer to him. In the end, they ended up winning. There wasn't much he could do, except cling to his piss yellow and sweat drenched pillow for dear life. Half drowned and dying of thirst. If that’s not irony... It took all he had to crawl back onto the life raft. The yellow life vest was the only thing that kept him from sinking to the bottom. His arms were still wrapped tightly around it. They would probably leave an imprint on it forever. Mr. Grey wondered if it would make it to shore after he died out here. Could that be the last little thing he leaves an imprint on for the world to see? He set the vest at the end of the raft, and then lay down, using it as a makeshift pillow. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing the cruise offered him, but right now any comfort helped keep him sane. His lips were dry and cracked. Still, the irony was not lost on him, so much water, but his skin was drying out. He ran his tongue across his broken lips and tasted the salt and blood that was on their surface. He brought his hand to them and looked at the deep crimson that was left on his fingertips after touching them. The rest of his skin was burnt to a cherry pink, it felt like he had been scrubbed down by hands that did a rough, sloppy job. His shirt was still white as ever though, as was that damned florescent sun that kept blazing down on him. He looked down to his name tag again, it had been bleached all white, the only way he could remember his name was from the white imprint that was left on it. “Mr. Gray”, he muttered to himself. He remembered driving to the ship with his daughter and his girlfriend. He didn’t like when they were together, they seemed to fight endlessly. But they needed someone to drop them off, she was the logical choice. The ride was a nightmare. They just kept yelling at each other, kept throwing insults back and forth. By the time they got to the ship it felt like he was about to snap. His mind wandered again, back to the beautiful views from the ship. Now they seemed like only a dream, did he just make up how pleasant the whole thing was? From the ship the ocean seemed so peaceful, so calm. He never could have imagined it could become so chaotic and fierce. The turmoil that lay beneath its blue façade amazed him. That same turmoil also dominated him. He was at its mercy.

At first, nothing happened. Then, nothing happened again. Then, without warning or any indication that anything at all was amiss, nothing happened. It was really quite unexciting. Nobody had been waiting for nothing to happen, and when nothing happened, several times in a row, nobody expected it. In fact, nobody didn't expect it either. It is not often that anyone ever wonders about nothing happening. This particular nothing did happen, however, and technically, nothing shouldn't have happened. The nothing which never should have occurred happened on an unremarkable day in January, but that is not important. Nobody was expecting nothing to happen, least of all an average scientist, who worked in a nondescript building on a street whose name is not a relevant detail. This average scientist, a man of no noteworthy achievements, was researching a project on the nature of the universe. Using some gadget he had created, whose purpose had something to do with the fluidity of time, the average scientist caused absolutely nothing to happen. And it was truly absolutely nothing. For the brief fraction of time that he turned on the device, the world became frozen; for that brief second, or perhaps it was a moment, nothing happened whatsoever. The average scientist, somehow, noticed this nothing after it was over, and, to test his strange device, turned it on again. Again, a brief moment of nothing filled the entire universe. Then without warning, or any indication at all that anything at all was amiss, nothing happened again. This time, the nothing lasted for a little while. Similar to absolute zero in terms of temperature, the average scientist had achieved the same with time: absolute nothing. The nothing that was happening stopped happening after several minutes of nothing, and the average scientist, thrilled with his strange discovery, published an average paper. His paper, being of average quality and written about nothing, was widely disregarded. Later that week, the average scientist, thinking deeply about nothing, decided that perhaps the world would be better off if he made nothing happen. Without considering the ramifications, he closed his eyes and turned on the device. And absolutely nothing happened.

Albert Tully Albert Tully’s mind was satisfied with the remedial task before it. The file worked quickly, yet gingerly, back and forth across the top of the steel pipe, accompanied by the scraping sound of metal on metal. Yes it would be soon now. Careful though. It isn’t quite time yet. His scrapping started to sound more hollow so he stopped abruptly. He Stepped down off the small stepladder slowly, safety first, and replaced the basement ceiling tile he had moved to allow his access to the pipe. His wife would be home soon and she mustn’t know, mustn’t ever know, about the pipe. He placed the ladder back in the laundry room, dusted his clothes off and returned the file back to the small drawer on the right hand side of his desk, second drawer up from the floor, everything in its proper place. He walked over to his easy chair, sat and propped his feet up. He used the remote to turn the dusty TV on to the evening news, always national, never local. The local news was always too laden with terrible human-interest stories that didn’t matter. National news had bigger stories with a more global focus. The need to keep up with global events was lost on most people. The world was a big place with lots of important things going on and knowing them may help make all the difference. Albert picked up his Sudoku book off the dated, wooden coffee table and flicked to a new page, a working brain is a happy one. Each number he wrote, each pen stroke on the page led back to the pipe in Albert’s mind’s eye. That swell of anxiety, that he was now used to, rose again inside. No it was a good plan and it would work. Patience is a virtue. Everyday the top of the pipe was thinner and thinner. He had been patient and wasn’t going to spoil anything by changing that now. Each number in the Sudoku book was something in its place, another thing set right, it was just a matter of putting the right numbers in the right boxes. Albert got half way through drawing a 7 then stopped and scribbled it out. He set the book back on the coffee table, got up and walked back to the small desk in the corner. He eyed the new issue of National Geographic sitting on top his scrapbook. He picked up the magazine and thumbed through it increasingly excited. He couldn’t wait to go through it and cut out and place all the new exotic pictures. He always made sure to write in the photographer’s name, just incase he ever met them while he was away, so he could say “oh I loved your work in the July issue in New Guinea. Please, tell me what the natives were like. What do flights cost this time of year? Should I pack warmly? I know that those higher altitudes get quite cool.” Albert would go there. He would go to the places those photos were taken and he would take his own photos, put them in the new scrapbook. It was close now. The pipe had said so with its hollow sound echoing out against the file. The front door opened and closed up stairs. Albert set the magazine back on the desk. He knew he should go up stairs, say hello, ask about her day, but he wouldn’t. He would go back to his easy chair and wait for dinner to be ready. The thought of exchanging pleasantries was too much. He could hear consistent noise in the kitchen now. Dinner would be on soon. Eating meant that talking was minimal. He waited and soon she called. Hearing her call his name drove a spike of irritation through his head. That voice could strip wallpaper. He sighed, got up and went up the stairs. Albert got into the dinning room just as Molly was putting the plates down. “Didn’t you hear me come in?” She asked. Of course he did. “I guess not.” He smiled weakly, looking at Molly’s dress. It was blue. That meant it was Friday. Every Friday the same blue dress since he could remember. He wanted to burn it. Friday also meant that he knew what was on his plate before he looked at it; a small, skinless chicken breast, roast potatoes and asparagus, how fittingly bland. He would pour himself red and she would say, “White goes better with chicken.” He would smile again, trying desperately not to make it a sneer. He ate quietly while Molly offered up stories from her day here and there. He would use sounds of acknowledgement where necessary. He was fixated on her ponytail. That same slack ponytail Molly had worn for years, making her frizzy hair shapeless. It was neither up nor down and he hated it. He thought of when they first met. Her hair had been shorter then, usually down and slightly curled. They had met at university, He was in his last year, ready to move on and see the world. She was in third year and had saved his life when he had an allergic reaction to peanut oil he didn’t realize was in an Asian dish he had been eating. Soon they had started dating and he gave up his dreams of travel to buy a ring and put a down payment on a house. They had been in that house ever since. It was near identical to when they had moved in. It was all the exact same. “What did you want to do tonight? I was thinking we could catch a movie downtown.” He looked up from his food at her. She had to know he wouldn’t want to go. She knew that every Friday night he worked on his scrapbook while she took a bath. Her question was meant to bait him. It was meant to show her lack of interest. She knew but she didn’t care. Not to mention the pipe. She needed to be in the bath later, with all her candles lit. Otherwise it would take too long for the gas to reach another flame in the house. “You know Friday night is for scrapbooking. I have a new issue to go through and it’ll probably take all night.” His voice didn’t sound very diplomatic but if she was going to be willfully ignorant why should he care? “Oh I just thought… ok never mind.” She got up and cleared her dishes into the kitchen. He had caught her trying to push buttons and stopped her in her tracks. He left his dishes at the table and went back into the basement. He sat at his desk and started going through his magazine, enjoying it but biding his time. Soon he’d be able to travel all he liked without anything holding him back. He looked at his watch, 7:46. It was time. Her bath usually starts around 8:15 and he needed to give time to let the gas collect and seep through the small holes he had made in the floor. He took the file from the drawer and went and got the stepladder. He slowly removed the ceiling tile and started filing the top of the pipe. He was quiet. Being patient. He stopped scraping and listened as a loud hiss came from the pipe and the strong smell of gas surrounded him. He quickly got down from the ladder, walked to the desk, got his scrapbook and went straight up stairs. He had to hurry now, quick but not careless. The familiar anxious feeling had now returned and sat heavily. He went by the by the bathroom door and saw it was closed and could hear running water. He went to the bedroom and got a small suitcase out of the closet that held a few objects he couldn’t bare to see destroyed. He went back down the hall and into the kitchen to leave out the side door. This was it. The moment Albert Tully would get his life back. He rounded the corner and saw Molly standing over the table. He jumped at the sight of her. She looked equally startled. He went to speak but found no words. She did the same. He looked and saw a jar of peanut butter in her hand. He saw her eyes trained on the suitcase and scrapbook in his own. “What was all that noise in the basement?” Her hair was down. It cascaded down around her shoulders. It was more chestnut than he remembered it. Her pail skin was flushed, especially down her neck and into the top of her breast. He watched her stare at him coolly, frightened but determined. Her brown eyes now seemed lighter, more of a honey colour. He knew what her intent had been and suspected that she had at least some idea of his but in that moment she looked fierce, radiant, the prettiest he could remember her being. He wanted to say something but had no idea what. “Do you smell that?” She set the peanut butter jar on the table. “I think we should leave now.” He said, remembering the gas. He smiled at her. They walked outside and stood underneath the large oak tree in the park across the street. There was a loud crack and a flash of light in the night sky. They turned and watched as the house started to blaze. She had tears in her eyes and looked frightened. He took her hand in his and held it tightly. The house burned brightly now, the fire much larger than he ever thought it would be.

Didn't get any feedback there, thought I'd try here. **Father’s Time** On this particular morning, Edward woke up feeling a little different. As his achy, still half-asleep muscles slowly loosened with each deliberate movement, a discomfort built inside him. It hurt him to stand up. It drained him to take a step. He didn’t feel like himself. When Edward made his way to his washroom mirror, he didn’t quite look like himself either. His once shiny, shaggy blonde hair now seemed dull and faded. His ocean blue eyes looked back at him, only now they resembled a sea of darkness and regret. His body felt fragile, his thoughts lacked understanding, and his heart seemed to wince with every beat. A tear began to form in Edward’s eye. *When did I get so old?* He thought. As the ice cold tear trickled down, journeying through the creases on his face, all Edward could do was stare blankly back at his own, sad reflection. Minutes passed. Edward had stared into his own dark eyes for too long, and he was now lost at sea. He tried to collect his thoughts, but each one eluded the next. He looked down at his pocket watch that lay open on the stone white counter. AHA! Finally, something made sense to Edward. His grandfather had given him this particular timepiece some fifty years ago. Or wait… was it his father? It had to of been his father, right? Edward’s mind backtracked. All Edward could remember was the brilliance the pocket watch once exhibited. It was a shiny gold watch that had given him a false sense of pride. Only now, the watch was dim and scuffed. The second hand on the faded gold watch ticked up, but it quickly retreated. It ticked again, and again fell down. More seconds passed, but according to the timepiece, time did not move. Edward closed the golden timepiece. Suddenly, a bright ray of sunshine cleared the horizon and before Edward knew it, the golden sun was high in the sky. The brightness was as brilliant as ever. Edward was young again and no longer lost. His heart was warm, and his thoughts were coherent. Diana was back in his arms; his son Tommy was swinging high into that sun filled sky. A new tear made its own journey across Edward’s face, traveling its own path, falling ever so slowly onto the gold pocket watch below. Edward wiped the warm drop of ocean water from the timepiece, and opened it back up. The second hand ticked no longer.

This is something I wrote a couple years ago. Sorry if it's longer that most of what's posted here. It's a little aimless and dry in my opinion, but I'd like to know what you think. I woke up, 7am. There was a beautiful woman on one end of my bedroom, by the door. she wore a head of chestnut hair, medium length, the same way she wore a lacy white top which I distinctly remember picking out. They flowed down and out and I thought of the word 'inertia' as she became my brief and professional obsession. "come to bed." it was a suggestion, but I tried to sound confident enough for it to pass as a command. she shook her head. "why not? I don't have anywhere to be." she repeated the gesture, where this time I had expected a verbal response, looking out toward the window. My field of vision made the agonizing treck towards the window and back again, empty. "I don't see anything." which I couldn't, tainted by the damp emptiness which had settled and grown outside my window, weeding up around my modest garden and killing my grass. "What happened to my flowers?" I queried aloud as I watched a sort of muddy grey color infest the room like a swarm of locusts. Again came the same lack of verbal response along with what I could assume may have been a shrug or other ambiguous gesture, but could not be sure of. I heard footsteps, the door closing. I finally recognized the music in the background as being Wagner. It had started sometime before the total loss of vision, and before finding my clock for the first time that morning. "89.5 KUPD, your local, listener supported classical music station. It's Monday, eleven fifteen A M, ninety seven degrees, twenty four percent humidity. This next one..." "eleven fifteen?" I could see everything with a drab clarity which I could only attest to a more complete consciousness. There was no woman. I was three hours late for work. I checked my phone. One message, my boss. "don't bother coming in today." I was relieved and also nervous. Although mostly relieved because I hated work. It was unchallenging, the building didn't smell very good usually and there were never any girls around. Only middle aged men and sometimes women, or older, looking for something that they felt entitled to, even if they didn't yet know the name of it or exactly what it was. Not that I knew where the girls were. I assumed school or their own jobs most of the time. otherwise maybe with their boyfriends or girlfriends. sometimes I would catch one or two in a coffee shop. I would approach, and they would stare. I'd sweat and make a fool of myself then leave. Once I got a number with that routine, we met up for dinner later but it didn't go anywhere. I don't remember if she was a bit dull or I was wearing a day old t-shirt. I wanted to seem sensitive and not that I was trying too hard. Really, I was sore from quotes before the entrees came. Dead Russian philosophers was the theme of the night. Of course, that had been the latest event in my romantic life, 8 months earlier. By this time I would have gladly listened to Dostoyevsky's famous one liners all day long if it meant I didn't have to masturbate later. Not that that could ever be a chore. After I'd been up for a while I decided on food. I flipped a coin between a burger or chinese. I thought of a trapese artist as the coin flipped into the air. I wondered when the circus would be in town or I'll to head to Vegas. Heads, I thought about ordering the Kung Pao chicken from the place in the market. It wasn't the best but it was a better price than some of the sit down places. My friends were all working that day, so I had my meal alone at the tables outside the market. It was hot but the area was shaded. there was a television inside but it was turned to the right wing political news station and I wasn't interested. I watched the cars drive by. There weren't too many of them. I assumed they were in a hurry to get to work or pick something up or drop it off or to get home before their show starts on tv. Birds near me bouncing and picking at garbage. One o'clock seems late to some people. It was still early and nothing to do. I went for a swim and walked around the park several times, then it was three. There were men at the park playing basketball, which seemed like a simple sort of fun that wasn't meant for someone built like me. I was thin and a little nervous with a bad haircut. Anyway, sports came across to me like an improvised dance. I was too clumsy to dance, I would always rock back and forth and pretend that I knew what to do with my hands, but only if the music was right. At the park that day there was no music. I wandered home, defeated. I spent the rest of the day reading and writing with Ike Quebec or Dexter Gordon in the air and making my attempt at something I could compare to Bukowski or Hemingway or maybe Burroughs. I wanted my sentences to be short and punchy with dark paragraphs and hopeless characters. They never were quite that way. I lived in the suburbs, which was a sterile sort of community. People would use their tongues to stop vomit at the sight of a cigarette butt on the sidewalk, brown lettuce in their salad, or gum underneath the table. I always thought the people I met were friendly enough, but I never knew my neighbors and they didn't know me. The people I did know didn't know their neighbors either, or their neighbors them. I went for a walk that night, the stars were clearly visible and I got mugged underneath them like they were watching the way my mother watches the Tonight Show. I thought about a girl I once sat on a blanket with smoking tobacco out of a hookah and watching the sky and chatting as if it was going to go somewhere, and we were on our way to do or say something else but we didn't want to miss it. Though it was evident things would be the same as long as we were there to watch. He had a knife. I had had three dollars in my wallet and the bastard took the battery from my phone. It was an old phone and I asked him for that back because it would be difficult to find again but he laughed and I felt silly. I showed up the next day, on time, for my job at a hardware store. I was fired and sent home for not having showed up the day before. I made the excuse that my car wouldn't start but it didn't matter. this was the third instance something could be held against me and the manager liked to make baseball analogies, which were petty and dry but he never grew tired of them. I went home and listened to sad sounding music with my face buried in my pillow thinking about the female coworker I may have been getting somewhere with who saw what happened and my face turn red. I stuttered while excusing myself which hadn't helped either. I had a picture of her in my phone that I took one day while she wasn't looking. I hadn't found a new battery yet, so I rebuilt the image in my head and masturbated then took a nap.

Once when I was younger I came into the house bleeding from the nose, staining my shirt a deep red. Some got onto the hardwood floor and also the carpet, which left a stain like someone had spilled tomato soup or ketchup. I was punished though I never knew why and spent the rest of the day and that evening trying to remove it but I couldn't. Every time I saw that stain, and still do when I go home, I remembered that day and how the neighbor kid punched me in the face whereafter I tackled him and stuck his face in the snow. I remember the blood in his hair and against the white. He got up and ran home and I was angry so I tossed some ice which skidded against his head. We were both eight years old. The next day we went sledding. There was a big hill at the high school where we always went with hot cocoa, heavy boots and the cold wind which burnt my nose.

Chapter I: I sit alone in my smoky, trashed motel room. Having been the recipient of, earlier, forced emancipation from my parents and, later, a drug deal, I have mixed emotions. I'm to leave this place in two days, the Friday on its way. I notice my apathy at this predicament,realizing the same blase attitude with which I approach every situation is alive and well in my calm (cold?), unaffected (apathetic?) spirit. My friend Miles walked out the door not too long ago, though exactly how long ago it was I cannot grasp. I fancied myself a cartoonist with him; we stayed up past 3:00 am drawing and writing punchlines. Democratically, we fed each other our ideas, and Socialistically we shared them. This may be the way: a balance of all social contracts and political ideals. Unfortunately, as Americans we are familiar with only a very few systems, and only two stand tall among them: Democracy and Socialism. A Socialist Democracy may be the next form political theory manifests into government, spreading it across the globe. Perhaps a 99 percent majority would be implemented as the jury in each case of suggested change. Beginning with a small nation within a welcoming nation or country could make this dream reality. Chapter II: The train rumbles and screeches by on its track, passing withing the motel's resonant proximity, the area in which vibrations from the train's locomotion may be felt. It's gone now; nothing but the TV's boring, re-run chatter and the voices composing this monologue are with me now. There is irony in calling it such, of course, but such it is when written with a laboriously unified stream. Its tributaries run deep into the recesses and folds of my mind and brain, fed by my enumerated senses to unfold this paradoxical document. The paradox of which I speak is simply the fact of recollection, foresight, and concept of language itself. What mean these things? What about those three--again, hindsight, foresight, and concept of language--makes this anything other than a work of nonsense? Why might the reader not dismiss it as such? Time will tell.

Once upon a time there was a stuffed Tyrannosaurus Rex. Because this is the 21st century and not the 19th, it was made of synthetic materials rather than velveteen. This t-rex was given to a boy, and it became his favorite toy. The played together everyday. Pretending to dismember action figures and over turning lego houses was a thrill to the t-rex and it felt almost alive. Especially when the boy and his t-rex terrorized the dolls in the dollhouse the t-rex felt like he was a real dinosaur. But one day the boy got sick and went to the hospital, the doctors said it was asthma and it was brought on by dust. Despite being the boy's protests at losing his favorite toy, the boy's mother donated it to Goodwill in her effort to rid the house of all things that might harbor dust. The t-rex was lonely in the donation center. He missed the boy. There were no lego houses to wreck here, and all the dolls and action figures around him were already dismembered. Eventually he was sorted and placed on the shelves at a local Goodwill store, and there he stayed for a long time because no one buys stuffed animals at Goodwill; that's just gross. One night a fairy came to the t-rex. She told him he was a good toy and his fate was unfair so she would grant him one wish, but he only got one chance to make one wish because those are The Rules. The t-rex thought for a bit and said, "I want to be a real dinosaur and go on a bloody rampage all over town." "Sorry, but I can't do that," answered the fairy. "See that tag that says 'made from synthetic materials?' That means you are made from petroleum byproducts. Petroleum comes from the remains of dead plants, dinosaurs and other organic things that were buried under sediment and trapped under pressure for a long period of time. You already are a real dinosaur. In fact, you are probably several." And with that the fairy disappeared.

his dad roared from the living room, waking him up instantly. After a few impatient seconds he hears **“MYRTLE! GIT THE FUCK IN HERE!... RIGHT!... NOW!”**, this time followed by a thunderous BOOM as his dad slams his fist on the endtable, causing the spent cans of PBR and plastic bottles of Skol vodka to explode all over the living room. Myrtle knew what was coming next, this pattern has been played out thousands of times. In fact, this was Myrtle’s life. Constantly being shit on. Not a friend in the world, not even an imaginary one. Everyone called him “Myrtle the Turtle”, which is not only a cute rhyme, it’s a hilarious name because Myrtle looked like a god-damn turtle! A hundred pounds overweight, bulbous cheeks, small beaky mouth, round nose, but all arranged as such so that he looked like a cartoon turtle. He hated that nickname. **“I SAID GIT IN HERE YOU FUCKIN’ TURTLE PIECE OF SHIT!”** his dad squeals in an impossibly loud crescendo. His three year old sister Maggie had long been screaming in the background. He knew what he was going to walk into when he stepped foot into that livingroom - his six-foot-seven barrel shaped dad with a head shaped like a howitzer shell and a big nasty wiry red beard will be lumped out on the old worn out rocker and his mom will still be in same old-lady pajamas, sprawled out, halfway on the couch, with a needle in one hand and a TV remote in the other, speaking in tongues. His mother never seemed to make sense since she started poking herself with that damn needle. Maggie will be screaming, crawling on the garbage on the floor of the kitchen in the trailer which is located somewhere in the backwoods of West Virginia. Myrtle knows any further hesitation will result in a far worse consequence, so he pulls himself out of bed. With his head down, his shoulders slumped, he pedaled his feet towards the living room to see what that monster wanted - probably another bottle of vodka. “Come a lil’ closer, boy.” Myrtle robotically takes a step closer, head still down. “I said CLOSER, BOY!” Maggie’s screams double in volume, nobody seems to notice. Myrtle quickly takes two more steps towards his father. “Y-y-ye-yes-s-s-sir?” Myrtle manages, when suddenly THWACK! his dad delivers a powerful open-handed smack right in the ear, deafening Myrtle with a painful ring. That god-damn ring again. A ring he has heard a thousand times. *wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee* -- **“ON’T YOU EVER GIVE ME THA”** -- *eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee* **“OOK AGAIN YOU WORTHLE”** -- *eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee* -- **“OF SHIT!”** “Davith s-stho heeth justh ahh” his mother mumbles, but then she quickly turns her trembling attention back to the needle. “D-d-do y-you n-need mo-more med-medicine, d-dad?” “You IDIOT, OF COURSE I DO! DON’T I LOOK SICK TO YOU, BOY?” “Ye-yessir.” Myrtle makes a beeline towards the fridge, so he can pull his fathers next bottle of vodka out of the freezer. Without hesitation Myrtle slams the freezer door, does an about-face and makes a reverse-beeline back to his father, head still down, shoulders still slumped, and eyes that show the depression of a thousand emo kids. Once back, he allows his father to swipe the bottle. Just like always, the asshole plies the cap off, wraps his lips around the top and takes such a deep pull that I swear it creates a vortex in his throat. His mother continues speaking in tongues. Myrtle manages to make it back to his bedroom without further confrontation. What happens next is more of the same. It’s a pattern. Myrtle will continue this pattern of abuse and playing doctor until about 9:00 PM, which is when his father will pass out on the rocker and his mother will remain in a stasis between life and death. Myrtle will eventually find a way to sleep, only to live even worse nightmares. But not tonight. Tonight the pattern will change. He’s had it up to here. Myrtle sits hunched over on his bed, sweaty palms wet his pajamas. A sudden rush of confusion takes over him. An intense pang of anxiety begins to bleed in, now hemorrhaging. Pins and needles coat his hands, icy shivers crawl from his toes and work their way up to his head. He is drowning, gulping for air, his mind begins to crawl through the collapsing tunnel before him. White noise from the television fills the air. Myrtle sits on his bed, staring into the living room. His eyes are now focused on his father. Myrtle is high on pure adrenaline and ecstasy. A feeling he has never felt before. Without hesitation Myrtle gets out of bed and paces directly into the living room. His eyes jump up and stare at the shotgun, on the rack, right above that heap of shit who just happens to be his father. Myrtle puts one foot up on his father’s crotch and begins crawling up, he reaches for the gun anxiously. His father shifts from side to side but doesn’t seem to waken. Myrtle continues climbing and he finally manages to grab the gun. He crawls back down. Myrtle grabs three cartridges from the end-table drawer. His body feels entirely too heavy, so he sits down at his father’s feet and stares into the back of his eyelids. In one swift motion he swings the gun around, takes aim right between the eyes and pulls the trigger. **KA-RACK** - it looks like someone threw a cherry pie at the wall. Myrtle lays with a tingle in his shoulder and his ears ringing. The white noise from the TV is quickly drowned out. Eyes focused on Maggie, Myrtle rubs his shoulder, sits back up and chambers another round. Maggie’s body language insists she is screaming, but Myrtle hears nothing but that ring. Another rush of ecstasy consumes him as he raises the shotgun sight at Maggie. *eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee* - **NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!** He looks over to see his mother screaming frantically. He swings the gun mechanically, takes aim at his mother’s eye socket, then pulls the trigger. **KA-RACK** - another smashed cherry pie, this time on the couch. Suddenly Myrtle’s rush of ecstasy comes to an end. He feels nothing except the TV static crawling through his skin. Myrtle feels completely numb. There’s only one way to finish this. Myrtle chambers one last round. He rubs his shoulder, stands up, then sets the gun sight right on Maggie’s screaming face. His trigger-finger trembles, he starts to pull the trigger back, but hesitates. He hears sirens blend with the ringing in his ears. Myrtle falls to the floor, flips the gun, hugs it and swallows the barrel. The sirens grown louder. With the barrel in his mouth, he kicks at the trigger and his toe finally makes purchase. The ringing fades away.

'No.' I couldn't have thought of a better word to say. 1,200 words a middle class child is exposed to. I probably knew about as many curse words at that point, none quite equal to the weight of anger I willingly held onto. It was so impossibly simple. Just claim the consonant and the vowel. Be done with it. Pack up and go home. 'No.' The more frustrated I became the more powerful the world felt in my mouth. Why couldn't I just say it? Was I too proud? The entire reason I was in this position was because I didn't say anything. I look down at the cloth in my hand. Damp and dishevelled, I should go into the back and get a fresh one to mess. Or maybe i'll wait until no one is at the counter. There it is again, that fucking word. Why is it when you've been backed into a corner the worst decision is always made? Maybe this time it'll be different. I hook a stray hair behind my ear. Deep breaths. 'So you can close up tonight?' This is it. Just do it. A pulse. An echo. A single beat. This could be the turning point of your very life. 'Yeah, no worries.' Fuck.

*How poetic of you.* *Well, brevity is the soul of wits.* *Indeed.* ... I met her in history. The professor read out the class list. "Erica?" "I prefer Al". **Well, I bet she's an over achieving know-it-all.** That was my first thought of her, it went mostly forgotten until much to late. Two weeks later in the small group discussion the prof was trying to be subtly critical of Israel. He did this a lot, it was never subtle. I was sitting next to her. "So Al huh?" "Yup" "Is it short for something?" "You would think so, but no." "Is it like a condensed version of Angela?" "Nope..." **Fuck, I blew it.** ... This guy was trying to get me to work on a project with him. He ended up doing nothing. I was trying to scribble down ten numbers and send him on his way as fast as possible. They weren't for him, I'd thought about it later, but he was a dial-tone. For a small girl she could move fast. Two minutes later after shouting her name three times I gave her the paper. It was awkward. *I know You're supposed to wait three days to do this but I'm gonna busy for like the next week. Wanna get coffee tonight?* *Absolutely, when and where's best for you?* ... "We need to talk" **That's the line that you go with?** "What about" "Us" "Of course we do" "it's just not working" "We've been together for a month, what exactly is not working" "It's him" "Him again? Seriously? Babe, all I want to do is make this work" "It's just not fair to you, I have feelings for him that I'm afraid I wont be able to feel for you, or for anyone else for that matter" ... *Hey, are you free tonight?* *Yup* *How soon can you come over?* *Half an hour, why?* *I'm leaving tomorrow. I want to see you* **Don't do this to yourself. She breaks up with you a month before she leaves "to make it easier". You're 90% sure that she did it so she could try to sleep with him at least once before she left. You're her fall back and you know you're better than that.** *I'll be there* ... "Fuck, Aura has called three times now I think something's wrong" "Language. Just let me finish down here, and we'll call her back." Aura was admittedly jealous of me at first. She and Al had a history. Al was Aura's first encounter. Al regretted it, Aura was always clingy. At this time she was dating a history major. He was boring. "Hi Aura, what's the matter? .. Well dear, we've never had that problem .. Here can you talk to her? I don't know what to say" **Great, now I get to dole out sex advice to Aura** "Hello Aura, what can I help you with tonight?" "It's him" "I'm going to need a bit more information if I'm going to help" "Well. tonight was supposed to be our first night, and he couldn't .. He couldn't get it up" "Oh" "Have you ever had that problem?" "Of course not." " I think it's me, this isn't the first time this has happened to us an-" "Aura, stop that right now, his inability to perform has nothing to do with you". I left Al's place, Aura was on my mind. **Shit. I bet I could.** ... *Hey, where are you* *Studying at the coffee shop.. what's on your mind?* *I'll be there soon* **You're a gigantic idiot. You know that right?** ... **That stare lasted too long to be a good thing.** ... *I'm going to break up with him. You're right, he's too boring for me.* *That's what you said last time.* *I mean it this though, it's not the same now* *You have to tell him what happened.* *I can't, it'll crush him.* ... "Aura I can't be your partner, I'm too hung up on Al, and I think you and I should go back to being friends" "Are you fucking kidding me? After everything that happened?" "I'm sorry, but It's for the best" "I don't think so" "That's not really how it works" ... *So I'm moving to a new place, I want you to meet my roommates* **Maybe she's over you. This could be okay** *Sounds like it could be fun, I'm in.* ... "This is Jess" "Nice to meet you Jess" "Likewise" **Well, fuck.** Jess was the second roommate that I met the first was inconsequential. He didn't care much for me, and I for him, we just pretended like the other didn't exist. Jess though. Jess was a sweetheart, I regret not getting to know her as well as I should. She was too nice to deserve all of this. ... *Didn't you hear Aura Moved on* *Moved on how?* *Our dear friend had her first one night stand last night* *Well then, I happen to be coming over tonight, will I see you* *I most certainly hope so.* ... "Why not me? What's wrong with me?" "Nothing's wrong with you, I just see us as friends that's all" "But not her?" "It's different with her." "I don't think I want to see you ever again". She soon told me that it was her wish for me to never sleep with Jess or any of her other roommates again. ... **Aura I'm sorry that what I did hurt you, that was never my intention. I want to make it up to you.** **How?** ... "Hey Gwen, Aura home?" "She'll be back later, I hear you have a plan to make things alright" "Whiskey fixes all" "I think I'm starting to like you" **Don't even think about it, Aura almost killed you last time** Jess had left to go visit family for a while. Gwen was the last roommate. She and I had met before, Aura had introduced us on her first night at the house. She was intimidatingly cool. ... "Shit. Aura's awake" "What do we do now?" "we have to stop, she can't find out what happened" "Agreed, She'll kill me if she finds out." ... Circumstance dictate that I leave a short while after all of this. Eventually Aura found out. Jess found out too. Neither were too pleased. I can only imagine what they had to say to each other.

This is a draft of a monologue from a full length novel I am writing. All feedback is appreciated. Be harsh with me - I'm trying to capture your soul here. Men with too many ideals simply don't make it in this world. They're missing just too many crucial aspects of know-how to accomplish anything. So, yeah, I let him die - in fact - I *watched* him die knowing that this revolution would prosper and flourish *so* much longer without him. Fuck his 'vision'. You want to know what really makes people go fucking nuts and actually sacrifice *everything*? A martyr. Why? Because rather than trying to persuade you with some kind of lofty moral tautology or periphrastic rhetoric - instead - they do something far more meaningful. They die for you. Boom, get it? Someone died so that you, inconsequential *you*, could love and live - and well, holy fuck - now you give people a whole new reason for existing rather than just eating and fucking, like everyone else, and you can *actually* accomplish something. See most people like to feel guilty for just existing. I don't know why - but they do. Maybe it's this intrinsic flaw I keep hearing so much about. They feel guilty and this martyr is the *perfect* price for penance *and* for succeeding against all odds; for accomplishing more than they could ever dream. So, yes. That blood is on my hands and if I burn for eternity, then so be it. EDIT: monologue FROM a novel.

“Niggers,” George said while he groped the the small boys’ titties and a small amount of drool began to pour out of his mouth. The boys’ eyes began to roll back into their heads as tiny amounts of pre-cum dripped down their legs. Suddenly a black man burst through the window, having found out that the George Zimmerman case had ended without the man being found guilty (Re-post). His rage was fresh as he began his rape spree, he rushed at George with his massive erection, the veins pulsated as blood engorged his nigger-cock. Luckily for the group of boys, George had made sure to load his trusty glock. A swift round to the head was all it took to kill the nigger, his lifeless cock laid on the ground, sprawled out for all to see. “Now, back to our business,” George said as he turned back to the children. He began to unzip his pants and a fish fell out. A herring to be exact, a delicious, lightly salted, and smoked treat--not unlike his musty cock--for all to enjoy. The many children flocked to the feast, the fresh fish attracted every child for a few blocks. He watched them devour the herring, and it excited him so much that--like the late nigger--his penis began to engorge itself with blood. “My cock is so excited!” George exclaimed, “YES MY CHILDREN, BASK IN ITS GLORY.” And they did, all the kids were smitten with George’s cock. Now more aroused than ever, George began to stroke his cock. Furiously. It was a magnificent sight, a man with a flock of children at his feet, all of whom wanted to stroke his massive cock. Suddenly a ripping noise arose from George’s gorge, the mighty johnson had been torn from its home. A piercing scream burst from his mouth, and suddenly George made a shocking revelation: These were no ordinary school boys, they were Demon Dick-munchers of the 12th realm of Alukmi’jas. He watched in horror as--much like the herring--his cock was consumed by the Dick-munchers. How could he not have seen this coming? George yelled out: “HOW COULD I NOT HAVE SEEN THIS COMING?” through his tears he could see that all was not lost, a small part of his cock was still intact. And then George understood what he had to do: He had to put his penis back together, at all costs. And so George began his journey, he picked up what was left of his cock and beat the Dick-munchers back to the depths of hell with it. And then he set off to find an entrance to Alukmi’jas and the rest of his cock. To Be Continued...

I miss milk and butter. From the cows. Floodin' got 'em as well. Ain't had nothing but cold beans for brekky in years. The whole city's full o' the stuff if you can dive for it. Can't remember the smell o' bacon n' eggs. The chickens n' the pigs are gone too. I used to throw an omelette together for the family. Eggs, bacon, milk. Butter the pan. Low heat 'till its browned by the pan n' gooey once you bite. Smell o' butter heatin' up in the mornings, warm dry day, can remember that. Would kill to have just one plate o' it, 'cept there ain't nobody to kill. Still plenty o' clothes around. In the stores. Don't wear nothin' but for me jeans though. Never saw clothes like this in ol' times but for on the farms. The kind that's been bled on, covered in fat, soaked n' hung to dry like nothin' else. Couple o' years in they'd started crackin' like a leather belt. Now you couldn't get a knife through 'em. Can get a new shirt every mornin' but I been wearin' the same damn pair o' jeans since the start. All I got from ol' times since Ozzy left. Been years since he passed. Still keepin' track o' the dates 'cause o' him. Don't know what took 'im in the end of it. Malnutrition, weight loss, flu. I'm no doc. Poor bugger just got too old for a drowned city. For a while after the floodin', people didn't realise they'd need water in a city full o' it. Not one o' us thought the water would turn poisoned. Don't know what did it. Could be all the dead soiled it. Could be the waste of the city under it. Could be what was it that made it rise in the first place. Could be somethin' none of us know 'bout. Nobody to find out. We just knew if you got it in your mouth, you hadn't a hope left. Me n' the other smart ones scrabbled for water what wasn't deadly n' food you could keep. Bottles, cans, anything sealed in. Soon the city was noisy. Death is loud. Screams for help n' prayers to whatever God the folks kept. Me, I ain't got no faith keepin' me goin. Faith doesn't stitch me wounds, keep me wetsuit together or point the shots from me rifle. Faith didn't do much good for the others anyways. Could be there's some fella 'cross the world been keepin' alive with prayers, gettin' some bloke upstairs to send him food, drink n' medicine. Maybe if I heard from that fella I'd pray. When the last o' 'em shut their eyes, city went quiet for 'bout a year. Soon enough some bushes n' tough trees started growin' on top o' the buildings n' birds moved in again. Started gettin' woke by the chirps like in ol' times. Also gave Ozzy n' I some meat, if we could get the loud bastards. Soon enough the birds got 'emselves poisoned by the waters, too. Years later there's still ol' dead floatin' to the top, unhinged by some rotten wood or some pane o' glass crackin' under a fallin' building in the deep. Smells of decay, just the birds ain't smart enough to keep from drinkin'. There weren't silence though, even then. There were the bugs, feastin' on all the drowned n' killed they could get their mouths around. They're quieter now. Since Ozzy died I don't hear nothin' but the waves n' me own voice. Hard to describe a city underwater. Forgot the familiar lanes n' started orientin' myself with the skyscrapers pokin' out the top. It ain't quiet underneath either. There's always somethin' fallin' apart when there's that much work bein' broken down by the wet. Distant crashes what echo for kilometers in the deep, you weren't ever sure if it was the buildin' you were divin' in what was collapsin'. Got caught out once. Thought I was goin' to get flat under a whole shoppin' center. Thought of Ozzy, that I hadn't said goodbye. Lucky I made it out. Dive less now. Been talkin' to meself lots. Want to have last words to remember when I go out. Hell, they could be the last words anyone says ever. I don't know if I'm the last n' I don't much care. No way to reach 'cross the sea. Figured I'd only find more water. Stuff doesn't just rise in one place. Maybe some could be 'round still if it wasn't poisoned the planet over. Already come to accept the whole world drowned with us. When I think, I talk. Turns out I just think about death. Used to think o' life. What to eat, where to dive, how to keep Ozzy going. Since he head out I don't much think of that stuff. Wondered if I should finish it myself. Nothin' to jump off. Could drink the water. Thought it would be a shame though. What if the last man alive took his own? Figured it wasn't far, I'd let me life run its course. Caught a reflection o' my face the other day. Its lined, worn. Been sixty years since the flood. Livin's hard. Miss Ozzy. It kept me goin', havin' an ol' mate to care for. Miss the way he would look at me, thankin' me when I brought food I'd farmed or birds I'd shot. He needed the help, poor fella. Miss the way he walked. Knew he was tough from his walk. Had a bad leg but never slowed up. Didn't feel the pain like most, or he did n' he ignored it. Miss the way he purred when I pet him. If I am the last, I reckon I did us a fair job. I've been tough. Lived up until my body was weak n' lived some more. Took me losin' the world to realise what I missed. Meat. Land. Family. Ozzy. Happy we didn't tear ourselves apart like they always said we would. 'Bout all I can be glad for. I've lay here in the sun to die. Guess that's something I could smile for. Many breathed their last as screams. I've got the song of the tide and the heat o' the sun. Realised Ozzy had the same. Could be this ain't too bad a way men to head out. Been fightin' since we came to this place. Decided not to say anythin'. I ended the world in peace.

I walk farther into the woods, seeking seclusion and safety. I can feel the wind on my bare back and the soft moss beneath my feet. Pausing on a hill, I curl my toes into the soft earth and look out at the sunset. For anyone else, it would be a beautiful sight. For me, it is terrifying. I have maybe two minutes left as I scramble quickly down the hillside. I reach a small clearing and begin making my markings. A circle in the dirt, an X on each tree, and, taking the brush out of my pack, I mark the center of the circle with an X of my blood. As I head to my pack for my clothes, I feel the small tingling sensation along the back of my neck that lets me know that I’ve run out of time. I hasten back to the center of the circle as the sun goes down. The moonlight filters through the trees, and my terrible night begins. *Running, wind whipping past my face. There’s no one in sight, no one! Wait! There! There is a fire. There is meat, I smell it! Delicious, raw meat. Charging, leaping, biting, tearing. Screams, blood, scattered ashes of the fire. Roaring, scaring. Feasting.* I wake up on the forest floor, in the center of the circle. I’m shivering, and I quickly go to my pack and get my clothes. Hearing a crack, I turn quickly, dropping my pants and falling into a low crouch. There is a man standing behind a tree with his phone out, seemingly taking a video of me. In the early stages after the metamorphosis, I still retain a good deal of my speed and strength. I charge forward, crossing the ten yards or so between us in slightly under one second. Before the man has time to react I am in front of him, lifting him into the air by his throat. I pitch my voice low and intimidating and I growl, “What are you doing?” The man confuses me then. He doesn’t seem frightened. His eyes don’t grow wide with terror as this wild, naked stranger holds him inches above the ground by his throat. He doesn’t shake with fear or cry in terror. Instead, his eyes harden in anger, and he spits in my face. “You killed my friend,” he says, “But now I know who you are, and I've sent your picture to some very powerful people.” I drop the man and back up. No, it wasn't possible! I had searched the forest, made sure there were no people! I sit down on a tree stump and bury my face in my hands. “No,” I groan, “No! I came out here to make sure there was no one for me to hurt. I’m sorry! Oh, my God, I’m so sorry!” But when I look up, the man is gone. He has fled from the monster. After gathering my pack and brush, I follow my own tracks from last night. It isn't hard. I left a path of destruction through the forest. Although my trail is easy to follow, it is long. I had awoken at around nine in the morning, and it is now nearing noon. Finally, I arrive at the campsite. There are still tents, and ashes and logs from a long-dead fire are scattered across the area. But the sight in the center of the camp makes me sick, and I turn aside and vomit into the shrubbery. I apparently had not finished my meal last night. Lying in the center of the camp, in a shiny pool of sticky crimson, is a human arm. I had come out to this forest so I wouldn't hurt anyone. Now I am a murderer. I stagger sickly back the way I had come, towards the circle and markings I had made. I don’t understand why it works, but every time I start in an area that I marked that way, I return to that spot after the transformation. No one taught this to me, it was just something I knew. Like how I always know exactly what time it is or exactly what stage of the lunar cycle the moon is in. I reflect on my life so far as I walk. I've been living like this for three years now. Thirty six times I have transformed despite my continued attempts (short of suicide) to stop it. I never remember what happens, but from news reports I know that I have killed twelve people, and last night made thirteen. An unlucky number. I return to my circle in the dirt and the markings I had made to attract the Monster. I’ve always preferred to treat that part of me as a different person altogether. In a way, it is. The Monster does things I would never consider doing; it is different from me in every possible way. It has no intelligent thoughts, no higher conscience. It hunts, that’s all it does. Its sole purpose in life is to hunt and to kill and to eat. Luckily, I can never remember what the Monster does. I am glad of this. I believe that if I knew what the Monster did…what I did…I would kill myself. Suddenly, I want to leave. I do not wish to remain here any longer. So, taking my pack, I head home. It is a long walk home, and I haven’t a driver’s license. I used to have one. I had a really nice car, too. It was a beautiful black and red 2008 Shelby GT. It came time to renew my license two years ago but, given recent events, it did not rank high on my priorities. What did rank high was finding a job that would allow me to take at least five days a month for vacation time. I didn’t want to be anywhere near my small home town in the suburbs of Austin when it came time for the Change. I found a job as an author. As it turns out, I was able to use my experiences to write a fairly decent novel that sold a decent number of copies. It was called The Monster and it was essentially my autobiography. It was perfect for me. Successful enough that I could make a living off of it, but not so successful as to make me a celebrity and attract attention. I come out of the woods, walking across the open grass lands and heading towards the city I was taking my “vacation” in. The walk has taken me about six hours, and it is now nearing 6:30. I’m quite hungry at this point, and so when I reach the city around 7:00 I head for a fast food place rather than going straight home. The kid behind the counter recognizes me and keeps me at the counter for about ten minutes while he babbles about my book. Finally, I take my “fast” food and sit down to eat around about a half hour after ordering. As I chew, I feel something in my mouth besides hamburger meat. Reaching in with my fingers, I pull it out from under my tongue. My teeth are still sharp, as they will be for a few days after the transformation, and I cut my finger on one. I look down and see what was in my mouth. It is a fingernail. A human fingernail. I grimace and look at my burger, knowing that the fingernail hadn't come from there. I have taken two bites. I throw it away and head home. I’m not very hungry anyway. I open the door to my room and start to turn on the lights when something stops me. It’s what I've come to call my Beast Sense, another lingering effect after the transformation. For two weeks afterwards I have an animal-like instinct for danger. I scan the dark room, able to see better than most as a result of the lingering effects of the transformation. I can see signs of someone being in the house. A corner of the rug is turned over, and a couch cushion is on the floor. I see him then, or at least his fingers poking out from under the couch. It’s a usual, unimaginative hiding place. After each person I've killed, someone has seen it. Most of the time they do not know who I am, and all that happens is I quietly attend a funeral, pretending to be some old friend while I silently beg for forgiveness. Six times, however, I've been discovered. Six times I've had to fight for my life and kill as a human. After the third time, I enrolled in martial arts classes. For the fourth time now, I bless the day I made that decision. I decide not to arouse suspicion until I am in a better position, and then let him make the first move. Flicking on the lights, I head into the living room and stand in front of the TV, directly in front of the couch, but I do not turn the TV on. Instead, I watch the reflection in the TV screen, pretending to be texting someone on my phone as the man rises up from behind the couch. He is wielding a knife. As he creeps closer, I tense my body in anticipation for action, and I run through several of the knife defense techniques I’ve learned. Finally, he gets close enough for me to act. I drop down and roll behind me, taking his legs out from under him. As he falls, I catch his knife arm and wrench it behind his back in a hammerlock. I kneel on top of him and take the knife, preparing to drive it into the back of his neck. The sound of a gunshot echoes loudly in the small apartment. I look up and see a man in a suit standing in the open doorway. He is holding a gun. Looking down at the man beneath me, I see a drop of blood fall onto his neck. I realize this is the man from the forest earlier today. I look down at my white shirt and see a scarlet circle spreading slowly from my heart. My fingertips grow cold and numb, and the knife clatters to the ground as I’m unable to hold it any longer. “Detective Bradford,” says the man with the gun, introducing himself, “And you killed my partner last night, you goddamned animal.” The coldness has now spread to my arms and my legs, and I topple sideways off the man from the forest. He gets up and spits on my face. “But you missed one, eh? You missed his brother, huh?” He taunts. “Stupid bastard.” “Come on,” says Bradford, “Someone will have heard that.” As they exit, the cold spreads to everywhere except my chest, and I am slowly losing my vision. I wonder if the bullet in my heart is silver. It doesn't need to be when I am in human form, but these men wouldn't know that. I can be killed by anything; it’s the Monster who is invincible. It’s the Monster who killed Bradford’s partner. I open my mouth to speak to these two men as they leave, but I cannot move, and I cannot feel my tongue in my mouth. But I want to say something. I so desperately want to speak to these men, these men who killed me assuming that I was just as cruel and heartless as the Monster that takes over. These men who assume that it is acceptable to kill me because, in their eyes, I am not human. To them I am not a fellow man with a wife, two kids, and a dog. To them I’m not a guy who’s concerned about the persistent cough he hears from his five year old son’s bedroom. To them I’m not the frightened son of a man beginning to show early signs of Alzheimer’s disease. No, to them, I am an animal. A dumb, mindless, murdering beast. I want so badly to talk to these self-righteous men who see fit to kill me without understanding who or what I am, without knowing the whole story. Without even making an effort to find out. But I don’t. Instead, I die. I die before I can say what I wanted to these two men. I die before I can say… Thank you.

Mr. Doyle awoke. Familiar was the scene - his large master bedroom, plenty of sunlight coming in from the outside to freshen up his morning, the cat wanting to be let out, as always. Upon closer inspection, however, something was different today, and this didn't go unnoticed by Mr. Doyle; a dirty shirt and pair of old jeans lay on the otherwise pristine carpeted floor. For a split second, he was taken aback, as the past 37 years had conditioned him to expect a spotless room upon his awakening. You know how those got there. Quit playing fucking games. He stood, and went into the kitchen to brew some coffee. He hadn't done so himself in years, possibly decades even, he thought - ah, but what does it matter. This was a new day, a fresh beginning. Despite being on the verge of 62, Mr. Doyle felt a certain invigoration that hadn't been felt since his teenage years. You saw it yourself, Doyle. With your own eyes. But are you sure? Completely. What sense would it make to not be sure? That would defeat the entire purpose - NO. No doubts, no regrets - this was Mr. Doyle's new resolve in life, that he'd sworn to uphold that very night before. He was a new man, *satisfied* for once with everything around him. You're not sure. He was sure that that coffee was damn good though, he thought. He walked past his sliding glass to the backyard, his shovel still right where he left it, outside the door. You said yourself you were going back. You didn't. She's coming. She's dead, thought Mr. Doyle. Nothing will change that, he'd already made that decision and come to terms with it. Any moment now, Mr. Doyle, she'll be knocking. And she won't be happy. No, no - that bitch is gone. No longer will I let her walk all over me, no more of my money to be taken, no more of what I've done, what I've made, what I've accomplished to be shit upon by some whore - Who do you think you are, Mr. Doyle? Death only stops the undetermined. That was the REASON, that's the fucking 'motive', she was a god damned parasite, taking everything I ever had, every emotion I'd let out and just demoralizing every ounce of it - And you think you can just, what? Kill her, and it stops? Minutes now, Mr. Doyle. NO, she isn't coming, she's right the fuck where I left her last night, I dealt the finishing blow, I watched her take her last sweet breath of air, I took from her what she had been trying to take from me for so many years. *I win, bitch.* No, Mr. Doyle, you lose. She's here. And she's angry. Knocking. Mr. Doyle was probably losing his mind - but his sense of hearing was intact, and he heard it. No mistake. It was *her knock*, the special pattern that Mr. Doyle had grown accustomed to. His heart dropped, everything went silent. He listened, and the knock came again. With haste. YOU WANT AN EXPLANATION, BITCH? YOU WON'T GET SHIT. I'M DONE WITH YOU FUCKING WITH MY HEAD, I'M DONE WITH YOU TALKING TO ME LIKE I'M A FUCKING CHILD, I'M DONE PAYING FOR YOUR BULLSHIT, I'M DONE GETTING STEPPED ON LIKE GARBAGE, I'M FUCKING DONE WITH YOU. Mr. Doyle produced a blade from a holder in the kitchen, and began violently sawing at his neck.

Can you see it, Mina? Can you see the open world before you? The eternity we soon will share? The happiness we will have? You will, Mina, my love, I promise you you will! Your eyes are so beautiful, Mina, I hate to see them tearing up, please stop. Mina, don’t cry my love. I said stop crying, you bitch! Oh, Mina, I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you, but you mustn’t frustrate me so. Here, let me see it. Nothing appears to be broken. What was that? No, Mina, you won’t be needing food or water soon. I just want you to understand that you have nothing to fear, least of all from me! Here, let me tell you a story. When I was a young boy growing up in Boston, I watched my parents die. This you know from our previous conversations. What you may not know is that they were hanged by their own neighbors for supporting the rebellion against England. Oh, I’m not joking. I am old, Mina. Far older than this 23 year old body of mine. My body is, in fact, exactly 23 years old. It was on my 23rd birthday that I was given this wonderful gift I will soon give to you. But where was I? After my parents’ deaths I wandered the streets of Boston, a lonely street urchin. I begged for food, and occasionally a kind soul would give me some. More often than not, however, I would steal it. I killed a man when I was 19. He was an older beggar and he liked to…play…with some of the younger ones. I did not want to play, and so one night I slit his throat with a knife I’d stolen from the baker. I went to jail for this, of course, but it wasn’t so bad, you know. I had a roof over my head and food to eat. In fact, it was there that a man told me he could give me eternal life. “One bite,” he said, “and you will be free of such worries as food, money, and shelter. All you will need is drink, and of that there is plenty.” So as I spent my 23rd birthday incarcerated for taking justice on a rapist, I allowed him to bite me on the neck. And, Mina, the power I have! Hush now, calm down, you’ve nothing to fear. Don’t bother; those chains are far too strong. No, I don’t have fangs; that is just a myth. I don’t think it will hurt too much. When I was bitten, it stung briefly, but then I fell into a deep slumber. I awoke hours later, feeling thirsty but more powerful than ever! Now, Mina, join me in eternity! I…I don’t understand. Why aren’t you asleep? My bite should have sent you into a deep slumber. Do you…do you feel drowsy at all? No? Let me try again. I wish you wouldn’t scream so loudly, Mina. It doesn’t hurt that badly. There! Now surely you will sleep. Damn it, you whore, go to sleep! There we are. In a few hours, she will awaken, and our eternity together will begin. What’s this? Police sirens! Ha! They cannot harm me, those fools! The night is mine! I shall go out and greet our guests. Hello, officers! You realize I must now kill all of you? Please, do you think your stun-guns can affect a superior creature such as myself? I shall tear you limb from – AAAAAAARGH!! “Dispatch, this is officer Roberts responding to that 207 in progress. Suspect is in custody, possible 10-52 on the victim, she appears to have been severely beaten and also bitten twice on the neck. She is not conscious at the moment. Wait, never mind, she’s awake. I’m going to go talk to her, figure out what happened. She looks pretty shaken up. 10-6.

Hello there! My name is Michael J. Orzechowski and I would like to submit a short story to Backhand Stories. I have finished publishing my first full collection of work entitled "This City is Dead to Me: Tales From the Land of Pleasant Living", along with other plays and novellas. I typically write darker stories with a twist and am heavily influenced by the work of E.A. Poe [which I find fitting, seeing as how I live in the wonderful city of Baltimore]. I hope you would consider this for your blog and, if you enjoy it and it gets positive feedback, I would love to share more! I have the story copied out below and I will also attach it in a .doc file as well. Let me know if you need any more information about me, the story or anything else in between! Thank you again Michael J. Orzechowski Clunk By: Michael Orzechowski The gallows finally came into sight. The rain was falling lightly and Glenda could feel it trickle on her forehead. She wanted nothing more than to wipe her brow, but the ropes binding her hands kept her arms firm against her side. Closing her eyes to keep the sweat from rolling in, she tripped on the cobblestone beneath her feet. As she landed on her knees, the crowd exploded in cheers. Glenda opened her eyes and searched for any sign of remorse; any preservation of her dignity. There was none. Glenda made her way up the creaky stairs of the platform as the ranting and raving of the audience was pushed to a halt by a short, bald man in a long brown robe. Waving his hands high in the air, he drew the attention of every man, woman and child who had traveled to the far side of town for a hanging. “Good people of the state!” he began, muffling the voices of the last few citizens, standing at the base of the wooden structure, “We gather here today in triumph! We gather here today in victory! We gather here to put an end to the heartache and to find closure from the events of the past few months. Here before you stands Glenda Handell. She is convicted on three counts of kidnapping and the murder of Emily, George and Gretchen Libell. She has been found guilty and been sentenced, by the court, to hang from the neck until she is dead. We only hope that God shows her the mercy that she was unable to show those poor children.” The crowd’s voices lifted again in a fleet of booing and screaming. The town had looked forward to this day since the three children had gone missing over two months ago. The one who looked forward to it the most, however, was James Crandon, the leader of the search. Originally a traveler from New York City, he had travelled all the way to Decker in hopes of opening his own business, but had since become the sheriff of the small town. He was one of the first out-of-state sheriffs the state of Virginia had ever had, and the townsfolk adored him. James was a tall man, dark in complexion with bright green eyes. His hair flowed over his shoulders, which swept back to reveal the lapels of his finely tailored jacket. He stood at the base of the gallows, biting his bottom lip in anticipation. Glenda moved her eyes over to his and shook her head. James did nothing but smile. Glenda knew the truth. It was a beautiful day out in the fields. The sun was radiating a warm glow and the trees danced in the light breeze that blew in from the north. The town was alive with workers and artists, walking the streets and making their living. Glenda stepped out of her small home and onto the dusty road. She could hear the children playing in the crop fields across the way and decided to go sit on the fence to watch them. She could see the blue on their shirts peering through the cornstalks as they bolted from side to side. “Tag!” one of the children would yell. “You’re it!” “Am not!” the other would cry, running away from the other children. Glenda chuckled as the kids argued back and forth. She thought to herself all the games she played when she was their age. She missed those times so dearly. She jumped off the fence and decided that she was going to join the children, despite the fact that she was still wearing her cooking gown and soft shoes. The fallen stalk crunched under her feet as she walked towards the children, her steps growing faster and faster until she was in a light jog. She finally reached the middle of the field to find that the children had left. Glenda circled the field, but the three where nowhere to be found. Glenda began to feel a warmth under her feet. The strange sensations struck fear into her heart as she looked down at her toes and wiggled them, feeling the thin, damp covering of her shoes. Crimson. Glenda covered her face in horror and saw a trail of red leading to the back of the crop field. Her feet reluctantly pulled her towards the trail as tears rolled down her face. She stepped ever-so-carefully, terrified to know what was at the other end. The trail led her to an old shack in the backwoods. Her hand shook as she stretched it out to the door. The hinges squealed as she gave it a small shove and peered inside. What she saw she knew would never leave her eyes. There, standing over three motionless children, was James. Glenda turned and ran. “Ladies and gentlemen!” the man in the robe continued. “It saddens me to have to watch such a young, pretty girl like this fall into the grasps of the devil. However, the crimes you have committed are beyond that which is forgivable here on Earth. Ms. Handell, have you any words to say before you meet your fate? Glenda stood silent. James spoke up from the crowd. “The girl’s one of them mutes, Reverend. Can’t say a God damn thing if she tried.” Glenda hung her head in shame. “But worry not, Sir, I assure you, she is the culprit. I saw her do it with my own two eyes. It took me a while to track her down, but I got her. Oh, I got her.” The reverend stepped up to Glenda, placing a hood over her head and began whispering a prayer into her ear. Her knees shook violently as she made her way towards the noose. Glenda felt the rope fall over her nose and chin as the reverend pulled it tight to her throat. The crowd stood in awe as the trapdoor opened with a loud clunk.

I sat cross legged in front of my refrigerator. The refrigerator was placed carefully in the trailer, in which I sat. As I sat there it just as carefully placed my forehead on the refrigerator door. The subtle coolness of the door emanating cautiously onto my skin; into my brain. As my brain cooled after being exposed the harsh Arizona elements my mind bleed out through my skull into the fridge door. After it passed through the cooling firmament of modern convenience it pooled gracefully right next to the re-fried beans and the cheap beer. My body sat there bereft of mind, firmly attached to the door with the point of contact unaffected. A steady flow of thoughts, consciousness, and old tortilla coursed pleasantly between by emptied skull and the soon to be emptied fridge. Like the fridge, I too contained delicious treats. Instead of a heart I had fresh venison and for a liver I possessed only the choicest USDA grade A beef. I am so yummy I can't even stand it. The fridge appreciated our camaraderie of snack oriented dispositions. He told me I shouldn't be self conscious about being ever so full of culinary delights. He wasn't. But he has also kind of a slut. He let just about anyone open him up and have their way. Whore. I found the freezer to be a bit more discerning. She had standards. Only the creme de la creme of frozen vegetables, cold deserts and the spiritual enlightened may enter the catacombs of ice trays and frozen turkey. Some accused her a being a frigid bitch, but they were wrong. She cared. She made damn sure your indulgent deserts remained in proper form. The home appliance mind transferal was well underway. I sprawled myself out on the kitchen floor and tried to remain calm while the oven made snide comments about my poor clothing choice. What a dick. He doesn't even wear clothes. That oven has a fucking temper. A real hot head, just like the microwave. My electric razor peeked out from behind the bathroom door. He looked a little lonely and said something about feeling unappreciated. I tried to tell him it wasn't him, I just wanted to grow my beard out a little bit. Nothing personal. My consciousness began to expand and the body of house was introduced to the life blood of my witty way with words. It decided I thought too highly of myself and took the reins. The trip became a platform for the house to spout its ideology. Apparently my house is kind of a bigot. It said something nasty about the Mexicans so I stopped paying attention. Who knew a house on the border would be such a racist. What a jerk.

You give your hand to me, And then you say hello And I can hardly speak, My heart is beating so “What playlist is this?” she asked, her eyes a deep brown, contrasted by the soft light of the laptop. “I don’t know, a ‘love’ playlist, I guess.” She laughed. “Oh, like for having sex to?” “Well, no,” he said earnestly. “I always figured it was something you could just…. I don’t know. Dance with someone to.” “Just dance in your apartment?” “Yeah” “Who’d you make it for?” she asked playfully as she took his hand. This he contemplated. He made it years ago. Less in the hopes of dancing with someone to, but more for making his fresh wounds deeper. Nothing can be sadder Than a glass of wine alone Loneliness, loneliness, Is such a waste of time “I guess I made it for ‘Her’” “’Her’ who?” “She didn’t exist then. I made it for someone I hoped to meet, I suppose.” He reached for her, brushed her hair behind her ear. Kissed her shoulder, breathing her in. “I think…I think I made it for you,” he said. “I don’t understand.” He paused. Thought to himself how he wanted to be honest, wanted to tell her. Tell her what she didn’t want to hear. “We can’t use the ‘L’ word, can we?” “No,” she shook her head. He looked down at the blanket that covered them. Saw how it sagged between them, in the crevasse that lie between their legs. “Then I don’t know what to tell you.

In 1932 a young wizard, by the name Thomas Segwin, did a wonderous thing with a packet of Oreos. After tasting a cookie, Thomas discovered how delicious it was and decided to bring the cookie to life to see in what other ways it could please him. Unfortunately, the cookie was subject to Thomas's orders and soon became something of a slave to him. Unaccustomed to living and growing tired of the continual work and harassment, the poor cookie decided to end his life. So one day Oreo decided to end it all by jumping into a glass full of milk. However, the milk had also been animated in a prior act of wizardry. In a selfless act, the milk convinced the cookie to stay alive and swim with him a bit. Soon Oreo learnt to appreciate life and owed everything to Milk. So it follows, from that day forward, the Oreo and milk were inseparable.

Warning sirens, red flashing lights, the sounds of our machines printing innumerable amounts of data. It was all so deafening as if the world just stood still. My mind moving so fast that It was as if it stopped working. I looked over to my partner of twenty five years and said "Jim this is it". He promptly stood up gathering all of the paperwork that was being printed and rushed over to my desk. "A MESSAGE A MESSAGE!" he replied as he scoured over the data hands shaking as if he just seen a ghost. Then as fast as he could read i reentered the data being presented to me into my laptop. As he finished the last few numbers i paused, finger hovering over the enter button while looking Jim into his eyes and hit enter. My heart was racing in disbelief that this was really happening. Thats when minutes felt like days and as the last deciphering of the code we read " We are coming.

Strange memories find me on days like this. Dreary days made up of dark skies and leftover sighs from things I wished I'd had the strength to say back then. Back when I was nothing. You know that girl in your class...the one who wore dorky glasses and outdated clothes? The one who always got picked last because people were disturbed by the constant hint of kool-aid around her mouth? Well, that or the fact that the ball always seems to gravitate to her face, rather than her hands or her feet where it ought to have gone...the one who had the tiniest bit of a lisp and always talked a little too loud about things no one was interested in? Well in my class, her name was Colleen. And even she knew that to sit next to me at lunch and trade the foil lid to her pudding cup to me was social suicide. There was a pretty Spanish girl who once asked me in disgust why I was wearing flip flops in Winter. I told her that they were all I had at the time, and her disgust turned to embaressment and pity. "I will buy you shoes for Christmas!" she promised fervently. When late December came and I was still wearing them, she fidgeted while she asked if I'd mind if she got me something else instead. I shook my head--I hadn't expected anything from her. She never spoke to me after that. There was a boy and a girl...siblings. The girl was in my class, the boy a grade above. Robin and Josh. I don't remember any of the specific insults, just the look of pure hatred the few times she made eye contact with me. I realize now that she must have told her brother something about me, and that was why he cracked insults over my head like eggs in the summer heat every single day when we lined up for the bus. At the time I didn't know why he targeted me. I remember more the insults he spewed, but they make my cheeks burn and I don't want to type them out. I don't know what possesed me to do it, but one day I came across a biography of Vanilla Ice. I knew Josh was a big fan of the guy, so in the line that day in the middle of his tirade I handed it to him and walked away. He was confused and never bothered me after that. I didn't even give it to him to make him stop--the thought was just in my head that he was the only person I knew of who'd like the book. Robin didn't give me dirty looks after that either, though she made no effort to speak to me. I stopped existing for them. It was a relief. When I was 9, I lived in apartment building where the neighbor children were varied, but at least they were all just as poor as I. There was a Hispanic boy who loved me from afar, though I didn't get it then. I made friends with two Asian boys--their father ran a small donut shop and when I came in he would make sure to fill a jam donut until it threatened to burst with raspberry goodness, and he never charged me for it. The two boys and I made secret forts in the hedges around the complex. Older boys tore them out and accused us of having sex in them, which absolutely bewildered us. Later they threw rocks...actual rocks at us, with growing frenzy. The Asian boys never came back to play with me after that. There were no more donuts. And ah, the church groups. Where I arrived 30 minutes early and stayed an hour after the closing prayer, offering to clean up the tables and put away chairs, just to be near people for a little longer. It didn't matter that even they wanted nothing to do with me. Within the walls and under the watchful eye of the youth leaders, the other kids had to at least pretend to tolerate me while I hung on every word spoken around me. Outside in the parking lot, where they sometimes played basketball, was much more of a risk. I took it gladly. So, so desperate for love... mm. My husband has just come home. I think I will go hug him close and leave the darker days where they lay.

Emily slowly pulled the IV out of her arm, shaking the whole time, gripped by fear of uncertainty. No one was around. Her eyes quickly darted to the left, unsure of what was ahead of her, in the darkness. She slowly made her way to the light, with great caution, and then flicked the switch. As the light slowly flickered on, she saw blood dripping from every wall. Nurses were dead on the floor and all that was left was a note. The note read: "Emily, I've always loved you. Meet me at the first place we met. Signed, P." She quickly thought of possible identities. Her heart was racing. She thought: "What if this person just wants to attack me and torture me?" But she ruled that out, as she realized he could have done it when she was in her coma. As she left the room, she noticed the entire hospital was deserted. She sprinted, chest pulsating faster that it ever had before. Once she made it outside, she sighed with relief and slowly lifted her cellphone to her ear to call the cops. "911, what's your emergency?" a voice emerged on the other line. "Y-y-yeah, I just escaped a deserted hospital with bodies laying around." Emily tried to remain professional, but was still in obvious shock from the experience. "Okay, we'll dispatch a couple of cops to your location immediately." the voice stated, and then hung up. It took less than two minutes for the cops to arrive. It took a whole two hours for them to question and investigate Emily and the scene, respectively. After many tries to make sense of the situation, Emily finally decided to show them the note. As the cops read the note, their eyes narrowed. "Who is this P guy?" the smaller cop asked. "I don't know. I just found this note on the floor." Emily said with pure truth. The cops had to believe her. "Okay. Emily, we need you to meet this person at the stated address. We'll be camped outside in a van, waiting for you. We have a chip that will give us all of your audio feedback. If you do this, we can ignore the court and prove your innocence." Seeing no other option, Emily quickly nodded. Although the thought of confronting a murderer scared Emily, she saw nowhere else to go. Her life was an empty shell, and her only knowledge was death. ~~~As the van rolled up to the house, Emily was shaking with fear. She tried to force her fear down, and focused only on the task at hand. With a few stern parting words, the cops sent Emily to the doorstep. She tried ringing it, and no one answered. She tried the doorknob, and it worked. As she walked inside, a table was set up. A banner read: "Happy birthday, P!" in big red letters, and a rotten cake covered in maggots was next to beneath the banner. Emily almost vomited, but quickly straightened in fear when she saw the dead bodies of what appeared to be P's parents. She was so confused. However, there appeared to be no one else in the house. Once she notified the cops of her findings, they desperately tried to find more evidence. They couldn't find anything. Emily woke up with a start. She was tied to a chair, and the only object she could make out in the pitch black darkness was a very faint light. She struggled, but it was no use. A door slamming could be heard in the background. A burly man sat down in a chair two feet across from her. He cleared his voice and asked: "Emily, why aren't you telling us the truth?" Emily flinched at the accusatory tone. She quickly retorted: "I have been! I'm telling you all that I know. I swear." The man only nodded and then proceeded to pull out a nightstick. Emily gulped. The first swing hurt Emily more than anything else she had felt. After two more rapid swings, she fell to the floor, and passed out. ~~~Emily woke up on a bed. She could only remember being beat by the man. She looked both ways, and then saw someone a few feet from her. "You bastard! Hitting a woman!" she yelled. The figure made no sign of recognition. She stood up and started slowly walking to it, confused as to where she was. The figure pointed to the left, and she looked over and saw a screen. On the screen was Emily, celebrating her birthday party. She had just turned 16, and was ready to take on driving. Her parents happily showed her the big present they had been saving for the occasion. However, as she went into the garage, her eyes fell with disappointment. The only thing in the garage was a table set up with a cake. A banner hung over the table, and it read: "Happy birthday, P!" The Emily in the screen shook with anger. Her parents should've known that she hated the nickname P. P was short for princess, but Emily hated being talked down upon. She ran over to the table, and blinded by anger, she stabbed both of her parents and threw the knife down. Not wanting to accept the fact that she was a murderer, she took her parent's car and drove away from the house. However, another car was just turning into her neighborhood, and with a loud crash, both drivers were critically injured. Emily woke up in a hospital bed, with 2 nurses smiling at her. "You're lucky to be alive," the first nurse stated. Emily realized that no one knew her parents were dead yet. "Can I borrow your pen please? I have to take some notes down." Emily asked politely. The nurse quickly handed her a pen and Emily lunged at the nurse, and stabbed her in the jugular. The second nurse tried to scream, but Emily threw a scalpel at her Adam's Apple. Emily laughed and started writing a note with the pen. After all, she couldn't be a murderer. Not this princess. She wrote: "Emily, I've always loved you. Meet me at the first place we met. Signed, P." She nodded in approval and then stuck herself with a load of morphine. As she fell asleep, she didn't account for memory loss, nor a 6-month coma. ~~~Emily slowly pulled the IV out of her arm, shaking the whole time, gripped by fear of uncertainty. No one was around. Her eyes quickly darted to the left, unsure of what was ahead of her, in the darkness. She then remembered her dream. She knew what she had to do this time. With a maniacal laugh, she sprinted outside and raised her phone to her head. "911, what's your emergency?" a voice asked on the other line. "I just woke up from a coma. There's been 2 murders. Please send someone to help me." Emily said, this time with no fear. As the cops arrived, she knew where they hid their guns in the van, and shot them both. As she drove off, she cried. Cried with happiness. She finally got her car.

Before I tell you this story, please, understand that I am NOT crazy. I swear. I've lived a completely normal life until this school year. I don't know who to go to for advice; I'm sure I'll get locked in an asylum. These past events have made me lose sleep, focus, and sanity. It all began on the first day of school. Normally I would be ecstatic to return to school. That day, I was completely excited. I had been in my room everyday of the summer, hoping to improve my orchestral skill. I studied each and every note of my favorite movements carefully, reading each bar with great concentration. I play any music, from classical to modern music, and while I can honestly say I enjoy it, I feel like I can never improve. Last year, we had a very high strung woman conduct us. Ms. Gibbens never seemed to give us good advice, and was always on the edge when the quarter-annual concerts would swing around. Despite all of her flaws, I came to like her, because what she couldn't express through words without stuttering, she could play through music beautifully. Each note was pure and graceful, connecting her spirit with sound. I would always look forward to Orchestra class, until May 14th. On May 14th, Ms. Gibbens didn't show up to class, and we were all seated, ready to play our instruments. A few minutes after the morning announcements, people began to lose concentration. Jokes were made about Ms. Gibbens, people would say: "She has to feed her cats, she's too old for real company", or "Maybe she couldn't handle the stress of teaching anymore". Students were laughing and enjoying themselves. After all, Ms. Gibbens had not shown up, and it had been well over 20 minutes. After a few more minutes of complete chaos, the principal frantically opened the room door, with a face as pale as the Alps in the winter. "K-k-kids, you can pack up your instruments. There's been a terrible accident." he stuttered, still in obvious shock. Many students began to converse as they packed up their cases, wondering what happened. I was still in my chair, desperately hoping that Ms. Gibbens would be okay. After a few questions, the principal finally came to tell me that Ms. Gibbens had committed suicide. I felt sick all of the sudden, and requested to go home. I can't remember the next few days of my life during that period. The feeling of losing someone you deeply care about is unlike any other. I dealt with it the only way I knew how to: music. I played my heart out each day, crying after every session, wishing I could turn back the hands of time, or just say good-bye to Ms. Gibbens. Near the end of the year, I started to slowly become myself again, and I decided that I would devote my life to music, to honor Ms. Gibbens. Fast forward 5 months of practicing, and there I was, in orchestra class once again. The entire room had been renovated, and the chairs and stands were brand new. The teacher that had been selected was said to be one of the best in the area, and a few students even claimed they had been taught by him before. Keep in mind, I'm not a judgmental person. I've lived a life of solitude for the past 5 months, so pointing out flaws is something I'm not entirely comfortable doing. But this teacher, man, he was a wreck. He was wearing a wrinkled blue collar-up shirt, stained black slacks, and his hair was a sloppy combover. He smelled like he had just ran around the school track more times than the entire football team had in their lives. "Hey guys, my name is Mr. Broadfoot!" he said with great excitement. What an odd name for a teacher. It sounds very familiar. I think I may have had him as a teacher too. He looks a hell of a lot different, though, I thought to myself. "I know that you've all had a fair share of sadness this past year, but remember, music can do great things for a person!" he exclaimed, his excitement even more present than earlier. I began to quickly feel anger towards him. Who was he to bring up the death of Ms. Gibbens? He didn't know her like we did. Many kids began uncomfortably shifting in their chairs, and he narrowed his eyes. "Look, I'm not going to spoon-feed you guys. You're all old enough to get your shit together, right?" he growled, his tone severly dropping. I felt even more anger towards him, and as I played that day, all I could think about was about that anger. This jerk doesn't deserve to take this place, I thought. However, my anger slowly subsided, as he grew more and more stern throughout the session. I couldn't tell what it was, but something seemed off about him. I felt intimidated. I quickly shrugged it off that day, and was glad to leave the room. I left school afterwards, because I only have orchestra and P.E. on mondays, and I wasn't going to go to P.E. with a lousy attitude. As I walked down the hallway, I could feel people staring at me. Their eyes burning into me. I couldn't blame them though, as I probably looked like a wreck too. I had been so focused on music that I hadn't seen anyone in months. I just shrugged it off, like usual. Why should I care about people's opinions? After all, I'm my own person. They have no right to judge me. Music can do great things for a person. The next day, I woke up, grabbed a quick bite of breakfast, and stopped by Starbuck's for a quick coffee. Mr. Broadfoot started off the day ecstatic as usual, but gradually became more stern. Every student was very nervous in that class, and began fidgeting and even a few cried. I felt anger again that day too, but I was still spooked by Mr. Broadfoot's presence. If only I knew what it was about him; he seems so familiar, I thought, trying to probe my mind for possible answers. As I walked to math class, I could feel even more students glaring at me. I was confused, but still neglected them. I just shrugged it off. As I sat down in a desk in math class, the teacher looked at me oddly, but didn't say anything. I returned a concerned glance, and she simply nodded and began classroom expectations. I was so tired, despite the coffee I had drank prior to arriving at school. I began to slowly doze off..... The math teacher, Mrs. Alan, prodded me with a ruler. I woke up, startled. "What time is it?" I frantically asked, embarrased. "About 11:30. You were asleep for 3 hours. Is everything okay, Trevor?" she asked, her voice filled with concern and confusion. "Yeah, I guess I just couldn't sleep well last night. Sorry to bother you!" I said, quickly leaving the classroom. This is where things start to really fall off. Please remember, I'm not crazy. I woke up that morning, and did the usual routine, a bite of breakfast, and some Starbuck's. I felt ready to play music that day. As I entered the Orchestra room, EVERYONE and I mean EVERYONE began whispering and staring at me. The sheer power of an entire room looking at me was so immense, that I couldn't look back. I slowly made my way to my seat. As I sat down, I could still feel people staring at me. At that moment, I was so fed up with it. I quickly snapped around and yelled: "What the hell do you guys want?!" A few students flinched, and some became angry. I quickly felt regret for yelling at them. "Well, are you going to conduct or not?" a student yelled. I froze in confusion. Why would they want me to conduct? At that moment, I realized Mr. Broadfoot had not shown up to class that day. I shrugged it off and began to conduct. About halfway through the class period, I realized Mr. Broadfoot was not going to show up. I scoffed. Just like an ass, to not show up for his students, I thought. I reached to pick up my cup of coffee, and spilled it all over my black slacks. The combination of frustration and pain surged through me and I stormed off to the bathroom. As I cleaned myself up, I looked in the mirror. What I saw in the mirror will haunt me forever. I saw myself in the mirror, with a sloppy combover, with a wrinkled collar-up blue shirt, and stained black slacks. At that moment, I began to cry. I was so distraught and confused. I couldn't think straight. How the hell did this happen? No, this can't be real. It can't be. I'm dreaming. I'll wake up to my regular morning routine and everything will be right again. I ran as fast as I could to Mrs. Alan's room. I had to find someone who actually cared about me. As she saw me approaching her nose wrinkled in disgust. I couldn't blame her. "What do you need, Mr. Broadfoot?" she asked sternly. "I... I don't know who I am anymore." I said with confusion. "You need to go see a counselor. First you come into my room and sleep, and now you verbally abuse your students? If I had the power to, I'd fire you right now. Leave my room." she retorted. I met with my therapist, and he diagnosed me with a split-personality. It turns out that last year, I was a college grad, and I was the student teacher in Ms. Gibbins' class. Part of me wanted to cling onto the past so much, that I remained a student partly. However, I had to take up teaching the class to finish my credit hours. I hated myself for trying to fill her place as an orchestra teacher. I began to live two lives, one as the student, and one as the teacher. Despite the huge differences, we were both Trevor Broadfoot. Right now, I'm writing this letter because I've decided I don't want to live anymore. I've lost everything. My family refuses to meet with a mentally insane person, every student hates me, and I hate myself equally. I'm raising the gun to my head. Wait.. I can hear the music. The music I studied all summer. It's calling for me to stop. To press on and get help. No. It's too late. I'll just shrug it off. Inspired by Mr.

I struggled with the decision. I'm not inherently bad...but I am desperate. I stand in a position of power, but much like a man who has scaled the tallest cliff and can view a bare few meters above his outstretched arm the end of his struggle, I have much to lose. Understand that I have worked my whole life to be in the position that I am in. It is a comfortable position. I have what I need; security, comfort, my family around me, but there is a persistent force that continues to attack me. They reject my presence, indeed my very existance. There were here first, but they have not progressed in the known history of mankind so how could they matter? They continue to survive and breed for no other purpose than that. Their loss would be lamented by no one. Yet until this week I have patiently tolerated their presence. I have even made efforts to avoid them. Three days ago I made the decision that they do not contribute to the improvement and enjoyment of life for any beings on this Earth, and therefore the loss of their entire existence would be no loss. Yet with heavy heart, I implemented chemical weapons. You would call them Weapons of Mass Destruction. My children play outside. They play games that children somehow automatically know since the beginning of time, yes almost instinctively. Kick ball. Hide and Go Seek. Dodge ball, Catch. Every moment they are outside I have feared that the Mosquitjahaddeen will attack my dearest loved ones as they have so many times in the past. Their youth and innocence is of no consequence to these blood-sucking parasites that come out only when the Sun starts to fade. The children know not of the pointless struggle that these unreasonable resistance fighters refuse to abandon. They just know that they are unable to play outside without the constant threat of their blood being shed for the prolonging of a cause with only one civilized ending. That ending was implemented yesterday. Chemicals Warfare was deployed and the results were instantly successful. Today there was no movement of the enemy. They are not to be seen. Those that survive have gone into hiding in the swamps and forests. They are surely no longer a threat. Indeed death was dealt to many today. Regretfully, some were innocent players who were caught up in this game. They were only nearby to find escape from the struggles of a cold world that revolves without noticing their contributions. They were the ladybugs, praying mantis, moths and even butterflies and indeed I regret their passing. It was what is commonly known as a, “necessary evil.” Yesterday I killed many, indiscriminately, and I will have to live with that. I will find solace in knowing that their deaths will be lost to history, nay, to the capricious whims of what holds the interest of the living. Tomorrow we shall relax in the open with both a drink and a fire that warms our skin and roasts our food. Today I am a monster, but God willing my crimes will eventually be forgotten. Tomorrow I will be a savior.

Well, this is probably horrible. I wrote two or three starts to novellas a year ago but never finished. I had a free night so I just sat down and wrote the first thing that came to mind. Hope its bearable. Joshua trees lined one side of a desert path, on the other sat a large sandstone mountain which the path curved around its sheer face. On this path stood still an old man of ordinary but tattered clothing, whose mind began to wander. It wandered in a haphazard sort of way at first, reaching carefully into the pathways of his memory to try to gain some bearing. When it could find none, his mind began to paw and then claw more desperately into its deeper recesses, yet nothing was to be found. Wilder and more frantic his mind searched, knocking over the emptiness which it contained as his consciousness shot at light speed down the dark empty tunnels of his mind. If he had no memories, did he know language? He seemed to be thinking in language internally but wanted to be certain of it. Aloud he said the first word that came to mind. Meekly he cried for "Help". It did little to still him. As the comfort that naturally comes with certainty fell away, in its place was filling with panic. He was able to ward it off at first, boarding up his mind with reassurance. Yet the panic slipped in through the cracks of his self affirmations, slowly at first, but as the fear gripped him his resolve weakened and his ability to reason went with it. Total fear encompassed him causing his strength fail. Reaching out on instinct, he put his hand and weight onto the mountain. Crudely carved into the face of the mountain, quite deeply, was written "This time remember to be", abruptly ending mid sentence. His legs only became weaker, and he knew he would faint. Looking straight up he saw an otherworldly sun. Red and an order of several magnitudes too large it covered a third of the sky. His body spun and fell backwards into the mountain, and his mind fell into a gray void. He awoke in a shadow of a Joshua tree, of which the sun on the horizon was now hidden behind, apparently back to reasonable size. As the gray lifted from his mind and sight, a vague notion entered his thoughts. "Walk. Continue walking and you will remember." He was tired. Perhaps more tired than any old man had ever been. So he thought to weigh his options, and upon realizing there was no option but one he pulled himself up and began to walk. As he walked the sun finally set, the edge of the mountain changed shape, and the Joshua Trees ended. Darkness fell and he continued to walk using only the touch of his hand on the mountain to guide him. After some time a beautiful dim blue light gradually crept over the mountain, so slowly in fact that he hardly noticed until he took his hand off the rock as he could now see clearly. The desert sand shimmered blue from he to the horizon. He looked up, to an otherworldly moon. It did not frighten him though, as the sun had. In fact it was the single most beautiful thing he had ever seen, though he did not know it. After looking into the moon for what seemed to him an age, he began to walk again, still remembering nothing. Until he saw a star that burned through the black without warning. It was the brightest star, the North star. He looked into it and remembered her. He saw her crying and bleeding on a bathroom floor, and for the first time that he could remember he saw how much she truly loved him. He averted his eyes and the memory quickly faded as if it never happened. He walked along the path for some time more, refusing to look up, unsure of what he was afraid to see. Looking down his eyes traced the path's sand, following its strange rhythmic pattern. It had some order to it, though he couldn't immediately discern what that pattern was. He knelt down for a better inspection and saw that this particular spot had a slight change in the pattern, as if someone had run their finger through the sand. He placed his finger into the anomaly and traced along it. It weaved and curved around the borders of the shapes imprinted into the earth, until it led back to his sandal. As his finger touched his sandal he continued to trace. He realized they were merely footprints, but there were so many overlapping one another, perhaps tens or hundreds of thousands, it created a beautiful mosaic. He moved his sandal into another partial footprint, and it fit perfectly. Another and another, they all fit. Unsure what to think of this he looked up and began down the path again. What he saw startled him. The sky shone with a million stars now, inside each their own memory. He looked into one and saw his younger brother, Jeffrey, doing chores for their mother around the house all summer to earn enough money to buy a toy for him for Christmas. He not only saw him, but he could feel as he felt. He felt how proud Jeffery was as he swept the floors and dusted the knick knacks all with a silly grin, and how he imagined seeing his older brother's face when he gave him his present. Next to that star was another star with its own memory of that year's Christmas, and how when he opened his little brother's gift he told him he hated it. He felt not only his brother's sadness, but also his mother's anger. He looked away in shame to another, another and thousands more. In one he saw himself in his college dorm room, on top of a young blonde girl who was his best friend's love. She was more drunk than he, and he thrust into her mechanically and selfishly. Though his friend never knew, the old man was shown the domino effect this caused in their relationship, and felt all the same sadness his friend had known. The old man had never felt this sadness before and began to wonder why until he was distracted by a breathtaking constellation. In each star of this constellation was a memory of his wife Paige, from when he met her at age twenty-six at a car wash until the day she was crying and bleeding on the bathroom floor, he in the doorway yelling. He felt the selfless love she had felt for him finally extinguish and fade away. With it his eyes refocused and the stars around began to fade as well, with them the memories. Behind him the sun began to rise unusually fast. He ran along the curve of the mountain from it, forcing himself to remember who he was. Hanging on to the memories with all of his strength, the stars came back in full force and shone through the gaining brightness of day. He ran further, looking down he saw the mosaic changed slightly, as if the other footprints ran through here as well. Curious, he contemplated why the others had run here too, but the stars began to fade from this distraction, and he thought no more of it. He ran until the sun was above him and he could run no more. In fact he could hardly think. He felt his memories fading quickly. Reaching into his pocket he looked desperately for a pen, finding nothing he frantically scanned the area. Joshua trees lined the left side of the path, and on the other sat a small sandstone mountain which the path curved around its sheer face, next to it in the sand were several rocks. He grabbed one and without thought quickly began to write so he wouldn't forget this time. In his haste he hadn't noticed he had been tracing over words that were already on the mountain until the fifth word. He backed away and unable to focus from the shock of the words he read, the stars faded from the sky. He stood in the center of the path for some time, with a peculiar and lost look on his face. Eventually he pathetically said "Help" aloud. Soon after his face contorted in growing fear, as if some terror had struck him. He fell into the mountain, into a void where he made all of the same mistakes again, and awoke in the shadow of a Joshua tree.

I know I had come across true love once, and I know it because the feeling still burns in my bones. I met him at the age of 4, his name was Elijah. Never in a million years would I have thought that I would see him fade into colorless dust, brushing away to coat the earth and never be found, leaving his family like a shipwreck in a never-ending tide. Elijah, oh how much I could have done for you, how much I could have done to save you. But in my seven year old shoes, I stood paralyzed as menacing arms gripped mine, with a scolding voice that replayed over and over in my head. One day, we were going to stare deep into each-others eyes, telling ourselves it was where we wanted to be for the rest of our lives. We were going to run in our adult shoes, playing tag, until our legs didn't work anymore. That was our true fate, not this. But now I live with a demon always sitting on my shoulder. He likes to laugh at me for what I've done, reminding me of the horrors over again, just as soon as I try to move on. He binds me with chains of silence, he binds me with a closed mind. He draws the man who burnt my clothes, the man who burnt your life. Elijah, I could have saved you. Elijah... One day, I hope you will forgive me. But do you remember our last day together, Elijah? The one where we walked home from school through fields of gold, spinning the earth beneath our feet? Do you remember the sun and how it melted the clouds beneath it, revealing the freckles on our faces? Our hands intertwined unconsciously, as our tiny hearts beat like racing drums. We ran until our laughter knocked us down, and stayed until the sky was coated with marmalade. If only we could have frozen the moment and never moved on. If only we could have both stayed in our seven year old bodies. If only I had never been given the opportunity to grow up alone. I wish our hands stayed intertwined the whole way through. I wish we closed our eyes, and imagined the sun was melting us into the fields of gold. I wish my little legs didn't learn to escape. I wish it was me instead of you, so that you could have run home to your family, letting them know everything was okay. And in this moment, I wish the fires that covered you could dry my tears. I searched for you in the eyes of the sun, in the dancing wheat that feathered my eyes, in the butterfly wings that flapped my hair gently behind my ears. I searched for you in the cotton tails of the milk weeds, parting from their buds, to say hello as soon as they said goodbye, soon brushing through familiar cornstalks, to reveal your marble face. Oh Elijah, how I wait for the day your smile will bring the field back to life, but all I see are charcoal dusted, broken stalks, with a demon dancing on top of a mountain of ember lit ashes, acting as if nothing were wrong, as if this place were a sanctuary of good dreams, where kids like us could play all day and all night long and never be taken away. Elijah, I can't look at those milk weeds anymore, because they always say hello, and I never got to say good-bye. The heat of Summer always reminded me of the comfort of my mother, but now, it greets me like the trees of Winter. Somehow I stay horrendously captivated in Summer's reign, climbing through Peter as you once did, with trembling soles that found it hard to grip his bark, hoping to keep balance long enough to pick a peach that matched the colors of the run down sky. Remember when you would take a big bite, back cradled against Peter's torso, trying to caress the crescent moon into the empty space? I guess the real question is, how could you ever forget it? You were my summer, Elijah, and now it's nothing but a bittersweet memory. They tell me to try and remember. They tell me it's okay, and that all I have to do is tell them what I saw. I close my eyes, but I can't see anything through the screaming of red and orange flares. He sits beside me, gripping my skin tight, hanging sharp teeth over a dirtied lip. He threatens me with hell, and as he threatens me with fire, I feel familiar fingers curling into mine. “C'mon, don't look so sad!” “But, Elijah... don't you understand?” He turns his head upwards to see me, and sits down, picking dandelions out of the ground. “Yeah I do... I miss playing tag.” “Isn't there anyone there you can play with?” “Yeah, but they aren't as fun as you and they can't run as fast.” I cry as he holds out a group of dandelions. “But you're getting older now, April.” I take them. “Elijah...” His fingers curl around mine. “It gets harder and harder to hold your hand.” “But I'll always hold yours.” I see a tear roll down his cheek. “Can I ask you a question, Eli?” “Yeah?” “Why aren't you mad at me?” He stops pulling the grass and looks at me. “You're not the bad man.” “...But I could've saved you.

“Why is it so bad to say that test raped me?” “I just don’t think you can compare failing a test to that kind of physical and mental assault. It’s nothing like it,” you replied, remaining calm while I gripped the edge of my desk. “For some people it is.” “Not even close,” I shouted as you fell silent. “Failing a test is nothing compared to rape. Don’t ever say that again.” They looked away. “I need to talk to you when class is over,” you said, but I couldn’t reply; I was still choking on anger. Everyone stayed still till the bell rang, and I sat next to your desk at the back of class as they filed out. “I couldn’t just let it go,” I told my trembling hands, twisting them in my lap. “I know,” you answered, and when I looked up your light blue eyes were darker than I had ever seen them. “There’s something I think I should tell you.” My chest constricted with something other than the anger, a fear of the unknown, fear of the secret resonating on the tip of your tongue. You could barely breathe, but you still looked at me. “Mark and I got engaged about twenty years ago while he was at grad school. After his break, he went back to Boston, but I continued to teach here. A lot of students thought I had made him up.” You smiled a little, your lips twisted with something like irony. “He was coming home on a Friday. It had been four months since we had last seen each other, so I left a little early with a few of my colleagues. I remember realizing I had lost my keys when we reached the bus.” I’ve seen you walk down that sidewalk to the faded bus stop a thousand times, and I could imagine it then: laughing, short heels clacking, and swinging your briefcase—as giddy as you could get. You patted down your pockets, realized you had left your keys in your frenzy. “I decided not to go back; I knew they’d still be in my office the next Monday, and I kept a spare under a rock in the front yard. And I was excited to be home.” Your eyes fluttered to your hands. “I wasn’t paying attention on the ride. I can hardly remember the faces of the passengers, and I’ve tried so many times to remember. I’m usually more observant than that. I was distracted.” You shook your head as if dispelling the thoughts that were stuck in it. “The ride seemed so slow that when I got off, I was half-jogging down the street.” Your ankles caught your dress as you walked, punching down the street in dusky light. You held your glasses to keep them from flying off and your dark curls bounced around your shoulders. “I was almost there when I noticed someone a little ways behind me. I remember thinking it was funny; I had never seen someone go in the same direction as me from the bus stop, but he was twenty yards back and I didn’t think anything more. I didn’t even see his face, just a shadow crossing mine. I jogged up my sidewalk and set my briefcase on the porch, then I took the key out from under the rock.” You hopped down the porch steps without seeing anything but that rock and the glimmering key underneath. You pulled it out of the dirt and turned without looking up from it, jumped back up the stairs in one step, and put your hand around the dented bronze doorknob. “I was fumbling with the lock, but eventually I got the key in and turned it. I can still hear the click that it made. I haven’t lived in that house for a long time, but I can still hear the click. I turned the knob and pushed on the door and it creaked and that second I felt something heavy throw me through the door. It’s funny, I can still remember the arrangement of books on my bookshelf as I crashed through the door, this orange volume I don’t have anymore leaning on a fat purple one. It was right in the entrance hall. My glasses flew off and broke against the shelf. I didn’t realize what was happening at the time. For a second I thought I had tripped or wind had pushed me or something equally stupid, but then I landed on my knees and I think I put it together. I never got a clear look at his face; he was wearing all black, this long dirty overcoat and slacks and an old dress shirt with pinstripes and this hat that kept a shadow over his face. I only remember certain parts of his face, the way his nose was bent and the way his jaw was set. When I turned over, he kicked me and didn’t say anything, and then I really knew what was happening. That was one of the worst feelings I’ve ever had: realizing what was about to happen. I started kicking. I fought, but I failed.” Even though you were only five feet against what seemed like seven, you fought like hell. It’s not in your nature to back down, even when he pulled up your dress. “He raped me. He was so much taller than me I couldn’t see his face, or anything really, just his chest pressing down on me. I felt like I was suffocating. He had my hands pinned down so I couldn’t move. I just couldn’t figure out why. I thought maybe it was that I was short or distracted or alone or so many other possibilities. I was so relieved when he finished. I thought he was going to leave, but instead he took out a fishhook and put it inside me. It felt like I was being torn out of my body, and I thought I was going to die. He never said a word. He just jerked it around for a while, then pulled it out, stood up, and left. He didn’t even shut the door all the way. I couldn’t move, it hurt so much.” You tried to lift your head, to pull your dress down, but every time you felt like you were falling apart. All you could do was try to breathe, legs spread to the open door as the sun went down. Mark found you that night with blood all over your thighs, trying not to cry because it hurt too much when your chest shook like that, and he lay down next to you, brushing your hair out of your face. You asked him to pull your dress down, and you felt tears falling on your legs and the fabric sticky against them. “Mark found me and took me to the hospital and luckily everything was alright. It took me a long time to get better, but I married Mark just as we had planned and we moved into a new house and he came back to teach here and we had two kids and life went on. It went on, and I’m happy now, and I don’t think about that house or that night much anymore. I wanted to tell you this because it still bothers me when people use rape in the wrong context. Sometimes I remember what happened, but I can control it now. I’ll never forget it, but I don’t have breakdowns or panic attacks anymore. He got his hook in me, but I won’t let him tear me out.” You breathed again, exhaling the story, and I cried over you and all the things I couldn’t stop.

It’s such a beautiful night. The stars are twinkling like drops of snow on an all black sky, and they with the moon are the only illumination I want to see. Sure there are the lights and sounds of the crowded city beneath me, but just for one night, I’m ignoring all of it. It’ll be my last chance at some serenity, and I’m hanging onto it as hard as I can. I’m alone up here on the roof of my apartment building, the blacktop still has some excess heat from the day, which warms my back comfortably. The roof is rough, but the heat still gives me a nice sense of comfort, of home. A feeling that I can’t get anymore. Ever since my father died in a car accident, my mother has been cold. She’s not even had the warmth of this concrete, which isn’t much. Her outlook on life was changed, and so was mine. She didn’t love anything anymore. Apathy, they called it. To my twelve year old brain that meant nothing. Now, six years later I finally understand. A complete lack of care for everything around you, no emotion, no love, nothing. Sometimes it hurts to be like this. I feel a shred of the little kid I once was, laughing, playing games with my friends, and just enjoying being alive. It doesn’t matter anymore though, does it. A horn honks down below and I twitch. Why do they have to disrupt my night. My last day of peace. I stand up, walking over to the edge, looking down. The cars seem to be going around their merry way, not giving a care in the world about everyone else. A small breeze ruffled my hair, and I breathed in, taking in everything around me. The smell of gasoline, and the sounds of the city. The feeling was beautiful. And then something made me snap back to my mother. The disapproving looks she would give me no matter what I did. I was a failure, I could not be the man of the family, I was weak, and she didn’t care for me. She abandoned me. I was just a burden to her, a stain on her otherwise somewhat normal life. I took a step closer to the edge. It was wonderful. I felt a rush I hadn’t felt before, and I took another step. And another. And one more. With a final breath, I took the last step. For a moment, I felt another rush, and in the next, instantaneous regret. Not that it mattered anymore. I had already began the fall, a fall that would kill me without a doubt. I opened my eyes and turned my head for the last second. After all, it’s such a beautiful night.

Red sat watching the rain pelting at the window, Willow had not moved since he took up vigil at the window sill. She was always such a heavy sleeper, her mother had said that the world could be ending around her and she would sleep through it, he envied that about her. As he sat watching her sleep, restlessly she brushed a stray hair from her face, eyes fluttered as she slowly began to wake, with a yawn and a stretch Willow glanced around the room taking in her surroundings, this foreign run down apartment building that they were staying in was not their home, far from it. Outside the rain continued to fall, there were no people walking the streets, no creatures would be caught dead in this weather, for now the rain owned the world. Red had never liked the rain, it had always rained back home. Rain slowed Red down, the rain made Red have to play inside, the rain made everything wet, but it had also been raining the first time Red had met Willow... He remembered her smile the most, the way it had instantly affected him and how that is all he has wanted to make her do since. But that was not to be. For Red was a boy and boys grow up to be Men, Men had almost pushed the world to the brink of destruction and for that they had payed the price. Nobody knows exactly when it happened, or even how it happened, slowly but surely, Women began to take control of top positions. Before long Men were seen less and less in positions of power, for the power was shifting, a new and rising organization known as "Big Mother" started spreading propaganda, how women were far superior to Men, how Men had started wars, Men had invented bombs and weapons of destruction, that Men are of no use to the world and only do it harm.

It’s an awful thing when someone is concerned about you. One minute you’re counting the number of stories between you and the ground, and then next you’re discussing why you were up there in the first place. The casual veneer and delightful garden salad do little to hide the dark current flowing underneath. Compassion tears people apart. Things could have happened differently. This conversation could be taking place between a person and a box. One salad instead of two. Would it be any different? Hands are wearing a hole in your jeans, eye contact is a little left of center. It’s been two hours, and no one knows when it’s supposed to end. Is now when you walk away? Pleasant conversation is cleared with the dishes. Uncomfortable silence remains. Sometimes the person across from you is more important. Sometimes the person across from you is the person you can never be. Sometimes the person across from you is the eleventh floor. Jump.

A man with a floating halo and long, scraggy hair steps into sight. He removes the halo and places it spinning in the galaxy - a beacon of hope in a world of high velocity spheres trying to smash into your eyes; beaming from the screen. Balmer wakes up from a bad dream. It's 2000 and he's not sure Bill's parting gift is the diversification he's ready for. He sits up out of bed, takes a sip of water and stares blankly into the future. His gift now, to who knows what; and XBOX is faded in ink on his hand. A troubled relationship, that old cold sweat leaks down his fingers anew. A glass of water, now mixed with a tang of salt. He looks back over his shoulder, out to past. VR could be the next big thing, except the line-of-sight rays travel too fast. And the army is developing more than bullets, they have a way to teleport words and photon powered rocket egos are flickering into view. God is dead and 'console' will soon be too. The steam machines clean the empty isles leaving them a pristine gradient of grey and white. Standards, structure, and steel mark the digital: Cold, calculated and fragmented. Balmer's sight has grown short with age and while he can't see very far; he sees the trains racing straight towards a cliff.

She came over. I cooked up some brown rice, steamed veggies, with marinated pork tenderloin. Then we left and went to the haunted mill and just happened to get there when they opened because the line went to zero instantly as people were allowed to fill the interior waiting area. I have to admit, the haunted mill was a great idea because it gives her the excuse to grab hold of you and you have the excuse to hold her hand to ‘protect’ her. That physical barrier: gone. When we come out, we notice the line is huge, with about 100 people waiting to go through and we felt lucky that we only waited about 20 min to get in. I walked over and sat next to the bon fire, it was definitely cold by now. We sat and talked about the mill, then about family and friends. We sat and people watched, the various aged couples that were on dates: the older, confident in each other ones, and the young awkward 15 year olds (boys) that were unsure where to put their hands (hands in pockets? Fold arms? Put hand up on wall and look cool?) but the girls seemed a bit more nonchalant about it and tried to act more normal and nonplussed about the awkward energy coming from the boy. I recognized, in that moment, I was happy that I was no longer that age. I had a girl on my arm, next to the fire, and I was calm and confident. There was hot chocolate being sold next to us. I offered. She declined. I enjoyed the little bit of quiet and calm that comes with sitting next to a warm fire on a cold night. Just watching the flames and listening to the crackling. I talked about hiking the John Muir trail in Yosemite and how serene and quiet it was. I sat and thought about that experience for a bit. Then, noticing that she didn’t seem as comfortable with sitting in silence as I was, I asked if she wanted some ice cream. Yes. We leave, and find ourselves at Wendy’s with 1 chocolate frosty, 1 vanilla frosty, and a medium fry split between us. Movie? Yeah, I can look up what’s showing. We talk a few over, and I choose *Gravity*. She doesn’t like the 3d ones, but the non-3D version isn’t until 11:00 and we wouldn’t be done in time (uni curfew). 3D it is. Hold hands. Enjoying the company. Smelling like camp fire. I take her home, and drop her off and tell her I had a good time. She says we should do something again sometime. I agree.

Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant's garden. It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. 'How happy we are here!' they cried to each other. One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden. 'What are you doing here?' he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away. 'My own garden is my own garden,' said the Giant; 'any one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.' So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED He was a very selfish Giant. The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. 'How happy we were there,' they said to each other. Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still Winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. 'Spring has forgotten this garden,' they cried, 'so we will live here all the year round.' The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. 'This is a delightful spot,' he said, 'we must ask the Hail on a visit.' So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice. 'I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming,' said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; 'I hope there will be a change in the weather.' But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant's garden she gave none. 'He is too selfish,' she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind, and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees. One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King's musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. 'I believe the Spring has come at last,' said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out. What did he see? He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still Winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. 'Climb up! little boy,' said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the little boy was too tiny. And the Giant's heart melted as he looked out. 'How selfish I have been!' he said; 'now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children's playground for ever and ever.' He was really very sorry for what he had done. So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became Winter again. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he died not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant's neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. 'It is your garden now, little children,' said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were gong to market at twelve o'clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen. All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him good-bye. But where is your little companion?' he said: 'the boy I put into the tree.' The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him. 'We don't know,' answered the children; 'he has gone away.' 'You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow,' said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad. Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. 'How I would like to see him!' he used to say. Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. 'I have many beautiful flowers,' he said; 'but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all.' One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting. Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved. Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, 'Who hath dared to wound thee?' For on the palms of the child's hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet. 'Who hath dared to wound thee?' cried the Giant; 'tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him.' 'Nay!' answered the child; 'but these are the wounds of Love.' 'Who art thou?' said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child. And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, 'You let me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.' And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.

Claw hand of the bulldozer writhes in unfulfilled need earth teases its aching anguished mouth. Child turns aside as severed hand turns up on road. "Whoops," laughs driver man. Go to see the pretty flowers and laughing run off into forest grey looming crumbling. Toys leer at bedside pretend to have your best interests in mind. When you aren't looking suck you through your gastro-nasal tube. Procession of women shimmy through room and sit on bed touch sole of your foot. "Don't worry be happy." Crabs swarm loosely. Partially digested walls of stomach reverse themselves and bleed hunger exude need. Light flashes on teeth. Glint glint. Big smile. Tell the truth and never lie. Remember kids. Old man walking slowly in pale white belly flesh snuff and root in ditch. Swirl of mistrust collapse in a warm rush. Don't know how to say your name pronounce individual letter sounds. Young men try and guess the reason. Shiver with desire to put on paper what they see in the ache stretching lineup of thighs. Hair twisting through in a knot stiff with frozen shocked anger. Pierce of reason as they crumble down to be reborn men and women he made them. Eyes close slump. Give up as they froth around you fibrous demanding. Give me buy me tell me show me. Innocent burn of blue as cradles rock themselves. I am your mother and I am unhappy with you. Corpses surface from rose water wink their eyes all seductive. Swell of flesh and muscle arise rotting wasted. Clock hands struggle bound under statue only witness to decay. Hundreds and thousands of chicken bones in a mound are stripped and bleached a skull white strips of moldering grey-green. Painted faces melt plaster their curling irons to their flesh burn on. Waves of scarlet and vermilion drip in a low muttered chorus. Never mind it was nothing. Disc spins in mute farewell as the lady of the house drowns her child in milk. A sob escapes frustrated sighing. "I won't get more than $50 for the hide." Layer of blushing red covering hollow sanctum between bones in her neck. Video cameras moan seeing things beyond wildest dreams. Smell mom's dinner under ceiling of rot pulled into warm embrace. Boys become men and teeth crunch gristle fat and bone. Sweet and angry explosion of ascetic acid comes lacking. Caress yourselves with whispered secrets dripping down dark smooth skin. Hearts beat and snatch and pump free. Blood bank rejoices as scarlet fluid redecorates country lanes. Pick it up with siphon and disregard all flecks of dirt and flakes of sand and tree and life. Scurrying things multiply in the implied darkness curl toes around backbone. Good strong English stock. Accuracy no longer matters as foaming youths hurl bolts at the sky unprepared for their return arcing fall. Dozens of them hungry cold anguish are sent to bed without supper. Burning ascension of sparks shudder with vitality. Harsh snap of circles with unclear lines shimmering stand on their toes. Thirty adolescents purposefully put down the wrong answer on a test. Spill tea leaves on your bare spiny legs. Dissect the uneven blossom shriek with joy as mucus spurts out. Chair creaks falls over as black choked neck dangles overhead. Torso twist in spurious revulsion. Literary references go without being understood no way to cook or clean or warm. Sick shiver gives release to an obscene climax of nausea. Perfect stumps of shrunken trees lie unused in mud. The tallest man in the world weeps from shame hangs head. Blonde hair blue eyes let go of your inhibitions rub shoulders with undiluted notes of music. Bone of knee tears through leg, establishes itself as leader. Rocks you in his arms as obvious as life itself. Undetectable song thrills through wraps around your legs traps you under web of concerned citizens. Coil of shoulder bones denounce war and preach acceptance love integrity. Reach in and pluck your internal organs harvested with love. Men in pinstripe teach the same lesson ceaselessly. Manuscript swells under salt water vigilant as ever and hard with salt. Students gather to challenge the force of gravity and scream in dismay when Katie falls. Polish their knives prepare a commemorative feast. Pause to make a note of it. Mole flits playfully across Joan's face. Cripples long to walk and fitfully spasm on their hands. Boiled infants cry in harmony to the tune of 'Happy Birthday.' Congealed rubber lips pull back supercilious. "Of course it's a most distasteful matter." The scuttling feet of rodents emphasize his words. Pull skin off face rearrange it around cheeks. "Much better." Holographic women frown as hordes of those afflicted by lactose intolerance cheer on television. Soy milk has just been decriminalized shout the papers. Wholesome girls and boys in black pants and white shirts hand out leaflets. Strong young legs sink to the inner thigh in festering soil. Dramatic music plays men bellow hurl ropes into unexplored darkness. Sigh endless trying to find something in nothing as empty pillars stroke nuzzle and grind to dust. Open drawer take out what is needed close drawer. Airy delicate portraits rendered in watercolor of insects impaled by hooks pins nails shiver in a furious ecstasy of compassion love forgiveness. Professors discover mathematical equations in the perfect curve of young girl shoulder. Heads nod eyes water as two pale politicians shake hands grin make nice. Amazon River breaks up disintegrates in a loose slurry of disinterest. Soft bleed honey-soft. Oil spill bloom on flushed wide-set cheekbones hot as a whisper in an ear. Scorching brute stench curling smoke as wife sets fire to husband's beard. Subtext of cherry lips wander in the acid wash sunset. Liquid embrace of ink on paper. Young boys plump and chewy as mother's oatmeal raisin cookies. Beautiful poetry read aloud in a mocking voice. Feel unquenched need for rounded hips and youthful neck, slope of shoulders and clean line of back. Marcus feels discontent.

The bell tinkled, announcing the arrival of him and her as the shop door slammed shut behind them. The shopkeeper looked at them through shriveled, slanted eyes, and offered the couple a half smile. They walked down separate parallel aisle towards the cigarette counter. He stopped and stooped low reaching for crisps, smoky bacon. She sauntered, glided, to the counter reaching for the chewing gum. "Evening miss." The shopkeeper said accentlessly. "Can I interest you in a chocolate bar, half off." he offered. A swirling fan hung haphazardly from ceiling rocking irregularly and noisily. It's hum filled their ears, its breeze rustled their clothes. She smiled sweetly. "No, I'm afraid you can't. You can, however, interest me in a twenty pack of your cheapest, dirtiest cigarettes." The shopkeeper turned his hunched back towards them. She felt her boyfriends presence at her back. "Not those, the ones up there." She said pointing to the top shelf. The man reached for the cigarettes rocking on his toes, his corduroy trousers fluttered at his ankles. "That will be an even fiver miss." he said as he turned to face her. He stopped sharply when he saw the cold gray eye of a gun staring at him across her shoulder. He dropped the cigarettes. "I'd pick them up if I was you." The gunman man spoke for the first time. "And if you could fill a bag or two up with a few other packets, I'd be much obliged." The man checked his reflection as he spoke. The fan rattled above them, the roof creaked. "Don't forget the money honey." the girl said to the shopkeeper who began to shake. "Please don't hurt me, I have children!" "What's your name?" She asked resting her hand gently on his arm. He flinched. Stung. "My name?" He stuttered. "Trout, Artemus Trout. I have a son, Dwight, he's four. And a Daughter!" "Trout?" The girl's partner cut him off. "You sound more like a science fiction writer than the night manager of the local *Safeway*." "Mr Trout." She said, sweet as iced tea, as if the shopkeeper was a dinner guest. "Alfie here really has no intention of hurting you, we just need to smoke and you need to remember that that is a real gun." Presently the thin chord of the ceiling fan lost its battle with gravity and crashed towards the ground. The spinning blade struck Alfie's arm. Bang bang. The gun snapped twice illuminating the shop with its flash. A mist of dust filled the room making the couple cough and retch. Mr Trout was no longer standing. The pair held each other and moved carefully to the shrunken figure on the ground. It whimpered. "Mr Trout?" She said as Alfie reached for his arm. "We killed him!" she cried. Alfie shook his body with no reply. He was crouched near Mr Trout now, scared to get to close knowing he had to roll him over. Alfie hesitated arm hovering. Suddenly the body convulsed and flipped over. Alfie screamed bereft of masculinity and fell to the ground. "Please don't shoot again. You only just missed that first time." said Mr Trout curled up sucking his thumb. The pair broke into relieved laughter, and gave each other a look that said lets get the hell out of here. They picked up the bag of money and the cigarettes, and walked towards the exit slowly; with their fingers interlocked, the still smoking gun in his spare hand the money in hers. "Oh." He said as he returned to the shivering weeping ball of the shopkeeper Mr. Trout and placed a single coin on the counter. She looked at him head tilted, lips slightly parted. "I forgot to pay for the crisps.

Cynthia awoke to the sound of a distant plaintive cry fading into silence. Clarity yet to return, still she tried to grasp what she had just heard from the vague echo left in her mind. It was unearthly but familiar. She knew she had heard it before. As much as she forced herself however the answer eluded her and eventually she pulled a pillow over her face in frustration. After a few minutes of this and some sporadic thoughts she surrendered and relaxed. It was the middle of the night but nevertheless she decided to get up. Rising into a seated position on her bed, she neatly folded a corner of her clean white duvet to one side – the result was the triangle of negative space left by her white sheets being mirrored with perfect symmetry by the triangular fold of the duvet. In the darkness though they were equal shades of chiaroscuro gray but still there was enough texture in the darkness to give them both some form. Pausing for a few seconds to let her eyes adjust completely, she then stood and carried herself with delicate bare feet over to a light switch on the far wall. She paused before flipping it though and instead turned around. Through her faintly translucent white curtains, the constellations of city towers – mostly condominiums and office buildings – bled through with a soft platinum tinted light, and more obviously, in thin beams around the slim edges of her windows that eluded being covered. With a snap the white plastic switch obliterated all the shadows. In their place the normal colors of the bedroom were restored and the shape of the bedroom's décor was restored to the same visual condition it had when Cynthia had bought each individual piece. She surveyed it with a meticulous eye to see if anything was out of place like she did with every other room – a carefully cultivated habit that also accounted for her success in other aspects of her life – and was satisfied with the total absence of clutter and disarray that she found. Of course she always made sure this was the case before she went to bed but no matter how many times she inspected something she had properly ordered, she always got a fresh feeling of affirmation from it. Moving over to a dresser, she then proceeded to pick up a marble bust of the god Janus from its roof, one of the minority of concretely styled objects in the otherwise abstract milieu. The two diverging bearded faces stared out with blank stone eyes. Cynthia personally found that these sorts of things – collected without absolute sparseness – ended up making one's living space looking gaudy, but at the same time total desolation would have unnerved most people. Not her of course. But company. It was a concession that had to be made then to social conventions. And the god did symbolize something meaningful for her. He was the god of doors and as such the god of doors opening. Doors opening for her. In her pristine bathroom next, Cynthia sat down on the toilet to take a piss. Without any clothes on this was accomplished merely by lifting the outer lid. The cool immaculate seat felt nice on her warm flawless skin. Not having brought her phone in with her, Cynthia's attention turned naturally to her thighs. They were chiseled and polished exactly to her specifications – toned but without any conspicuous musculature. She liked her thighs because they knew their place. This knowledge though wasn't accidental. Five days a week every week – with the odd exception – she put them through an exercise regiment to remind them who was boss. With that thought the last of her urine trickle slowed with a sound like a miniature metal xylophone having all of its keys slowly traced in one sweep. Unrolling about a foot of two-ply toilet paper from the dispenser next to her, Cynthia proceeded to wipe herself off before neatly depositing the used tissues into the water and gracefully getting up. She flushed the toilet without a second glance and went to wash her hands in the sink – which although not actually needing it – would nevertheless benefit from a symbolic cleaning. Then she looked into the mirror. Eyes as pure and blue as arctic waters stared back at hers. A nose that was slender and straight corresponded with her nose. Lips like pale cherry blossoms emulated to perfection the form of her mouth. Turning her face from side to side she searched her cheeks and her chin and her forehead for any dermal insurrections. None could be found though. Of course her pores – like everyone else's she imagined – revealed some unmentionable things under really really close scrutiny but that was a battle she had learned to live with. She practiced regular exfoliation – as often enough to be a sacrament for her – and this managed to keep the blemishes at bay for the most part. In dire circumstances though she had emergency measures she could resort to and of course a full complement of cosmetics to avail herself of. Her face, which a man in a hotel bar had once compared to Ingres' Odalisque (And very astutely she thought – although this didn't succeed in getting him what he was after) was probably the one she would have chosen if she had been given a choice of all the faces in the world. In fact she would also have chosen her dusky brown hair, her long vase like neck, her elegant arms and legs, her firm crescent behind, even her breasts. They were far from being the largest breasts in the world but they were exquisite in their suppleness and had small pleasant auburn nipples and men certainly found them alluring enough. She was twenty six years old and blessed. Finished with the self examination she heard it again as she walked out into the living room. The cry. It sounded like – but it just couldn't be. Not that. It made no sense. She had the desire to go to the window and make sure but even the concession to verify that it wasn't what she thought it wasn't was too irrational a thing to go through with. Instead Cynthia focused her attention on the interior of her enviable condo. Two bedrooms (One was converted into a home office) wood floors, an open kitchen with a large island table, large windows capturing the best part of the Toronto skyline, a veranda wide enough for barbecuing and lounging – it was the sort of suite that most people would only ever see in advertisements. And it was all hers. Well – she hadn't paid off the mortgage of course but she had just recently been made partner at one of the world's leading law firms so that wasn't a problem. One of the youngest they'd ever had too but they knew talent when they saw it and there were plenty of other opportunities out there for her so if they didn't offer her the right amount of incentives someone else would. She could have been a model of course but she was never the sort of girl who was interested in getting by in life just from her looks. Sure she still made use of them. Like everywhere else – in litigation they came with certain advantages. Disadvantages too but on the whole more useful than not. Besides you had to use whatever you had – being dissatisfied with what you couldn't change would never benefit you in any way. Of course she could have, hypothetically, disfigured herself – but that certainly wasn't a desirable solution. She quite enjoyed being so good looking. And not just attractive in an essentially sexual manner but beautiful according to classical ideals. Picking up her lime green smart phone from a white chamois sofa, Cynthia immediately checked her inbox. A handful of new emails had arrived since she went to bed – most of them related to one of her current filings. One gargantuan pharmaceutical conglomerate suing another. Not particularly interesting mind you but the billable hours were fantastic. Still it was nothing she couldn't deal with in the morning. Putting her phone back on the sofa – through careful consideration she had determined that it was actually the most convenient, and therefore most efficient, place for it to be – she headed towards the kitchen. She felt like having some green tea before she went back to bed. On the sleek ultramodern stovetop her anachronistic tin kettle stood out. It used to be her grandfather's and so she kept it for sentimental reasons. It reminded her of the summers she spent on her grandparent's peach farm in the Okanagan. It also reminded her of a time in her life when she was completely carefree. This involved a kind of regret that she only partially understood and rarely gave much thought to. As the water in the kettle was coming to a boil she decided that a little music would be nice, so she booted up the laptop which had been sitting on the kitchen counter, and quickly brought up her music collection. It consisted of about twenty gigabytes mostly bought and paid for – an eclectic cache of songs and albums. Desiring something warm and atmospheric, but something that would commune with the night, she selected the album Saturdays = Youth by the pop group M83. When it first came out she had listened to it all the time but it had been a while. Now seemed like the right time to do so. Sweeping in like an angel waltzing, the first song – You, Appearing – filled the air with a calming sensuality. It was sublime. Closing her eyes, Cynthia twirled a little and smiled to herself. When the whistle of the kettle began to swell it almost seemed in tandem with the music, so much so that the hairs on her neck floated a little. Taking the sighing kettle and turning the element off, she held the dispenser of boiling water in one hand while the other took the cap off her porcelain teapot and dropped three tea bags inside. Then she poured it about two thirds full, put the kettle back on a cold element, put the cap on, and waited. Her life, in this specific moment, was the definition of serenity. The second song, Kim and Jessie, was whispering its chorus when she started to pour some of her tea into a small gilded cup that had a seventeenth century baroque motif. The amber hued water glistened as it shimmered to fill the vessel. When it was ready she took it in both hands and sipped slowly while she thought about the guy she was seeing. Sean Douglas – a hedge fund manager with his own company. The total amount of wealth he was responsible for hovered around a hundred and sixty million at present. Same time last year it was around fifty million. He was definitely her kind of person ambition wise but, to be honest, she wasn't sure that their relationship could gratify her emotionally. He could be a bit… dense. Besides she didn't need a man to take care of her. He had potential though. She'd wait and see. While she was finishing off the last of her tea however the cry returned. Swiftly she dashed over to her laptop and muted the music. This let her catch the tail of end of the mysterious noise. She knew precisely what it sounded like but there was no way it could be that. Absolutely no way. Well, unless – could someone be playing it? A recording? Decided now she went over to her curtains and resolutely pulled them to the side. Then she heard it again and this time it was coming from right beside her building, just outside her view. When she finally saw it she didn't even notice as she dropped her tea cup. It was like there was suddenly nothing but emptiness inside her skin. She would have fainted if she wasn't so absolutely mesmerized. It was a humpback whale. Swimming. Through the air. It was as clear as one of those high definition nature programs filmed underwater. The motions of the whale in the air were exactly what they would have been in the ocean. Its body leisurely undulated as it swam through the corridors of city towers and made slow graceful turns. She even looked into its large soft eyes and she saw life there. She saw the lights of the city gleaming on its flesh. But she couldn't believe it. Her mind, like her body, was just paralyzed. Unable to situate itself within the event. She couldn't even question what she saw because she couldn't form a question. But then she heard the excruciating beauty of the whale's cry again and two lines of tears began to flow from the outer corners of her eyes. The open ring of her mouth testified to an unspeakable why. There was no one watching from any of the other hundreds of open windows that she could see though. She was alone with the whale. As it passed behind the next condo building however it suddenly failed to reappear despite that it should have immediately been visible again. Although she waited and waited it never came back. It was irrevocably gone and now she had just herself again. Cynthia stared out anxiously at the alien city before her. A long time passed before she was able to crouch down and pick up the pieces of her broken tea cup.

He’d been thinking a lot lately. The only conclusion he’d come to was that thinking was clearly dangerous. An activity which should be engaged in only under duress, or when otherwise absolutely necessary. He wondered what it was that attracted people to it. IT didn’t appear to get him anywhere that was for sure. In fact all it ever seemed to do was confuse.. The metro car was filled with about a dozen people - a pretty blond in a floral patterned dress, a less pretty brunette in a tight business suit, and a number of boring looking men of various ages and weights. Everyone in the car was frowning. The D.C. frown as he liked to call it. The inward focused intense frown of someone who’s grinding away a job they have worked their whole life for but don’t really believe in. The frown of bureaucrats and DOD contractors. He wondered when it would happen to him, and glancing at his reflection in the window realized it already had. When? He thought and quickly admonished himself. Better to loosen the muscles and move on than think. Thinking was dangerous. The frown lines were saddening though. A stop was called out which he knew to be his, but he didn’t get off. There wasn’t any reason for it, not one speck of reason at all really, but he rode the train out. He remained unmoved as the stops were called out and people flowed slowly out of the car “Fort Totten” - rang the unusually clear voice of the conductor, “College Park” it said some time later. His name was Barron. He had a first name, but there were a lot of other people in the office who shared it. Better to use his last exclusively where possible. It was almost never an issue though, people rarely used his name anymore. Even the bartenders knew him visually now and didn’t need to be told when he asked to close his tab. That was one good bit about his burgeoning alcoholism. That and the lowering sex drive - he’d been really wild for a while there and after a couple of scares with various STD’s was glad for the excuse to limit his promiscuity. “Greenbelt” mumbled the car’s operator, while the lights flashed on and off, repeatedly. There wasn’t anyone else on the train. “This train is no longer in service, I repeat this train is no longer in service”. A auburn haired woman was fleeing from him, first up stairs, then out windows, via horse drawn buggies and cars, boats and airplanes. Always giggling and turning with smiles, egging him to catch her, but always just out of reach. Exotic lands blew through his minds eye, and fortunes were spent in the chase, men and women alike were crushed under his feet as he strove for her and yet still she was always just beyond him. Finally his hand reached out and was a mere inch from hers - At Last he would have her, his love….. His head bounced up, eyes wide and confused while he slowly realized he was sitting in the off black of near light-lessness.. He reached a hand over and found tbe computer bag. It was stained with food and other less knowable substances and had very little going for it save that it’s low price point - free. After a moment or two of collection, bones and muscles moved together to list his body upright. He was unusually stiff and achey and began to wonder just how long he’d been asleep. No one paid him any mind as he wandered around the train yard, idly investigating wheels and other things he didn’t know the name ofs. The vocabulary to describe what he saw was severely lacking, and what was saved were fantasy images of machinery. The soft black of rubber was remembered most vividly - it was something he was familiar with at least. After several hours he wandered away from the train yard and found a cab home. It was very expensive. Breakfast consisted of a bagel. Sometimes eggs or sausage, but generally a single bagel. He would pump his body full of protein shakes, unseasoned chicken, whey protein and bananas later in the day but for breakfast it he was a slave to routine. In the early evenings on alternate days he would run - usually around six miles. The remaining days were gym days - brazilian jiu jitsu, boxing and greco roman wrestling were his favorites. He would mix in Muay Thai occasionally but his shins would hurt too much for his runs. In the intervening time he would read, drink alcohol and do various recreational drugs. If he wasn’t engaged in any of the above activities he was at work. “You’ve been with us for awhile now.” Days blend. It’s what happens as you age. “You’ll be taking on more responsibility.” I’m excited for the opportunity. “I want to make sure you’ve got all the support you need.” I’ll make sure to reach out when I need it. “We’re looking forward to seeing what you do here.” Me too. I’ll make sure we do an excellent job.. It didn’t come with a raise.

WANTED: SINGER/SONGWRITER Able to pair subversive lyrics with catchy beats in order to create popular songs that are easy to sing along w/. Also the ability to promote giving into base desires instead of worrying about public issues. Songs need to pertain to Spontaneous Sex, Mind Altering Substances, Casual Violence, and to Overvalue any feelings resembling Love. MUST be able to create an air of acceptance around personal failure, poor money management, and relationship issues, also the ability to impress youth with the idea that individualism, self-thought and hard work are not necessary in society. MUST be able to make Fashion and Likeability synonymous with Overt-Sexuality, and be able to Idolize Drama and Infidelity. COMPENSATION: Guaranteed Stardom, Transformation into a Sex Symbol, Legal Ambiguity, and to be lusted after by youth of the opposite sex while idolized by youth of the same gender. Cosmetic and Computer compensation can and will be used to fix physical, vocal or other flaws. APPLY TO Department of Homeland Security, Black Budget, Internal Awareness Prevention Division.

Once upon a time, there were four angles that were best friends, there was Right Angle, and he always thought he was perfect since he added up to 90 degrees. Acute and her twin sister, they always complimented each other since they were both 45 degrees, perfect complementary angles. And Obtuse Angle, the big clown of the group, the other angles always pocked fun at him, saying he was a one angle supplementary, but they were wrong, he was only 179 degrees, so jokes on them. One day they decided they wanted to go to the great Plane. The Plane was a popular attraction for Angles all over the world; it was filled with beautiful sites, and extended on and on forever. All you had to do was take a right, then a left and you were at the door to the magical Plane. The four friends set out on their journey and quickly reached the door to the grand and mystical Plane. This was the first time any of them had been to the great Plane, and they ran into a small problem. Obtuse was too big to get through the door! Acute teased him by dashing back and forth laughing. “See, you are so big you hit every Vertex of the door!” Acute joked. “Well, I’m afraid we are going to have to cut you into two congruent pieces Obtuse if you want through” stated Right Angle. “What? No? I don’t want to be cut in half” exclaimed Obtuse, “there has to be another way.” Obtuse angle and Right angle argued about this for a good 10 minutes, Acute took this opportunity to make another joke and measured Obtuse with a Protractor and made more fun of his size. This sent Obtuse over the edge and he cried and cried. “I’m sorry” said Acute “it was mean of me to make fun of you.” But it didn’t help and Obtuse cried and cried some more, but the whole time, he got smaller and smaller, until he was just the perfect size to fit though the door. Right Angle saw the opportunity and pushed him through the door. Just like that they were in the great Plane, it was beautiful, better than anything they could have imagined, it was completely white, extending on for as long as the eye could see, brightly colored points in space, every color and every shade you could ever think of, they light up the sky like fireworks. “What are those spots up there?” asked Obtuse. “Why those are Points, they litter the great Plane and are everywhere you look.” Explained Right Angle. Obtuse looked to the right and saw two colored lines shoot across the sky, “Oh my, what are those lines, they look like they are racing” said Obtuse. “Those lines are something called parallel lines, they travel across the great Plane, they travel in two opposite directions for as long as you can see, but will never ever meet” said Right Angle. “For some reason that makes me sad they will never meet” said Obtuse with a frown. The four friends spent another hour or two taking in the sights, but suddenly, everything got a little dark, and some of the dots started disappearing. Looking up they saw the destroyer of the Plane. “What is that?” cried Acute. “Well that is the great eraser, and we better start running” stated Right Angle rather calmly, and so they ran, as quick as they possibly could, with dots and lines disappearing all around them, and the shadow of the great eraser slowly coming closer and closer. They could see the door in the distance but it was a long shot. Obtuse was trailing slightly behind the rest; he had a drink since his big cry, and was back to his old 179 degrees. Almost all of the color dots were gone at this point, and the great and powerful eraser set its sights on the weak angles, chasing them with all its speed. Acute and her sister made it to the door first, and dove through it, followed by Right Angle, and bringing up the rear was Obtuse, with the great eraser right on his tail, he slammed in to the door but was just too big. Obtuse turned around just in time to see the eraser not even a foot from him. He pushed with all his force and came flying through the door; the eraser had erased some of him, just enough to fit through the door. Obtuse didn’t mind however because the eraser had erased just enough of him to bring him to a perfect 90 degrees, no more jokes at his expense, looks like Right Angle isn't the only perfect angle in town anymore. The four friends never returned to the great Plane, now that they knew how dangerous it was, but they were glad they got to see it, and the memory of the dancing bright lights will stay with them for the rest of their days, all they have to do is close their eyes and they see the sky light up with beautiful lights of every color. Something so wonderful will never be forgotten.

I’ve had better days, I thought to myself as I began my night stroll. I couldn’t see anything; it was rather dark, and the street lights seem to all be dead, or, at least, far too spaced for me to see. Fuck! I felt a dull pain just underneath my elbow. I turned and I saw the tree branch overextended into my space; I drop kicked that branch off of the tree, as if it had purposefully reached over to annoy me. I was vexed, so I took out my vengeance. As I reached the intersection where I usually turn around, I saw a jogger. He’d undoubtedly just witnessed my little kung fu hustle, so I gave him the “What the fuck do you want, Bitch?” face. He looked back forward, and kept jogging, well, maybe now running. I didn’t turn back home; if blowing off steam was the intent of my walk, I had desolately failed. Stationary, I let my thoughts and emotions loose into the night. It was a black night, ideal for a vibrant vista of the stars. The scent of serene breezes sifts through the jade leaves swaying on the meek branches, sprouting ubiquitously, undaunted by the prospect of a passersby’s cleaving. Time and any sorrowful sentiments I had felt passed as I simply stood still. Rhythmic steps crescendoing caught my attention. This jogger too, certainly must have wondered about me, motionless, mellowly musing at my milieu. His pondering face turned into a friendly nod and a single wave. I smiled back and I, too, had turned, turned back home.

Becky’s tiny feet plummeted down the stairs, swiftly thumping on each step. Gravity quickened her pace and consequently increased the thudding’s clamor, but she deliberately shifted her weight to her chipped pink-painted toenails. Her bona fide nightgown, simply an undershirt of her father’s, hung at her knobby, scabbed knees, swaying back and forth with each step. It wouldn’t provide her any warmth on this chilly autumn dawn, but Becky didn’t have time for such technicalities. The only thing she knew for sure was that she needed to get out, and fast. Each cedar step that Becky descended down creaked under her small stature. The wooden-plank walls of the stairwell, almost an identical shade to the dark brown stairs, provided a tunnel for the sounds to echo through, back up to the second floor where Becky’s parents slept. Becky was usually good at orchestrating her motions in such a way as to cause the least amount of sound, knowing the detriments that the stairwell’s echoing qualities caused thanks to many nights of sneaking. Becky loved nature, perhaps due to the beautiful landscape the aged farmhouse in which she lived was built upon. A large patch of green grass lay squarely behind the red vinyl siding of the house. The flat grassy area contained a doghouse, a single overbearing maple tree with a homemade tire swing hanging tautly from its steadfast branches, and a rickety red-and-white paneled shed Right past the grass was a plethora of cornstalks, extending as far as Becky’s short frame would let her see. From her second story window, Becky could see a forest at the edge of the cornfield, off towards the horizon. Becky dreamed of reaching those trees, one day. Today would be that day, she convinced herself. Becky struggled to dampen her sharp respirations as she ran, hitting the bottom of the stairs with a definitive plop. The wooden planks of the first floor almost cause her bare feet to fly out from under her, but she regained her balance and whipped to her right, focusing her attention on the backdoor several feet away. As she turned, Becky’s Raggedy Ann doll slipped from her hands and flopped down behind Becky. Quickly realizing the loss of her close companion, Becky frantically spun around, slid across the floor on her belly head-first, diving majestically to snatch up Raggedy Ann. Panting, Becky hugged Raggedy Ann and squinted her blue eyes shut as the slick wood floor continued to carry her across the hallway. Her tangled long auburn locks swept across the floor like a mop, generously picking up any dust particles in its ragged nest. Becky despised grooming her hair. If it were up to her, she’d cut all her hair off. But her mother loved tending to Becky’s locks. Delicately, like an artist, Becky’s mother would run brushes and combs across the scalp and hair, which became a canvas. Becky would sit impatiently, twiddling her thumbs and shaking her lanky legs, as her mother would sculpt delicate creations from the hair, from French braids to twisted buns. As soon as Becky was free, though, she’d run outside and get grass, mud, and leaves all throughout her mother’s hard work. Needless to say, at this moment Becky’s now-dusty hair did not distract her one bit. Regaining her footing, in a frenzy, Becky locked Raggedy Ann within the small knuckles of her right hand and ran towards the white plastic porch door. With pit stop to rescue Raggedy Ann, Becky did not think she had the time to delicately open the door before her mother caught her. Instead, she let the door slam behind her as she ran across the small wooden porch onto the dark green grass of her backyard. The clashing of the door against the plastic frame caused Jack, the family’s German Shepherd, to wake and release excited barking bellows. Still running, Becky turned to Hunter and held her index finger up to her chapped lips, making a “shh” motion. Hunter did not understand, and continued to boomingly yelp. Rolling her eyes, Becky turned forwards again, towards the corn field and ultimately, towards the forest. Becky’s pale skin was juxtaposed by the darker brown corn stalks, and they initially tripped her up as she entered their maze. Crunches of the aging stalks were emitted from each one that she hit, but she was a fast learner and was soon able to navigate around the stalks and avoid them with relative ease. Shoeless, Becky’s feet became entirely camouflaged with wet dirt. The leaf-like skin of the stalk’s exterior had morning dew on them, which transferred their water droplets to Becky whenever she brushed against them. In her peripherals, Becky could see her foggy breath appear in front of her face, and quickly disappear as she inhaled and ran past it. Becky kept her eyes focused forward intently as she raced through the corn field. Soon, these sounds and touch sensations were drowned out as Becky got used to the pace. Stalks flew past silently as Becky’s mind began to think of something other than her flight. “He’s getting very sick, baby. We’re going to have to move to somewhere new.” These words her mother had softly uttered last night engulfed Becky’s thoughts. Becky loved the house, yard, and field. She didn’t notice the dilapidation of the house, she didn’t notice its dirtiness, and she didn’t notice the lack of cable television or telephones or the occasional flickering of the electricity. Instead, her innocent eyes saw a castle, and she was the queen of the farm. Her chariot was her father’s tractor, which he let her ride on his once strong lap as he tended the crops. Raggedy Ann was the princess, always by Becky’s side, as Becky reigned over her kingdom, riding high on her green and yellow chariot. Her crown was her father’s cowboy hat, which he would playfully place on her head, so large it would cover her eyes. Unstoppable giggles would emerge from both of them, although they were muffled by the loud tractor’s engine. Becky wished she could ride on that tractor one last time. Ever since the fall began, Becky’s father had been riding his tractor less and less. Orange pill bottles began to scatter the kitchen table, along with doctor’s paperwork and medical bills. Becky’s mother, who had once only worked to tend Becky’s castle, had to get a job outside the home in an attempt to pay for these new health expenses. Becky didn’t know the details of what caused her father to not feel so well. She noticed recently that her father had lost some weight. His once broad shoulders began to dwindle to nubs, housing sticks for arms. His shaggy brown beard had disappeared, as did his short brown hair. His blue eyes, once as bright as Becky’s, had grown worn and bulged out from his wrinkled face, with dark bags encircling the eyes’ exterior. She would also hear him cough and vomit in their small bathroom. Becky tried her best to comfort him, thinking that if he got up to play with her, he would feel better. However, he didn’t have the energy for that anymore. Instead, Becky would obligingly lie next to him, rubbing his aching shoulders and hugging his now-emerged ribs, wishing that her queenly jurisdiction could have some control over his state. Becky couldn’t handle the news of the family’s impending move last night. That was the final straw that broke her strong exterior. Her castle was crashing down around her, her kingdom would be lost. Becky sobbed hysterically, thrusting her head into her pillow and screaming with rage. Becky wanted her king back, healthy and happy once again, so they could rule their corn dominion together, ceaselessly. Now, Becky was a peon, and dwindling within the corn stalks, running past them like a commoner instead of above them. Surprised at how long she had zoned out for, she was shocked back to awarenss when she saw the emergence of dark tree silhouettes ahead. Eagerly, she quickened her pace until she reached a grassy gap that signified the end of the cornfield and the beginning of the forest. Tenderly, Becky walked across the dewy grass towards the line of dark elm trees. As she got closer, she noticed that thorn bushes scattered the perimeter of the forest, which would make it nearly impossible for her to enter. Frustrated, Becky paced up and down the edge, scanning urgently for a suitable entrance. Becky could hear geese cawing above, and looked up to see their black figures flap by overhead. This caused Becky to stop her pacing. Once again, her fogged breath filled her vision. The sky was red with the impending sun’s rise. Cold, Becky shivered and rubbed her arms with her even colder hands. She gazed at the somewhat cloudy sky, admiring its reddened hue, which emphasized the dark red, yellow, and brown leaves that topped the trees. Becky smiled, imagining the leaves like her hair, and Mother Nature tending to each tree’s leafy scalp like her own mother would to her hair. Her mother didn’t have much time for that now; for once, Becky wished her mother would tidy her hair up, without any other cares in the world. Small cries built up in Becky’s throat as she choked them out, tears streaming down her blustered face. She squeezed Raggedy Ann, embracing the doll against her father’s shirt, squinting and howling upwards towards the red sky. Becky’s sobs gradually turned to cries, then to sniffles. Eventually, the tears ceased. She rubbed her eyes, clearing them of the tears, and admired the forest that was in front of her, the sky above her, and the cornfield behind her. “We made it,” Becky tenderly whispered into Raggedy Ann’s cheek, where an ear would ordinarily be. Becky kissed Raggedy Ann’s forehead, and stared deeply into Raggedy Ann’s plastic black eyes. After a moment, Becky made a tough decision. “Ann, I’m not going to be living here much longer. But someone’s got to rule over this kingdom when I’m gone. You’re the princess, you’re next in line.” Becky assuredly stated, firmly grasping Ann’s shoulders. “I trust you, I’ve got to leave you behind. You’ll be the best queen ever.” Becky smiled as she propped Raggedy Ann up against a corn stalk that bordered the grassy barrier. “It’s up to you to watch over the corn field and explore the forest for me someday. I’m trusting you, Raggedy Ann. You’ve been my best friend, but it’s time for me to go.” Becky spoke confidently, though tears were budding from the corners of her blue eyes. She took one last look at her cotton companion, patted her stringy red hair, and soothingly confided, “I’ll always love you.” With that, Becky stepped back into the cornfield, beginning her final stride through her farmland kingdom.

I wrote three different prompts today, but found this funny one on tumblr to write a short story as if you were the candy about to be consumed by meddling, candy murdering children. Fiction. * * * Sure. "MY HALLOWEEN WAS SCARIER THAN YOURS!" I hear it all the time. I don't know how because I've got two parts. Chocolate and peanut butter (no ears). That's right. I'm a REESES! Irregardless, my halloween's way worse than yours. I'm awaiting death. I guarantee you will have a fruitful Thanksgiving! Get clothes you don't want while wining with your loved ones come X-mas. This is it for me. I start out wrapped in the finest material known to milk chocolate. Beautiful orange wrapper, yellow lettering--all of which is rashly ripped in half and within a matter of seconds I go from divine, brown candy to brown/green fecal matter. Sometimes red. I'm scrumptious through and through. Not for you gluttons! What, for some .5 seconds while your child devours my accompanying peer...2 become 1. I'm living a Spice Girls song... You're probably the one who's going to eat me, aren't you? OHHWWWWWW- How ironic? And you just sit there, reading my demise. ERRGHHH. It's probably making you hungry isn't it? Huh? And why!? Aren't I American or at the very least Westernized? Where's my American dream? Can't I go to college? Have I no chance to meet anyone else besides a tongue, teeth, and the swirl of brewing mixed sweets awaiting me in a human stomach? No. No. NO! You....YOU JUST SIT THERE, and buy COMMUNITIES OF MY PEOPLE. "Family Pack my hoo-haa," YOU TOOK OUR PRESIDENT! Do you know what the little girl said after eating our President in-front of his people? She didn't even finish him! She spit him up, and said, "Mommy he's stale!" OF COURSE HE'S STALE...HE'S LIKE NINETY YEARS OLD. The dog took care of the President. Now he's dead. Unappreciative! He gave it all, for you. He had his wife eaten back in 1940. But he's carried on, until one day...I can't...I just... Oh! OH NO! OH MY GOD NO. My container is being opened. They've got RICO, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Ohwmp! I've been tossed across the room, and now I've got cat hair stuck on me! AH! Ah! I'm...I'm naked. This is it. I will be eaten and digested. My flavored tainted by cat hairahh..... Worst image of all. The empty Reeses container. THAT'S WHATS HORRORIFIC! Forget the Human Centipede. * * * Thanks for reading. Please, be kind. This is my first writing submission.

I was in the main hallway of our house, preparing a batch of tomato sauce. The place was big and clean, and had huge glass windows overlooking the beach. Life had been pretty good lately. There had been a lot of changes and adaptations, but on the whole it was easier, better. No more worries of nations falling apart or people going hungry. I'd even gotten into cooking on my own terms. But I had to get the damn sauces made right now, so the crews could distribute them to the neighborhood; a real neat labor division, for anyone in the radius who wanted fresh tomato sauce. I loved cooking, but the rigid schedules I knew I would only ever despise. I absently maneuvered past my father in the hallway and almost dropped the big metal cylinder. A frantic thought passed through my head: *I'll have to make another because I'm going to drop this one*, and I had the strange impression that a drop-down menu with a Copy function would have been the absolute best way to remedy the situation. To my surprise I recovered with the cylinder still snugly in my hands. When I looked up at the countertop on the side of the hall, ready to heft the batch of sauce onto its receptacle plate, I found that there was already a cylinder of sauce there. I had only *made one*. I put the ingredients in, stirred, cooked... I racked my memory. The tall tub of sauce that was on the counter *hadn't* been made, but there it was. I realized I had copied it. I made another drop-down in my mind, and there it was, plain as day, a Copy function. While carrying a bucket of tomato sauce, I could think something that made something impossible happen. I hit the Copy function, and then there were two cylinders of sauce on the counter. My arms were going numb now, more from shock's adrenaline than the weight of the bucket, so I set the third next to them. I made another drop-down in my mind. There was nothing on it now. Just blank. No Copying. The tub of sauce had to be in my hands for it to work. A very strange feeling began to creep up on me. I felt compelled to slam the extra sauce buckets into the trash receptacle before anyone could see them and ask me to explain what I was doing, what I was doing to the matter and energy I'd created by impossibility, but I rejected it. I'd been a crazy person all my life, and now I had the chance to show my family I had every right to be crazy. I didn't get off to a good start on that. "*Look! Look!*" I yelled, eyes wide, backpedaling through the living room with my finger pointing at arm's length, instantly accusing the utterly inanimate buckets and their basil-flavored contents of abominable witchery. My father gave me a stale look. It could have been facial sign language in our family for *oh no, here we go again*. He waved my son over, and they left the room through the screen doors to play on the beach. I beamed a hurt look into the backs of their heads, but I couldn't bring myself to confront them verbally. The door closed behind them, and Mom turned to face me with a suppressed scowl. *There's still a chance to change your mind,* said some weird impression from my memories. *You can stop this. Or you can take another risk. But whatever you do,* ***move fast***. "Be respectful around your father! He's been through so much," said Mom, as my father and my son walked out of earshot. "Look," I said, as quietly and firmly as I could, and pointed at the counter again. Both our pairs of eyes followed my accusing finger again, and found three buckets of sauce on the counter. I fought the urge to sprint as I went over to pick one up. With the bucket in my hands, I took a breath and summoned another menu in my mind. It was blank. Then it hit me; when the weird voice spoke to me, I had been so afraid, I'd done some other strange thing, and cleared the ability out of instinctual fear. "Huh... wait. I have to make another! It saved the *procedure*," I said, and began throwing cabinets open to find an empty bucket and more ingredients. Outside, it began raining. I thought it had been clear a moment ago, but this was a whole new climate for me. In fact, we'd moved here because my father and I had missed the rain. *Hurry,* said the voice from my memories, fouling my happiness with the rain, giving it the flavor of rotten meat. *Unexpectedly* rotten, the worst flavor. "Oh, Lz_erk," said my mother, "you can't keep doing this. Don't you remember what happened last time, when we found you screaming in a ball in the middle of the house?" *Middle of the house?* My inner dialogue mocked, ever more eloquent than my stumbling speech; *You mean the pit that existed that whole afternoon. The impossible pit under the house that was gone only hours later. It was raining then too, and hard, and the water pooled around my knees and soaked my gloves and jacket while I screamed out my infantile confusion from a muddy gorge right under us. You never did come up with a plausible excuse for why you found me soaking wet when I appeared in the other hall. Never matched how I supposedly got there with the timestamps on the uses of the home's access points.* I was banging the sauce together as quick as I could, but it had only been two seconds while I thought, and I barely had an empty pot on the counter. *You're running out of time,* "said" the impression from my memories. Panic struck me as I found the layers of meaning in the memories: the dread, the knowledge that something unusual was going to happen, was thickening around me like a vat of corn starch and water under attack by flamethrowers. "I copied the sauce," I said. "I can do it again if I have time, I swear, but I copied it -- they appeared out of nowhere. Look at them, why would I make *three*?" I looked outside while Mom pondered my statements, and saw that the rain was coming down *hard*. It was thick pellets, droplets like hailstones, big enough to see in their diagonal downward pounding even at this distance to the windows in the living room. I was worried for my father and my son, but it was obvious now that what I had done was making it rain. Just like last time. The world was going into debug mode. I shouted, "do you realize what this means? *The world is a simulation!*" "You have to stop this," said my mother. "Don't you remember what happened last time? When you were sick. We found the solution, and everything was okay again." I stared at her in disbelief as the waves swelled outside.

“Jigaboo faggot,” George thought as he walked down the street to his apartment. The black man across the road was obviously drooling over the piece of detached cock in George’s hand. The smell was ripe and the cock was rotting, its mutilation was complete. George knew that he must soon begin a great quest through the realms of Alukmi’jas . But first, he had to get his hands on a Yeti Cooler to put his cock on ice. He hobbled along the city street with the swollen, bleeding mass between his legs. Where would he find a Yeti Cooler this late at night? “I know,” George said, “I’ll visit that hook-nosed kike on the street corner, he’s bound to own a cooler.” George just hoped that the nigger-jew had not been gassed since the last time he had spoken with him. As George approached the building on the corner, he caught sight of some commotion across the street. It was a good old fashion ‘dark alley’ gang-bang. George looked upon the magnificent fuck-fest and it made him sad to know that, without his penis, he could not take part in the forbidden love making. George turned back to the kike-nigger’s building and with one swift motion, George used his massive thighs to propel himself through the air. A five story jump was no match for George, as he smashed through the apartment window, he was met with the confused stares of some slanty-eyed, gook, faggots. “God dammit,” George said, “Wrong apartment.” With a quick and mighty action, all five gooks were put down by George’s glock. “No witnesses,” George whispered to himself and he blew the smoke out of his barrel. And for just one second George looked down at the dead, chink queers and felt a shred of remorse. That is until he looked even farther down, all the way down to their dicks. Maybe, just maybe, George would be able to harvest their cocks to replace his own, but that plan was dumb as fuck because gook dicks are too tiny. Then George heard a voice: “Oh lawrdy. lawrdy, wuz all dat racket goan on up der?” It was the landlady, a fierce nigress who entered puberty at the height of the black power movement. George could hear her climbing the stairs and he looked at his clip, only 2 shots left. He wondered if this would be enough to stop the nigger-lady. With the quick thinking he had been gifted as a small, faggy boy, he remembered what his father had always told him: “Son, always carry your Klan outfit on you.” George removed his clothing to reveal his lictor cloak and he began a cracker’s charge at the fat nigger-woman. With one majestic punch, his fist flew with the strength of a thousand generations of white power. The nigger-bitch’s head exploded into a thousand pieces. George looked down at the mess he had created, and small amounts of cum dripped from the fresh hole where his dick used to be. Then George looked down the hallway at apartment 69, the nigger-kike’s house. George sprinted down the hallway, kicked open the door and fired his last two shots right into the kike and his wife, shattering the woman’s skull but leaving her alive. George walked over to her and ominously asked: “Where is it?” the woman’s screams began to fill the room and once again George asked: “WHERE IS IT! WHERE IS YOUR YETI?” “What are you talking about?” she asked through her blood filled throat, “Why did you do this?” “Fuck you, you dumb cunt-whore,” George then put his boot on the woman’s neck and pressed down until her head was severed. After a quick search of the kitchen, George found what he had came for: the Yeti Cooler. He quickly filled it with ice and set his cock piece in there too, he was ready to begin searching.

White Light I was excited for tonight. However slightly nervous at the same time. I hadn’t seen all these people in so long. Were they going to like me still? Did they even remember me? Did they miss me as much as I missed them? All these questions running through my head was giving me a headache. I decided to take a quick shower. After I got out the shower I noticed I had a missed call from my old friend Tom. I immediately called him back. “hey Tom what's up?” I asked. “oh nothing” he replied “just wondering if you were going tonight that’s all” “yeah of course I am, I wouldn’t miss it for the world” I said “aw nice one! I was thinking, if you wanted to, you should come round early and help set up everything?”he asked I hesitated for a moment, he always was a bit flirty. “yeah okay sure, gives us time to have little catch-up before the party” “it's a date!” Tom exclaimed. “okay, bye” With that I ended the call. Tom and I have a past that I don’t really want to repeat. The next 2 hours flew by and I found myself driving to Tom's house. Once I arrived I walked straight in and no surprise he was in his bedroom rolling what he called 'doobies'. He offered me one (as he always does) but I declined, I didn’t want to be 'high' while I was seeing everyone again. Tom was much taller than I remembered. He still had that noticeable scar under his left eye, which I still to this day don’t know how he got. His long blonde hair flicked across his brow almost covering his eyes. I did notice however, that his clothes seemed to be on the tight side. His nipples were clearly visible through his plain, green t-shirt. By around 10pm most people had arrived and I was I feeling slightly unsettled. I didn’t really know anyone here. I mean I had talked with my old friends but they all seemed like they had somewhere better to be. So there I am just sat there on the crinkly, leather couch drinking alone. I start to notice that in fact, everyone was acting unnatural. I liked to people watch, it became a habit of mine once I started my new college. Something was certainly not right, I had to get out of here. I stood up and took a brisk walk to the door only to get intercepted by Tom. “leaving already?” Tom asked. “yeah kinda feeling a bit ill, one to many beers I think” I gulped. “I have just the thing, follow me” Feeling slightly apprehensive I followed. He lead me through a maze of people, to the outdoor sofa's. Surprisingly it wasn’t cold out, considering it was the middle of November. It was a clear night and the garden was illuminated by the full moon. We took a seat next to the smokers, they all had longish hair and looked like the stereotypical stoner’s you would see in the movies. Tom proceeded to pull out a doobie. He lit it and puffed away on it. I was starting to wonder why he brought me out here. He then sticks out his hand with the lit joint and beckons me to take it. I was slightly anxious about taking it, I had only ever smoked while I had been sober. I ignored my gut instinct not to take it and took a few big hits and passed it back. “not so bad, eh” Tom chimed. “hmm I suppose, I don’t feel any different” I lied. Inside my head was spinning. My vision was blurry. However I felt fine now, more at ease. That was until I detected everyone staring at me. What was happening, everyone looked odd, but I couldn’t put my finger on what was different about them. Then it clicked. They weren’t humans. I had to leave right now. I chucked my coat on and stumbled to the door. Fortunately for me it was open. I ventured on my journey across town, I debated calling a taxi but decided against the idea as I had no money. I got about halfway down the street when I heard someone calling my name. I swiftly turn around to see Tom stood there. “I need your help they're trying to get me” he shouted. Before I could answer him back one of the people from the party leapt onto him and started ripping him to pieces. I watched as this red-eyed creature, denatured my friend. I let out a whimper. What was this thing? I just witnessed my best friend savagely ripped apart in front of my very eyes. I sprinted away as fast as my legs could go. I finally made it to a supermarket where I found refuge in a older man. I blurted out my story and he offered me comfort and a place to stay, to which I accepted gratefully. I shakily climbed into his shiny black ford and closed my eyes as we sped off. I felt a cold shiver down my spine and I slowly opened my eyes. He was one of them. I manage to catch a glimpse of his blood red eyes and my worst fears came true. The car screeched to a halt and the old man got out. I made a split-second decision and flung the car door open and made a run for it. I was one step behind. The creature hooked its man like hands around my arms and pulled me towards it. It stopped for a moment and examined me. It proceeded to stare deep into me almost like it could see my soul quivering in fright. His arms jerked down towards my legs and I watched in agony as he dismembered my body, limb from limb. I saw the light and all my pain was gone. I was dead.

I don't believe in heaven. It doesn't make sense. There is no reason for it to exist. People are so blissfully ignorant of their own sins. They walk around all day, thinking only about themselves--and who can blame them? It's not like anyone else's life has any worth either. You wouldn't believe the things I've experienced. The fat, sloppy pigs who can't help but bastardize their own body by filling it with grease as if they were hooked up to a pump. They desecrate their bodies--they desecrate temples of God. Don't even get me started on the lust, the greed, the desire to hoard everything good and right in this world for themselves so they can slowly consume it and let its unholy after-shell rot away. It makes me sick to my stomach. Violence is within all of these godforsaken people, though some are vile enough to hide it away under a fake, nearly moronic smile as they speak. They never even had a chance, not one. God can never let these corrupt sacks of flesh into his holy kingdom. No, never. They're all destined for Hell where they'll get what they deserve. The pathetic slime across the screen is almost done talking now. Something about masturbation, doubting God, and losing his temper. Degenerate. I tell him the same thing I tell the others: "Just say the Lord's Prayer and exclaim your regrets to God and you will be forgiven. Go in peace." He probably has the jolliest expression on his face right now. Disgusting.

The scene: An idyllic houshold, with no peculiarities. The cast: A traditional nuclear family, living caricatures from a Norman Rockwell piece. The parents make small talk as they all eat a breakfast of bacon and eggs. The children hurriedly scarf down the meal, eager for school. The mother picks up the dishes and together they walk out the door to begin the day. Their footsteps make no noise as they walk on the black dirt where grass grew once upon a time. The father takes a whiff of the toxic, poisonous air and declares it is a fine day as he waves goodbye to his family and begins the trek to work. The brown and grey pollution that covers the sky shields the land from the scorching sun. The father whistles a tune as he carefully manuvers around the corpses and trash that litter the road. He decides to take the long way since there is yet another traffic jam made up of destroyed cars and fallen buildings. “Morning, Jim.” He says to no one in particular as he steps into the decrepit office, with holes in the celing and decomposing bodies at the desks. “Another day another dollar, eh?” He says for the 5,789th time to his cubicle neighbor. He types on the broken keyboard for a few hours, despite the monitor having a cracked, blank screen. Eventually, he gathers up a few discarded papers, organizes them neatly, and picks up the suitcase he never opened, ready to go home. “See ya tomor-” He stops midsentence. Something…isn’t right. “I…uh…morning, Jim…heh…wait. Uh…” Suddenly, his head feels like someone has hammered a nail into it. He drops his empy suitcase and looks around. The father of two walks around the office, causing the rats to scurry away from their meal. “I don’t feel very good…something the wife cooked maybe? Hah…” A part of him knows there is no one here to talk to. Yet such thoughts feel …wrong. “Of course everyone's here! Richard, you sly dog, you were just over for poker night last week! Right?” No response of course, yet he has heard his friend speak millions of times before. Why, he wonders, is Richard…and everyone else so quiet today? “I need to go home and lie down maybe. Sorry, guys, don’t let my episodes distract you, haha…haha…ha" He wanders out the doors and begins walking home, forgetting his car. Glass crunches under his shoes in the very old parking lot. Head still hurting, he walks to the charred skeleton of a tree and sits aganist it. “What’s wrong with me…feels like everything is falling apart..." As he tries to relax, he feels something sharp stabbing him. A splinter? He holds his hand up to see a small blue wire protruding from his index finger.

TL;DR monkey poo makes great pudding. In the mid 1950s the New York philharmonic was one of the best Symphony Orchestras in the world. And conducting was Major Jorge Fillmore. George Fillmore was a WWII vet who loved music, and found that conducting helped him keep his PTSD at a minimum (although PTSD had yet to be understood by the medical community, let alone given a name). The flow of the notes soothed his soul and the power of conducting such a large group to produce something so beautiful reminded him of his time commanding his troops through the dangers of war. On a cold December night, the New York Philharmonic was warming up for their Christmas performance. The upper class from all around poured into Carnegie Hall and greeted one another. Conductor Fillmore got ready in the back room and the orchestra was out on stage, behind the curtain, getting ready to play, and practicing their most difficult runs. Then when the time came and everyone was seated, the first chair violinist came on stage to much applause. He tuned the orchestra and then out came Major George Fillmore, his coat tails flowing behind him like curtains in the brease, as he walked briskly to the podium. He turned and bowed deeply to the audience and then addressed the orchestra and motioned to start the first piece. The audience well acquainted with these pieces sat quietly, enjoying the soft notes of Mozart as they floated through the hall. But as quickly as everyone had relaxed to the music, they were pulled from their stuppor by a loud gunshot. Then screaming. The orchestra all scrambled for the exits, trying to keep their instruments safe. As the smoke settled and everyone calmed down, they found a dead French horn player, and the smoking gun in the hand of none other than Major George Fillmore. The French horn player had flubbed a note in his solo and Major Fillmore had snapped and shot him. Major Fillmore claimed that he thought the player was wearing something that resembled a swastika and had triggered a flash back and caused him to shoot the player. But the orchestra knew that he had been yelling at that particular horn player for several weeks when he had been unable to play the solo properly. In the following weeks, a large and publicized trial was held. Fillmore was stripped of his rank and sentenced to death by electric chair. Following the trial, George was held in prison for several years as he tried to appeal and at least lessen his sentence but unfortunately after lots of trying, the day came that he was to be killed. As a kindness to those about to die, the prison allowed the prisoners to request anything to eat, within reason. As it was this time for George, they asked him what he would like for his last meal. "well," said George, "I like bananas... So I guess I guess I would love a bunch of bananas." So they brought him a bunch of bananas. And within an hour he had eaten every single banana in the bunch, and with that, he was lead to the chair. They strapped him in and connected all the leads, and after saying his final farewells, they threw the switch. The first pulse of electricity was used to kill the brain and make the victim unconscious. Then a second pulse is used to cause the internal organs to fail. However, George was barely phased by the first pulse, and then started to convulse slowly during the second phase. Then everything fell quiet. "Was that it?" asked George. "Umm.. That's a first." said one of the scientists that had helped develop the chair. They decided to put George back in prison while they made a few modifications to the chair. They decided to pull more power from the grid and just pump more juice to the chair. Hopefully this would at least kill him, but it could be more painful. Once the modifications had been made, they brought George back. The prison warden had some pity for him, so he allowed him to have a second last meal. When asked what he wanted to eat, George said that he loved the bananas he had had before, this time he would like two bunches of bananas. Sure enough within the hour, George had eaten both bunches of bananas, and was lead right back to that chair. They strapped him in again and threw the switch. When the first pulse hit him he clearly went unconscious, and all the lights in the surrounding city block dimmed noticably. And then during the second pulse, the current and voltage was so strong that lightning covered most of his torso, arcing from the helmet to the back plate to his arm rests. When the pulse was over, they pulled him from the chair and laid him on a gurney and they rolled him down the hallway toward the morgue. As they reached the morgue, suddenly George sat upright. He looked around and let loose a howling scream that was unlike any sound the doctors had ever heard. He then fell back to the gurney but kept breathing. Several hours later, he woke up again and was perfectly fine. The scientists, puzzled, decided that they really needed to finish him off once and for all. They had the electricity from all the surrounding towns, re routed to the chair. There was more power going to this chair than the Las Vegas Strip. Sure that this time they would kill him, they brought him back from the hospital, and gave him what they were sure would actually be his last meal. Again, curiously, he ordered bananas. But he ordered 3 bunches this time. And as with the last two times, he ate every single banana within an hour. They brought him in and strapped him in, and flipped the switch. This time lightning erupted from George and the chair, arcing across the room like a massive tesla coil. The man who flipped the switch, not realizing the danger, had been struck dead by the massive arcs and everyone else stood cowering in the viewing room waiting for it all to be over. Once it was over, they carefully pulled him from the chair, his hair singed off and second and third degree burns all over his body. They carried him down to the morgue where they double checked that he was dead. But alas. His heart was still beating. The scientists, determined to find out how he had survived, asked that he be nursed back to health so that they could ask him how he had survived. After several months, George Fillmore came out of his coma, and the scientists all gathered around and asked him, "How did you survive the chair three times?!" "well," said George, "I guess I'm just a bad conductor.