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On Shoulders of Giants The old roads still kept on winding as they always had, staunch expressways built to last through anything. The only issue was that nothing else did. The tortured sun began its heavy fall behind the jungle of sprawling concrete- souvenirs of an old world. He was sitting there as he always did; 14th floor 2nd office from the left. On a good day he used to be able to see out towards the brilliant oaks in the corner park. There were no more good days. Cracked eyeglasses flecked with ever –present dust gazed out the ghost of a window, illuminated like a halo. He was an angel, a god, but with no world to govern. He hadn’t been the one to do this, no, he had merely helped; abstract calculations and minor breakthroughs leading to this; this nothingness. This blank canvas soiled by failed attempts of art. “Standing on shoulders of giants” they had said. Where were the giants now? They had crumbled as the rest of them had; now they stand scattered upon the ground. Who was there to guide, to structure? Left like lambs without a shepherd. They say Mary can lead a little lamb, but Mary’s fucking dead. They’re all dead. David Russel; average height, slim build. How could it be otherwise without food or the will to gather it? The bombs hadn’t stopped at destroying civilisations, poisoning the lands and the seas. No, their sickly poisons had burrowed far deeper, dark tendrils corrupting the way to the core of man’s ambitions. There would be no recovery. There was no hope. They had said that the nuclear arms race was like standing waist deep with your sworn enemy in a pool of gasoline- he had 5 matches, you had 3. We all got fucking burnt. He spluttered- cracked lips parting for the first time in what felt like days. The deathly air passed through his yellowing teeth like smoke from a grandfather’s pool room; he had never learnt to play pool- never would. He questioned the ghosts around him, “Why am I still bloody alive? You lucky bastards got the easy way out.” Every day he asked the question, only to hear the same silence; the silence that lured, snared him in its sickly grasp. Its faux comfort held only the tormenting questions that impaled the scrappy defences he had tried to place. The office protected him like a holy lamb, from the grotesque butchering shadows that slice the night, but it couldn’t protect him from himself. At times he lost track of reality, or perhaps gained a hold of it; he had begun to notice things, scattering footsteps from the edge of his vision, coughing sounds echoing through the streets below him. Yet he passed them off as mere animals… of course they were animals. Everyone was dead. Just yesterday he had woken on what was once a wooden bench in the corner park, without recollection of getting there. As he stirred he was certain his eyes caught the flicker of a ragged coat-tail slipping around a corner as he began his retreat indoors. He was alone he told himself, but shadows of doubt began to cloud his mind. Maybe there was someone there. Nothing is ever certain. Stressed muscles stretched and tugged as he stood, action had to be taken before his mind lost all ability to filter the truth from what he saw. His legs were driven by the assurance of finding another person so he began to move out into the wastelands outside. Stiff limbs protest every move he made as he passed through the decaying buildings- they had to be this way, he was sure of it. Inhumane screams constantly pierced the otherwise silent night- ghosts of a former world trying to shepherd him back into their corrupted pens. But there it was again, the frantic padding of scuffled footsteps, a fleeting silhouette darting through the city’s crevices. The desperate pursuit continued, led by hopeful desires like a lamb to the slaughter. This was dangerous, this was redundant, this was stupid, this was wrong, this was- the ice cold barrel pressed smoothly into the exposed skin of his neck. Freezing his limbs to a standstill he attempted to catch a breath, but was left to a helpless whimpering in front of this shadow of death. Her piercing voice cut through his sobs like a knife, “So you thought you were alone? Did you think you were that special? You are nothing- never were either. This isn’t your world, this isn’t even a world anymore- and you helped make it this way. Do you call this your petty science? I call this hell.” The barrel dropped to a lower angle as he began to catch his breath again. She glared at the shrivelling husk of a person at her feet, her eyes glazed by cold thoughts. She could see His face imposed on this man’s. Her reason she was alive, guilt began to shroud her, feeding shreds of doubt into her mind. Was this not as bad as what he had done? But then the screams came flooding back, the images of the dead again began to haunt her. She had survived due to a man like this, but everyone had perished along with her love for him. A resounding echo down the alleyways shook the night, followed by the discordant screams of a pained man; the same screams she had drawn from Him before. She began to walk away now but stopped, turning to make a last remark. “Killing you now would be giving you mercy; you’re already in hell- now you shall experience it. That leg will never let you walk again, not that you’ll last long out here anyway.” She turned and calmly walked away. One down, more to go.
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It's been a blue day, leave some feedback our story begins with a crescendo of its own but don't worry there is still one more waiting. so there i am, still as a photograph. frozen in time, i sit strapped down to this thousand ton machine they say will take me to the moon and beyond. the count down begins from ten to one as my heart beats to the rhythm. then blast off, a rush of speed and force the likes of which i have never experienced in all my years. i shoot through the sky like a bat out of hell, past clouds and all the air they float through. soon out of the clutches of this world i head off to the embrace of another. lets take a second to describe the utter bliss that is weightlessness. the feeling of your actions in their most pure form is beauty in motion, like a symphony of the body reaching out to your fingertips. as i float about this metal monster in space navigating the bright switches and numerous panels before me i set course for the great beyond. my destination, the far out lands of my favorite marble in the solar system, mars. my course plotted and my head left to wander i climb into my vertical bed to rest. ive kept a picture of you folded crisply across my heart in hopes that the drum within me will reach you no matter the distance between us. its been a long time in this capsule destine for the extravagant but the thought of you has yet to escape me. passing terrestrial bodies strew about the cosmos i count the days to my arrival on the fat red planet. in these floating spheres i spot an oddly shaped ball spinning wildly. too late do i realize that this wild dancing asteroid is here to claim me a victim. i begin pulling my body about the labyrinthine of my soon to be metal coffin in space, desperately climbing toward the control center. and just as it had been seen the wild dancer came tearing into my ship. ripped apart in a fantastic show of splintering metal and flailing tubing, the metal beast i called home becomes nothing more than sand strew across the beach of space. i float lifeless about the shards, my hand frozen over my heart just above the now-worn picture of you to keep my body company. so dies the internal drum connecting my soul to yours, here i bid you farewell.
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they go to the store. When they get there, Ally is there and she gives them a big, cheesy grin, “Hey guys! Nice to see you two here ”. “Yeah... okay.” they said. Ally was mean to them, so they ignored her. In the back of the store, they casually browsed the section with toy cars. Ally was staring at them; she had a mean glare when she wanted one. She was also a hooker, they suspected. They left after five minutes, the shop was uncool. Outside, the clouds were high in the sky and a line of smog lay lazily on the horizon. “Man, this day... shit’s crazy dude.” “I know man. Love it here, aye.” They walked down the street. The sun was like their friend: it gazed happily down at them. They were glad to be rid of Ally. “Dude, Mary Jane is waiting for us inside.” “Yeah man, okay”. They jacked some bikes and rode home quickly. The ghetto was thriving with little kids; it really was a gorgeous day. As they pushed the door open, they were greeted with a comforting smell of old leather, mould and dirty clothes. They liked living there. Life is good, man.
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No Excuses My fist hit her face. Somehow it reminded me of the first time I picked her up for a date, when I had brought her flowers. Her bones were thin and soft, they gave way easily to my anger. The whole experience was less satisfying than I had hoped. I had wanted to crush her, to destroy her as she had done to me. But I didn’t want it to feel like smashing a bug or taunting a retard, which is how it felt. I wouldn’t say it was disappointing though, either our first date or our last meeting. I gave her all that she deserved. For three years she had pumped emotion into me. Filled me with love and caring, topped me off with a fiery lust, emotions that I hadn’t known existed. Then she threw gasoline onto what she had created and it blew up in her face. I thought that she was the one. She told me that I was right and that she felt the same way. I was young and dumb, stupid enough to believe such things. It felt like I was betrayed by my faith. Like I had died and stepped to a pair of pearly gates, only to have the man standing there with the checklist laugh at how I had spent all my life following the wrong book. You fucking idiot. You really believed that’s how it goes? So yeah, while I was hoping that her jaw held a little stronger, I wasn’t disappointed to feel a couple of her teeth loosen under my fists. I hoped that every time she kissed another man she would remember me, that I would be part of her love life forever. At least I knew she would be thinking of me when she went to the dentist. Our impacts on each other scarred us both. She broke me in her own ways. I now know the monster I can become. I know that sometimes there are no excuses.
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The office was dull and dreary, as if someone unleashed a sort of gloomy gas that slowly leaked through the vents until it nestled snugly inside everyone’s despondent figures. The walls around him composed of hard unforgiving concrete, and the only real noise was the dull beeping of the printer going off in the background. People walked around slowly, unwittingly wearing scowls, most likely wondering thoughts of how it could have come to this. The short big bellied man in front of him continued to speak, but the words seemed to drown in the helplessness that surrounded them. The stale air permeated his lungs spreading the depressing disease that infected the entire office. Dead. That seemed to be the only way to describe his thoughts on everything around him, dead. The walls; dead. The people; dead. The company; dead. There was no real life here. He answered the fat man’s questions with what he wanted to hear, triumphs of jobs past, heroic actions that conquered once complex tasks, grandiose words that invoked intelligence and admiration. He was a storyteller and his life was an adventure with experiences and accomplishments that this company wanted, no, that this company needed. The fat man seemed oblivious to the cries of hopelessness around him, unaware of the lifeless eyes that looked across the table at him. A faint “you’ll fit right in” only made his heart drop further into the complacency that imprisoned everyone else around him. It was a feeling he knew well. He was handed some papers as he walked out, contracts that would bind him to this soulless entity for as long as it could in an attempt to squeeze whatever life it could from him before spitting him right back out. What others might have thought was the American Dream looked to him to be more of a drawn out nightmare. It was about that time when he realized that this was not where he wanted to be, not now, not ever. He dreamed of something more, something that had meaning, something that could change the way the world works. The sad fact of it was he was going to sign those papers. He was going to join the mindless uninspired workplace chatter. He was going to join in the mind numbing meetings, the onslaught of paperwork and the endless barrage of emails. He found himself wondering how it came to this, and soon realized that he was indeed, going to fit right in.
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And so he sat alone. The soft glow of his fireplace embers reflecting in eyes. They did not focus, for his gaze had turned inward. For the first time in countless years he looked upon his own self unblinded, unbound by his own lies. He felt fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of what was to come. He saw beauty behind the rot. Like a once great city, abandoned to the wilds but yearning for rebirth. He had often questioned his existence, and it's purpose. He had lied, manipulated and alienated everyone who cared about him. Not out of spite, but out of compulsion. It was the path of least resistance. He did what he could to use as little effort as possible. He often wondered why he made such choices, or forced other to make such choices for him. Was he ill? Was his braim wrong? Why did he know his flaws, yet not know how to change them? It seemed logical that once the problem was understood the solution would present itself. For years he sat in that old armchair, gazing into the flames. He, with all the knowledge he could acrew, could never find a solution until now. So once again he asked himself, as he had done so many times before, "Do I have a soul?" And he spoke, to no one but himself, "Yes.
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Bubbles The short and turbulent life of a bubble The life of a bubble begins before it is even aware of its upcoming existence as two strange but potent chemicals that are destined to come together intermingle and become one, often times in the form of dish soap and a sugary water. This is to become the shell and physical presence of a bubble. A mysterious force then dips a device that absorbs the bubble shell, then breathes it’s own breath into the shell, engorging the bubble to hundreds of times bigger than it had ever been. The bubble then wraps itself around the life force it’s been blessed with in attempt to protect this precious resource. Protecting this life force now becomes the primary goal of this bubble, and its existence now becomes a struggle to keep its coveted life from the dangers of the outside world. Unused to its new enormous size it bends, twirls and is blown around until ultimately its outer shell has no more strength to hold on. The outside forces finally pierce the shell of the bubble and suck out all the life force, leaving nothing but an insignificant puddle on the ground. Bubbles never survive long, nor do they ever have a chance at survival in the actual world, yet we breathe life into them in an attempt at our own pleasure without the slightest awareness of the turmoil filled journey we force unto these fragile beings.
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Primitive emotions of magnified rage and betrayal eradicate reason and logic as the infinite universe seems to burden my shoulders. The algorithmic mentality that seemed to link my bones like flexible cartilage snapped and spiraled towards distortion, only to kindle into a maddening adrenaline rush. The comforts of idealization became dead weight, and I could hear the faint whispers of a familiar tone climb back into my ears; “Run…” it spoke with a raspy yet forceful tone, “and never look back.” For a brief moment I allowed oxygen to flow smoothly through my lungs, blinking rapidly to accommodate my anticipative twitch. Without a second thought, I leap from the park bench and abandon the illumination of lamp posts for the engulfing darkness of forest. My legs and arms pump with a new endurance and my mind flexes with an enhanced dexterity as I maneuver through draught inflicted woods; no destination, no emotion, just pure execution. After what felt like hours of running, the coal to my manic machine began to dwindle. Just as the labyrinth of bark seemed to be my resting place for the night, I break through density into an open field of tall grass with a sickly lit moon illuminating a crystal clear pond at it’s center. The scenic serenity combined with the pond’s apparent misplacement dazzles me; “how could such tranquility be found amongst decay and static?” Cooling autumn air sweeps in with a pressing surge, urging my now fabric like shell towards the center of the field; like rustling golden red leaves, I could not resist. Approaching the water, I collapse by it’s edge from exhaustion as my raspy guardian angel’s voice calls back to me: “drink… quench your anxiety and replenish your tenacity.” Without a moments hesitation I submerge my head under the frigid oasis and drank until my constricting throat began to choke. Coming back up for air, I stare at my reflection in the pool in utter bewilderment. Calm yet precise eyes stare back at me, draining the helium and poison from me like a burning zeppelin. Influential psyche infiltrates my tired mind and wipes away augmented fear, replacing it with a taboo confidence and encyclopedic intellect. Looking back towards the ludicrous world I find a series of unorthodox yet efficient plans worth setting in place; the strife for personal glory has been bestowed. Looking down at the lake I glance back into the eyes still resting on me in the reflection, and I hear the reflection whisper in that raspy voice “There is no better army than me, myself, and I.
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The copy room is right down the hall from my office. Which is both a good and a bad thing and I'll tell you why. Its a good thing because when I need to make a copy, its very convenient for me to do so. This is doubly good because, as an accountant, I often need to make copies of things even in this new digital age. We get a lot of different documents that require copying like time cards, purchase orders, receipts, invoices and various other things of those types. It is a bad thing because the copy room, at least in my office, is where people go to have the most awkward and strained conversations that I believe the human race is capable of having. The conversations I hear in the copy room make me wish that we had never invented language and we were still all just rummaging around in the underbrush looking for grubs or whatever to eat. I hate copy room conversations. My friend Frank gets to sit by the water cooler. And even better, he's got one of those old-style tall-walled cubes so that when he's sitting there or whatever nobody really thinks he's sitting there at all because they can't see him. I don't even need to tell you that he gets all the good gossip. Seriously, his work day is like sitting around listening to old fashioned radio dramas all day. He's personally witness four home-wrecking office romances begin and then crash and burn while filing all collating. Its amazing. One time he stopped a terrorist attack. I swear. He heard something and he said something. And what do I get? Just last week I heard a sales rep and a girl from accounts receivable discuss…in detail…the proper constancy for oatmeal. I swear - you can't make this up. That one was especially horrible but I do exaggerate just a little. Most of the time when I'm distracted by the conversation in the copy room, it tends to be about what people did with their weekend and slash or nights before. Let me tell you something: nobody does anything even remotely fun on the weekends. Including me. Like, did you know there's a skydiving school not ten minutes away from this office? Or there's a soup kitchen that always needs volunteers. And a place where you can learn to shoot a bow and arrow while riding a horse. But all everyone ever does is barbecue. I swear, if I have to hear about one more barbecue, I'm going to ride a horse into this office and shoot the lazy conversationalist with a bow and arrow. Without dismounting. The terrorist attack that Frank stopped was when a guy got fired and then he was going to bring in his AK-47 or his gun or something and shoot all of us for still having our jobs. And Frank heard about it and Frank told someone and that guy went to jail. Swear to god. He's a hero because of that water cooler. I guess I can't talk too badly about the people in the copy room. I mean, I do only listen to what they have to say because I'm so bored sitting in my half-tall cube that whatever mindless drivel they are going on about is just about on par with the purchase orders I'm filing or whatever. Did you know that before I took this job, I was kind of hazy on what a purchase order actually was? I'm not going to lie to you, I'm still a little unclear. Its like money - you write down what you want and say you promise to pay for it and then you get it almost right away. But you don't actually pay for it right away. Did you know that some places prefer a purchase order to actual money? I don't get it. I think I should try to buy groceries with a purchase order then move before the bill comes. That might work. I will say this, Frank has it worse then me because nobody every whispers weirdly in the copy room. They're always doing stuff that's shady by the water cooler -whispering and making you feel like they're talking about you. But over by the copy room, they're pretty on the level, I guess. They don't really have anything to whisper about or lie about or anything like that while they are making copies. But I'm pretty sure people are always lying while they drink water out of paper cones. Don't ask me why but its true. Maybe the cones remind them of dunce hats or something and they think that they can get away with being small-minded assholes while they drink out of them. Anyway, the other day Frank told me he heard some people at the water cooler talking about the weird lady who sits by the copy room. I thought it might be someone else at first but then I realized that everyone in the cubes around me are man. There are one or two empty cubes but they've been empty so long that we kind of just ignore them like they're null-space that doesn't exist or like they're full of concrete and just…empty. Frank came up to me over in the copy room and told me that some people were talking about how weird I was. I have to be honest with you, I was so excited to have some gossip happening in the copy room for once that I didn't even have time to get offended. So I guess what I'm trying to get at is that you have to, like, I don't know - if you want gossip in the copy room instead of stupid conversations, then you have to get up and start gossiping in the copy room instead of just copying your purchase orders and then going back to your cube.
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This is a short I wrote for my English class awhile ago. It's based off a story about me when I was little that my parents tell a lot. Thanks for reading. I’m on another errand trip with mom, but I don’t mind because I get to go for a ride in the car and she always ends up buying me things at the places we go to. We pull into a parking spot and my mom lifts me out of the car. I tightly squeeze her hand as we walk across the street because everyone drives so fast. We get inside the bagel shop and get in the back of a huge line and now I’m bored. There is nothing to do and I don’t want to hold my mom’s hand anymore, but she won’t let go because she thinks I will wander off like last time. The line is taking forever and I just want my bagel. My mom leans down and says, “Ian do you want a plain bagel?” I think of how much fun a plane bagel would be, but remember that helicopters are so much cooler. I say, “No, I want a helicopter bagel.” My mom gives me a look and says, “There’s no such thing as a helicopter bagel.” This really upsets me because now I have decided I want a helicopter bagel and will not settle for a plane one. I say it louder, “I want a helicopter bagel.” My mom asks me what a helicopter bagel is, so I start spinning around with my arms out making helicopter sounds. Now the whole store is looking at me and my mom is telling me to be quite, so I start yelling, “I want a helicopter bagel!” over and over again. So finally my mom agrees to get me one. I am so excited. I get in the car and my mom hands me my bagel. It looks like the one I always get, so I tell my mom she gave me the wrong one. She turns around and says, “No that is the helicopter bagel.” That’s when I realized I had been getting a helicopter bagel all along.
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3 ½” Rabbit snapped the tape measure shut. It was shorter today than it had been in a long time in spite of the fact that he had been feeding and watering it faithfully, in the exact ways that the doctor had ordered. Although it was shrinking, Rabbit, was proud of its beauty. He kept it well pruned, trimmed and styled. It was shaped in a unique and individual way. Rabbit only wished that it would grow, so that he would have more of it. He was lucky though. This puny amount of sanity was compensated for by his huge cock. He didn’t need a lot of money, a big truck, or a woman much more beautiful than himself, all of which would weigh heavily upon the small beautiful object that he cared so much for. The rest of the world could, simply, go to hell. Between his lovely sanity, though small in stature, and his massive cock, Rabbit would always be full of satisfaction. Even though it was small, easily stepped on, broken or misplaced, Rabbit enjoyed playing with his it. He would let it loose, close his eyes, and count to a hundred then search all over so that he could find it once again. Sometimes it hid under the sink, in the bathroom. Other times it got behind the water heater. Rabbit took his sanity for walks, letting it run around on a long leash. He let it play with other peoples stiffer versions of itself. Sometimes it would make strange noises and he would have to force feed it pain killers to get it to quiet down. Most of all, Rabbit cherished watching it sleep, all curled up on the rug next to the fire. So peaceful, so quiet. He pitied those who pushed their sanity so hard, expecting so much from it, forming it to what their bosses or television told them it should act or look like. So many people pushed it away, tempting it to run off and abandon them. “Relax,” Rabbit would say “It’s not how much you have, but how you use it that’s important.” Or that they should, “let it go, and if it comes back it truly yours.” But they rarely understood. People held tightly to their own versions sanity, choking it off, or kept it in small boxes, not letting it see the outside world. Fearful it may take fancy to something that wasn’t in their small controlled environment, or that it may hang upside down from the monkey bars at the playground and embarrass its owner. Those people raced like rats, trying to make up for their deficiencies. Maybe if they simply used a smaller ruler they would be as content as Rabbit was.
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It had been cold ever since i saw the newsman tell me it was cold. I wonder how he always knew it was my birthday? Ever since my last birthday I've noticed he'd tell me all about my day would go. would it be Sunny? Would it be rainy? Was there a 10 car pile up on the Pilldon Rd.? No, but i wouldnt know that when I got in my car on My Last Birthday. You know birthdays are something you take and go with, like a pat on the back or a kiss on the tongue in the cheek. you cant always have a birthday, but when you do, boy its a day all right. no one ever expects to die on their birthday, but neither do some ones. foreshadowing is a subtle artform, like predicting the weather. also every famous person ever died on their birthday. And with that, I woke up. Dreams are like words except abstract, kind of like birthdays. I knew today would be the best birthday ever, but would it be the last? I looked up at my ceiling fan watch. "Half-past-birthday?" "Oh no i better get ready for my party at the Birthday Party Emporium, right off Pilldon Rd." I said with a confident haze of enjoyment streaking across the night sky that was my face. "Computer, hold my calls" and with that I began my birthday rituals, and after I finished draining my blood, I started getting ready for my birthday. I sat down in the for the cathy ray tubivision fully dressed and with a bowl of corporate culture on the table in front of me, i was ready to hear my first birthday wishing-well of the day (from the weatherman remember?) "warning there will be a pile up at -" and then i noticed the ticker at the bottom of the screen. its quarter-past a birthday. i hated to break tradition but i had to go. "i'll make it up to you next year weatherman" i said winking at the tubivision with coy birthday joy. I hopped in the front seat of my carwagon and proceeded to my destination (Pilldon Rd.). There wasnt much traffic, which was odd. It was almost like 9 cars were missing from the road. I turned right onto Pilldon Rd. It was 9 car pileup. I realized I was the 10th car. I wish I could say my entire life flashed before my eyes or I had some profound realization as I blew out my candles for the last time, but since I just told you it wont come true. "In recent weather news, the 10 car pile up happened ... it turns out there was a birthdayman involved. Happy birthday to him." Fact: 100% of important people die on their birthdays.
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Streets were dead. As silent as haunted hill. As deathly quiet as a wake with only the sound of mourning played by the rustling tree branches. The puddles were un-jumped in. The sidewalk as still as the stars and the streetlights shined forlornly upon nothingness. It was then that the dead rose from their holes that man had dug for them. It was then, when Halloween spirit had died, that the dead took their vengeance. The bodies clambered door to door on weak and knocking bones. They trouped through the night, stopping at every house, gathering every pumpkin as their helmets, for their fleshless skulls. And it was the living they preyed on. Stronger and more alive they grew, more like their former selves with every morsel of life they devoured. Soon enough, the dead had more life than the living and the victims of this Halloween night crawled into the holes they dug for their loved ones. They snuggled down into their new homes, covered themselves with earth and awaited the next Hallow's Eve for the revenge that would taste as sweet as candy to their tongueless mouths.
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"Letters to God" To: God, heaven From: Billy, the red house at the end of the block. April 12th 2001: Dear God, I am writing to you today to make sure my daddy got into heaven alright. Mom said he wasn't coming home again, that he had important business with you in heaven. I hope you have TV in heaven, he was always really sad when he missed football games. Mommy keeps crying, and I want her to know that Daddy isn't missing any football games. Well I have to go, mommy says we are going to honor daddy's memory. I remember him just fine, but mommy says it's important that I got so I never forget him. -Billy the red house at the end of the block. December 13th 2001: Dear God can you tell my daddy me and mommy miss him? It has been really lonely without him here. Mommy doesn't cry as much, but she still doesn't smile very often either. We got a Christmas tree today! Mommy was going to put the star on top, but I made her wait; we always wait for daddy to put the star on for us. I really hope you're not making him work too hard up there, he always gets a backache when he works too hard. Mommy said not to worry because you are a nice boss, but I wanted to make sure you knew. I have to go help mommy with the chores, she has been getting really tired lately. -Billy, the red house at the end of the block March 5th, 2002: Dear god, I turned 8 today! I am nearly all grown up! Daddy sent me a bike! Can you tell him I like it a lot? I didn't even see him bring it. Mommy said you were keeping him really busy so he didn't have time to say hi to me. I miss daddy... But I know he is in a better place up in heaven. I'm still not very good riding a two-wheel bike yet, but I keep trying! I only fell over twice so far! I bet by next week I will be riding down the street. I bet daddy will be proud to know I never give up, just like he told me. I have to go help mommy with chores again, she has been really sick lately. -Billy the red house at the end of the block. June 22nd 2002: Dear god, can you ask daddy for the cookie recipe he always used? Mommy is still really sick, I know those cookies always made me feel better. Mommy said it was because he put a cup of love in them, but it was really because of the extra chocolate chips. I wish I could make her feel better. Daddy used to make everyone feel better. And can you make sure you have an extra room just in case? I know mommy says she is going to be alright, but I heard gramma tell my aunt that mommy might not make it. I KNOW you are the boss in heaven, so can you please make sure she makes it to heaven with daddy? -Billy the red house at the end of the block. May 20th 2003: Dear god, sorry it has been so long since I wrote to you. I hope mommy made it to heaven alright. Will you tell her I said hi? Gramma let me move in with her since I would have had to do ALL OF THE CHORES myself otherwise. I got a puppy last week, I named him Tim; just like daddy. Gramma said he is fixed, but I don't know since never saw him break. I really miss mommy and daddy, but I know they are happy to be with each-other. I have to go get ready for karate, but I moved so please remember my new address. -Billy, the green house across the street. OCT 26th, 2003: Dear god, please let mommy and daddy know I will get to see them soon. I got really sick, and the doctor said it was hairydairy; I don't know what that means but it sounds like spoiled milk. Gramma said it just means I got it from mommy. They gave me some icky medicine that made me throw up a lot, but it didn't make me feel better. I even let the doctor practice surgery on me! I don't know why that would make me get better, but gramma said he is the best doctor because people let him practice a lot. I hope I get to stay in the same house in heaven as mommy and daddy, its been hard being sick without them here to tell me I will be ok. -Billy, the big hospital in the city. November 29th 2003: Dear god, I hope billy made it to heaven ok. This is his gramma Judy writing to you today. I found all the letters that he wrote to you in his room today. Please tell him I miss him. His dog Tim misses him too, he sits by the door every night waiting for Billy. He doesn't understand that billy lives in heaven now. Well, time to go let Tim back in, goodbye...Billy. Judy, the house across the street. -Fin Hope the poor grammar wasn't to off putting. R.T.
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The perimeter. Paul is sitting. The swirl kicks on. The tossing and slapping of wet outfits reminds him of a home. He checks his zipper as he sees a pretty young woman walk in. Now he checks his mangled reflection in the curved glass of the washing machine. He wishes he was wearing his better shirt, but it's wet and slapping. Paul's daughter looks up at him, his shame beaming through. She tells him, "i like all of the colors together." Paul smiles at her. She asks, "what colors do you like?" Paul hadn't thought about this in a while. He says, "blue," but he is rather unsure. His mind jumps to him in bed with the young woman, her hair draping his crotch. He's fucking her. Too fast. He's kissing her. She takes off his pants. He takes off her shirt. Perfect breasts. Now he's fucking her. Would she swallow? Her hair... it's everywhere. "Dad, do sharks have souls?" Paul snaps back. He's wearing his bad shirt. He fidgets. "Everything has a soul, princess." The water drains in front of him. The spin begins. It's hot in that laundromat. His daughter is humming "Gloria." Paul goes to the restroom, having an old swedish woman watch his daughter. It's filthy in there. Graffiti and various forms of bodily fluid cover the walls. He's glad he's wearing his bad shirt. A young hispanic man steps out of the stall, tightening his belt. Paul doesn't move. The man stops. He asks, "do you have any quarters?" Paul's mind flashes quick fuck-offs and get-a-jobs before handing over $3.47 in change. Relieving himself, the thoughts of the young woman return. His daydreams hit the seat and before cleaning it up, he thinks, "it doesn't matter anyways." He then thinks that that's why the restroom is like it is. The lack of judgment and no independence. He leaves the seat as is and doesn't wash his hands. Returning to the lobby, the florescents sting his eyes, then the daylight. Silhouettes shine into familiar strangers. His daughter is reading the comics from the newspaper. The swedish woman gave them to her. He's in his bad shirt, pants splashed with piss, zipper down. The young woman walks by, glances and ignores him. The hispanic man is walking out, eating a chocolate bar and drinking a coke that he got from the vending machines. Paul sits next to his daughter and hums "Gloria" as his daughter giggles. The laundry will be done soon.
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It wasn't that he didn't want to write, or that an idea never came to him naturally, but rather just that he was never truly inspired. For 40 years of his life he wrote and wrote his way through the old desk in the study, the desk of memories. His father had written on it, painted whole worlds and collages of life and love, and his father before him, still remembered musings and prose that you could occasionally chance upon if you searched hard enough in dusty bookshops in small towns that were fast becoming a thing of the past. Even now, as he glanced down, he could see the marks and etchings of generations of writers, scratches filled with the days of distance. A faint exclamation mark, at the top left, from his father's last work, signing off with a flourish as the last words were put to paper. A gash, shearing through the middle of the surface, an angry imprint of failure, his own, many years ago. But many of the marks he failed to recognise. It was no secret that his memory was nothing like what it was. Indeed, his last visit to his son, a rigid, cold affair where the only topic thicker than the silence was the bitterness emanating from his own failure, surrounded by his son's success, was permeated with the worry of decline, as words that may have previously meant something to him tumbled from his son onto him like unfamiliar rain. Who were these people he met? What book is he talking about? When did we go there? The questions deafened the silence in his mind, drowning out the blank sheet in front of him, the cold room, the faded desk. But at last! A spark! From the corner of his mind the idea began to form. Characters bounced through his consciousness, as he wrote with unabashed joy, a fury, at the paper in front of him. The paper would not conquer him like he had thought, like his father had thought. He would not be the one to fail the desk. He wrote and he scrawled like never before, the idea flowing through the pen onto his enemy. After what seemed like hours, he put the pen down. Triumph resonated in him. The enemy sat in front of him, ravaged with scars of ink. He had won. Tommorow began a new chapter in his life, one that made up for his shortcomings, his failures, his memory, his distance with his family. He placed the paper down to one side and went to sleep. The next day, he rose. He made the long walk towards the study, towards the desk of memories, the centre of the room and the centre of his life. He sat down, moved the old papers to one side. He picked up his pen. He stared at the enemy. But, it wasn't that he didn't want to write, or that an idea never came to him naturally, but that he was never truly inspired..
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This is an ex/crosspost from shortstorycritique I posted, not sure if its okay so please tell me if I'm doing something wrong. This is my first short story, its a a rough draft, there's some more things I want to add. I'd like to know whats good and whats bad please Also any ideas in general. I'm still not sure how to end it. I can rework the last half, I don't really like that part, I prefer the first half honestly. Also I suck at grammar, so please help with any mistakes you find :) Allan William’s cold eyes bore into his reflection. The very picture of death, the only reassurance of life being the slight tremble that silently shook throughout his body. “I... there is reason to believe the culprit may have been of foreign decent” Noah spoke up, he could no longer bare the silent tension in the air. “This must be a mistake, he was here... I saw him just moments ago” Allan replied firmly. “...He’s been gone since noon-” “-There has to be a mistake, take me to the site, only I can confirm it myself” “Something like that... The characteristics are unmistakable, I advise against you seeing it for yourself” Allan’s eyes met Noah’s through the mirror and in that moment he could have sworn they were the very black of the coals from hell. They demanded compliance. They were the kind that could instil even the very king into docility. ~~~~ Keeping a steady fast pace, Allan strode purposefully towards the small wooden gate, Noah trodding behind. It stood precariously – almost pathetically against its two worn down supports poles. Allan launched it aside, seemingly indifferent to the severed wooden panels and shards collapsing to the ground. It hadn’t stood a chance. Never faltering Allan made his way past the towering stone walls till he reached the end of the abandoned building and froze. The sun gazed down upon his back in a fiery defiance to the rising chill Allan felt throughout his body. Sure enough the familiar tussle of brown hair lay in a puddle crimson. His gaze fixed, he slowly made his way towards the body, each step feeling like a million miles. Stopping just inches away, blood pooling at his boots. The body’s eyes stared at him in the same soulless way which reflected his own gaze. Crouching down he fondled the gold-plate necklace, identical to his own- meaningless now. A long moment passed. “I never knew a man could have this much blood” he finally murmured. Stepping out of his trance, at last he started to notice his surroundings. Mrs. Gerald stood solemnly against the stone wall, gazing into the woods as if she weren’t really there at all. Noticing his transfixion on her, she decided now was her cue to speak. “Obsidian. His hair as black as the devils heart. That was my first thought, although I only got a glance, I only needed one.” Allan shot her a hard glare, not intending to be sinister, but menacing nonetheless. “The perpetrator You know who it is?” “I do believe there is only one such anomaly out there with hair so black and eyes so blue.” Allan shifted his position. He stared intently at his brothers gashed neck, fluid still oozing out of the open wound. Eyes, nose, mouth, everything so like his own, identical. He could practically taste the metallic blood filling his mouth. This was the closest he had ever come to seeing himself die. Which was too close. A trembling anger quaked throughout his tense physique, simmering at boiling point. Still he held a collected stance and voice, “Why?” “I don’t know the details. I was quite far into the forest at first before I heard something. A loud ‘Halt!’ I started to move towards the clamour, but remained hidden throughout. I am under the impression Dominic approached your brother- approached Allon, intending to loot him of his valuables, this did not sit well with Allon though, who attempted to fight back. A man with a sword and a man with his fists are hardly an equal match. Whether the killing or not was planned is unbeknownst to me. A dark fury reigned over Allan, each new word bringing on more hatred by the second, building up a string of intense animosity, with no one-nothing to release it on. He turned around swiftly, marching with purpose but without destination. Noah had picked up the sword evidently used in the scuffle. He was observing it carefully, watching how the red tinted metal glistened in the sun. Snatching the blade off from his friend’s analytical eyes, he smoothed it across his palm, wiping the blood away, which might as well be his own. “What do you plan to do with that Allan? ALLAN!?” Ignoring his calls he strode fast towards his next destination. His long legs giving him vantage that he was practically jogging at a normal persons pace. As he heard footsteps and calls behind him, without so much as a peer or a peek he fastened his pace, so much so it wasn’t long before Noah was out of sight and out of mind. ~~~~~ Dominic had scrubbed himself raw until he wasn’t sure whose blood was on his skin anymore. Entering his home he still felt dirty. Impure, whatever innocence he had left at 27 had been destroyed, by none other than himself. Sitting down he shook and shook until he felt he had used up all his energy for a life time and hoped he would never wake up. His vision became blurry, starvation taking over. A clatter sounded from outside, suddenly he feared the worst. Did anybody know what he’d done? Surely the body wouldn’t have been found so soon, the place he chose was completely deserted. Surrounded by trees and a road hardly touched. Although he swore the energy in him was completely depleted, suddenly a rush of adrenaline had him upright on his feet and he could have sworn his heartbeat echoed throughout the house. A whisper of a woman’s voice from outside was like the blessing of an angel. As his wife and two daughters poured inside tears of relief threatened to spill, but he swore he wouldn’t let his kids see him weep. He had to be strong, at least for them. With his heart rate still racing, silently he embraced his wife, surprising her for a man who rarely shows affection. His feelings sat on the brim of his eyes and his nose, but he kept them at bay because Dominic was a man of pride. ~~~~~ Finding an anomaly is not too hard, people notice anomalies and people talk. As Allan’s target destination gets closer, the bursting flames of his emotions begin to erupt. Vengeance- No, justice, will be served. Bursting into the doors, Allan is welcomed with the sight of a blissful family. This stirs up his wrath even more so, the insidious black of the family hair reminding him of his own darkened heart and eyes. In a split second Dominic looks up, his face instantly pale with pure terror, and a startled recognition. Then in a split second Allan seizes his body, the brim of the sword barely touching his neck and puts him in a secure hold, himself strategically placed behind him, Dominic’s life on the line. Despite his shock at the development, before anyone else can utter a word, Dominic spouts warily “Y-You’re... alive?” In spite of his position a wave of relief pulsates through him. “Guess, again, I suppose you’ve never heard of the William brothers” As dread and realisation sinks in on Dominic’s side, horror and confusion beset his family. “H-HELP! What is this!?” Clarissa shouts in terror. “Leave Clarissa, NOW!” Dominic demands desperately. Despite his effort the house remains still, fear being the biggest emotion, just next to wrath. “I have come here for a well-deserved justice” Allan whispers menacingly, blind with rage. Stroking Dominics neck with the blade of the sword, he creates a small slit. “You know what they say, an eye for an eye...” He grasps the ends of the sword tighter “...A neck for a neck” Shocking the household into silence he continues, pushing the blade a little further in. “Give me one good reason why I should not kill you right now”. Quivering under the blade, he swallows a hard knot in his throat. “I...” thinking carefully he continues, “There is no good reason for you not to kill me, I am a guilty man, but I am a guilty man with a duty to provide for my family. When a man is faced with tough times he resorts to bad decision making. I assure you I did not intend for this to happen!” choking back it takes all his will to persevere. “I just wanted to take a little something from a rich looking cove”. “And instead you took his life” Allan added bitterly “I did not expect him to fight back, I am lousy with a sword, it was a slip-up, an accident!” Clarissa whimpered, shocked, in the corner of the room, hugging her children forcefully. Their looks brought Dominic back to reality “Regardless of my intentions, I am a guilty man, but know this, I have a responsibility. When you take my life, you essentially take the life of my wife, of my children... They are a divine innocence, a pure bliss, an oasis in a sea of black. By taking their lives from them and taking their innocence you are essentially making the world a dimmer place. Allan stared at the petrified huddle, and he instantly knew what Dominic had said was true. Slowly he released his tight grip and lowered down his sword. Dominic instantly grabbed his neck, the small gash a testimony to his freedom. He was certain his fate was doom. For the first time in a long time Dominic wept. Wept because he was glad to be alive, wept because he loved his family, and wept because he was grateful for all god had given him. Allan left the house irate and tired, but also with a sense of calm and serenity. Wandering the roads Noah caught sight of him, looking rather dejected. They walked together in silence, until Allan decided to sit down, Noah followed. “My brother is dead you know Noah. If I can’t get my revenge then where is the justice in this? This is not justice, this isn't fair, where’s my eye? Where’s my tooth?” “You know, if every man took an eye for an eye, we’d all inevitably end up blind.
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"Humans have always been subjected to mind control. The big corporations, the advertising companies. They have been doing it for centuries. The special feature of this kind of mind control is that the person has no idea that he is being controlled. The illusion of free will. Know the person's fears, his dreams and expectations. Get to know him so well before inserting thoughts into him, so that when you do, he has no idea that they were not his own. That is the form of mind control that I want you all to master in this class." said Ms Adams. "Now I want you all to go to work on the individual material provided. I will come around and check on each of you" She walked over to Chris, who was concentrating heavily on his task. "You need to understand the subject material first, Chris" she said "Really understand how they think and how they feel. I know you are the strongest in the class, but brute force will not help you. The moment a person realizes he's being controlled, he starts to resist. The fight or flight reaction exists even in the subconscious level" "Yes, Ms Adams" said Chris. And started to probe the mind of the man strapped to the seat in front of him.
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He woke up. The shock and confusion from the pod screaming through space smothered his cry for death. He lost friends, family, he held his own brother in his arms. As the pod started to become faster and faster as he headed toward the gate. "That god forsaken gate" he muttered to himself as he passed through he left his fleet in a state of despair. Flashes from light cannons and the screams from over the coms is all he heard. "I will have my revenge" he mutters I promise you that One year ago: He stood on top of the hill. It was rocky almost like Carrick was trying to move us off. With jagged...his thoughts were cut short. "Tom! HEY TOM!" What? He responded with. Don't forget were graduate today from Fleet Academy. You’re going to be late! We’ll be fine trust me little bro just trust me. As Tom looked at Anthony his brother cross the platform on the U.E.F Dust Bringer he felt pride. He and his brother survived a lot there short years together. His mom what did their mom look like? He always has a hard remembering with his mom looked like. It wasn't his fault at all; his dad walked out on them when Tom was five Anthony was three. Mom became a drunk and a spice head. She passed away last year. We did man, he thought, we sure did Anthony we sure did 2) Gods Knowledge As you jumped out of hyperspace time stops for a split second not enough to mess with the ship electronics or your well-being. But enough to notice that everyone around you has slowed down or somewhat stopped. Captain we have dropped out of hyperspace Anthony stated we are Bering 2.2.5 with a 45 degree pivot heading toward planet 22-67-83 Captain Bane was a hearty old man been with the United Expansion Fleet since before Tom and Anthony were born. He sighed Anthony was always so robotic 2nd Lt. Tom of Carrick Yes sir? What kind of god forsaken planted has United Space Command sent us to today? A small planet sir a back water system yellow class sun one planet that holds life, ocean covers 70% land covers30% How old? Our A.I. says around 4.54 billion years Tom always felt proud knowing bullshit knowledge like this. It's what helped him get his 2 LT bars and be right under Captain Bane on the U.E.F ship Gods Knowledge a brand new M Class Destroyer slash stealth ship Way younger than ours then? Yes sir Is there anything other than that planet? Well there's a gas planet that could be used for helium but besides that nothing sir Mark 22-67-83 as a U.E.F space. Yes sir He gave Anthony a smile he didn't notice Tom felt sadness over come self ever since Anthony got the FTL Nav post he's been over worked. Tom felt like it was his fault in a way. That's bullshit he muttered snapped back to action as a light started pinging at him beckoning his attention. No, that can't be right at all. CAPTAIN! CAPTAIN BANE! Nobody on the crew realized it but this back water system was going to be the death of them all 3) The others: Tom was lying face up awake he didn't get his own room only Captain Bane got his own room and Tom was jealous he had work hard the past year. Him and Anthony both, he sighed rolled over looked at his clock 00:00 time to get up and face the day. 4) Captains log: Bane faced the holo unit. He was talking with head command High Overseer Christen of Carrick. Captain what have you found exactly? We're not sure Overseer Bane we have been friends for how long you can call me by my birth name Ah. They have they went through the academy together served on a battleship and explored the stars. But that was another time. Bane went to fleet command made general but hated the routine he gave himself a down grade and here he was flouting through space, in the endless black abyss flouting. He snapped out of his thoughts well sir there a small civilization there's about eight planets they have colonized two a dead red one and there home planet they have mining stations on at least all the planets. Hmmm how come they haven't sent a communication run to you yet? Were just outside there range sir Ah well I want that system Bane you understand me? Whys that sir they can't fight back as far as we know it would be against The Word CAPTAIN Bane that's your rank right? Captain? Yes Overseer. Then take it captain. He said it with suck spit and anger like a sword cutting through the air. There was a knock on his door Sir? Captain Bane? Yes Tom? What are our orders? Stand fast dreadnoughts are coming to us and will be here in a week. Yes captain 5) Stand Fast: Standing fast was always a problem for Anthony with being in a FTL Nav post. His job at the moment was to keep the ship from falling into the hazards that space provides be it gravity well or a black hole or a shot gun blast of tiny god forsaken rocks. But luckily Anthony never had any problems with that. It was just all simple measurements be it up down wait there's no up or down he mutters to himself. He heard a noise in the blackness slightly above the roaring sound of the math forcing its way through his mind. He tried to reach out to it. Tried to answer but couldn't all that matter was the ship 3000 souls were in his hand. This is why FTL Nav post has an 80% suicide rate and a 90% divorce rate. That didn't matter to him though he muttered he didn't have a partner or any kids that he knew of just Tom his brother. He wished he had but again the numbers always about the numbers. Anthony.... He snapped to the voice the nav counsel disappeared around him. He sighed he was so close to the numbers he could feel them that's why they cut him off they were afraid of what he could find. Yes? He respond to the A.I. Are you okay? He laughed to himself the A.I. was his nav partner since the academy. He remember that day when they were joined they share one mind it has so many befits that outweigh the suicides and the mental breaks. I'm fine Zeus. You don't seem fine... I am! He snapped sorry I didn't mean to I’m always so close to the number always about the numbers. Your sick Anthony can you please talk to your brother No! He doesn't care he doesn't care about the numbers. There's always more numbers… Anthony I can't make you chose to talk to your brother but I can talk to him for you if you want? Zeus do what you want I don't care just get me back to the numbers I need to plan routs for escapes and meet up points if this goes south on us. Hooking you back in Anthony Thank you Zeus I'm sorry I'm so fucked up. You’re a nav officer Ha-ha yes I am he felt the cold embrace of the numbers overwhelm him in an instant. He felt at home. Lonely sad alone but was home.
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Fifty more MISSING posters came out of the office’s copier. “Thanks Mr. Reynolds.” The nervous man straightened out the stack of papers, hands shaking. “Not a problem Ed, anything to help find your boy.” “I promise I’ll pay the company back for all the paper-” Mr. Reynolds cut him off, “Fuck the company Ed.” Ed lowered his head and nodded, “Right, right.” He left the office feeling the same way he had for several days: drained, drained but determined. Police were on the case, or so they said, but Ed was glad his boss was doing what he could to help, it meant he didn’t have to carry the whole weight on his own. They hadn’t always gotten along and it was nice to not butt heads in a situation like this. Usually they bickered about the company’s finances or ways to keep clients, but Mr. Reynolds, a stern man, knew those things were petty compared to a missing person. Much later, as Ed drowsily stapled a poster to a telephone pole, a woman in high-heels and a poofy fur coat slithered over to him, “You lookin’ for some action sweetheart? It’s awful chilly tonight,” she crossed her arms and rubbed the sleeves up and down, “I’m nice n’ warm.” Ed’s eyes were unwelcoming. Hers fell to the posters clutched in his hand and then drifted to the pole, “Shit, never mind mistah.” She turned away but he grabbed her by the shoulder. “I used to be a cop, I know a girl like you has connections. Pimp, governor, somebody.” He handed her a poster. “Yeah, yeah sure, no problem.” Into the night he walked, the woman looking after him, sorrowful, “Good luck mistah old cop,” she said to herself, “good luck.” She sighed and looked over the paper. MISSING was in bold letters, there was a phone number and a picture of a young man aged 25. His name was Daniel Braunstein, (”That’s stein like clean, not stein like spine” often said Ed) in Universe Code: #Orange-White a father sought a son. In UC: #Beta-12 however, the poster read WANTED for Extra-Spatial Abduction and Space-Time Tampering. - He felt cold and wet for a second, but back to unconsciousness Danny slipped. “Wake up!” Splash! Cold and wet again, Danny began to stir, “Wha’s going on?” The back of his captor’s hand struck his face. When he went to rub his cheek, he found his wrists bound to the chair he was sitting in, legs also. He could make out a figure in the darkness. “Not another peep!” “Just gag…him.” A woman somewhere behind Danny made herself known. “You won’t…” she struggled, “need him until…the end anyway.” Turning his head to find her, all Danny could see was blackness. A few lights glowed here and there, but nothing bright enough to see the whole room. “Oh, you probably would like to see mommy again.” Dropping something metal with a clang, the captor twisted his abductee’s head toward the woman and shined a flashlight on her. A hand clamped on Danny’s mouth before his yell of surprise hit the air. A metal , almost crown-like ring was screwed into her skull, blood coming from the punctures. “I couldn’t use yours obviously, but my own will work just fine. Just had to say I loved her and she was stupid enough to come.” “Any…thing for my boy.” She gave a weak smile, tears streaking involuntarily from the pain. “Years of drugs warping her mind convinced her to come as well.” He removed his hand and went to her, Danny unable to see his face. The captor reached into his pocket and brought out a small baggie of white powder. He carefully shook some onto the flashlight, “Like warm milk.” And put it up to Mrs. Braunstein’s nose. She snorted immediately and laughed. With the drug given, he killed the flashlight and stood at a cluster of small lights. Fiddling with something or just observing, Danny didn’t know: the shock of seeing his mother alive wouldn’t let his eyes function properly enough to tell. “How…my mom’s been dead for six years.” “Pay attention, my own, not yours.” A silhouette walked to Danny. A click, light, and a familiar smile he had seen in the mirror his entire life. “Boo. Guess who?” His own face. - Prof. Lehrer drew a straight horizontal line on the lecture hall’s large chalkboard and tried to explain again to Ed parallel universes, “This line, yes? Our timeline and universe.” Ed was already lost, his deceased wife, Anne, was where Danny got his smarts from. Still, Lehrer continued, “This other line on top,” he drew a parallel line above the first, “this is a parallel and alternate world separate from our own.” “Speak English.” Ed was getting frustrated. “Okay um…ah! Say you flip a coin and you get heads,” Lehrer wrote an ‘H’ on the bottom line, “and now in the alternate reality where your son was taken, Beta-twelve, you might have gotten tails instead.” He drew a ‘T’ now on the top line and dusted the chalk off his hands, “Quite simple.” “So how many are there?” “How many what?” “The lines, worlds.” “An infinite number. You ate dinner later than usual one day here and skipped desert or another you ate early and had a banana split or another you can’t even chew dinner because your teeth rotted away. Every possibility.” “And Beta-twelve is where Danny is? How the hell do you know that?” “Alpha, the first universe that the known realities concluded was the first to contact a parallel world. John F. Kennedy from Alpha spoke to a grieving Jackie the day after he was killed in what we call now Universe Beta. Alpha does its best to monitor communication since it seems to know the most about contacting alternates.” “Did the Alphas tip our Earth off to something fishy? Do they know how my son got taken?” Ed had a load of questions firing in his head all at once. “Yes, and you’re not going to like this. A Daniel Braunstein from the Beta group was the first person to break through into the Color group, more specifically here, Orange-White.” “’Break through’? What…?” “Contact is relatively easy to us now, but physically moving realities…well let’s just say it can get complicated. The known groups have agreed visitation is off-limits because of the…currently known procedure. But enough about that, too complicated.” “Complicated how Lehrer?” Impatience growing. The professor paced back and forth for a brief moment before finally slumping down into a seat in the lecture hall, “It requires a neurological implosion, I know I know, English. Imagine a human brain as a bullet, kind of, you fire it, killing the person, and the shot can take you to an alternate reality…with other equipment of course.” “Who took Danny? Who took my son Lehrer?!” Ed bent down at the professor and held his shoulders firmly as he yelled at him. “Your son’s alternate from Beta-twelve. The one that broke through before. He essentially kidnapped himself. For the trip back he used a pair of twins,” he sighed and put his face in his hands, “he needed two to bring this Danny with him.” Ed could hardly speak, his head felt like a carnival strongman whacked it with a mallet. Finally he asked, “Why take him? Why take my boy?” “That’s what we don’t know.” - The police had flooded the derelict, decrepit warehouse with lights aimed through the windows, and Danny could now see what Daniel had called “my way out.” As Daniel began firing up what Danny believed to be the machine’s power source, someone outside with a bullhorn barked, “We have the place covered Frankenstein! Get out here now!” “Ugh, these fuckers again. Like annoying gnats, know what I mean Danny boy?” Danny’s head was throbbing. Seeing his mother again, even if it wasn’t really his mother, made his heart feel sore. Why did this madman still get to have her in his life? This frustration made his headache worse. Tinkering with a console of dials and buttons, Daniel began rubbing his forehead and groaned. “You too, Frankenstein?” mocked Danny. Daniel looked at him with disdain. He hated that name, “Do not call me that. If you knew the things I’ve done to earn that mutilation of our last name, you’d be frightened into silence. And the reason why our heads hurt is because we’re existing at the same time. Nature doesn’t like that.” “That nickname doesn’t work though, does it? Because it’s stein like clean-” “Not stein like spine. I guess some things aren’t so different. The headaches will go away once I’m gone, though prison might give you another one.” He crossed the room to a large, metal cylinder with two doors on it that were closed. Daniel knocked on it, “Last train to Lime-Teal. I used dad to get there the first time.” Danny’s heartache doubled, “Was it fucking worth it?” “Don’t judge me when you don’t even know how horrible he was. He deserved to die.” He turned away from Danny and turned a dial, “We’re dead in Lime-Teal, stillborn. Nature has forgotten Daniel Braunstein, I’ll have a fresh start.” Daniel’s mother began to cough violently and after the fit she collapsed to the floor. Daniel stormed over to her, “You better be alive you cunt.” He checked for a pulse but cursed when he couldn’t find one. “Untie me, quick!” said Danny, “I know CPR!” Daniel pulled out a small gun held by his belt, “Try something and you’re dead, I can just get another you from someplace else.” “Fine, just hurry up she doesn’t have much time.” Outside, the policeman barked again, “This is a final warning! Thirty more seconds and we’re coming in to light you up!” Daniel shot out a window. He could hear the “get down” order and that bought him more time. Furiously, he untied Danny from the chair. Once free, he and Daniel rolled Beta-12 Anne Braunstein over onto her back. Frantically pumping and giving mouth-to-mouth, Danny mimicked what he had seen in countless movies, and to his surprise, Anne’s eyes flickered open. “Holy shit I did it.” “Back in the chair, now!” The rusty, metal folding chair was Danny’s chance. As soon as he was close enough, he gripped the back of it and swung it wildly around. It hit Daniel with a solid blow to the head. Feeling relieved and satisfied, Danny picked up the gun. Boom. Boom. Someone was trying to bust down the door from the outside. The police would be inside soon. “Use…me to get…home.” Daniel’s mother said weakly, “They’ll kill you…both,…won’t take any…chances.” “No.” Danny’s eyes began to water, “You can’t die again.” Tears ran down his face now, “I’ve missed you so much mom.” He walked over and kissed her on the forehead. “I’m not her.” With those words, it was as if he had seen his mother disappear. He realized a stranger was in front of him, and she was right, she wasn’t her at all. He took a deep breath, wiped his face with his hands, and dropped the gun. Approaching the machine, he marveled at it, “He made all this…” Next to the console was a computer screen. Currently, LIME-TEAL was the set destination, “I wonder…” His fingers hovered over the keyboard. They began to tingle. “You want to do it, don’t you?” Daniel’s head was bleeding, but he managed to lift it slightly, “Go ahead, I know how curious you are. We are the same, we both want to know what else is out there, who we are in other realities. We were born to be scientists Danny!” Danny closed his eyes and sighed, it scared him how right Daniel was. He had to choose, “I will not be Frankenstein.” He scrolled through a list of universes on the screen until he found ORANGE-WHITE. Home. The machine whirred, a train that switched tracks. He swung open the doors of the cylinder and stepped inside. A big red button was on the inside and while pushing it, he turned to the woman on the ground, “I’m sorry.” With a blinding flash, the metal crown zapped Beta-12 Anne Braunstein to death and the cylinder was empty. Danny was gone.
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Father was our Father. His wife was Mother. We were all their sons. Father was the president of the world. He told the people that Equality is the premier goal that we as a planet must strive for. Some voluntarily subjected themselves. They believed Father. Father said that inequality is offensive and politically incorrect. Most people did subject themselves. Only a few dissented. They were made equal, as was everybody. Father found that too many people possessed unique talents. Some could play the piano. Some could speak two languages. Father invented a wonderful new drug that diluted the mental capabilities of a human permanently. He registered everyone to take a dose. Some silvicolous fools were caught, making tents in the woods, stocking victuals. They were drugged too. Everyone on the planet except Father, Mother, and me, his biological son, were doped. What was left of society crumbled. All 7 billion people could do was eat, live, and die. They couldn't even speak to each other. Father knew that languages divide us, so he made the drug shut off the communication part of the brain. I am too afraid to tell Father that in his quest for equality, he made inequality. He believes he is being progressive, and fighting for a noble cause; total similarity. After observing the total destruction of the human race because of "equality", it came to me. Our differences are what made our past societies so great. Imagine humanity if everyone were the same. We wouldn't have Napoleon, Edison, or Magellan. Many didn't realize it then and will now never realize it. Now it's too late. I will die with inequality, and so will Father and Mother. This is my suicide note.
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Something hurts: The meet up (Part One) "Dude, I don’t know how you do it." You have to have a lot of patience. "It’s just like when you or anyone else goes back to school and doesn’t live here anymore, man." Except when you leave, I’m not chasing your car down the road and I don’t have tears in my eyes. "So you play games with her very once in a while and talk about nothing?" She feels like the world to me. I miss her every day. I couldn’t care less if we talked about nothing, just the comfort of the silence of someone on the other end of the phone was enough. "Yeah, actually. We play all the time, talk to each other on the phone constantly, it’s nice. Not about nothing, though. We talk about anything and everything. It’s not nearly as hard as it looks from the outside." I was being nice about it. It was difficult, very stressful. Thinking one day one of us might wake up and just feel like not doing it anymore, not trying, just wanting to walk away. That’s a scary thought. It started about a year ago, I met her online on a dating website. Messaged her before looking at the location. 476.7 miles away. Ugh, why did I bother? Well, she did mention playing online games and her name is pretty cool so maybe we have enough in common for her to be interested, yeah? Maybe I’ll get a message back this time. "RobotOnslaught has sent you a message!" That was fast. "Hey, thanks for the message! Yeah, definitely love my cardboard cut out of Leia. She’s pretty much my girlfriend, haha. Do you play LoL? I recently got into it a few months back but haven’t touched it much, it would be cool to have someone to play with!" That was the beginning of me falling. Hard. This girl was amazing, we had the same taste in almost everything and if we didn't, I didn't care. It wasn't like we argued about anything serious. Just about which genre was better, Sci-fi or Fantasy. I preferred the former whereas she defended the latter with every ounce in her being. Her favorite series was Lord of the Rings and I loved that about her. Sure, Star Wars is absolutely fantastic and probably the best series of all time and if you didn't think so you were wrong. But it’s nice to see what she’s passionate about. "So you really like this chick, yeah?" "Dude, she’s, like, the coolest person on the planet. Everything about her is awesome. She’s a massive nerd, just like me, we’re into tons of the same stuff and we play games together all the time. I’m actually trying to get her to play with us console peasants because right now she’s just part of the PC Master Race. Plus, we’re both super cute and I think we’ll look even cuter next to each other." I was right, we looked amazing next to each other. I still remember the first time I saw her, she drove 476.7 miles to see me. Me. I don’t know why she did, I’m not sure what exactly had her so interested in me that she’d travel 476.7 miles to see someone she plays games with on the internet. We weren't even official, that doesn't mean I tried though. I begged her to try a long distance relationship with me but she wouldn't have it until she could physically touch me, at least for a little bit. Our first time seeing each other….barely anything was said. Just “Hey!” “HI!” And a massive hug that seemed to go on forever. I loved that, she gave the best hugs. I felt like I could do anything when she was around. I felt like I could take on the world, or at least the poor bastard next to us in the magazine section of our local bookstore/coffee shop/writers hole that had to put up with the sappy, blushing-filled, tears-in-the-eyes first meeting of two dorks falling into something that they couldn’t see where the landing zone was. That was such a perfect week. Full of cuddling, video games, showing her around the town I grew up in. She was super excited for it, loved every second of it. I’m not sure why though, I absolutely hate this place. She didn’t know it yet but I was seriously considering enlisting in whichever branch of the military that would take me. "This was fun!" "Yeah…I just really wish I didn’t have to go right now, this weekend was amazing." We were loading her luggage into her back seat, double and triple checking everything. I guess we were both brought up the same way when it comes to trips. "Most definitely! Though you don’t need to worry, I’ll still be here so you can come any time you want! Hell, maybe I could come down some time? You could show me around! I’m sure you have a lot more to do where you’re from than what was up here." "Your town is nice! It has stuff to do and it’s all kind of compact so that’s good, you don’t have to drive an hour and a half to find your fun." "You’re such a dork. I like you." And then she started crying. Not out of sadness, well, I’m sure there was some sadness there, but these tears were also for the fact that she had finally found someone she could talk to and enjoy the company of. I knew that because she reminded me several times since then. "I like you too. I’m going to miss you like crazy…" "Oh god, don’t cry, crap, you’re gonna make me cry! Stop it!" She let out the sweetest giggle. Fuck. That’s what did it. That giggle, that laugh is what solidified what had been on my mind since the first time I met her in person a week ago and when I first met her online a few months back. I was falling in love with this girl. I was okay giving her a piece of me for her to drive back home with 476.7 miles away and I was completely fine because I had part of her with me right there and she knew it as well. She drove off, I stood in the middle of the road, watching her pull away. I could see her waving at me from a few houses down, she took the left that takes her out of my neighborhood and I immediately called her to talk to her on her journey back from whence she came. 476.7 miles away.
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Listen, Kid. You don't mind hurting those girls by pretending to be interested in them when you aren't. You don't mind hypnotizing them with those supposed good looks you keep advertising. That's fine. That's a smoke screen. I remember when I was a young man. I won't say what age but this was before Angry Buzzards took went in place of the amusement park. She had freckles and nice white teeth. Brunette. I can't remember her name except that it began with a D. Anyway I'm standing in line as this tall giant in a line full of people who were shorter than me. This girl turns around, mostly be because I was tall and asked if I could tell her if the line to the Ferris wheel was moving. I told her it wasn't. Anyhow I decided to talk to her. The mouth is moving and it appears she is looking at me, but her eyes keep looking around. I didn't really care because she was attractive. Anyhow I'm talking and talking and this guy who was as tall as someone's kid brother walks in and gives her a kiss. I walked out of the line furious at him for stealing what I thought would be my girlfriend. The fact that I though I had kept clouding the actual reality: her eyes were nice, but they weren't on me the whole time. You are never the only option in a girls life and when you find that out you'll be sleeping on that floor in a drunken state after figuring out how stupid you were. And with that, I leave you to your playboy bunnies. Good day Mr. Neehs.
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I walked across the back of the room. The noise of the crowd drowned out everything from the outside. The echoes of the hall, so deafening at the time, seemed like a blissful silence in this din. I watched as the crowd formed in groups; People joining, breaking off, moving away, like watching cells through a microscope. Amorphous globs always moving, never still, forming, dissolving, reforming. I watched as men no bigger my brother laughed and joked with men three times their size. Women, fragile and shy at first glanced, talked as loudly and easily as those oozing confidence. The group, it seemed, provided security. I could see an anxious few looking around, unsure of what to expect. I felt a smirk creep across my face. You could always tell the newbies. I stepped forward, moving through the crowded room. "I'm glad you all could make it." I announced as I walked. Many of the gathering hadn't heard me and continued their conversations. They would quieten down soon enough. I continued towards the head of the room, not looking at anyone, but glancing at everyone. "I felt like we should have a little chat." I raised my voice a little more. "There are some rumours floating around." I turned as I reached the head of the room. "Some of you know me personally, others, perhaps not so much. However those who do, will be aware that I am not one for rumours. I find that they usually only provide a distraction from the real issue. However, even I must admit that from time to time, they can offer a certain insight into the feelings of the public, that can be quite informative. Before I discuss these rumours, I would like to share some thoughts with you." I could still hear the murmurings of hushed discussion scattered throughout the room. I looked over the faces staring at me again, before moving slowly to my left. I could feel their eyes following me without looking. "The world sees us as monsters of a kind. I'm sure you were all aware of this fact to some degree. We are seen as the violent goats, in long lines of sheep; The angry mistakes of the genial golden generations. And who can say they are wrong? I have been thinking about this impression we have garnered. I have some thoughts, some ideas, as one is wont to do when thinking." I smiled as I heard some snickers. I turned and moved back towards the centre of the room. "We are a generation of kids, so afraid of losing face, of losing any semblance of the respect we think we have, that any offence is answered with extreme responses. You insult someone, you get insulted back? No, you get beaten. Once upon a time, you hit someone, you have a fight, someone wins, someone loses, you both go home. Now? Now you get stabbed. Or maybe you do get home, only to be chased down and shot two days later. This violence, they blame it on movies, video games. This isn't the problem. Do they help? Probably not. Are they the cause? No. Media is made this way because its what people want. Their sense of what is right and acceptable and appropriate is warped. Why? Respect. They are so afraid of any assault on their character, any disrespect, undermining them they lash out. Does this sound like someone who feels secure of their place in society? We are a society raised to live beyond our means, both literally and figuratively. We cling to our delusions of power, artificial societal titles, we worked so hard to convince ourselves we earned. So hard we worked, to convince others to recognise our imaginary power. Secretly terrified it will all collapse around us, taken away by someone more deserving of our control. So any offense, any assault on our character is treated as a nuclear threat, capable of ripping apart our world, and is dealt with as such. Swiftly, brutally, finally." I stopped in the middle of the room and looked up. Silence reigned. "So, these rumours. There have been mutterings in some parts of secret groups meeting. These groups, people can never decide on their purpose, size, or even name. They are a religious cult, they plan to cause havoc, they are starting a new sports team, they are a group of serial killers comparing notes, they are good samaritans, teaching manners and helping little old ladies across the street." hushed laughter spread through the back of the mob. I continued across the room. "What can I say, it seems we are becoming known, ladies and gentlemen. The question is, what now?" I heard the door open and close at the back of the room. I paused for a moment, waiting for everyone to calm down again. That’s when I saw Stirling pushing his way through the crowd. I watched as he walked hurriedly towards me. "There is a problem. You need to come with me." he whispered when he got close. I looked at him, his expression a measured image of urgency and assuredness. This was not something I could ignore. "What's wrong?" I asked. "He's been found." I took a second, then turned back to the assembly. "I'm sorry, but I have to leave you all. There are matters I must attend to." The noise level rose dramatically as we worked our way towards the exit.
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Cameron Stiles sat in his foxhole staring off in the direction of the enemy lines. You never could really know where the bastards were in the God forsaken jungle. Cameron was 19 years old, short, wiry, with a shock of bright red hair. Fresh out of Light Infantry school, Cameron had only joined the Legion 15 months ago. He'd thought Legion Basic and LI school had been hell. Before that, he believed hell was some kind of fiery pit the dead went to when they finally departed the living. Now he knew he'd been wrong on both counts. Now he knew that hell was actually a jungle paradise called Cyradon. As he sat contemplating the path that had brought him into this living nightmare, it started raining. The Cyradonians loved to use the cover of the rain to sneak up on you in your foxhole. He checked the chamber of his MK33 rifle. There was the dull flash of lead. Good. Ready to shoot; ready to kill. Again. When Cameron arrived at LI school after Legion Basic, he'd been slotted to be a rifleman. All the time he'd spent in outdoors hunting gave him an edge over his classmates though, and by the end of the cycle he'd earned a spot as a squad designated marksman. This meant he'd been issued to carry a MK33 instead of the standard issue MK32 carbine. Thirty-nine and a half inches long, and 11.7 pounds it was a monster of a weapon. A bullpup assault rifle with a 36 inch barrel and chambered in 7.62×54mm, it was accurate out to 1200 meters. Cameron had tested that fact on multiple occasions. Three months in theater and he already had 49 confirmed kills. They'd be sending him to Sniper School at this rate He steadied his rifle on the edge of his foxhole, and began scanning his sector. Staff Sergeant Connor had begun posting Cameron far ahead of the rest of the squad as a picket. All that time hunting had sharpened his field craft as well as his marksmanship skills. The Cyradonians had not been able to ambush the squad in over a week. Cameron froze as he heard a rustle in the brush ahead of him. He quickly pressed his eye to rifle's scope, ready to shoot. A baby jungle cat rushed out of the brush chasing some kind of invisible prey. Or running from something... Only two things could scare a jungle cat, even a baby one. Fire... or a snake. Cameron shivered, but kept his weapon steady. Snakes scared the shit out of him. Because on Cyradon, a snake wasn't just a snake. Two hundred feet long, 30 feet in diameter, and 40 tons of pure hunger and predatory instinct. The snakes were the reason the Cyradonians built their cities in the treetops, 300 feet above the jungle floor. At least the snakes weren't venomous. Then again, they didn't need to be. All of the fighting and killing and warm human bodies seemed to put them into a feeding frenzy. They were a bitch to kill too. Without anti-tank rockets or a lot of bravery, insanity or stupidity, and even more incendiary grenades it was impossible to do. The one time Cameron had seen it done another Legionaire had jumped in the snake's open mouth and thrown six incendiaries down it's throat. Neither combatant had survived the encounter. Cameron saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, off to his left. He swung in that direction, focusing his crosshairs on the source of the disturbance. The camouflaged face of a man pushed slowly out of the underbrush. His eyes widened when he saw Cameron. Cameron's eyes widened as well, even has he pulled the trigger. The rifle cracked loudly and the man's face disappeared in a fine mist of blood, brains, and bone fragments. The world went silent for a moment. Even the rain seemed to be holding it's breath. Then everything erupted in a storm of fire and death. Cameron ducked as little lead hornets rushed over his head, hunting for him. Gunfire began rattling behind him as well as first his squad then, gradually, the rest of his platoon began returning fire. Cameron poked his head up over the top of his foxhole, confident now that the enemy didn't know his position, was just firing blindly hoping to kill something. Cameron began targeting the muzzle flashes. Inhale, squeeze, exhale. Inhale, squeeze, exhale. Every time he squeezed the trigger, another muzzle would stop flashing. Sometimes, the man behind the muzzle would begin firing again. Other times, he wouldn't. Cameron didn't even feel the sick to his stomach feeling be bad anymore. It was just a part of him, like his hand or leg. It had been that way since his first kill. It had filled him then, threatened to overwhelm him. Now, he never noticed it, even though it was always present. Slowly, the firing slackened. The unspoken rule on Cyradon was that a firefight never lasted longer than exactly three minutes and seventeen seconds. Any longer than that and the snakes began to take notice. No one on either side wanted that kind of attention. Finally, the shooting stopped entirely, like a fire starved of oxygen. The world returned to a serene silence, blissfully unaware of the death and tragedy that had just taken place on the surface of it's skin. Cameron could see his fellow Legionaires beginning to stir, to come out from their hidden lairs. They came out to count the enemy fallen for the inevitable countless reports that must be written, to salvage what equipment they could from the enemy, and to satisfy that morbid curiosity every soldier has about his enemy. SSG Connor came crawling up to Cameron's position for a report. After he finished explaining exactly what had happened, Cameron left his foxhole. He'd never felt that strange curiosity before, but now it burned like a fire. Never before had any man, or beast, noticed Cameron's presence if he didn't wish them too. Yet that first man had not only known he was there, but had spotted him immediately. Cameron crawled out to where his body lay. It was impossible to tell how old he was. His face was ruined, with only his forehead, left cheek and part of his jaw intact. Cameron looked at what used to be the man's face dispassionately. Men's faces always looked like that after catching a 7.62×54mm round from only 50 meters away. The rest of his body told Cameron little as well. He was tall and lanky, 6' 4”, and maybe 156 pounds. The uniform showed signs of hard use, but held no insignia to indicate the man was anything other than an ordinary infantryman. Caught by an irresistible urge, Cameron checked the man's chest pockets. In the left pocket, he found an ID card. Aware that he had been out of cover for too long, Cameron began crawling back to his hole. As he crawled, Cameron realized it had stopped raining. Oh well. It would start raining again soon enough. When he got back to his hole, he began examining the ID. The man was Miles Sullivan, private attached to the 2nd Rifles Regiment. Regular infantry grunts then. The poor bastards had never stood a chance. Cameron continued perusing the card. Dark brown hair, blue eyes, 6' 4”, 156 pounds. Cameron smiled, proud of his estimations. He flipped the card over and froze. Couldn't believe what he was seeing. Looked again. Nothing had changed. Date of birth, March 17, 2143. Next to the date was a full color picture. A picture of a boy with a tangle of dark brown hair, bright blue eyes and permanent dimples as if normally he couldn't stop smiling, with baby fat still on his cheeks. 2143. The boy wasn't a man at all, was only 17 years old. As Cameron stared in shocked disbelief at the card, the rain started falling again. A few meters away, SSG Connor lay watching the scene. SSG Connor was a 10 year veteran of the Imperial Legion, had attended both LI and Marine Legion schools. He had almost six years of combat time. He was also a good judge of men. He could see how the rest of his squad, even the older men, respected PFC Cameron Stiles. He knew they all looked up to PFC Cameron Stiles for his calm demeanor, even when under fire. That was why he was glad it started raining again. Because it wouldn't do for the rest of his squad to see what he had just seen. It wouldn't do for the rest of the squad to see PFC Cameron Stiles crying.
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It's not finished, but I thought I should share it! : 11/2/2013 For a socially awkward kid, I’ve always felt as if, compared to other members of my generation, I have had a much higher sense of clarity and realism. For example, I, unlike what seems to be the majority of depressed teens, understand that the problems I am going through are almost strictly hormonal. I understand that this is just a part of life and the best way to get through it is to just wait for the day when it all goes away. I’ve also always been the type to “tell it like it is” and just endure. But recently, I’ve started to question the choices of society. Why is it that we have to make choices based on general acceptance? A recent event provoked these thoughts as I started to despise society. I was in class today. It was late in the day on a Friday. I had less than the preferred amount of sleep the night before with no thanks to a bad case of diarrhea, and was drifting off in class. My Global History teacher, a giant of a man with not much knowledge on the rights and wrongs of society (basically, he’s a goofball) caught me during a drawn-out lesson on Confucianism and thought that it would be a great idea to yell my name at the top of his lungs in order to wake me up. Naturally, I jerked up, but not without the ridicule of the class trailing behind. All I heard for the rest of class were things like, “Were you asleep?” and “Wow I can’t believe he was asleep during class.” This infuriated me because, as a socially awkward person, not only was this mortifying, but it was also false. I have not been much of a talker throughout my life (once again, awkward kid), and I have learned to listen well and talk only when necessary. So by nature, I heard every word the teacher said, but he didn’t believe me one bit, and it led to embarrassment. After this horrific event, I pondered the rules of society while in my geometry class. I wondered: why is it that schools act as if they care for our stress levels? Most of the stress in teenage life comes from school, but they never try to fix it. They just tell us to endure. They say that the work “prepares you for the future” and that you should do it under any circumstances. They don’t care how or when you do it. They don’t care if you have to sacrifice much needed mental relaxation time to complete it. They just want it done. It just shatters me. When I got off of the bus that day, the sun was shining brighter than ever and it was an oddly warm day for autumn. I decided to take my time walking up my long, steep driveway and just focus on the world itself. Not as a whole, not as a society, just as a random creation in the unpredictable and unending universe. I looked into the shimmering assortment of colored trees and took the time to think about Mother Earth and the gifts she brings us rather than the metaphorical fleas living in her fur. I went into the house, put my stuff away, and went to the bottom of the driveway to sit on a rock and take in the first truly beautiful thing I had seen in a seemingly long while. I just sat there for half an hour staring into the light foliage as the rays of sun struggled to the ground and thought. I thought and thought. I thought about how always I spend so much time doing work and preparing for life and all of that bullshit, and I never just sit down to think. Neither does the rest of the world. Maybe that’s why they’re all so bitter.
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Chapter I Part 1 Patient Zero: first diagnosed with the hypo-adrenal paralysis. A disease that attacks the core nervous system found in the brain. The virus ignites the adrenal glands in a rapid burst causing the heart to race erratically. The patient then undergoes a series of sudden heart palpitations, one would think stress or heart attack. The patients heart slows down 12 hours after first signs of symptoms. The patients blood pressure drops to extremely low points. 15 hours from first signs the patient heart stops soon killing the patient. The Hypo-adrenal Paralysis is a very rare disease, since its existence it has only taken the lives of 26 people back in 2014. The first outbreak occurred in a south-east Malaysian town. And elderly man around the age of 68. Total hours since first diagnosed till death approximately 20 hours. Project Cold Storage went into affect in 2017. $23 million dollars went into the project. A Dr. Harold Witherworth is the lead researcher behind the project. The U.S president issued the bill because their was steady increase in outbreaks since 2016. Ever since the H1N2 virus epidemic in Europe. March 4th 2017 Matt Foldings diagnose with the hypo-adrenal paralysis in Burbank California. Matt is a 34 year old magazine photographer, and he's patient zero in the Cold Storage Project. 4:00am March 4th 2017 an alarm clock goes off in Matt Foldings one bedroom apartment. The work day has started for this 34 year old magazine photographer. Matt always wakes up at 4:00am sharp and start his daily routine. Today he has a photo shoot with a 24 year old actress. Matt starts his commute by 5:30am. He felt a little "off" this morning with a bit of sneezing. Matt is a type of person who doesn't take things lightly however today's photo shoot is a big turn out, he can't refuse. 7:45am rolls around we find Matt arriving at a coffee house near the studio he works at. The light sneezing has turned into a sudden, sore cough. Matt worries but proceeds hoping the coffee will drown it out. The photographer arrives at EDH studios and starts the work day. "How we doing today Matt?" a set designer asked Matt as he walked into the studio setting his gear down. "Just dandy. Taking a few shots of Ashley today." Matt replied pulling out his camera. "Is this the only job for you today?" Ron the set designer asked. "Nah, I have one more shoot tonight should be a big payout today." Matt announced. Only to be proceeded by a sudden rough cough. "You alright?" Ron questioned. "Yup." Matt swallowed, "just a little bug." Matt answered. "You sure your not getting sick?" Ron pestered. "No, no just little side effect of quitting cigarettes." Matt replied, and Ron simply nodded his head. At that moment the young starlet, Ashley Draveo walked onto the set wearing a bath robe. She was being followed by three other people; a man who seemed to be the make-up artist, a women wearing all black, short brown hair well fitted and toned, and another man with a headset a office tablet. "So you must be Matt Foldings!" Ashley cried out walking towards him with a hand extended and water bottle in other hand. "Uhh," Matt hesitated and then cleared his throat. "Yes, I'm sorry it's nice to meet you Miss Draveo." He answered as he extended his hand and shook hers. "Please, Ashley is fine thank you. So I've seen your work on Jennifer Tonnely in ZED fashion magazine." Ashley replied. "Oh no, that wasn't my best." Matt says feeling a sense of pride in his work. "No stop you give yourself to little credit." Ashley said. "So what are we doing today?" Matt Foldings asked. "Your the artist Matt." Ashley said. "No I mean your outfit what color? Is there any props you'd want? Only asking so I could set up the lights." Matt answered. "Oh well okay," Ashley replied as she de-robed. She steps onto the set wearing a stunningly orange two piece bikini. "But don't you have a lights director that does that for you?" Ashely asked. Matt hesitated for a second as he gazed upon the body of Ashley. "Uhh yeah no Im the kind of person who likes to do everything myself... That of coarse is in order to keep the artistic integrity. However Ron over here is one of the only few I trust to help with a shoot. Damn fine set designer." Matt smiles smacking his hand on Ron's shoulder. Ron was just putting the finishing touches up on the set. "Please stop Matt your being to modest." Ron chuckled. "So it's just you two on this shoot?" Being concerned Ashley asked. "Well except for Chip, the little one behind you." Matt answered adjusting the light temperatures. "Ahh" Ashley screamed out when she turned to find a short 5 foot 3 skinny man messing with some wires. "Hey! Back off!" the woman beside Ashley yelled out at Matt's technical assistant. "Hey!? What's going on?" Matt cried out. "Easy Beatrice. He's just another crew member." Ashley said while putting her hand on Beatrice's shoulder. "I'm sorry Ashley. I didn't assess the room before we entered." Beatrice begged. "It's alright! He's easily missable. He's a mute." Matt smiled. "Oh....see Beatrice its alright!" again Ashley reassured her. Matt and Ron looked at each other in wonderment. "She's my body guard." Ashley answered. "Your Body Guard!!" Ron and Matt Yelled out in questioned. "Oh don't underestimate her. She packs a powerful punch." Ashley announced patting her back on Beatrice's back. The other man with Ashley came and whispered in her ear. "Okay." She nodded, "Alright, No!" she giggled. "Well tell them eight!" she told the man. "My manager. So Matt shall we begin?" Ashley asked. At the worst of times Matt starts to feel a little sick. "One second Ashley." Matt replied walking to near by food table. Out of the ice cooler, Matt pulled out some ice and a water bottle. He continue to rub the ice and a towel against his face. "Are you okay over there Foldings?" Ashley asked. "Just fine." Matt answers clearing his throat. Chugging down the water bottle. "Let's Begin!" Matt yelled out. After countless wardrobes, dozens of set designs they were five hours into shooting. However Matt was perspirating a lot, very unusable in Matt's case. Upon taking many photos Matt can't seem to keep the sweat away from his eyes. Matt starts to grow dizey, rubbing his eyes for he thinks it's lack of sleep. He takes a moment for recollection. "Can we get a minute! Everyone break time!" Matt calls out. He then heads back over to the ice cooler once more. "Hey Matt you sure your alright man?" Ron walked up and asked. "You seem to be getting worst throughout the day?" Ron questioned. "Yeah I'm alright. Can't stop now!" Matt replied. "Lets go again people!" Matt yelled out to the set out of habit amongst his other jobs with larger set crews back in his early days. His heart starts to steadily increase in bpms, he doesn't take any notice. Thirty minutes into this next sessions Matt starts to feel the pain in his chest increase. He can barely keep his hand steady on the camera without shacking it, and blurring the image. Ten more minutes follow and his heart starts to beat in an alarming rate. The shacking in his body becomes so severe he knocks his own camera down in mid shoot. "Oh my God! Matt are you alright?" Ashley came out of her pose and stepped towards him. Matt backed away as his vision became blurred, his breathing slowed as he tried to find the air he needed. Once he felt like he was suffocating he started to panic, grabbing his heart due to the intense pain. "Ahh!" Matt screamed out in a breath of agony. He then suddenly collapsed on the floored in immense pain. "Matt!" Ron and Ashely yelled out. Matt soon blacked out.
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“Greetings Joseph how is life treating you it’s been a while has it not? said Capt. Schneider “I am well Hans and yes it has been sometime I see you joined the army…what you did to the Polecone brethren. They, they didn’t need that”. Said Joseph Pinecone “I feel like they had it coming” said the captain named Schneider. “Oh really explain to me one instance of a Jewcone ever harming you.” “I cannot I’m on the clock this 9 to 5 is a real bitch but hey it pays the bills” “Oh really but is it worth it. There are other means of work then betraying innocent cones” Exclaimed Joseph “I work at the Nazi regime offices for our Fuhrer what he says goes my old friend I have no choice I’m under orders for cone sake! They are less than us why do you defend them!” “Oh hail Hitler! Herr Captain my mistake for caring for a race of fellow coneman beings, you bastard! How do you sleep at night Hans? How can you live with yourself after everything you’ve done? You’re not even half of the cone I once knew.” “You will address me as CAPTAIN! You know what happens to Jewcone sympathisers don’t you? I hereby place you under arrest by the duress of our Fuhrer and sentence you to immediate deportation to the Brazier!” He blindfolded me. He had been my best friend when we were Childcones we used to run through the streets of Pinelin causing mischief and mayhem as little cones often do, he was different now. His time in the army had changed him, almost like they wiped his mind. He was the man I knew but only on the surface. He led my bumpy brown body towards a rundown rusty metal cone carrier. I knew my fate. The stench of cone carcasses filled my rigid cone nose. I was being ushered to my death. For no one ever came back from the Brazier, “the pit of flames” it goes by. Others talk of it simply as “Hell on earth” and from what I had heard that was certainly no stretching of the truth. As the dank cone carrier rumbled along the dirt track I heard a faint voice in the darkness. I called out to it, it sounded small, weak. I politely and calmly asked it to remove my blindfold, immediately I wished I hadn’t. The carrier was filled with the bodies of countless cones that hadn’t made the trip to the Brazier, and amongst the death and decay knelt a little girl. She clutched the hand of a body that faintly resembled her mother. She was alone, scared… innocent. The only crime she had been guilty of in the eyes of the Fuhrer was existing. I tried as best as I could to fight back the tears from my brown cone eyes but alas I wept. To see the devastation before me was far too much to bare and the little cone reached for my hand and wept with me. For hours we cried as I cradled her tiny starved frame, she told me her name was Liza and that she and her mother had been rounded up with the rest without warning one day at the market, this was a month ago. It was a miracle she had survived this long as she was only given water when they stopped to empty the dead and even then this only occurred when the stench grew too much for the soldiers to bare. I held her till her breathing became so laboured she could no longer speak, the winter chill had eaten away at her, she was sick and soon she would die. I managed to find a candy bar I had left in my jacket for my little nephew when I was supposed to visit later that week, I would never lay eyes on him again. I offered her the small morsel of sugar and energy she snatched it from my hands so quickly that she’d scratched my hand I didn’t blame her that long without food and your stomach takes over it begins to eat itself searching for any sustenance it can find. She at like it was her last meal… and it was. After she had finished I held her head and sang her an old lullaby my mother would sing me when I awoke from a terrible dream or was scared by a sound in the night, she fell asleep and that morning she did not wake up.
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Their eyes meet and he smiles, his face illuminated and bright. He has never seen anyone so beautiful in his life. She has plain features and limp drab hair, but to him she is perfect. Framed in shadow, she sees him and a look of shock transforms her face. The happiness in his face flickers; maybe he shouldn’t put his burdens on her. But no, it’s too late to go back. Thoughts race and build inside him, the noise around him bringing up latent memories. He is six years old, standing behind a door and quietly crying as his parents scream at each other. He remembers the heavy sting of alcohol filling his nostrils and the crack of his father’s hand across his mothers face. He is twelve, a failing test grade in one hand and a crumpled cigarette in the other as his mother tells him that he is the reason his father left. Fifteen, dropped out of high school, working two jobs just to eat, while his mother lies passed out on the couch, still clutching the syringe that she traded the food stamps for. This is all he knows of life, a hardness that grew up with him, grew inside him. He has never trusted anyone until now. As he gazes towards her, he knows that she can help, knows that she can erase the twenty-two years of hell. A tear trickles down his cheek, shining in the headlights of her pre-owned mid-size sedan as it hits him at 43 miles per hour and sets him free.
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Coping Justin sectioned the coloured marshmallows from the colourless, corralled the tasteless bits of cereal in his bowl and pushed them away from the sugary morsels. No one was there to be critical of him. His mom had gotten home from work a few hours ago and was sneaking in a couple hours of sleep before her next shift. She had to work hard to make ends meet. Justin felt guilty, but there were few things that he could do to help her. Instead he took his time getting dressed and tying his shoes, took his time brushing his teeth and packing his bag. Once he could put it off no longer, Justin walked slowly towards the school. He pondered his choices, he had reviewed them many times now. Justin knew that they were sane and rational. He was sure that their results would improve the sphere of world around him. His answer to all of his problems was tucked into his backpack. Overweight for his height and under confident in himself, bullies teased him relentlessly. He was constantly reminded of the holes in his shoes and the shirts he had been wearing since eighth grade. Justin’s slow talk was rubbed in whenever he spoke in class, and his slow wit left his face red and defenseless. As he crossed the train tracks, he remembered that he lived on the wrong side of them. He remembered that he couldn’t afford to make friends by paying to join a school group, and his asthma eliminated him from any sports teams. He wasn’t smart enough for the chess club, even they shunned him. Today would be different. As Justin approached school early, despite the slowness of his pace, for the first time in years. Today his hate felt fresh. The nerds turned their backs as he approached them, as usual. The hicks were too busy stealing each other’s cowboy’s hats to notice him walk by. But those were people he didn’t care about. Past them, closer to the school, were the jocks. They were the super heroes of the social zoo he occupied; it was only fitting that he became their super villain. As he got close, they sensed his lack of coolness. Each eyed him, one after another, then nodded the task to their newest member. He turned, a tall and muscular boy, “It’s not like you to be on time Justy. Didn’t you have to wait till your mom got home to tuck you into bed last night?” A smile touched his lips, a smile that all the teachers seemed to love. Justin had thought that the answer he reached for, the answer in his backpack, would end so many problems. What he hadn’t thought about was the new ones it could possibly leave him with. His hand reached slowly. This would be a moment that he would remember for the rest of his life.
2,662
0
One night I found I couldn't sleep. I tried every tried and true home remedy, every tired old method. I still couldn't fall asleep. Every light in the home was switched off and the only illumination was that of the eerie street light, penetrating the thick curtains and giving off a tempestuously calm gleam. The silence screamed at me as I laid motionless in my bed. No mouse was scurrying, no roach was crawling. All was dead. Just at the instant I began to doze off I heard a loud crash outside my door. My heavy eyelids speedily unlatched open. My heart beat like a war drum. I convinced myself to remove myself from the bed. I tied the blanket around my nude body and slowly approached the front door. I gripped the knob and hesitatingly turned. When I opened the door, I was blinded by a hot blaze. I heard the crackle of flame. I could barely make out the visage of two automobiles. I approached the burning cars, to see if there were any survivors. I saw blood in the snow. I smelled alcohol resonating from the blood. I looked down and saw the quivering face of my own brother. He was sent to the hospital where it was determined that he needed a liver and kidney transplant. Absolutely no one in the entire city, dead or alive, could donate their organs. My brother died 12 days after the crash. That was in 2001. The year is now 2017 and I've been working with a group of underground scientists to prevent any victim from having to go without organs. We've starting cloning humans without brains for the purpose of harvesting organs from them. No man except the workers, cloners, researchers, me, and the many people with organs know about this.
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3
He awoke, and he was terrified. As far as the eye could see were small canisters containing humans, just like the one he had risen from. The room was cold and dark, save for their blue glow, while the ceiling was barely above his head as he stood. There was no end in sight, no discernible wall or doorway or exit. He could clearly make out the humans near his canister, though. Beside him a woman, with luscious blonde hair; the other side two children, a boy and a girl of similar age. He was suddenly aware of a deep rumble in the distance, a sound that filled him with dread for reasons he couldn't understand. He began to panic, more so than he thought he might ever have done before. Looking down he began to shake the woman, to rouse her from her slumber. When she wouldn't respond, he began to remove the various tubes and contraptions that were protruding from her body. Suddenly, she awoke with an almighty gasp. She stared at him straight in the eye before going into shock, writhing in the man's grip. As soon as she had awoken, she went limp. The man was now acutely aware of the terrifying rumble again. It was louder, making his way towards him. Where was he? And then, all went dark. * From his position on the beach, the man stared out to sea. As far as the eye could see was crystal clear water, while the Sun radiated down upon him, basking his body in unrivalled splendour. He arose from his seat filled with ecstasy and joy. Here he dwelled in paradise, with his every desire and need catered for. He couldn't remember a time when he had been happier, or perhaps there had never been other such time. But as he walked along the beach, the idyllic setting began to fade. The sand smudged into darkness, the sea turned a cold grey, the sky disappeared before him. As his world dissolved around him into blackness, he was scared for what felt like the first time. * This was the moment he would betray them. Perhaps they would adjust to their new lives? But most likely not. His family walked with him, his wife with the incredible blonde hair that had first attracted him to her all those years ago before it had begun, his children with their youthful ignorance that helped them bring light to the situation. He would've felt regret if he did not know what was coming. They each climbed into their canisters, alight with a blue glow. Into the distance he could see thousands of people, what remained of the human race, doing the same. They had been trained for this moment. They knew the procedure. Nevertheless, he made sure to check on his children. Despite his actions, he did not wish a greater ill upon them. “See you on the other side,” he lied to them both. “I love you.” His wife, meanwhile, had been quiet. He couldn't blame her; no one had thought it would come to this. But it had, and for some it was a more distressing experience than others. For some, like himself, it had even brought out traits that he did not know existed. He took a loving look at his wife, his last he thought, and she returned his gaze with a look that seemed to hide a tinge of sorrow. It didn't matter. None of this mattered. They smiled at each other, nodded, and both lowered themselves into their canisters. The man attached the last of his tubes and prepared for his deep, unpenetrable slumber. He was moments from drifting off, from escaping, before his wife appeared above him. He tried to speak, but his body was powerless. “I know what you did,” she whispered as she pulled a tube out of his body. * “Will they know?” “Yes.” “How can you be sure? “The machines are good, but they cannot account for such anomalies in each fantasy. By leaving them, they will forever mourn your absence.” The man pondered this for a moment. “Will I know?” “No. Prior memories are erased, and if you are woken you will be killed.” “Good.” * They had made the decision to spend an eternity together, but it was an eternity he did not want. Here was an opportunity to start afresh, to begin a new life, with no repercussions. They made the necessary arrangements for the new life the four of them would lead together. It was a life she had chosen. He wanted more. But there was another way. And soon, once his mind had wrestled away the horror of his upcoming actions, he would betray them in favour of an eternity in paradise.
4,373
1
1. I was alone on the day that it had arrived. What it was I cannot fully explain. When the thing found its way to my doorstep everything was ordinary. The weather was frigid; as it tends to be around January in Maine, and the snow fall was light. Around 9 in the morning I get a knock on the door that would soon throw my life into a plague of unforeseen repercussions. If I just had the hindsight that I do now I would have rushed to the porch to greet the dreaded deliverer of the thing if only to see their face. The unfulfilled wish to simply see the person responsible for my torment, if it even was a person, keeps me in a state of constant agitation that surely can’t be healthy. * But what do I know about being healthy? I haven’t slept in nine months with a warm bottle being my only recompense. Its cries still ring in my mind. The thing was there, on my very own doorstep, just wailing. I feel as if it knows the agitation it brings, yet continues on despite my pleading. Night after night it whines and night after night I offer the abomination no respite for its pains. The gnashing cries have since become so deeply ingrained into my psyche that I remember not a day that I didn’t hear them every time silence was afforded me. * The picture is one I will never be able to alleviate from my mind. The thing, lying there, disgustingly trying to crawl into my home, while always being repelled by the closed door. The blood dripping from its mouth, forming a puddle on the ground in which it lied. Just the idea of the situation feeds my own tragic sensibilities. There was no reason for me to let the monster into my home, but even still I feel like there was no reason for me to leave it to freeze on my doorstep. The way its skin flakes and peals to reveal a slippery, wet exterior leads me to believe it would have succumbed to the cold within minutes if I hadn’t of brought it in. The memory of that morning is perfectly vivid in its terror. I can still feel the oozing, pink flesh against my bare arms. I can still smell the rotten stench of an open wound. * I know it isn’t a real human being and I know leaving it to die would have been the end of so many of my torturous devices, but I still hold in my being a moral obligation to care for it. This is surely insanity on my part? I was never quite capable of distinguishing one reality from another as it were to begin with. I even struggled with the question regarding the tangibility of the thing. Was it a leftover premonition from days that have long past or was it truly a living being? Its wheezing breath, appearing out of its ghastly mouth and fading into the air, led me to snatch the creature up and into my home. What happened from there is something that will haunt me even after my mortal flesh has turned to a puddle of goo under the ground. * The first days that it was under my unqualified supervision I tried to feed it naturally. It refused both the synthetic milk and the natural milk from a human breast. How was it supposed to attain any sustenance? The question bounced back and forth throughout my mind, never alleviating my frantic state. It wasn’t until days after semi-formally adopting the thing did I learn, to my abject horror, that it preferred one form of bodily fluid over another. I had tried in vain to feed it something white, pure even. Instead it preferred to take nutrition from other ghastly sources: the veins of other beings. This new revelation is what assured me for the last time that the tiny, squealing, beast I had allowed into my home may carry a disfigured human form, but it is not at all a human itself. It is just masquerading in a suit of pain and frailty. * Feeding it soon became my largest grievance. There was no way I could continue on letting it drain me of my own precious juices. After one of our sessions I would always descend into a state of fear and panic. Everything would become achingly cold to the touch, while my body shivered in constant pained seizures. After quietly enduring this for a period of months, I dreamed up a deliriously ghastly idea that I dare not repeat in all its gory depravity. When left with either myself wasting away or my wretched companion not getting the sustenance it so required, I was left with only one thing I could do. * I set out, late into the night, and stalked the shadows of the woods for my victim. I carried on my person only one small knife and an empty plastic bottle. The sensation of inflicting death is something that made me feel hollow, almost as if my very being had been emptied of all warmth and lightness. I vomited profusely a cascade of yellow and red once I had done it. Not only had my mind been emptied at this moment, but my body had quickly followed suit. Once I had collapsed into the snow the sobbing started. It was slow at first. I didn’t know who I shed so many tears for. Were they for myself? Were they for the lifeless corpse bleeding out next to me? Asking questions became an exercise in futility. The exact reason that I did it still evades me to this day.
5,080
1
1. Snow falls, lightly at first, with the utmost grace. The freezing, white flakes descending upon the ground like a ballet in white with each separate flake performing a dance more beautiful than the last. The ground is beckoning the chilly oppression as the white blanket falls on a dying soul calling for breath. 1. A single, solitary light is shining down upon the scene in the darkness. The flickering streetlight appears as the sight of God. It glances down, taking in a sight of unholy torment yet it knows it must watch for if it doesn’t then truly nothing will. 1. Under the light sits a being, scarcely human. It makes the sounds of a retching beast, while gnawing the life from the veins of its prey. All is silent, bar the sickening wretches of a beast and the fading gasps of mortality slipping away. 1. The pristine blanket of snow surrounding the monster and its victim is slowly being melted away by the spilling of blood. The flowing scarlet erases all sign of purity just as the vampire draws all innocence away from the man in its grasp. Slowly it consumes his essence and slowly its desire is sated by pain and torment.
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1
1. There came a horrifyingly bleak moment when silence fell amongst my comrades and myself. Before that the entire world had self destructed right in front of me and this is where the apocalypse revealed itself. The war didn’t end with any patriotic bullshit or grand show of humanity. It ended with this, the most painful silence that I ever felt. I have spent the last 299 days watching children massacre the children of other children with bullets and chemicals, but this is the only thing that will remain in my mind after I’m home. They say you never forget the smell of burning flesh. They say it stays inside of you until you’re dead. If dying is the only thing that can save me from having to live with this memory then it can’t come soon enough. 1. For all of these innocent corpses the sun didn’t rise the next morning. For me it did. Why? I have committed acts of untold evil upon my fellow man and these people did nothing. I now have to try and live knowing that I did this, but for them it is the end.
1,019
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One beer down and two to go, a can tossed from the window. A foot on the pedal and his mouth to metal he chokes on his barley and rye as the light is such sights for his sore eyes. With a flick of his wrist the lights dimmed to darkness of the mist. Gripping the wheel with force, speed became the moment of his source. “Fuck her”. Jeremy cried. With his fist balled he punched the dash only to find that he changed the station. Life couldn't get any worse. Just today he lost his job and while coming home he found another man in bed with his wife. And now,a good song, lost in frequencies of his own stupidity. Thumbing for the tune, his eyes drifted from the road. “ Don't leave me too”. Jeremy whimpered as his fingers slipped pass the dial. Reaching for the head lights his eyes jerked forward. A dark silhouette in the middle of the windshield raced towards his car. With a twist of his fingers, an array of white shinned in the face of his wife. “Emma!”. Jeremy shouted. The car thumped and rocked from side to side. With two feet on the brake, his heels dug into the floorboard as red flashed into his eyes from the shine of the rear view mirror. He kicked open the door and flung himself out into the road. “It cant be you. I killed you and your mutt.” Jeremy screamed. Walking slowly around his car he noticed he didn't have any damages and neither a body of any type to be found. Jeremy walked back to his car. His seat warm and wet, he nestles back into position slamming the door behind him. While adjusting the mirror the radio broke into an emergency broadcast. “ THIS JUST IN. ESCAPED MENTAL PATIENT ON THE LOOSE. TWO DEAD. FUGITIVE WEARING A WOMANS BLOUSE AND THE SKIN OF HIS VICTIM. DO NOT APPROACH. HE IS ARMED AND DANGEROUS. I REPEAT. ARMED AND DANGEROUS". Glancing to his left and right, Jeremy changed the station. “ Ha! What idiots. I'm going to get away with this scot free. Some retard is gonna get the book thrown at him for what I've done”. Revving the engine Jeremy thrust the gears into drive while smoke boiled beneath the tires. A few miles down the road and one twenty on the speedometer, a cop appears from behind. Blue lights and sirens wailed for him to pull over. “Shit”, Jeremy thought. “Keep calm. It will all be over soon. Let him give me a ticket and ill be on my way”. A flash light tapped the car window. “ Could you roll down your window please, sir”. “What seems to be the problem officer”? With a pen in hand, paper followed. The officer began to write. “license and registration”. Jeremy reached for his glove compartment and saw his gun on the floorboard. Not to bring any attention to it, he quickly opened the glove box and grabbed his registration. “Mr. Barns do you know how fast you were going”? Jeremy tried to remember but the thought of getting caught clouded his mind. “No officer I don't But I bet your gonna tell me”. The officer turned on his flash light and looked inside the car window. “Have you been drinking tonight”? The officer asked. His hands cupped his face to get a better look in the back seat. “No officer, I haven't ”, Jeremy said with a smile of confidence to follow. The officer turned towards Jeremy and stared right into his eyes. “ What about her”? Asked the officer. With a scorn look of fear Jeremy sat still. twisting towards the back seat, a knife ran against his throat. Looking in the face of his wife he noticed her eyes weren't the same color as before. With her skin welted and withered, blood dripped from the cracks of her lips. A smile emerged from the floppy flesh when a deep voice of a man said, “What wrong honey. You don't love me any more!”.
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2
There was a glitter in her eyes. Whether it was the tumult of emotions and attraction in those emerald oceans or the calculated, callous expression of a mercenary succubus, it made no difference to Mark. This is because Mark was smitten. It had been weeks—enough weeks to start counting them as months—since he had kissed a girl. Longer, still, if he went as far back as to think of his last bedroom encounter. Encounter, however, is the apt word as his last time was with a prostitute. Consumed by the specific loneliness of lying on a never-christened mattress while watching glowing snowflakes through a frosted window, Mark willed his pencil legs out of bed and into a pair of discarded jeans and went off to the west side of town. It wasn’t long before he found a girl on the street, fumbled through the approach, and brought her back. She laughed all the way. A few times in that fake way, calling him “baby” and “Daddy”, but then a few honest laughs at the meekness of this customer who knew only how to be kind and not how to be attractive. She didn’t even charge him, feeling that she had done a public service for a good but unlucky man. Then she went back out to the curb to dip her head under a half-dozen dashboards before dawn and Mark showered for three hours. But, tonight, at this bar, the green eyes of one Telulah Lawson glittered in front of Mark. Despite Telulah’s name, she was as white as paste. The awkward combination of this girl plus this name is as awkward as the giver of the name plus why it was given. “Telulah” was a premonition that wormed its way into the acid-washed ex-hippie brain of her now-institutionalized mother, given to her “as a sign” (her mother’s words) as Telulah crowned. Her mother, unashamedly, had both an extraordinary orgasm and a resurgent acid peak at that expulsive moment, diving back into her memory of her daughter’s conception nine months earlier: the Grateful Dead had given their fans the best show ever, even better than the last, and surely to only be the best until the next hit of acid at the next mossy field where the rock and roll gypsies and their coven bumbled to. Telulah’s mother had found her star mate in a man whose name he didn’t even know—he changed it every few months to reflect his new zodiac that he should have been born under—and it wasn’t long before Telulah Rainchild Persephone Lawson screamed her way into her tripping mother’s arms. Fast forward a few decades, give or take some years in change, and she sat at a bar in front of Mark Reeter, an account manager at a local credit union whose job was handled so adeptly by a computer that he was an avid poster on a paper airplane forum for under-worked office professionals. His skill at folding just the right glider to hit anywhere in his office was unparalleled in three states, not that anyone would dispute it. Earlier that night, he found himself lying again on that pristine mattress, again looking out that frosted window, and again recollecting his pity prostitute. So, he again willed his pencil legs into a pair of discarded jeans, but this time, those jeans marched to a local bar to prove to himself he could do better than to go driving around looking for her again. Not that he’d thought about it, nope, especially not while trying to make a plane that did two flips before wedging itself between the file cabinet and the wall. And, upon going to this bar and downing three of those juniper truth sauces, it was then that he was not served a fourth gin, but a vodka and club soda. The bartender shrugged at the wrong order, quipping that “someone ordered it”, and Mark found it his off-balance mission to get this unknown drink-less soul their libation. Luckily, it was a pasty-white girl with an odd name sitting equally alone at the same bar. Her reasons for sitting there that night, however, dip more into the excess of human contact than Mark’s lack. She had recently found herself unknowingly in a love triangle with a pair of twins. She knew that they were twins, as it always was a point of conversation on their date nights. They double dated frequently and the other twin brought in a rotating cast of women, ranging from exotics to necrotics. Telulah’s chosen twin, Samuel, often made it known to his foil, Sander, that he needed to find a good girl like Telulah, at which point a good laugh was always shared. One of these double dates began right after Samuel and Telulah had ended another one of their shower romps. The combination of steam, the smells of fragrant shampoos, and watching the water run down Samuel’s body always tended to lead to these events, but this particular time ended not with their usual sighs and tight grips as her body tingled and the sound of the water filled Telulah’s mind, but as Samuel bled. She had grabbed onto the shower curtain while Samuel was behind her and the rod came out of the wall with a tremendous splatter of plaster and ripped down Samuel’s cheek. He was quick to shrug it off and wear it bravely, but she had lost her nerve of things, so they got out and prepared for yet another one of Sander’s double dates. That night’s guest star was barely above the drinking age, which made things very quickly become fun—with increasingly oddly named shots being delivered—and then very quickly become ugly, as the girl exploded into theatrics on the street corner, punched Sander with a roll of quarters from her purse, and stormed off. The ensuing emergency room visit made two things clear: Samuel's nose was broken. While both men followed her out—one pleading with a scabbed cheek and the other an owl set of black eyes, both professing love to her —it became necessary for her to have another drink. And upon Mark’s moment of charity and honesty, Telulah’s eyes sparkled. And, eventually, Mark christened that mattress. Lying in bed after, with the sounds of Jerry Garcia filling Mark’s room and their nude limbs betwixt, Telulah made a perfect paper airplane out of their bar tab receipt and got it—hole in one—between Mark’s wall and shelf. So he kissed her again.
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He came around, blood dripping from a halo of dyed black hair, and the first thing his mother asked was if he had seen God. “Did you see him boy? Did you see our Holy Father? I bet he gave you a talking to!” she yelled over the sound of the siren. The ambulance hit a bump on the road, almost concealing the slight shake of his head that she didn’t notice. He tried to sit up but I gently pushed him down and told him to relax, while I redressed the bandages around his head. I watched his gaze travel to the landscape beyond the window glass that flashed between black and scorching red. His eyes seemed empty, hollow, like a dead man’s. He should be dead – that’s what a bullet to the head does, right? “You’re a fool, you deserve to go to hell for this,” his mother said. Her nervous eyes glanced back and forth and a silver cross hung from a chain around her neck. She began ruffling through the pages of the bible that she had wasted precious to run and get before letting the ambulance leave. Stray verses and words were mumbled to no one in particular. He didn’t look at her, or at me, or at the barely noticeable bloodstains in his black tee shirt. He just kept looking outside. “So what did God say to you? Did he give you a glimpse of Hell? Suicide is a holy sin, you know that,” the woman continued unceasingly. “Ma’am…” I said softly, but she ignored me. “You’ll end up in a gutter somewhere with no one but God one day, and you better hope he sees a prodigal son in you,” she said. His lips moved but no sound came out. He kept his eyes averted, straight out of that window. He tried again, and this time I held up a hand to quiet his mother, who finally took the hint that he had something to say. The first noise was a rough cough, but then words came, barely audible over the wail of the siren. “There is no God… no God,” he said. His mother, for the first time that night, appeared speechless, but only for a moment. “Of course there is, don’t be stupid.” “No.” He was more forceful the second time. “First there was pain, then darkness, but there was no God, no heavenly lights or flaming depths. There was only Death.” That time she was struck dumb for real. He took advantage and kept going, his voice getting stronger with each word. “I looked into the face of Death and saw him for who he is. There were no skulls or sickles, just… his eyes, they…” The boy broke off, unable to describe his vision, although his own eyes showed it all, even as they gazed beyond what the rest of us could see. Neither his mother nor I spoke until he went on. “He asked me the same question he asks every person who comes to him; why did I deserve a second chance? What made me so special? I told him I wanted to die, that I did this on purpose. He looked at me with those eyes and told me I had to learn to live before I could die, and he sent me back.” Silence filled the ambulance, and it took me several minutes to realize I had duties to perform, and quickly began running checks and applying fresh bandages. As I checked his blood pressure, he looked at me, and I saw that something had filled in those empty eyes. I knew it and he knew it; he was going to be okay.
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I'd like some feedback on this. Just want to know how my prose reads, and if you would want to hear more. Anything else is welcome, as always. I flipped the switch as I entered my dingy old apartment. It was a cramped room. Barely big enough for me on my own, and I’m a pretty compact guy. The place was about four by five feet, and two by two of those feet were taken up by the glorified closet that I call a bathroom. But it’s enough. Got a nice setup for food that I call a kitchen, despite just being a water-tap, fridge, and a microwave. Got a couch crammed into the corner between the door and the kitchen, and a comfortable bed crammed into the space near the bathroom. I took a deep breath, smelling the slight odor that permeated my home. It was built out of an old hotel down in what most people would call a “colorful” neighborhood. New Haven was a fairly rough place in general, at least on the lower levels, but my neighborhood was known for the sound of gunshots. Not that it disturbed me. I was used to it, and I was used to being able to shoot back. I tossed my gun down on the couch as I locked my front door. Then I threw my longcoat down on top of it. After that came my ballistics vest. Those weren’t common in my neighborhood, even among the “professionals” who made their money by threatening people for cash at gunpoint. Most people call those types criminals. I call them “Rank Ameteurs.” I mean, most of them can barely shoot at what they are aiming for, and none of them know how to do anything really impressive so that they can pay for some good hardware. I got a cup of noodles, ramen, and filled it up and threw it into my microwave. They were a bit outdated as far as food came, but I liked the taste and I got most of my nutrients from pills anyway. Good nutrition is important when you live and die on your reflex actions, as well as your ability to outthink damned-near everything else in existence. I crashed on the couch, in easy reach of my gun, and leaned back and took in a deep breath through the nose. It had been a good day. I had finally been able to hand off the data that I had pulled a few nights before. Data that had been “acquired” from a private server owned by Helix Biotech at great personal risk, as in I had been chased by a dog the size of a rhino during my escape. The paycheck had been good though. Ridiculously so, and it had been paid via a credit stick, so there were no electron trails to follow. Hell, with the kind of money I had made off that job I could have bought a better place. Moved up in the world, gotten out of the Ganglands and gotten a nice comfy place to live in. But that was a bad idea. At least in the lower levels, your name doesn’t get put to your face very quickly. That sort of thing is lethal in my business. Moment you rip off a Corps data, get caught on camera, and get matched to that data… well let’s just say having a bounty put on your head is getting off lucky. My microwave dinged a few minutes after I put the noodles in. I got up, and devoured them all in less time than they took to cook. Nearly scalded my tongue, but I was in a celebratory mood. Threw the junk in the little bin next to the minifridge, and then crashed on the couch again. I needed to get out for a few minutes, I thought. At the very least, I had a cred stick that needed to be put into a secure account or two… dozen. I pulled the stick from my longcoat’s pocket. It was a simple thing, really. Just three inches of silicon and transistors in a ceramic casing. A collection of ones and zeroes existed inside of it, massively complicated series of numbers and letters that would match out with those on hundreds of serves. Cryptocurrencies like the ones the stick recorded the access codes for were the only kind I dealt in. State currencies were too easily tracked. Not that the Crypto variants like Credits were much better. But if you were like me, and you knew your way around the Virtual, you would know how to obfuscate yourself well enough. I jacked the USB connection on the Credstick into a mount on my wristwatch and leaned back, kicking my legs up onto one armrest, and my head onto the other. The loveseat was a bit short for me, but I had grown to enjoy the position I was in. I took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. I could have done that standing up, or kneeling like I did while I was on the job, but for an extended trip into the Virtual… well I liked my meatspace body to be comfortable. I breathed a few more times, slowly bringing my body’s heartrate down, easing my mind into near-sleep. Diving into the Virtual wasn’t an easy process on most psyches. Mine was more malleable, more fluid, than most though. It took me less than ten seconds to ease my mind enough to begin the transition. I couldn’t see it, or perceive it with my senses, but at the command of my thoughts, the half dozen implants worked into my brain began to flare. My sensory information began to be blurred away. The feeling of the couch, the smell of my apartment, everything faded away. Replaced by a dull vibration. Then I opened my eyes, and took a step forward. The world snapped into focus, I felt a floor beneath my feet. I was standing in the middle of a massive park, with a fountain at its center. Clear blue water was bubbling up from the fountain’s center, cascading down into the pool below it, which overflowed in places to flow down into the bottom tier. Benches were worked into the side of that bottom layer, and a few of them were occupied by other people, other human beings who had Dived into the Virtual. The Park Plaza was the center of this Node, the little pocket-dimension housed on a server somewhere in Haven City. It was a commons of sort. Haven City maintained it as a landing page of sorts, a place for everyone logging into the Virtual through the city’s free wireless access to drop in. There were bulletin boards spread around, which you could use to post announcements and such. The Boards were pretty nice, if you wanted information to get out quickly. Law enforcement likes to leave the profiles on the people they aren’t able to catch, just in case someone like me is hanging around looking for work. Not that I’m a bounty hunter, that job’s too risky for someone of my skillset. I’m better at infiltration and retrieval of data or small objects. Granted, you can’t find that job on public boards like the City Boards. You had to go into the Shadows for that. I didn’t stick around Park Plaza for long. That Node isn’t bad by any measurement, and it’s always populated enough for my Avatar to blend in. But it wasn’t very good for what I had come into the Virtual to do. I walked towards the edge of Park Plaza. I saw some people playing some of the Games that the city had setup. There were courts setup for Volleyball, Tennis, and Basketball. Even a soccer pitch. Granted, most players Avatars got replaced by the Node to make sure the game was fair. I might have joined in on the Soccer games if I didn’t have much to do otherwise. I wasn’t exactly bad at the game, but I wasn’t good either. Didn’t really matter if I was in Meatspace or Virtual on that count. Eventually, I found the edge of the park. The Node Security was lowered there. Every Node had something like it, to control how users could interact. The City Node was pretty heavily moderated. I couldn’t throw out an Agent program to get information from elsewhere, couldn’t use any of my attack programs to cut someone’s connection, and I couldn’t use my Portal. At least, I couldn’t open a Portal unless I was on the edge of the Park Plaza Node. I opened the portal the way I always did. It was bound up to a gesture command, really all of my Avatar’s programs were. The Portal was just waving my arm in a circle. That created the circular gateway that I used to jump my Avatar between nodes. It looked pretty basic, just a series of cubes and triangles lined up in a circle. The other end of the Portal would be visible through it as long as I was running it, and anyone who wanted to follow me would be able to come through after me as long as I left it set to Public, and even if I set it to Private they would still be able to see which Node I was heading to. At any rate, the Portal established a connection. My “Bank” was one of my bookmarked Nodes. I walked through, and the temperature dropped by ten degrees. The smell of trees and freshly cut grass that had permeated the park (and that I hadn’t noticed until that point) vanished, and was replaced by the smell of… well the smell of a bank. Freshly vacuumed carpet, and the soap used to mop tile floors. The node was made up like an old-fashioned bank by way of the Roman Empire. Lots of marble, lots of pillars, and a dome over the central part of the Node where you could run a Portal in or out. If you looked up the dome you could even see a bit of Sky, which was what “Null” space defaulted to when you looked at it. There were Boards setup there too, but they were all advertising. Transactions people were trying to pull off, stocks and bonds for sale in various startup corps that were doomed to be crushed by the big ones, and Wallet and Bank services trying to get you to store your money in them. I walked down one of the four hallways leading out from that central domed circle. The Bank was a directory. Sort of a fancy address book that was dressed up to be a bit more user friendly, and confusing to the uninitiated. The various financial services in Haven bought up spaces to put together permanent Portals, which worked like the Flatnet’s Hyperlinks. My Wallet services all worked down the same hallway. They were like the Checking Accounts from before the Collapse. Only they stored Crypto instead of State currencies. The strings of data stored in the Credit Stick plugged into my watch back home could be transferred to the Wallet, and they would verify with the millions of nodes in the Credit Network to confirm the transfer of some funds to my wallet. I would have to go to about a dozen different places to make sure that my identity remained obfuscated, and that I didn’t leave too much of an electron trail. Sudden large deposits from Cred-Stick have a way of being noticed by the thousands of Algorythems being run by various Corps and Law Enforcement. While my Wallet was impossible to access without its Keys, which were hard coded into my Avatars so that even I wouldn’t know them, the transactions into and out of them were fully public. Anyone running a Node in the Credit Network could see the exact position and history of every Credit currently in circulation. That meant that I could be ID’ed by the way I spent my money if I wasn’t careful. Fortunately, Cred Stick transfers worked through a slightly different method than direct payments. Cred Sticks were like portable, physical, Wallets. The money in them was registered in the Logs as being on a Cred Stick, and then shown as being returned when someone transferred the Cred Stick into a Wallet. I had filtered my payment through several sticks on my way home, most of them belonging to a few people I had run with in the past. We had very thoroughly randomized the Credits that each of us had gotten from our recent payments, and that meant that tracking us through the Credits would be difficult. Everyone in our little group had money that had been paid out by one of a half dozen different people at the least, and about fifty at the most. The end result was that while we weren’t impossible to pick out from our spending histories, we would be very difficult to cleanly ID as being us. The first Wallet was accessed from a gambling Node setup with decor based off the Titanic, from before it sunk of course. I didn’t gamble much. I mean, it was just asking to lose money. Meatspace was easy to rig in your favor if you ran a place like that Node, and since everything in that Node was just a physical model tied up with some code… well you could rig it to act any way you wanted. But the place didn’t have much issue with law-enforcement, they followed every law to the letter as far as anyone official could tell, and so I felt it was a safe place to run one of my Wallets out of. The Algorythm that handled the Wallet was a simple thing. It was just a set number of responses, some voice files, and an Avatar based on a balding old banker from some movie. Couldn’t really think or do anything of course. Could only do what it was programmed to do, but that was a lot of things. I dropped some of my money on it, then kept moving. It was in the fourteenth node I had a Wallet running out of that things got… weird.
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Silver Heart By Tom Brosman Three silver salmon with dark green backs and chrome colored sides rested in the clear water of Charlie Creek. They were less than a mile from home where they would spawn and they could smell their “home waters” where they began their lives. Charlie Creek was eight feet across. It drained with the outgoing tide into Grays Harbor and at full tide it was several feet deep. The three great fish had made the perilous trip home from the ocean into Grays Harbor and found the smell of Charlie Creek like the welcoming porch light to a weary traveler. It was a journey to spawn and start more journeys. Noland saw them there in the clean cold water. He had parked his pickup by the 3 big fir trees and walked slowly through the salt grass. He smelled the air and felt the warm sun on his shoulders like an act of kindness to another weary traveler. He closed his eyes to see her again, to feel her, to perhaps breathe some of the last air that she had breathed. He could just hear her voice now, just smell her hair and feel the tug inside of him of the abiding, forever love he carried for her. He stood there, with his fishing pole and thought of happier times and a love that was rooted deeply in the bottom of his soul. It was an unrequited love that he still dangled upon. He could hear them, Noland and Jenny when they were six years old playing along these banks. He remembered those years of youth and times with Jenny. He remembered her hair and her laughter. She always said that he was too serious about things and that she made it a point never to be. Noland was a complex man, except for how he loved. He was born and old soul with room for only one woman and for her, there was and abundance of nurturing, protection and devotion. Jenny it was and Jenny it would always be. Jenny was a kind girl with a yellow pony tail and laughing eyes. She was never meant to be someone’s’ soul mate. “What an odd concept” she had thought. She gave Noland friendship and laughter and even dated him in their high school years, but she would belong to no one. Noland had fallen for her when they were children. When he was 12, he had mowed lawns all summer and taken the money to Herbig Jewelers and bought a sterling silver heart with a loop in the top for her to hang it in her bedroom. The heart filled her palm and he told her that she owned his heart forever. She was gracious as always and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Jenny came to his high school football games and many nights they walked the banks of Charlie Creek and talked as the moonlight made the water sparkle and sent long shadows from the big fir trees. A flock of Canadian Geese flew over him as he visited the past. He felt at home there on Charlie Creek. It was the best place to remember her. Not only were the smells and sounds the same, but the trees and rocks along the creek remembered Jenny and her laughter. So, he was among friends who understood. It was at Christmas time in their senior year at Aberdeen High School that his fears came true and Jenny found a new boyfriend that was “more fun”. A few days after graduation, his dad and mom had driven him to SeaTac where he caught a plane for Marine Corp boot camp and a new life. The Corp was a haven to Noland and he took to the lifestyle. He won two Purple Hearts fighting in the Middle East. He had just finished his 23rd year as a Marine, when a letter from his mother found him in Iraq. He was the sergeant of the Stryker Brigade and as the Humvee bumped along, he opened her letter. Usually his mother told him about the salmon runs or how it was time that his dad retired from Weyerhaeuser, a job he loved. This letter was short. “Son, I am so sorry. Jenny passed away from cancer this morning.” The decorated sergeant, strong from battle who shared the Humvee with 5 of his men began to sob. The marines around him gave him his privacy and looked the other way. Loss was a part of life to them and to a man, they understood. Noland finally cast his lure upstream from the salmon and twitched it down to them. A large male took the lure and he set the hook and fought the fish until he could beach him. The fish was just what he needed for his parent 55th anniversary and he placed it in the gunny sack he had carried and wet it in the water to keep the fish fresh until he could get it home and clean it. He put the fish in the shade and went back to his memories. There was a big boulder that Jenny and Noland used to set on talk and joke. He found his old place there and dangled his legs in the warm sunshine. Without thinking, the wounded man reached into a crevice in the rock that was protected from the weather. It had been their secret hiding place and their post office where they left notes for each other. He reached inside and felt a plastic object. He placed it on his lap in wonder. With his knife he cut the strings and unwrapped several layers of plastic garbage bag. There was a tremble that ran from body to soul in the retired Marine. There was a wooden box inside with a hinged lid. He slowly opened it and found a folded piece of paper, on top of more plastic. Just as the magnificent salmon had come home, so had he. Again he cried, as he read a message from across the veil. “My Dearest Noland, When you find this, I will have gone. I never thought much about life and it’s complexities like you do. That is, until the Dr. said I had a month or less to live. I knew I was sick, but avoided getting it checked. Until Dr. Erickson gave me my death sentence, 20 minutes was the most I thought into the future. When he said, ‘I am sorry Jenny, you haven’t long to live,’ it dawned on me, that I have lived, through children and marriages and never deeply loved! Sitting beside the Dr. while he was trying to comfort me, I fell head over heals, deeply, madly in love with you, Noland. I am so sorry I missed our life together and I am tormented by the off hand way I treated you. You who loved only me, deeply, forever. At the bottom of this box, is my most prized possession. It is your heart that you gave me that you worked so hard for. It is mine and I give it back to you. I am yours Noland, at last. Love, Jenny” The clouds moved in and the sunlight changed and still he sat, holding her heart to his. Hours passed and tide went out and a cool breeze came in from the sea and enveloped the man who belonged as much to the wind and the rocks and to Charlie Creek as he did to his folks and the men he had fought with. It was a quiet man who cleaned the fish at his parents’ house and left the bright orange fillets in a container in their fridge. He dad got him a job with Weyerhaeuser and he worked there until he retired. He never did marry. His folks left him the house and the garden out back with the apple trees. The mayors of Hoquiam and Aberdeen, the towns along the Harbor, spent many coffee catches trying to figure out who it was that paid the doctor bills, the flat tires, the late rent for those on the Harbor who came up short at the end of the month, or were just stranded on their way to somewhere. Noland always left cash in an envelope at the right time, for the right people, those in dire need. Noland had an attorney deliver the money when there was no way of hiding his gift. His attorney kept his secrets and he was the executor to Nolands' sizeable estate. When Noland passed away and crossed the river to Jenny, he was given a hero’s funeral. His attorney sent some of the money to a cousin of Nolands’ and the rest, was donated to the Aberdeen Rescue Mission. The attorney directed the completion of Nolands’’ most important wish. At Grays Harbor Memorial Graveyard there are two headstones, side by side on the edge of the property that looked out on Grays Harbor and across to Charlie Creek. The brick mason that the attorney used had been hand picked for his skill and his understanding. The mason had joined the headstones and built a recess in the center where he had mounted an object that had hung in Herbig Jewelers window six decades before, their silver heart.
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I would like to start off with the hope that this is how you submit short stories. Anyways, enjoy... I always thought that being the good guy was the obvious choice. I am a young man attending high school, and in my history class as a project we formed a "Class Country". We made our own constitution and spent many weeks discussing how things would work. (Our constitution was weak). So much chaos. No order. Nothing seems to get done. I was one of the few who wanted this to work, and put effort into it, I was very into it. My Role? The head law enforcer guy.... with no law to enforce. With a biased president and dysfunctional class mates. This was impossible. I was angry. I thought about how much easier it would be if I took charge. A temporary dictatorship to get things started. That's when it hit me. I went into the mind of past tyrants. Tyrants who never gave up their power despite promise. I know they would never let me be in charge, but the point is my mind set at that moment. This may not sound interesting to you... but I found it very interesting... very interesting to think like the bad guy.... I will be posting random stuff, whether it be "Wandering Thoughts" or something like a fictional story, so keep an eye out for me.
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Part 1 Retrieving food from the kitchen was one of the easiest tasks Winter was asked to do. Winter found no challenge in the task. His naturally strong body provided him with exceptional strength and agility enabling him the ability to complete much more challenging tasks. Once he had managed to break down the front door of his master’s house when he was locked out. However, the only reward he got was a smack on the nose. Winter hated being a cat. He was powerless, enslaved and most of all, bored. The worst thing about his situation was the dependence he had on his family. They fed, sheltered and protected him, turning Winter into a lazy and reliant cat. He detested that. If only he could be free. He could become important, people would look up to him and admire his every virtue. These were the thoughts and dreams of Winter as he monotonously and unwillingly fetched food from his master’s kitchen day after day, year after year. Rex moved on to his next house. He had been doing this for 24 years now and not once had he been caught. He would stalk his target, analysing his or her every move then noting it down in his private journal. These notes helped him decide whether to leave, capture or eliminate his victim. His new target was Winter. The Fridge was 6 times larger than winter, but winter had 10 times the strength of an average cat. He opened the giant metal door using his right paw to grab the handle and his left paw to push off of the wall. This was his masters 5th beer in one night and soon he would be fast asleep. With his master’s wife and children away in Spain, Winter would have the whole house to himself tonight. But he wasn’t as happy as he usually was on these rare occasions. He had a strange and unexplainable feeling that he was not alone. Rex had never been so scared in his entire 24 years of service. One moment he was on top of the fridge observing Winter’s activity, next he had a strong sharpened paw clamped around his neck, almost crushing his spine. “If you don’t tell me everything I need to know about you and what you are doing here within the next minute, your eyes will be ripped from their sockets?” Winter roared in a loud and ferocious voice. “Peace young one, I mean you or your family no harm.” The orange and white cat’s calm voice seemed to sooth Winter’s anger for he released his paw from Rex’s throat. “I am a Shinobi Scout” Rex continued, “Sent by the Ocelot Shinobi of the Combined Kingdom. My leader is looking for possible recruits for our cause.” Winter was amazed; people had spoken of cats causing trouble in the neighbourhood, some spoke of them as wild animals some thought they were some form of organised domestic cats. It never occurred to Winter that they were ninjas. “Do I pass the test then, can I become a ninja” Winter asked, forgetting his master’s commands. “Afraid not, none of my targets have ever caught me before and although you have display extraordinary levels of stealth and agility, my investigation is not complete and cannot carry on any further due to my discovery.” Winter had him by the neck again. “What do you mean I can’t join you, I have outsmarted, outmanoeuvred and outmuscled you and you claim to be a ninja yourself.” Winter was furious! This was his one chance to get away. He could become powerful and independent without the need of his worthless family. “I agree” Rex replied, “I have been bested. Yet, those are not the only elements required to become a ninja.” Winters claws were closing tighter around his neck. “Patience, loyalty and wisdom are vital assets of an Ocelot Shinobi.” The orange Shinobi was difficult to read but Winter detected fear within the Shinobi’s voice. He decided to take advantage of this. “Let’s see if those assets help you if I take off your head and feed it to my master.” Rex was a loyal companion to the Ocelot Shinobi but was not willing to risk his life saying no to Winter and besides, Winter had proven to be highly talented cat and anyone could learn patience and loyalty. “Bring everything you value with you, once you leave with me there is no turning back.” Rex had regained the authority in his voice but Winter did not take anything with him for he valued nothing from this household. Part 2 Although the Dojo was deep under ground, very old and not so clean. The place smelled of opportunity and freedom, a smell that Winter had not experienced before. Winter was ordered to go immediately to the Dojo, 6 more new recruits had just begun training there. His instructor didn’t look like a ninja, but his face showed that he was wiser than everyone else in the room combined. On the other hand, his fellow recruits showed no qualities at all. They all appeared to be weak little runts pulled from rich families. Winter didn’t notice the 7th recruit standing behind him; he was a menacing cat. His dark grey hair and scarred face did not seem to show any form of sympathy as he shoved Winter to the ground. “You’re standing in my spot, runt.” Winter stepped away; he did not wish to start a fight on his first day, especially not with him. “Attention class!” the instructors voice commanded, “Today you will learn the history of our clan and why we have sworn to protect the translation stone.” Winter was listening intently as the instructor continued, “Long ago humans and cats could speak to each other and lived side-by-side, as equals. The cats were much wiser and more intelligent. Whereas the humans were more reckless and greedy. The Master Cats were working on a massive project looking into the origins of the universe. When the humans found out about their project and demanded answers, the Master Cats refused to give them anything, for it was far too powerful for the hands of the reckless humans. The humans started war against the cats, capturing and torturing cats around the world in order to get information on the master cats’ project. The Cat Masters sensed that sooner or later the humans would find out so they locked away their new found information into the translation stone along with the humans ability to speak with cats. Our order, The Ocelot Shinobi of the Combined Kingdoms were ordered to protect this stone from the humans’ greed. The masters then killed themselves to remove any other source of the information of the universe. To date, our order has protected this stone for 6 millennia and continues to protect it. It is called the translation stone because, once activated, it will allow humans and cats to speak to each other again. One day the responsibilities of our order will be passed on to you and on that day, you must be ready. For now though I want to know each of your names and their meaning.” The grey cat answered first. “My name is Akuma, son of Enma the powerful. Akuma stands for the devil and means I always get what I want.” The authority in his voice made the instructor a little scared. “We’ll see about that” the instructor replied. “You, the white cat. What’s your name?” “My name is Winter, it was given to me by my owners. It means that I can be as innocent and playful as snowflakes, but at the same time be as unpredictable and ruthless as a blizzard.” As Winter left the Dojo with the others, he saw Akuma’s scarred face again. There was an evil look in his eye that made Winter think he was after the stone. Part 3 The instructor was furious. “What do you mean they won’t be graduating next week? The recruits have been training for a whole year now, I taught them myself! They are ready.” Chusuke was the leader of the Order and hated being shouted at, but his patience made him reply in a calm manner. “I have visited the fountain of clairvoyance and it showed me, one of our new recruits activating the translation stone.” The instructor didn’t believe for a second that one of his recruits would commit that crime, not even Akuma. The instructor continued shouting. “The visions given from the fountain of clairvoyance have been proven wrong before, and I know more about my recruits than some sacred water does.” Around half the cats in the order believed in the fountain of clairvoyance. It is said that any who drink from the fountain can receive visions that can tell the future. Before the argument could continue however, Winter burst in the door with an urgent expression. “Akuma is planning on activating the stone.” Winter described with a loud, panicked voice. “He is down in the crypts with 3 recruits and a group of humans. They could attack at any moment.” Chusuke burst into action. “Winter, take the other 3 recruits and guard the stone. Everyone else will proceed to the crypts at once.” Winter, was quick to react, he got the other recruits from the Dojo and ran with them down the corridors of the underground base towards the translation stone. One forceful punch to the throat and one of the recruits was dead instantly. Winter had broken the second recruit’s right arm and was twisting the cat’s neck when the third realised what was happening. He stood in a fighting stance and went in for a low kick to Winter’s left kidney but Winter was already behind him. The last recruit fell without a sound and without a head. Winter stepped silently over their bodies and carried on towards the stone vault.
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Nanny Caitlin drove silently in the passenger seat. It was a day like any other. Too bright for the task at hand. “Where are we going?” Nay Nay asked the driver. Nancy, was her name. but little Nancy thought her name was too somber and grown up of a name for a cute little girl like herself. As a solution she requested everyone call her Nay Nay. “I am now Nay Nay,” she announced one day during their breakfast. Everyone nodded and since then has been Nay Nay. “Jeeves?” little Nay Nay prodded. The somber man twitched his mustache. He was an older man, gray lightly snowed his brown hair. Despite his shave that morning he already had some stubble growing in – gray and dark brown. His hands curled and uncurled on the steering wheel, his knuckles lightly whitening. He avoided the little girl’s big brown eyes. “Nanny, where are we going?” she asked, seeing the man she called Jeeves as a game wasn’t going to answer. “You will see soon enough Miss Nay Nay,” Nanny said. She looked back slightly to nod at her young mistress. Caitlin was a governess more than a nanny but little Nancy called her Nanny as long as Caitlin could remember. Today little Nay Nay decided to look extra pretty for their very special trip. Caitlin had worn her hair back in a stern bun with dark sunglasses. She wore a navy skirt suit with black stockings and pumps. For being only 26, she looked much older today. So seeing as how Nanny Caitlin dressed up, Nay Nay saw it only fitting if she dressed up as well. She wore a yellow sleeveless dress with light blue flowers with a white belt. Her long black burly hair was adorned by a yellow bow that tied back her bangs and she wore light blue little rubber boots on her feet to match her flowers. She twirled in front of the mirror, inspecting her outfit earlier that morning. “Does this look nice?” she had asked Nanny Caitlin. “It looks beautiful Miss Nay Nay,” she had said. Caitlin stood behind her mistress facing the mirror and put her hand on the little girl’s head. Nay Nay’s cheeks reddened with joy and love for her Nanny. She turned to Caitlin and hugged her legs. “I love you Nanny Caitlin. So much,” she said lovingly. Her small hands gripped the hem of Caitlin’s skirt and her big brown eye twinkled. “I love you too little mistress,” Caitlin had said. Now as they were nearing their destination, Caitlin cleared her throat. Miss Nay Nay’s parents didn’t even say good bye, she thought. As they neared the building it was as if the weather finally caught up with the solemnity of the situation at hand. Clouds formed overhead and a gray replaced the yellow. Very serious black gates opened, like a mouth awaiting its meal. There was no landscape to speak of; a patch of cement crudely and hastily laid improvised as a parking lot. Dry and motionless dirt with patches of dying grass and overrun with weeds surrounded the very lone and haunted building. Nay Nay was not deterred, her chipper attitude still in place when Jeeves brought the car to a bouncy halt on the uneven cement. It’s time, Caitlin somberly thought. She fixed her dark sunglasses despite the cloudy weather and helped Miss Nay Nay out. Nay Nay stood facing the enormous concrete building. At first glance, it appeared to be a two story building. Two windows on either side of the large centered door stared Nay Nay down. They were higher up – as if on the second floor – with bars on them in a tic-tac-toe pattern. Nay Nay felt a chill pass through her small frame and she rubbed her arms in slight anxiousness. She was determined to be a brave girl. You can do this Nay Nay, she told herself. Caitlin put her hand reassuringly on the little girl’s head and gently lead her in, the building loomed over Nay Nay as she craned her neck back to see the very top. It was all one floor with ceilings so high Nay Nay could barely see the top. Upon entering the building the temperature suddenly dropped tremendously. Little Nay Nay shivered as her arms got goose bumps. She rubbed them more and she breathed out as she watched her breath form into a puff of white clouds before her. “It’s so cold Nanny,” she said huddling to her leg. Caitlin stepped away as a man and woman came forth. They wore stained white coats with masks over their faces and gloves on their hands. The man’s glasses sat crooked on his face and the woman’s left eye glass leg was missing. The clothes under their coats were wrinkled and the man’s pants were too short. He wasn’t wearing any socks. Nay Nay felt scared but she was not going to allow herself to be afraid. You can do it Nay Nay. Nay Nay smiled at the two doctors. “Hello,” she said in a shakey yet chipper voice. “My name is Nay Nay,” she smiled. Nay Nay extended her hand and that’s when it started. Her soft little arm extended and landed on the floor before her. Her eyes went narrow and her mouth started to quiver. She reached and cradled her now stump of an arm. Most children would have screamed and cried but Little Nay Nay just looked up at her Nanny for help. “Uhmmm, Na-Nanny Caitlin,” she whispered quaveringly. “Is-is everything going to be ok?” she blinked quickly to hold back her tears that still stubbornly made their way down her cheeks. Blood began to soak her hand and the doctors grinned through their stained and missing teeth. Nanny Caitlin said nothing in return but looked straight ahead. Nay Nay forced an unsteady laugh as she gently touched the raw meat on her stub. “It’s ok Nay Nay,” she whispered to herself smiling. “It’s all going to be okay.” She wiped her bloody hand on her yellow dress, small hand prints being left in the wake. She bent down and picked up her once attached arm. Dirt stuck to the moist, meaty bits. Nay Nay blew at the trash and brushed the flesh on her now stained dress to rid it of trash. She held the dislocated arm to her small body. “It’s okay Nay Nay,” she whispered to herself. Her nose began to get runny and she wiped it with her attached hand. They adults just watched as Little Nay Nay caressed her arm and stump, trying to stay brave; trying not to cry. Little Nay Nay stood there shivering when without warning she fell sideways. Her head hit the solid concrete floor, dirt and blood staining her face. A light trickle of blood slowly glided down the side of her face. “Ah! What ha-”she gasped in shock and horror to see her right leg lying on the ground, a few feet from where her arm had landed from her fall. She tried to sit up but had to regain her balance with her remaining right arm. “Oh! No! No! No, no, no, no, no,” she said softly. Nay Nay began to hyperventilate, her small chest heaving and small gasps escaping her bloody little body. “It’s okay Nay Nay,” she whimpered to herself. “It’s all going to be ok,” her voice got higher pitched as she tried to choke back her sobs. “It’s ok,” she clawed at her detached leg, dragging it closer to her. She reached for her arm but couldn’t get to it. Nay Nay pleadingly looked up at Nanny Caitlin, who did not meet her eye. Nay Nay was determined to be okay. Determined that everything was going to be ok, as she dragged herself to her arm forcing down gasps and tears. As she reach her arm, she used her torso to pull herself back – her right arm being extended to its fullest – when that arm too gave way. She landed on her face, her small teeth pushed back up into her gum – broken and jagged. A quick scream left her throat as she fell and blood came forth from her injured nose. Tears ran down her face, mixing with the blood and dirt puddling under her. “It’s-it’s all going to be okay. Okay, Nay Nay?!” she whimpered. With each gasp and breath she took, Little Nay Nay inhaled dirt and trash from the cold unfeeling floor. Nay Nay rolled onto her back, her beautiful black curly hair now matted with blood and filled with dirt. The blood and clear mucus dripped down either side of her plump red face. She tried to force herself up with her leg until that fell as well, the only thing remaining a trunk of a once healthy and beautiful little girl. “It’s okay Nay Nay,” she cried softly, tears openly trailing down the sides of her face. “It’s all-all going to be ok,” she gasped. All the while, the doctors and Caitlin did nothing but watch as the once yellow dress and light blue boots turned red with blood and stuck with dirt. Nay Nay still softly wiggled her stumps, hoping it was all a very bad dream. But to Little Nay Nay’s horror, it wasn’t. she whimpered a little louder and gasped a little harder, choking on the blood she swallowed. “Please Nanny,” Little Nay Nay pleaded. “Is everything going to be ok?” Caitlin still gave no response. “I’m trying to be brave,” she gasped. The doctors approached the little girl lying on the floor and picked her up gently. “Yes, Miss Nay Nay,” Caitlin finally responded. “It’s all going to be okay.” Little Nay Nay smiled, gasping slightly. She looked up at the doctors in fear. “Will you hold me,” she begged her Nanny. “I’m scared,” she whimpered, tears spilling from her big brown eyes. “No,” Caitlin responded. Nay Nay nodded. The doctors carried her to a door that opened upon their proximity. Within the brightly lit room were two large tables and an even brighter overhead lamp. One table was bare, its silver top reflecting the glaring light. The other had extra gloves, sponges, a shabby, stained towel and utensils. “Do not worry Miss Nay Nay,” Caitlin said. “Everything is going to be ok.
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I am feeling a depression I know many are going through. I am still young but I want to show the world what I can do, right now. But I cannot. So many lost opportunities. I am completely crushed by school and still don't know the name of the job I soon want. So many resolutions were created, goals written down, dreams dreamt... but none are done. I fear they will never be done. I may be young, but life moves too quickly for me to catch up. I've had a permit for a month and a half now, and I've practiced driving twice. I've written outlines for the book series I want to make, but I can't find the time to write it. I want to be a You tuber, making skits and commentating games to make people laugh. I am so close to success, yet a million miles away. So many of us feel this way... so many of us will fail, unless we change our mood and be filled with joy! But how?! I look at the clock, its 10:00pm, late for a school night, I wake at 4am every morning. It feels selfish to complain. But I do it anyways, silently, by thought, or text. A terrible day it was for me.... .... I guess I'll try again tomorrow.
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"The city is in a state of chaos. Monsters run rampant and there's no safe place to hide. The only thing left for me to do is run. Or, if you're like me, head right into the blazing city to search for someone. Not just any "someone" mind you. I've had a bone to pick with this guy for eight years. I'll admit, however, I'm a damn fool for coming to the city alone." A creature's roar is heard nearby. "Damn," Skylar begins running. The creatures are closing in on her as she runs through the remains of the ruined city. As she turns a sharp corner she suddenly collides with another person. The man falls back frantic as he too was running for his life. "Watch it you bloody moron! You want to die in this shit hole!?" The rant stops short as Skylar recognizes the man she collided with. To her shock and delight, it was just the person she was looking for. "Bradford, Avery Bradford is right here in front of me, and yet I can't just enjoy my revenge. Not yet anyway..." The creatures that were chasing both Bradford and Skylar take their stance on overturned cars, waiting to pounce. Skylar slowly reaches for the revolver on her hip and the sawed-off on her back. Bradford sat crying into his palms, apparently not the man he once was eight years ago. The creatures growled and finally made their move. The one above Bradford pounced first. Skylar quickly unloaded her revolver into the creature and it crumpled in front of Bradford, nearly crushing him. She then turned, both hands on her sawed-off, and pulled the trigger twice. Both creatures heads turned into cloudy messes of crimson. Skylar sighed, loaded her shotgun and revolver, and kept her revolver in hand while strapping the shotgun to her back once more. Skylar turned her head and saw Bradford standing up slowly, obviously surprised at the events that had just taken place. He looked at the bodies of the creatures, then to Skylar who's face was covered by a car's high beams. He slowly made his way towards her smiling and thanking her, but stopped short when Skyler stepped out of the high beam's light. Bradford's face turned from delight to horror at the realization of who this woman was. "B-but how? Why? You're, you're supposed to be dead." Skylar smirked, "You mean just like my sister? Like my father? I'm surprised you recognize me, but I am glad you do. That just makes this whole situation better." Bradford kneeled before Skylar and began pleading to leave him be. "Please, I didn't want to do it. That was the old me. I was desperate. I've learned my lesson, you don't need to do anything more." Skylar lifted her revolver and placed it in-between Bradford's eyes. "You were desperate? Desperate enough to rape a girl? Desperate enough to kill a protective father? No, you just wanted to satisfy your own desires and now when you're on the other end of the barrel, you regret those decisions. Funny how different you are now from when I first saw you." Bradford lifted his hands up, "Please, just tell me, why would you save me if you were just gonna end up killing me?" Skylar leaned in closer to emphasize the point she wanted to make. "You really think, that after eight years of searching I'm gonna let some freak-show do my job for me? No, this was personal, and I'm seeing this through to the end. That's why I saved you." Bradford closed his eyes and waited for the end. Skylar reasserted herself and clicked the safety off. "Hope you enjoyed the last eight years. Time to say goodbye." As she uttered her last word the trigger pulled and all went silent. Skylar wiped tears from her eyes. She let the revolver fall from her grasp and turned to walk into the night.
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today it was suddenly pouring down rain before i walked to my bus on my way to work. i grabbed the closest umbrella i could find, it's a zebra print compact model, folds down to fit into your pocket, probably intended for concealed travel. i quickly put on my red members only jacket and inserted some cheap earbuds i constantly seem to lose as i ventured out into the familiar unknown. i quietly walk while listening to driving music while the sky pours forth his liquid vengeance. it is peaceful here in transit between a thin layer of stretched fabric, soaked pavement, and some driving music. would it be wrong to add to this moist theme and relieve the final pressure holding me back from complete bliss? i could attempt to compete with nature and do a little watering of mine own, if only for a brief moment. im halfway through now and my shoes are making fat sex noises as i walk because of the many aquatic lawns i had to traverse. i finally make it to the bus stop and of all things i see there is a waterlogged wet paint sign on the obviously newly painted bench. or should i say half painted bench, as the new parts and old were clearly visible. the irony of the sign could only be appreciated for a moment before i found myself on a bus headed to sell people unhealthy food for outrageous prices. i guess we all have a little mcdonald in us all though mine is of the sweet shortbread variety. as i sit next to a woman that seems content to take two seats, or at least one and a half seats, i tap out this story on the glass surface of an advanced mechanical radio transmitter. some neo soul has come on over my headphones and now my thoughts scatter like so many roaches in a well light room. so for now i say goodbye until inspiration strikes and i crave an audience for work i will never finish.
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Monday, 7:00 am The past couple of days have felt slightly... off. Although, I can't explain exactly what it feels like on paper. The best analogy I can possibly generate: everything just feels slightly tinted. The kind of tint that needs to be washed away. But how could this happen? I tried retracing steps countless times; yet nothing jumps out at me. It's the same as it's always been. I wake up at exactly 6:30 and let the alarm ring itself 10 times. I then walk over to the bathroom, making sure that I don't take any more or less than 10 steps to get there. I know, it seems strange so far but it's really not that bad. Afterwards, I take the towel off of the shower rod, unfold it; then refold it again and set it back on the shower rod. I routinely proceed to slide the shower curtain to the left, I then step into the shower, and slide the curtain back over to the right making sure to spread it out equally so that no water can escape. Now, I think this might be where everything went wrong. I pulled the shower handle outwards to turn the water on; then turned it all the way to the left. Except there was one thing that didn't fit the puzzle. What could it be though? I've been sitting here trying to figure it out for over 10 minutes now, I still can't put my finger on what it is. Anyways, it's almost 7:30 now; I should probably leave to go to work. Monday, 5:30 pm It all makes sense to me now, how could I have been so blind before? While I was walking my way to work; making sure to fit exactly 2 steps in every concrete square on the sidewalk, the solution had finally presented itself to me. It was that damned shower. I had forgotten to make sure that I turned the handle to the left until it clicked. I guess I must have just imagined that I turned it all the way. That makes perfect sense, and it also explains why the water had felt less scalding than it usually does. I'm such an idiot sometimes. Well, I suppose there's no need for me to write about this anymore. I'm just glad that I can at last wash the tint away. Tuesday, 7:00 am No, this cannot be happening to me. The tint is still here. To make matters worse, I think the tint is darker than it was to start with. Maybe I'm just exaggerating, I don't even know what to do anymore. There isn't anything else that could have gone wrong besides the shower, I'm absolutely sure of it. After the shower, the only other part of the routine worth considering is getting dressed. For most people, choosing the right outfit for the day seems to be the hardest part of the morning. For me, it's the least methodical thing I do. Same black dress pants and blue dress shirt every single day. Oh, and of course the pen. I don't know if it's really worth mentioning, but before I walk out of the door I make sure to grab the pen off of the kitchen counter. I have an office job, so it comes in handy. I click it in and back out three times then put it on my dress shirt's chest pocket before leaving to go to work. No, It's no use, none of those small routines could have been messed up. I'm now more scared than I've ever been before, and I can't help but think: what happens when the tint gets even darker? I need to pull myself together, it's almost 7:30 now; I should probably leave to go to work. Tuesday, 3:30 pm My boss fired me today. He claims that I'm "Completely psychotic." It's strange, I don't know what made me drive the pen into his throat, but I'm so glad that I did. The smile has yet to leave my face. I can hardly believe it, I feel the tint starting to fade away. P.S. To whomever finds this short journal, don't mind the blood on this last page. I couldn't find any other pen to write with.
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Greetings, fellow writers. There are to be a few things introduced to this subreddit over the coming months. The first such thing is a "theme". This month's theme? Space Travel. If you've written something that involves space travel in the past, respond to this post with a link to it. If you write something new for the theme, respond to this post with that link as well. At the end of the month, this thread will be archived in the community wiki (an encyclopedia for the subreddit) for all future readers to digest. This will make it easier for them to find something for the mood they are in. Here is a sneak peak at what a few months will hold: - November 2013: Space Travel - December 2013: Winter - January 2013: Resolutions - February 2013: Time Travel As stated, however, only respond with links to space travel related short stories or serials you have begun. After February 2013, there will be no advanced warning on what the theme for the next month will be.
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Billy, Danny, and Michael, all students in Mr. Yeard’s third grade class, sat outside for lunch on the far picnic table in the courtyard, where they were approached by an out-of-solar-system guest, Yarou, who asked to join them. The kids kindly accepted his request and offered to share their lunches. Yarou graciously took half of the sandwich that Billy was straining to hold up above his head. “Thank you very much. You are very kind,” he said. His voice was light in delivery and high in pitch but easily understandable. Yarou took a bite and a single chew. He suddenly froze and immediately spit the food out of his mouth and onto the table. “What is in that food you gave me!?” Yarou yelled, raising his voice. Billy, having brought his sandwich up to his open mouth, slowly lowered it and placed it on the table. He looked up at Yarou’s glaring eyes, which had begun to glow. “That is a turkey sandwich,” Billy replied, starting to shake. “What is turkey?” Yarou yelled again. Billy stared back, not knowing how to answer the question. Steam began to emerge from the pores on Yarou’s face. “Is it a plant? A tree? A species? A seed?” Yarou’s voice became louder and more threatening. The three boys were staring at the table, trying not to make eye contact. “It’s a bird,” Billy said, almost crying. Yarou walked over behind Billy, who still refused to look up. Yarou’s eyes were now bright red and steam flew from his face at a staggering rate. He raised his right arm and violently came down on Billy’s head with a thundering crack. In an instant, Billy’s body went limp and fell to the ground, after which Yarou proceeded to step on him. After several powerful kicks and stomps, Yarou looked up at Danny and Michael. His eyes dimmed in color, and the steam lessened. Then he spoke. “Killing is wrong, especially for food. Let this be a lesson to you.” Danny and Michael began to cry.
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Once again, Mrs. Gale woke up in the early hours of morning in a bad mood. The same routine followed as usual. First she slowly shambled her way to the washroom and did her business, washed her hands, and saw her wrinkled, fatty, unflattering face in the mirror. Mrs. Gale again regretted looking in the mirror and continued downstairs. At the foot end of the stairs she once again slipped into her worn pink slippers and once again told herself she needed to buy a new pair. With slippers on Mrs. Gale headed for shelf in the living room as usual and proceeded with her ritual of daily routine, her modus operandi. One might wonder why Mrs. Gale only had one very expensive and impressive looking doll in her house when she claimed she was not a collector. One might also wonder why Mrs. Gale took such good care of this doll. Placed on the shelf were real apples and bottles of water. The apples were replaced weekly and were never bitten. The water was also replaced, but a sip was never sipped. A rattle, a squishy ball, and a binky decorated with flowers also occupied the shelf. The doll itself, dressed in a pink dress with white polka dots, was in pristine shape. Her hair was a plain blonde with bangs slightly covering her eyebrows. Her eyes, almost disturbingly real, were a brisk hazel and her nose was petite. Her mouth, though, was in the ugly shape a baby makes right before it erupts into a crying fit. Mrs. Gale smiled wanly at the doll and wiped the mouth with a cloth and continued on with her daily routine. She made herself some coffee, ate some fiber enriched cereal, took a shower, brushed her teeth and only when she was leaving the front door for her factory job did she realize something she had forgotten. Mrs. Gale was to have a guest over tonight, an old friend from high school. Mrs. Gale hadn’t changed the doll’s clothes in months! After getting a new blue dress she traveled again to the doll and saw a white spot on top of the head. Mrs. Gale couldn’t leave the doll like this, so she went and got a moist washcloth. She reached her hand out and tried to wipe the white away but it just stayed there and seemed to get larger as she rubbed. Eventually Mrs. Gale was frantically wiping like a madwoman harder and harder until the whole head was an ivory white. Small pieces of doll plastic still were attached to the ivory white now on the whole front of the face. The doll was 10 years old Mrs. Gale thought, it must be old, that was all! What else could be wrong? But she was horribly mistaken, denying herself the truth which she had part in. The white spot on the head was bone. Bone underneath rotting skin. Bone. And oh God that smell! With the skull of the doll now partly revealed, which still had hair, Mrs. Gale sat down on the floor and thought maybe her friend might not notice. Maybe her friend might not notice she had kept a still born baby on her shelf for 10 years.
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As long as I can remember, my dad has had a spindle of belts hanging in his closet. Every hook on this “spinning rack of death” was filled with a “grown man” leather belt, ranging in hue from light tan to jet black. These belts were the proper belts of a businessman. Their closest neighbors were suits and ties and custom-fitted, monogrammed oxford shirts whom, if personified, I can only imagine had names like “Alexander” or “Bartholomew” or “Vincent.” To the child me, these belts seemed big, like giant two-by-fours reaching to the sky. I was pretty sure the clothes rack was held up by these “leather straps of doom” and not the not the other way around. Every hook was filled with these monstrous ligatures, that is, except one. On one catch was a single, lowly braided canvas belt that I affectionately called, “Lil’ Toby.” In an act of self-preservation and futility, when instructed to pick out a belt for a "whoopin'," my brothers and I always picked innocuous Toby in lieu of his meaner and nastier cousins. However, my dad would never accept poor Toby as a sufficient tool for righting the dastardly actions of a wayward boy. We were constantly told to return him to the closet and select a befitting replacement. No matter how many times this ceremony took place and no matter how many times Toby was shunned by my father, we always selected him first . . . always. In my mind, one day Toby got his chance and he prevented all the discomfort associated with a parental lashing. As an adult, I laugh every time I see “Lil’ Toby.” He still hangs there in the closet, the singular lion cub amongst a pride of ferocious beasts. I sometimes find myself wondering how my dad never cracked a smile while thwarting the repeated, feeble attempts by his sons to cheat punishment. As a father myself now, if faced with a similar situation, I don’t think I could keep a straight face after the 10th or so encore of Toby’s failed performance. Maybe parents just had better poker faces back then.
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You get twins; put them in two different families. One dysfunctional; one, sufficiently, functional. One will be hailed a king. The other will be chosen as the scum of society. Left alone to be tortured by his own thoughts. The demons living in his head. Twitching, as he thinks of the mistakes he made; & made to believe they are unforgivable. Left to believe he worth nothing. Less than nothing. A burden on everyone, on everything. The other? Nothing extraordinary. Lived happy. Studied. Got a degree. A job. Met a girl. Got married. As he stares into her eyes, his twin on his knees, in a messy, cheap room. Walls with long black cracks. & so tight, you feel you're suffocating. On his knees. In a stained white undershirt. Stares at the noose. As he chokes to mute his cries. He hates himself more as he sees the stain of his tear expands on the carpet's bristles. Disgusted by his weakness. Wears the noose. His chest tightens more. A feel of relief starts sinking in as he knows, he'll suffer no more.
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"It's the fucking beans I ate." Andy sniffed in disgruntled admiration. A disgusting ass cloud engulfed his computer area. Virgil sat on his lap, meowing. It is a well known fact that cats are do not care about butt smells. The camera was rolling as Andy gobbled down more delightful fart nuts. He looked at his log and nodded, approvingly. Struggled to release. Short quiet burst. Extremely Stinky. Just Slipped out. Pleasing Feel. Outrageously Stinky. Pushed it out. Two Parts, loud funny part, quiet wet-feeling part. Extremely rank scent, smells like rotting food. You see, Andy was a man with a plan. With careful practice and rigorous training, Andy planned to become the world's greatest Flatulator.
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The weather was warm and the sun was bright on this late spring day in 1979. AJ, a 7-year-old girl with big brown eyes, and brown hair so curly that people often likened her to a brown-haired Shirley Temple. She has a sweet and innocent smile that proudly displays the recent loss of yet another baby tooth. She is dressed in her favorite dress with teddy bear print, and patent leather shoes, holding the hand of her big sister just two years older than she. Her birthday just passed a week ago on Easter Sunday and now she stands in the doorway of an enormous unfamiliar house, unfamiliar people, and with hopes of something else unfamiliar to her…. a happy family with a Mom and Dad that will love her and never hurt her. AJ is starting over, again, with another family in Foster Care. Wait, lets go back a bit first, and take a brief look at AJ’s journey in life up to this spring day. It was mid-April and very early in the morning when AJ’s Mom awoke in tremendous pain. The pain was not from the beating or punch to the stomach she received from her husband the night before, nor from the meal she made of onions she often ate due to lack of food in the home, but instead she was in labor. AJ’s Mom made it to the hospital but ended up giving birth to little AJ in the elevator. She weighed approximately 4 pounds, a result of being born a few months early, and needed to spend quite a lengthy time in the nursery at the hospital. Unfortunately, she spent most of that time alone as Mom had to return to her husband. Finally, social services contacted AJ’s parents and let them know that their baby was ready to go home to be with her family. No one knew AJ’s struggle being born and getting home were the easy part and that her biggest challenge, for the next 4 decades, would be to simply survive. Between birth and the age of seven, this little girl endured several forms of abuse, witnessed many horrors, and suffered tragic losses. Between birth and the age of seven she was physically abused, emotionally abused, witnessed severe domestic violence, observed her mother attempt suicide multiple times, was hidden in the trunk of her mother’s car, was dropped off at social services by her parents several times, was used by her mother as a shoplifting mule to steal meats from grocery stores, and witnessed the death of her baby sister at the hands of her mother. AJ survived. Not only did she survive, but also she managed to still be hopeful and optimistic that she, if she could be good enough, would find a family that wouldn’t hurt her. Shortly after her seventh birthday she thought just maybe this new family would be what she wanted and dreamt about for so long. AJ, her big sister, and the social worker moved into the kitchen in the big white house. Nervous, scared, and excited at the same time; AJ looked around with eyes wide and heart racing to see a smiling lady and man that appeared happy to see her and her sister. She spent the rest of the day getting to know her new foster Mom and Dad, baking cookies, playing with their poodle, and making sure to be very good so that they would hopefully love her and not send her away again. AJ’s dream of a “nice real family” seemed to be coming true. Within a few weeks her hopes and dreams would again begin to slowly shatter. Within a few weeks this foster Dad, also later to become the Vice President of the local Foster Parent Association, began to take a special interest in AJ and her sister. She did not understand exactly what was going on, but it definitely didn’t seem right. AJ is to be sexually abused by him for many years, and because of all she had been though, she had so much difficulty figuring out what was right and wrong. She wanted to tell her foster Mom so many times, but the foster Mom was not exactly nice, and AJ was afraid of being cast away yet one more time and losing another family. AJ tried to tell the social worker what was going on; but not about the sexual abuse, as that wasn’t something she couldn’t bear to tell anyone. She told the social worker about the foster Mom almost punching her, breaking wooden spoons on her behind, and saying really mean things that made her really sad. She also explained that the foster Mom would go on many trips for several days and leave AJ with the foster Dad and that it was scary and made her feel bad. The trust she put in the social worker to help her was destroyed when all was shared with the foster parents and AJ was punished as a result. She learned quickly that no one could help her, and that if she wanted to keep a family she had to be so very good and not tell anyone anything. The abuse continued for many years and AJ remained silent about what was happening. She spent so much of her time trying to be perfect so as not to make her foster Mom and Dad mad or not love her. The abuse didn’t stop, but her ability to remain silent was rewarded at age 13 when the foster family adopted AJ, and her sister, giving the world and AJ the illusion of a real family. This created a lot of anxiety and confusion for AJ to the point that one day the Mom was going on another of her frequent trips and leaving the girls with their newly adoptive Dad. AJ’s fear and anxiety over what would surely happen again, as it always did, when they were left alone with their foster/adoptive Dad. She would be molested again. AJ broke. She went running to the car to beg and plead again not to be left behind, but as usual it wasn’t working. Crying, pleading, and scared AJ finally said what was happening to her and her sister when the Mom was not around. AJ broke her silence and told the Mom that if she left them behind she would have to tell someone that could help. AJ’s foster/adoptive Mom was very angry with her, but did not leave for her trip and confronted the Dad. He locked himself in his bedroom and threatened to kill himself and the law was involved. AJ and her sister had to retell the horrific abusive events to many court officials several times and though he was found guilty, the Dad (Vice President of the local Foster Parent Association) did not receive any real consequences that fit the horrific crimes he committed against AJ and her sister for over 6 years. The world successfully reinforced AJ’s concept that nothing in her world is just or fair. Although the Mom did not return to live with the Dad, life for AJ continued to be one struggle after another. Words can never convey how AJ felt about stopping the sexual abuse she endured for so many years. Unfortunately, her relationship continued to decline with her foster/adoptive Mom. AJ continued to try with all she had to be perfect; she was so careful and tried to stay out of trouble, do as she was told, and she excelled in school to try to ensure she would be loved as much as other children that she saw were loved by their Moms. No matter how hard she tried, her Mom always found fault in her and nothing she ever did seemed good enough. Even as she got older and started to date she faced mental abuse by her Mom. She was often told that she had big thighs, called names like “thunder thighs”, that she talked too much, and that she needed blinders (like those worn by a horse) in order to pay attention. When AJ was in high school, an A/B student, she had a car accident and missed so much school that they were going to have her repeat a grade. She ended up getting her GED, and her Mom told her that she would never be anything and would not have a place in her Mom’s Will. AJ felt cast away once again. When she was 17 and her boyfriend asked AJ to marry him, AJ went to her Mom for support because she was not sure this is what she wanted. Her Mom told her that she should accept because with her background she should be happy that someone wanted her. AJ did as she was told; she got married at 18. Married at 18, had her first child by 20, and pregnant with second at 21 was the beginning of the many challenges facing AJ as a young woman. She had her second son in 1993, and she had no idea that tragedy would strike again just a few short months later. AJ’s second son died, of Sudden Infant Death, just 9 weeks and 6 days after his birth. She was not even home with him when he passed as she was helping a friend by babysitting their child, while her own baby stayed home with AJ’s husband. AJ’s last moments with her baby were spent in the hospital after he passed away, holding him, rocking him, singing to him, sobbing, and praying over him – Now I lay me down to sleep…. AJ endured the tragic of the loss of her child and tried to continue on her journey to find happiness and peace. Sadly, the loss of a child was too much for such a young couple to bear, and this resulted in AJ’s first divorce. She was alone, with two children and one tiny angel, again struggling in search of her dreams and how to survive. A few years later, AJ got remarried to the man she would love forever, but loving him would require all the strength, perseverance, and survival skills she had acquired thus far. Roughly a year after meeting her knight in shining armor, something changed in him, the abuse started again for AJ. It started with emotional put-downs and escalated to physical abuse towards AJ and her then 5 children, 2 from her first marriage and 3 with him. It had gotten to the point she knew she had to flee to protect not only herself this time, but also to protect her children. They all endured the abuse for more than 10 years while AJ tried to come to terms with what she had to do. She knew she had to leave the man she loved so much, because he was too abusive, and the abuse wasn’t going to stop, no matter how good she and her children tried to be. He would get mad and continue hurting them in some way. The day finally came, she was almost done with nursing school when she decided she couldn’t take the abuse a minute longer, and she packed up her children and left. Leaving, the abusive man she loved so much, proved to be one of the biggest struggles to survive she would endure. It also served to continue to build her strength, optimism, and determination. She struggled with poverty, homelessness, hunger, and exhaustion while she finished nursing school; the only ray of hope she saw for her children and herself. She managed to scrounge up every bit of inner strength she had and graduate at the top of her class, pass the nursing boards, and even won her states Governor’s Award for Excellence. Things began to look up for AJ and her children. She was able to get a job in mental health that would provide very well for all of them. AJ and her children began to find their self-worth and learn to like themselves again. They all continued to be haunted by nightmares and emotional issues from a tumultuous past, but nonetheless; they moved forward and enjoyed their love as a family and their freedom from abuse. AJ was stronger, happy, and felt she might find companionship again. Now that AJ and her children seemed stable and doing well, she started attempting to develop some sense of a social life and the possibility of companionship. She entered a few relationships that taught her more about life, but ultimately were not what she wanted. It seemed she couldn’t find the complete family she yearned for so badly all her life. One day, a few years later, she found someone she thought was nice and would be a good companion and partner in life. She remarried thinking he would be good to her and her children. Like a recurrent nightmare, her marriage began to fall apart in less than a year later. He began drinking, using drugs, and becoming verbally and emotionally abusive to AJ and the children, both his and hers. AJ’s two daughters also started showing dangerous behaviors, resulting from emotional damage over the years, and now required professional help. AJ also realized that happiness would likely remain elusive, for all of them, without some form of professional help. She again started to question her life, her choices, and her self-worth. She often wondered if maybe this is all she was to expect out of life and what she deserved? AJ and her children were on their own again trying to rebuild themselves, hope, and faith in people. Even now, AJ chooses to be hopeful and optimistic that the many difficult decisions she made, and struggles she has endured, have given her much strength. She believes that one day she and her children will find the peace and happiness they so desire. AJ struggles each and every day knowing that she holds responsibility for choosing to allow hurtful people into her, and her children’s, lives. AJ’s second husband of more than 10 years has come back into her life, after more than seven years of them being apart, wanting to rebuild their lives. He says he loves her, that he has done much work on himself, is attending a program for abusers, believes he has changed, and vows to never hurt AJ or her children again. AJ sees that he appears different with them, and she knows she loves him with all of her heart. She hopes that what he says is true. AJ finds she is having a difficult time trusting all of their safety, her own choices, and life in general. Has he changed? Will he hurt them again? Might her dreams finally come true? The reality of her fears is based on a lifetime of abuse, broken promises, and a lack of self-worth. AJ refuses to give up and remains optimistic that she and her children will find peace, so she continues to hope, to dream, and to survive. They say life is about the journey not the destination… for AJ it appears to be about survival and hopes of a peaceful destination.
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I wrote this a while back for a school assignment, but I figured if anyone was interested in reading it and telling me how they feel then I will submit it here. It's not the best writing, but I did this when I was 15. If anyone wants me to put more up if they like it then feel free to ask. It's set in the future and is full of augmentations and all that cool stuff. Deus Ex was a big inspiration Prologue 15th February 2072 Jackson Hudson was annoyed. The blueprints for Project Tyrano were late. Very late. If someone didn’t turn up soon with them, he would fire Martell. Or worse. Hudson was a tall man. He had such long hair, that he often would have people approach him, telling him to have a haircut. He was also very tanned and strong as a result of his daily swimming and runs along the beach. He did not look like someone who was a multi-millionaire. Martell barged into his office knocking over some pot plants, not bothering to put any of them back up. Martell was almost the opposite of Hudson. Fat and a slob, who could never be bothered walking past his front door. But he was extremely smart, Hudson reminded himself. That was one of the only reasons Martell even existed. He had everything related to Project Tyrano on his shoulders. “I’m so sorry this is late sir,” said Martell. In his hand was a single sheet which had every detail about Project Tyrano on. “I had my team working on it for twelve hours straight last night.” Hudson got up from his office chair without a word and took the blueprint from Martell. Very good, he thought. Everything is here and proper. Hudson looked up to Martell, although still angry with him, was more relaxed. “Do you have a prototype for me?” asked Hudson. Martell started to sweat, realizing that step two of the project was also required today. He either had to lie or face the consequences for his actions. But in this case, those consequences could be death. “Well…uhh….” Martell stammered. Hudson, sensed something was wrong, asked again. “Where is the prototype?” This time it was louder and blunter. He knew that Martell didn’t have it. “You don’t have it, do you?” Martell, struggling to answer, shook his head. Hudson stood there for a second thinking about what options he had. He could kill him, and this could serve as a warning to all the other employees that failure to meet the organization’s expectations resulted in death. But he would be losing a great resource in him. Martell was so valuable, so important, and he was vital for Project Tyrano’s success. Hudson pulled out a 784 pistol, and put it to Martell’s head. The 784 had bullets that were so powerful, that if the bullet did not pierce or reach the victim, it could be optimized with an explosion at different distances. That explosion would also have gas that would kill anyone near it instantly. It was the latest technology. But he didn’t need that gas today. That was for difficult kills. Hudson walked right up to Martell and whispered very clearly into his ear. “If this ever happens again, this bullet goes through your brain. Do you understand me?” Martell was so frightened for his life that he only just made out a very quiet but audible “Yes.” Hudson punched him in the jaw. “Get the hell out of my sight, and if you don’t have that prototype by Monday then you are dead.” He spat out the last word as Martell ran from the room. Chapter One Kayo had just finished school. A storm was on its way so he didn't want to linger around school any more than he had to. Aaron had caught a bus to the nearest skate park, ignoring the warnings. Kayo pulled his hoody down. He knew how cautious people were these days, a menacing teenager in a hoody often made others very judging. Kayo was fifteen. He was a pretty sporty kid, and pretty smart although his appearance made it seem less so. He had long brown hair that was in a style of a kind of surf dude. He was used to be out playing sports all the time ... although lately he had not. It began to rain. Kayo cursed his bad luck and ran to the closest bus stop. He took out his phone, thin, four inch screen with the fastest internet speeds possible. One of the most popular and luxurious phones available. It had taken him many shifts at work to pay for this phone. He selected some of the latest songs to stream and popped two very small wireless buds into his ears. He sat back and waited for the bus. The bus arrived ten minutes later. Kayo popped his bus card into the slot on the inside of the bus. It withdrew some cash and on his phone popped up a message asking him where he would like to go. He selected his home in the favorites section. "Ridge-view Drive is this correct?" it replied. Yes, he selected. He sat down next to a teenage girl who looked about the same age as him. There were no bus drivers anymore. Ever since the latest AI technology assistants had been introduced, the same technology had been implemented into nearly every transport imaginable. Public transport was much more common as only the most expensive cars came with AI. Many people were still driving manual, non-AI cars. The government had been trying to get rid of these and the roads and just have public transport and keep the AI cars for the rich and important. So far their attempts at convincing the public had been unsuccessful. He eyed up the girl, she was nice looking and he had never seen her around his school before. Kayo wanted to strike up a chat, but he wasn't quite sure how he could bring up a conversation. *** The bus stopped halfway down the street he lived, and as he stood up, the girl got off to at the same stop. She turned around and started walking the opposite direction. Kayo still wanted to get to know her, but he had no idea what to do. He brought out a dollar and chucked it at the ground. Swiftly he picked it up and asked the girl. "Is this yours?" Now she was looking at him, he could get a better look at her. She had blue eyes and blonde hair, such a girl that you would dream about. She was slightly smaller than him, but that was quite tall because Kayo was usually much taller than most kids his age. "No...I don't think I had any change on me," she said. But she was interested in him, he saw. "Where do you live?" He asked. "I've never seen you around here before," She blushed. Too soon, perhaps? "I’ve only just moved here with my parents," she said. She was calm and interested in conversation too, that's good, he thought. "My mum just got a job with some company..." She hesitated, probably because she had told a lot of information to a person she barely knew. "Sorry, my name’s Kayo, I just live down the road from here," Kayo said quickly. "Danielle," the newly named Danielle said. Kayo needed to get home before it got too dark...but why pass up on a new relationship? "Hmm, maybe we should catch up sometime?" he stumbled. She blushed. “Ah, I actually have a boyfriend..." He turned red. He felt really stupid now. "Ah, ok, ah, that's fine, ah, bye, I guess" He turned to leave, feeling stupid, for not realizing that a girl like her would be taken. "Wait!" she called. He turned. "Give me your phone," she said. "Why?" "I want to give you my number stupid," A quick change in attitude, she stopped and smiled at him to let him know she was kidding around. He gave her his phone. Kayo was confused. "You have a boyfriend...?" "Yes, but he might not be for long..." Danielle gave back his phone. She leaned in to his ear. "Call me" she whispered. She left and went down the street and Kayo was left wondering what kind of girl she might be. *** It was just after six before Kayo finally got home. He lived with his Dad. Fifteen years ago, just after Kayo was born, his Mum disappeared without a trace. The governments have chips in everyone’s skin. Like animals, some would say. Kayo's Dad reported her missing when driving home from work. The police went onto the database to try to find her. Technology had come so far, that anyone who was on earth could be tracked through the tiniest chip in them. They couldn't find her. She had literally disappeared. Either someone had abducted her and removed the chip or... no one knew. Fifteen years and not a trace. So Kayo lived with his Dad. His house was not very big. Single story, with a bland coloured roof and only two bedrooms. Just big enough for the two of them. Kayo’s hand went into his pocket, finding his phone he scanned his phone on the door. Access granted. The old wooden door unlocked and he walked in. His Dad wasn't home yet. Probably still at work. He threw his school bag near the kitchen. Kayo didn't know how to cook. It was only lucky Dad knew a bit about it, he thought. Picking up his phone, he quickly tapped towards the nicest sounding pizza delivery service and ordered using his online account. He started on his math until the pizza came. Came through the "mailbox". The mailbox was like a hub, of some sort inside people's homes. It collects packages, that people sent, food, anything really. All travelled by underground tunnels propelled by some unnatural force. It was nine o’clock when his Dad got home. "Hey mate," he heard down the hallway. Dad came down the hallway. Steve Collins. Kayo's second name was Collins naturally. He was pretty scruffy. The years hadn't served him well. He was in his forties and had a great stubby beard which kept on growing, no matter how much he shaved it. So he just let it grow. "Did you grab anything?" he asked expectantly. Kayo nodded. "I grabbed a pizza, but the rest of its probably cold by now." Steve gave him a slap on the back. "Doesn't matter, it'll be all right, I'll just heat it up," *To be continued...
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I wrote this in eighth grade, and I didn't put context around it. Hank and Justin hurried out of the SUV and began making their way across the icy road when a misty figure, about six feet tall, materialized in the distance. It began striding towards them, hunched over, with a long, loping gait. Hank, slipping on the slick ground, turned around and retrieved his rifle from the back of the vehicle, running back to join Justin. The figure continued to lope steadily towards them. Whenever it left the illumination of a streetlight, it was nearly invisible against the backdrop of the cold, dark night. “What good will a rifle do against him?” asked Justin. “Do you have a better idea?” Hank replied. He unchecked the safety on the gun and bolted into the familiar winery, with Justin following hastily, covering the large cube under his traveling cloak. They hurried down the trapdoor behind the dusty counter, slamming it shut behind them. They ran down to the maintenance elevator, hearing the trap open again above them, the misty figure starting to descend down the creaking staircase. “Quick, what’s the passcode?” asked Justin hurriedly, fumbling to get his glove off. “Six, five, two, nine, pound,” said Hank. Justin typed in the passcode and hastily slipped his glove back on. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, hopping slightly from his left to right foot in anxiety as they waited. The elevator came up at a painfully slow pace, the misty figure drawing ever nearer. Hank spun around and fired once into the figure’s chest. The round passed right through its body, momentarily dispersing a small area in its chest, particles floating back to repair the hole in its torso. “It’s no good,” Justin trembled. “Look away and close your eyes. Don’t open them until I say so!” Hank averted his eyes. Justin quickly took the cube out from under his cloak and unzipped the case. Holding it by the case, he looked away and held it out towards the figure. Blinding light shone out of the cube, brighter than the sun, and engulfed the misty creature, dissolving it and sending a thousand tiny particles zooming away in a thousand different directions. A smell of ammonia lingered in the air where the figure had once stood. Zipping up the case again, Justin breathed a sigh of relief. They were safe! “Okay, you can open your eyes now,” he said to Hank. Hank turned around. “You used the artifact? That was incredibly dangerous, do you have any idea what could have happened?” *Ding.* “No time,” said Justin, pointing at the small green light above the elevator. “Our ride’s here.” The two hurried onto the platform that creaked and groaned ominously to accept their weight and immediately grabbed two safety suits from the rack as they headed down. They slipped on the suits that covered everything except their eyes, then put on the filmy red glasses that would protect them from the blinding light. *Ding.* They stepped out into the cavernous room, staring in awe at the massive shining pyramid that stood before them. They rushed to the side and scrambled up to the top, careful not to knock any cubes over. Justin reverently took the case off the cube and placed it on top, the final addition to the thousand-year puzzle. The cubes began to blaze even brighter than before, turning a scorching shade of red. The whole structure began to tremble slightly. “At last,” he whispered. “It is complete.
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"Hey Gary, you ready to travel to the future?" Jeff was talking about how the broadcasts from earth for the last few years would reach them in a matter of hours. Sure faster than light travel made travel a snap for the travelers but the same amount of time on earth passes. Gary thought about how he said goodbye to his pregnant wife just two weeks ago, but to her years would have ever passed. Would she still love him? Was he ready to be a dad? Gary asked "What age do kids start to talk?" Jeff shared about his own kids and how Gary Jr. would be walking and talking, but that missing that is part of the job. Gary continued, "the best part is the flight home and seeing all the pictures and videos from the last few years in a matter of hours. It's like fastforwarding life!" Gary feigned a smile and a chuckle but couldn't see how that was a good thing. The ship sped up after takeoff and Gary's message board started to light up faster and faster. Hundreds of new messages from his wife detailing the pregnancy, how she decorated the nursery in blue. A blue nursery?? It must be a boy then! The screen was automatically displaying each message so fast it was like a picture book. Hundreds of photos of her getting bigger flashed on the screen then a video of the birth! The video was more graphic than he expected and he felt horrible for not being there. He felt so close to his wife as she struggled and wished he could take back to each decision to take the mission. She looked in the camera and said "oh Gary, I'm so sorry, it's all my fault" She had talked him into the mission, but it seems like she regretted it too. The video ended with his wife crying as she held the pink baby boy. The screen went back to flashing pictures. Pictures of medical equipment that we're large, square, and made up of white and clear plastic, with a small pink figure hidden behind the clear plastic. Gary couldn't stop watching to read any of the text messages from his wife, he couldn't move, he couldn't think. The pictures of the medical equipent lasted for minutes. How long was this in real time, Gary wondered. Gary stopped the screen on the first picture of the boy in the nursery. He had a neck and back brace and was using crutches. He must have been at least two years old! Pink skin and no hair, the boys face was slanted with his lips off to one side and an eye much lower than the other. "This isn't my son!" he thought to himself, horrified at reality and himself. He continued and stopped at a picture of his wife. She had bags under her eyes, was gaunt, and her hair had thinned. Gary turned off the screen just when he heard Jeff yelling about something in his messages. Gary couldn't believe it, it can't be real. They had done everything right. He gritted his teeth as his eyes welled up and he had the computer start displaying the messages again. He didn't feel anything for the handicapped child in the pictures, for his child. Another hour of pictures of a woman he called his wife and few weeks ago but now didn't know and don't of a retarded kid he felt nothing for. He held back tears at what these things feelings said about him as a person as the ship docked. They were likely waiting at the station. He didn't know what he would say, or what he could say. The doors opened and he immediately saw a boy down the hall with the other families strugging to walk toward him on crutches. The other families quickly passed him. And Gary lost sight of him for a second. There were kids and spouces running and yelling to their loved ones who had also been workers on the ship. Gary spotten him again. The boy in the back brace who was struggling, he saw him yell for him "DAAAAAD!". Gary's eyes filled instantly and he lost nearly all sight. A few more blind steps and he felt a strong grasp around his hips. Gary closed his eyes tightly to clear the tears and kneeled down. He couldn't hold what he was feeling back, and he couldn't explain it. It was just happening and he just wanted it to continue. Gary's son felt his face while repeatedly whispering "dad, dad, dad". Gary saw woman's shoes on the floor behind his son, he followed the legs to find the owner. It was his wife and he stood up to hug her and said "that was too long." She laughed and agreed. "Come on son" Gary said as he easily picked up his frail son who was still trying to pet his face. Excuse any typos or formatting. I wrote this on my phone. I'll come and clean it up later.
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I wrote this very quickly to get my ideas on paper and I was hoping to get some more opinions on it; Nineteen years of age and trained to kill Gripping his rifle as if it will save him by its own will Darkness enveloping A footstep, a whisper Sudden movement followed by sudden movement Ambush A storm of lead, he must defend Screaming, confusion Cease fire, not yet. Not till they’re all dead Click click click Hes all out of ammo Cease fire, not yet. Not till they’re all dead. Reaching for his KABAR Blinded by rage Only one more left Red flashes, I’m hit Bleeding out Cease fire, They’re all dead Suddenly he realises The footstep, the whisper Foe, or friend? They’re all dead.
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I have this recurring dream that haunts my subconscious. I don't want the message to be lost for the sake of artistic labeling. It's too powerful of an image to be hidden under stones and gravel of rhythmic melody and stanzas. The dream is of a beautiful hardworking woman. A woman whose job in life is to fight against the adversity, which is always promised to those who follow their dreams. You might see her with tears in her eyes once or twice and than see them fight that weakening human response. Because when that strong person sucks in those tears, as a deviant gesture to the world, those tears stream back into them. They flow all the way down into their heart with the rest of the body’s water. Yet when all other impurities are recycled and washed away, these tears stay for they are pure. And they keep pouring into the heart of our hero until ultimately....the heart drowns. Sinking quietly to the bottom of her tear-filled ocean.
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I open my eyes and look around. Where am I? Carrie is in the bed next to mine. I’m still alive? Why does my head hurt? The nurse enters the room to check both me and Carrie’s vitals and I ask her what happened to me. “You don’t remember?” she asks. I shake my head, and I realize that there is a giant lump on the back of my head. Then I remember. I remember that day in vivid detail. I try to fight it back, I try not to remember, but it’s too late, it floods my mind. He hit me. He hit me again, and again, and again. We had fought again. He called me a witch, like we live in Puritan times. I hate him. Everything I did was wrong. The music I listened to, the books I read, the shows I watched, the cloths I wore, all wrong. So he hit me. A few days ago I decided to wear a tie-dyed t-shirt to school. As I was just stepping out the door he yelled. “Get back her Nikole!” My stomach dropped, and I turned around. “You can’t wear that to school!” he screamed and yanked me inside the house. I didn’t usually fight back, but I was sick of him. I pushed past him and stepped out the front door again. He grabbed me by my hair and pulled me back in the house slamming my head against the wall just inside the door, after that came hit after hit after hit after hit. I shielded my face and waited for the blows to stop. “Dad!” I heard a scream. “Dad! Stop it! You’re gonna kill her!” Maybe there was hope. Carrie was there. She would protect me. He pushed her out of the way and she slammed into the wall. She was unconscious. I crawled over to her and shielded her body from any more damage. “I’m the older sister. I need to take care of her.” I thought. I don’t know he long he hit me, but finally I heard sirens. They knocked down the door. They tackled my step-father to the ground and cuffed him. Carrie and I were loaded into the ambulance, the last thing I remember seeing was my mother crying holding my two youngest sisters and my brother stomping around the yard, angry that he failed to protect his sisters. Carrie rolls over in bed and I’m brought back to the present. “Hey Care Bear” I say. She smiles at me and reaches out for my hand. We lay there holding hands until we drifted off to sleep again.
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The sun glares upon the desert sand. The sky is orange, as the night will set in soon. Across the horizon, I see long legs running. I follow up the shapely legs and see a woman. Although she is running, she remains in the exact same place. How very strange, as I stand still. I come closer and see her face, red, like the sky, with green eyes and beautiful black hair. Why is she running? I think I'll join her pace. 'Hi, my name is Akasaa, I was sixteen when I died and ever since I run upon this plane during dusk until the sun has completely set. My job is done when night has fallen upon us. And you? What is your name and why do you wonder this plain?' 'My name is of no concern to me, as I come here merely to dream.
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Preface: This was an idea for an argument, but it came out as a tiny fiction. It is maybe not so good. (Yes, rereading it, it is not so good). I could pretend that I want critique, but to be honest I just want praise. And to share! (I'll keep things tidy, testing waters and all... here it is ->) The nihilist came to me and said, "The universe is a cold and meaningless place. There is no fate, there is no purpose -- these are things passed down by dying religions, by culture and tradition. Look at science. The truth is that the universe began as swirling gas that settled, and then settled, and on our planet bubbled up into this random life. We came along, and we keep going. No small feat, but don't be fooled. No designer has worked at it. Look at science. We are the lucky children of chance." Having heard enough, I felt the urge to hit this man with a wide stick (or at the very least defile his shoe), but he stopped. Nevertheless, I pinched the fat that hung from underneath his left arm. He let out a small cry and recoiled. "You have suffered," I said. "Yes, I have suffered," he said. But his tone! "Look here. You have suffered! And you made motion to avoid this suffering. You had an aim in your mind of ending it. Now, the universe created me, and--to what I presume you'll believe is your great misfortune--it did the same for you. And as cretins we have come together, made exchange, and given you desire. Is this not enough for meaning?" "Have I only to avoid suffering and seek pleasure then, sir? The insufferable hedonist, is he your stubborn emblem of hope?" "A heart will beg that it be out of suffering, and weep earnestly after pleasure. This I do not deny, but that a heart beats at all! From a lifeless world we have *some* matter that moves to meaning. No matter how menial or small." "Small, yes. And to be whisked away at the soon-certain call of death." "No, to have *been*. Let me make of my own life a proof to this fact: that the ability to believe in an illusion of meaning is proof there is meaning enough." Presently, he laughs. "You are stupid," he says. "I am, my friend, just as your laughter betrays you; neither of us is yet lost.
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^This ^is ^a ^prologue ^to ^an ^existing ^story ^of ^mine, ^but ^stands ^well ^on ^its ^own. The air raid sirens startled me awake. "This is it!" my father shouted, bursting into my room, my baby sister in his arms. "Come on Robert! We go to the cellar, just like we practiced." With his one free arm he grabbed my wrist and yanked me from my bed. I was scared, and before he pulled me away completely I grabbed my blue pillow. As I tripped and stumbled down the stairs towards the cellar, sirens wailing in the night, I held my pillow tight. The pillow was my only friend in this mess. It didn't care I was dragging my feet, or that I was crying, it was just there for me. To be honest I thought it was unfair that my sister got carried. I was only two years older than her. She could have walked too. It always seemed like she was Dad's favorite. Thats when I noticed she was still asleep. Despite all this madness she remained soundly asleep. I envied her. When we got down the stairs to the cellar, where my father had stocked ample canned food just for this kind of situation, he explained what was going on. "The bad guys, you know the ones from World War Two that your grandpa talks about? They are finally hitting back" "I thought grampa made all that up. World War Two was just a cool war movie right?" "No they're here and they're very real. We are going to need to stay down here for awhile" "Where's Mom?" asked my sister, rubbing her eyes as she sat up. "Mom's out there honey, where the bad guys are. I don't know if we'll see her again." "Oh." said my sister, clearly not able to understand what that really meant. I understood though, and I began to cry. I missed my mom. I cried so hard that I fell asleep. When I woke up, Dad was gone. He had left us a note that simply read "Went to find Mom. Love, Dad" He had left us alone. We stayed down there three days it seemed. My dad had taught me how to use a can opener and so I opened the food for my sister and I. It was hard work taking care of us those three days. Holding my sister in that dark, dank cellar. Fighting off my own tears. On the third day, the can opener slipped. It cut my hand pretty deep and a fair flow of blood was pouring out. My sister shrieked. And then kept shrieking, barely pausing to breathe. This went on for a few minutes until the door began to move. I grabbed my sister with my good hand and wrapped my arm around her. Firmly covering her mouth with my hand. The door eased open a bit more, it was a door intended for dad's old gun cage so it was pretty heavy. There was now just enough of a crack that whatever or whoever it was could see in, then we heard the voice. "Robert? Sam? Are you down here?" It was my mother's voice. My sister immediately elbows me in the ribs and as I let go dashed to the door, yelling "Mommy mommy!" the whole way. I was still a little too out of breath from being elbowed so I stayed sitting there as this happened. There were sounds of great exertion from behind the door as it opened further. The crack was now wide enough that a lean person could probably make it through. It was about now I began to worry that it was a trick. That it wasn't actually our mother behind the cellar door. I realized that my sister might be in serious danger, but I couldn't move. I couldn't stop her if I wanted too. Then Mom slipped through the door, much to my relief. Sam nearly leapt into her arms, "Daddy said the bad guys got you!" My mom looked puzzled "I was so worried about you! I thought you two had been kidnapped... What bad guys?" "The bad guys from World War Two." I finally began to catch my breath "He said they were coming for revenge. That you weren't home when it happened." "Oh Rob what happened to your hand!" She rushed to me and put my sister down and pulled some bandaids and tissue paper from her green shirt. "Where is your dad?" she asked sounding frustrated as she covered my cut in tissue and bandaids. I pointed to the note on the chair he had left. "He left a note saying he went to find you..." She grabbed the note and took us upstairs, fed us, then was going to give us a bath when she found Dad's CD player in the tub. She unplugged it and set it on the toilet. She opened the disc tray and read the name of the disc "Sounds of War. *Motherfucker*. Robert were there any noises like bombs or anything?" "No bombs, just a loud oooooooweeeeeeeeeeeeeeooooooooOOOOOOOOO sound like the air raids in the old movies grampa likes" "Number Six, Air raid siren" she muttered. After she called the police and told them we weren't missing, she explained what she thought had happened. That night she was called in to the hospital because of a major accident on the highway, and just before all this happened her mother had passed, leaving her an inheritance meant for our college education. She told us that Dad and her had been arguing a lot recently. That Dad had left us in the basement to get back at her while he took the money and ran. Ever since then, I've hated those damn sirens. FIN ^Thank ^you ^for ^reading, ^constructive ^criticism ^is ^welcome ^and ^encouraged.
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The Queen did what she could do to relax in her sitting room—pondering questions that lives would hinge on—when a knock came at her door. Through her exhaustion she stood to her feet and stepped to the mirror to check her reflection. There she smoothed the worry from her face, softening her aspect with a tender smile at the edges of her lips, placed her crown atop her head, and then stepped to the door. A Soldier stood proudly before her. His gaze was hard, his face tough, providing a look that could only be attained from bitter time spent on a battlefield. In the doorway he spoke bluntly, harshly, to his Queen, “I am not fighting for you anymore.” She recognized him, she wasn’t sure from where—she knew she had never met him. The Queen motioned for him to enter the room and to take a seat across from her ornate chair. Both postured, backs stiff, without comfort, and exchanged looks. “I’ve watched your palace up here on this hill and I’ve wondered who the woman we all fight and kill for is. But now,” he pauses, shoulders breaking under the weight they held, he lets out a deep breath, slouching in the chair. “I’m leaving tomorrow. From then you can do what you will, I won’t care. But before I go, I must ask you, why?” Her sitting room was decorated with historic tapestries. Her crown was adorned with priceless jewels. Her face held onto a youth and beauty that may not have been rivaled in the rest of the world. Quietly the Soldier sucked in the deep breath that he had released and straightened his back once again, “I see you now. You are so very young. I don’t think you’re able to understand all the men I’ve seen fallen.” His blunt military voice justified his one demand. “I deserve you to tell me why.” The Queen stared back at the Soldier, back straighter than his, stiffened with a weight of responsibility that her man took as grandeur and arrogance. “You won’t understand, and may as well not try.” In her face, the Queens smile quivered and tears well up in her eyes. But with a blink she closed herself up like a book. She looked sternly at the Soldier and spoke, “The secrets that I’ve swallowed, they burn and cut me inside. Often I’ve bled. You are not the only one who knows the battle field.” “Tell me,” the Soldier ordered, unable to read the woman, unfamiliar with royalty, not knowing what he demanded was impossible. “How hungry are you? How weak you must feel living up here alone, never revealed, while the battle rages on.” he pushed the chair back and stood violently, his face reddened with passion, passion that he had never felt for the people that he had fought against, passion only for the one responsible for it all. “When have you had to tell a daughter, a mother or a wife, that her man wasn’t coming back?” The Soldier looked down at his Queen. “I feel no pity for you, and I won’t march again on your battlefield.” He turned his back on her, and looked out the window to the view that she had. At that window he saw a golden sun surrounded by a dark grey sky. A light breeze cooled the anger from his face, returning his shoulders to a relaxed state, and he confessed his thoughts, “All I’ve ever wanted was to live an honest life. To get all I deserve and to give all I can, to love a young woman who I don’t understand.” He paused, turning to stare at the back of the woman who he had laid some much out for. “Your Highness, your ways are very strange.” She had stood and was looking into her mirror, back to her faithful servant. In the reflection she saw the man, feeling that she wanted much less than her position demanded from her. Her head fell to her chest, her crown to tumbled to her feet, she thought she would break. Frightened and ashamed at what her heart felt, she could no longer face the Soldier. The Queen turned and walked the Soldier to the door. There she told him to wait, she would only be a moment inside. She gave an order that was received. Outside the door the Soldier was killed, still waiting her word, while the Queen picked up her crown, she was choked by the solitude she sadly preferred. Meanwhile the battle continued on.
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"There's been a terrible, horrible, unavoidable accident. And I'm sorry but your lover..." The following words that escaped that persons lips were white noise. The phone dropped into the dishwater. A spark jumped, but I didn't flinch. Didn't blink. My eyes burned. Singed with passion and pain. I pawed the faucet and the running water stopped. My life... my life was dead. I closed my eyes and whimpered. Then I grabbed my moms car keys and ran to the van. Speeding. Speeding like the blood choked up in my heart. Speeding like the air choked up in my throat. I sped for life, love. I sped for pain. I sped blindly through green lights and red lights, stop signs, police patrols. I sped because his life was speeding away. "His"? Who was He? He was the love of my life, my soul. I gave my womanhood to him, I gave my life. He gave me his. And now that he's leaving, he's taking me with him. Blue lights flicker in the rear-view mirror. I sped up. No lights can take him away. Not even a white one. I pull over when I see a parade of trucks and sirens. I don't even let the car stop. I jump out. I race barefoot to him. my feet pounding the concrete. Pounding. Heart. Blood. Pain. Love. Tears. Sweat. Sweet gloss. Metal. Stench from burning rubber. Heated joints. I hear a wailing. A mother crying. An aunt pleading. A friend clawing at his own face to stop tears. And when I see... when I see... a lifeless body.. a soulless shell.. sprawled onto the concrete.... blood.. skin.. hair.. All goes silent. My knees break. My arm fail. My soul disconnects. I crawl over, scraping my knees beyond recognition. A cut up face. A cut up love. Cut. Burn. Bleed. Loss. Soul. Love. Hurt. My lovers face whispers to my heart and I can't breathe and the earth spins too fast.. So fast that my brain pukes. I touch his face.. and... I cry on his cuts. And I use my white shirt to clean him. And he's beautiful. As beautiful as his jaded eyes. And then I cover his face with my head. I know, it's weird. It's strange because his life was leaving quickly. I picked up his head and hugged his neck and kissed his hair. His blood and sweat dribbled onto my shirt. I didn't care. I swallowed my heart, and his with mine. And then I knew he was gone. I knew he left. Tonight he fell asleep and will not wake up. And no matter how many tears will spill, he will not return. I love you. And goodnight...
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The group entered the tavern with a loud bellow and the clank of their armour before striding up to the bar and ordering drinks. Their leader, a tall man with short brown hair and a scar across his nose surveyed the room through the bottom of his glass. He turned to the large bear of a man to his left and spoke: "Gregor, can you see the mark?" The giant proceeded to rotate on the bar stool, his ginger hair dripping wet from the rain which they had seemingly entered the bar to escape. When he finally replied it was with a thick accent and interrupted with a belch. "I see him in the corner over there." He accompanied this by raising one of his massive paws and indicating an obese man wearing garish clothes and who held a fair maiden under each arm. "How are we going about this boss?" "Nice and simple. We instigate a fight and take him out in the ensuing chaos. Egan!" He hailed the smallest member of the team, a wiry spry man, not much older than 16 or 17, was jesting with the bartender about his missing eye. Egan span to face him and receive orders. "You have to piss someone off." The boss said bluntly. "I don't care how you do it. It just needs to be done." Egan grinned at this and poured some foul acrid liquid into his beer and proceeded to fill his diminutive mouth with the now black alcohol. He saluted comically before slipping into the throng. "Halcon, you know what to do.." The fourth member of the team placed a small disc of glass to his eye, it's inner plane carved with an intricate set of lines, prepared for what was to erupt. Across the bar, Egan slid out from under a table and located a suitably rough looking customer, whom he tapped on the shoulder. When the man turned to look at him he smiled before emptying the contents of his mouth into the drunkards eyes. Blinded, the man lashed out and caught a nearby customer in the face a spurt of blood escaped from his nose. Egan vanished again as the whole pub erupted into the kind of violence only a bar fight can create. Gregor moved forward into the fray as his leader lit a cigar, and proceeded to lay waste to his fellow punters, his aim to clear a path to the now frightened target whom they had organized this entire escapade to slay. The fat mans maids had fled in fear and the obese man sat in his seat, a quivering lump of fat amid the beer fuelled war. Gregor pulled the top off of a trestle table and swept a path clear of alcoholics and drunkards, giving Halcon a perfect sight line to his mark. After a loud and sharp clack a crossbow bolt thudded into the man's eye and his quivering stopped before slumping forward and breaking the table in front of him with his great girth. The boss took a puff from his cigar and stood up and left, joined by Gregor, Egan and Halcon, The kill hidden by the sheer chaos they left behind. Stepping back out into the rain soaked streets he and his team shared smiles and pats on the back before congratulating Halcon on a perfect shot. "It was nothing, really." Halcon claimed, clearly ungrateful of the attention but the Boss placed a hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye a smirk playing across his sharp features. "You want a beer?" The team laughed and moved through the water filled streets, clapping each other on the back and considering what to do with their pay. Authors note: This was a short story intended to be the prologue of the novel I hope to someday write. Any feedback is most appreciated as I am definitely not the best writer, being 15.
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Here I sit, the late september breeze holding back my hair while the ancient tree bark scratches my back as I bite into my last apple of the day. Through the tired branches full of leaves ready to hibernate, I can see the sun is getting ready for its daily rest. It’s time to go home, time to leave this sanctuary where I can clear my mind and hum and whistle for only the mosquitos and bugs to hear. No one to watch, no one to listen. Sometimes it’s nice to just explore the woods, to just get away from life for a few hours and walk under low branches where a cold wind can whisper its secrets into your ear. I’ve been in these woods since I was little, my family used to live across the street; we used to come here as a family and explore this land together. This one time it was just my dad, two brothers and me, we were walking around a field of tall weeds on a warm summer evening, the air was fresh and the sun was gentle. We felt the earth moving under us and looked down, only to see hundreds of worm-sized snakes crawling over and around our now needle wide feet. It didn’t take long to realize we just so happened to intrude on the birth of the forest’s snake family. That day is one that I will remember for my life, unlike the snakes who would not remember that event even a single day after their journey around the moving trees. Growing older, I appreciated the nature brought by this forest more; I began to understand how everything in it is a family. The trees hold the ground which holds the trees. The animals and bugs help the roses and other painted petals explore the world and are given their grandparents’ fruits in exchange. Everything works together, and everything is happy. In the forest, everything is one; being in the forest, you are part of this family. Once I realized that, I finally could open my mind and see myself as more than just myself. I would spend hours and days exploring the rooted ground, using fallen uncles as bridges over rivers of mud to find a peaceful spot to sit and breath. After enough exploration, I never had much trouble finding a natural throne for me to sit and breath my thoughts into the wind. I learned how to give thoughts to leaves and pain to earthed limbs. The sun would look at me as I look into its ocean and understand its concern for me exploring its child. After many lives came and went in this forest, I found another person that I could open up to, a person that I knew I could bring into my sanctuary to see what I have seen and feel what I have felt. I found a friend that would walk these bridges and sit on the retired soldiers that rest in the forest. The forest became my home away from home. It became a place to open my mind and to smile without bounds. It became a place to bring my other half and tell them how I feel about them and about the world. Then one day, the forest became my knee as I asked my other half for permission to kiss them without regret and to hold them until the sun interrupts. The forest grew with us, we grew with the forest. We would come back to it occasionally; however, we realized that time was changing, time falls faster and life begins to get in the way of exploration. In order to remind this sanctuary that it is forever in our hearts, we left our love scar in the oldest and tallest root that was holding everyone’s hand in the forest. One day, we will return to this home to show we have not forgotten it. We will come to it and be one with the world, be one with each other. Be one with everything until we realize that by being one with everything, you are everything. Realizing that everything is connected in a way. Whispering, “I love you” into the wind and telling it your secrets so that one day another soul can venture into the forest and be chilled by the breeze that whispers secrets into their ear too.
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As I made my way through the backstreets of the town, I could feel my heart thumping. My hands where clammy and sweaty, yet I was bitterly cold. I was taking my time as I wasn’t quite sure where I was headed too. My hands became shaky, I took the last few puffs of my cigarette until I felt the sharp sting of the hot embers approaching my lips. I sighed and stomped the butt out on the pavement. Rain water was seeping in through holes in my boots, I started to lose the feeling in my toes, my legs became weak and the joints in my knees where seizing to a halt. I sat on the next bench I came across, just outside a small café. It was just a little past Ten O’clock in the evening, the last few customers in the café were finishing their drinks and preparing to face the howling wind I was desperate to find shelter from. I dug deep in my pockets, some change rattled and clanged against my tobacco tin. I pulled out a handful, a fifty pence coin peeked out from amongst the coppers, I counted up my coppers and rose to my feet. As I pushed open the cafes door, a warm rush of air raced past my face and escaped behind me. I slinked up to the counter, and began to read the menu. My tired eyes scanned the board searching for a price to match the coins I clasped to. Nothing, It was inevitable anyway, I was just glad for the warmth. As I turned to leave a soft voice came from behind me “Cup of tea dearie?” I looked behind me and was met by the face of a hard life, the voices owner was an old frail looking woman, her eyes heavy from years of work yet she had the sort of endearing smile that warms the heart. “H-how much” I stuttered quietly”. “Whatever you want poppet” the woman moved behind the counter and gestured to a charity box. “For the wee babies in Africa” she crooned. “I wasn’t aware this café was for charity” I smiled politely “It isn’t dearie” She cackled as she poured the boiling water into a mug, she tapped the spoon on the handle and threw a few lumps of sugar into the warm mixture. “On the house” she smiled and disappeared into the kitchen. I took the mug from the counter and deposited a few coins in the box. I made myself comfortable on the faux leather chairs placed against the back wall, I was far enough out of the way yet I could still smell the sweetness coming from the cafes bakery cabinet. My stomach howled and I grasped my tummy in pain. I hadn’t ate in a few days and the pains were only getting worse. I had been surviving on the last few pieces of gum that were collecting debris at the depths of my jackets pockets. Occasionally I would find a half-eaten sandwich on the park benches at lunch, left over from the busy workers rushing back to their offices. But as it was a Sunday evening I had been given no such prize this afternoon. The lady reappeared holding a small bag. “We’re closing up now poppet” She thrust the paper bag into my hands “On your way now”. I nodded and thanked her for her kindness, as I left, just as the warm air had greeted me upon entering, the cold greeted me too, it enveloped my body and slowly all the warmth I had built up in the café dispersed. I made my way towards the bus shelter. It was quite and enclosed, there would be some shelter from the elements there. I found a quite spot in the door way and nestled into the corner. I gently opened the little brown package the old woman had trust into my hands before I had left the café. The smell of fish assaulted my nose, I peeked inside and was greeted by the sight of a tasty dinner. Tuna and sweetcorn, a meal for I queen I thought. I ate half, leaving some for the morning’s stomach pangs. Fumbling through my pack back I pulled out a few hats and another scarf, the night would be harsh. I unravelled my mousy brown hair, the tips dyed with a pink hue. Pulling my hats on, I tucked my hair into the scarf and zipped myself up till I could taste the metal in my mouth. Curling into a tight ball, I rested my head on my backpack and closed my eyes. As I lay there, cold and silent, the sounds of the city ushered me to sleep. End.
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Pain. Pain was his world. Pain was all he knew. No other sensation came to him. His life was perpetual agony. Yet he found solace, comfort even, in the pain. That devastating, yet calming, pain, that pain which seized his whole being, that pain which thrashed him about, leaving him beaten and broken. The pain came and went, arriving without warning, leaving in a similar fashion. He did not question the pain. It had become his only reason for life, the anticipation of it giving him purpose. In his lonely life, the pain had become his only friend, his only constant, his only comfort. A long while had passed since the pain had come around to visit, and the anticipation of its arrival made him happy, ecstatic even. He awaited its visit, for that comforting experience. He sat in his small, broken room, waiting, and waiting. “Strange”, he said aloud, “it has never been this late…” He was getting worried, afraid even, that his one companion in the dreary world would be late, or-God forbid!-never come. The thought frightened him more than anything, even more than the strange noises at night, those frightful screams! Minutes passed, yet it did not come. Hours passed, and yet it still did not come. Days passed without even a touch of it. He sobbed and sobbed “My one friend has left me”, he cried out, “Just like everyone else!” He felt and knew that his friend would never come. For the first time since everyone had left him, he felt completely and utterly alone. “Alone?” He said. “Yes… Alone.” His world was now loneliness, and it became all he knew.
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Frigid dry winds cut through the metropolitan that populated a seemingly endless number of blue-collar workers and undergraduate students. Branches from the willow trees planted along the streets howled as the wind blew fierce upon it. Leaves painted different tints of red and orange descended timelessly amongst the autumn night sky. A man who appeared incapable of driving decided to walk on the streets of the silent downtown, attempting to get home from a late night party. He was an old looking fellow for his age, if it was not for his exhausted facial expression and unnecessary excessive amount of facial hair accumulating with his pale face he would have looked like a typical college freshman. His friends from work had already left the party early due to it being a Sunday and that all of them had work the next day. Leaves crunched as the man stumbled here and there desperately trying to get home. He was recently laid off his average paying accounting job and was struggling to find a new one. His boss never liked him anyways he thought to himself while trying to stay on the sidewalk. The stress after his layoff provoked him to start drinking more and more, creating a void for him- escaping reality. Tonight was no doubt another night for him to release his troubles again, and soon it did not take long that he realized he was falling into depression and alcohol abuse. While passing through a more quiet area of the streets, he remembered reading the daily paper about a woman being brutally murdered by a group of Aboriginal men in the exact area a few weeks ago. Thus giving the reason the street is abandoned and left a ghostly at night. It was all over the news for days, which was the only reason why he remembered it so clearly. The violence inflicted upon that woman was so horrific the block where the murder happened was closed down for a week. Except the street was not closed so that the passerby could remember what had happened there, instead it was closed because the city’s workers who took care of cleaning the scene had difficulties doing so. He recalled looking around the street back before when he needed to go to work in the morning that cops signaled people to go around the crime scene. He imagined guts and blood smeared all over the old crusty buildings surrounding the road. Just out of curiosity, he imagined himself in the woman’s situation -placing him in the woman’s shoes. He saw himself gutted on the sidewalk by maniacs and no one around to answer his cries. He did not want to think about it, but it was too late- his mind had already illustrated a descriptive scene of his death. While thinking about it and still stumbling, the man hears a sudden rattling noise from behind. He turns his jolly round body around almost instantly only to see a lamp post rather distant shining down on a cracked piece of sidewalk. Suddenly, paranoia and fear hits the man pushing him to begin walking faster away from the origin of the sound. Pacing himself, trying to get out of (what he feels) the danger zone, his clumsy foolish legs betray him. He falls forward and hears a person’s footstep behind him. No, not just one person, a group of people started to run towards him like a group of high school students trying to chase a bus that is just preparing to depart after school. Lying on the ground hopelessly he tried to clear his intoxicated mind like how all drunken men do, by squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and focusing. Trying to comprehend what was going on and what his next moves should be he got up and began running at full speed. However, due to his clouded vision he trips over a piece of uneven concrete on the sidewalk. But just before his 184 pounds of weight comes to contact with the ground, he whispered to himself “fuck me.” Milliseconds after, both his arms smash first against the chilled jagged sidewalk floor, cutting his arms open and leaving him vulnerable for an attack. Feeling absolutely useless on the ground the man, in a very long time felt disgusted with himself. He was the only one that was not married or engaged yet in his circle of friends and his family had all died when he was young in a car accident. He would die with nothing accomplished in life and for that, he hated himself. Thinking about what the psycho murderers would do to him (plus the amount of alcohol in his body) made him throw up on himself. The smell of vomit covered his tanned leather coat. Dismembered and having his intestines ripped and thrown all over the street by crazed Native men who are probably high on drugs? Seemed like something that could happen. The sound of footsteps grew clear as seconds passed. Knowing the condition he was in, both physically and emotionally there was no point trying to escape. The man accepted his fate and just lied there, hopeless. But what seemed longer than it should have, the man finally felt contact with one of the strangers. He felt a coarse, thick hand reach for his arm. “George?” the stranger asked hastily. The voice felt very familiar, more of a cry to help, than a cry to kill. George was the man’s name. Slowly and carefully he turned his head towards the sky, still lying on the ground to answer the stranger’s call. A lamp post emitting a strong yellow light above him blinded his sight making it hard to distinguish the stranger’s face. He took a wild guess. “Larry?” George whimpered. The stranger answered to the name George had questionably asked for, and quickly he was assisted by a few others, off the sidewalk and on his legs again. George cried, weeping like a fat baby without his mother. His friends had come back for him, worrying that he might pass out on the street.
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I'm writing a story entitled "the exudes of man". Now this is just a sample, and I understand that the tile probably does not fit the chapter, but I don't want to give the whole book away! Just a heads up, I understand my spelling and grammar is not top notch, so I would greatly appreciate it if you could help me out :) Also, if you have any suggestions, or even theories on what you think will/should happen, choose would be much appreciated Cheers! Mountains scraped the sky, where mist met the sun. A single beam of light shone upon the Arolla Pines that surrounded the clearing. Blood dripped from beneath the sunlit trees, but there was no need to guess why, for corpses hanging from the tall elegant trees were a more common sight than nought. In the distance a horn bellowed as shrieks filled the hazy air. Horns could only mean a hunt. Or perhaps a find. Either way it was better to be in the foot hills, were curious feet were less likely to find you. The safety the mountains offered was countered by the only thing deadlier than being found. Being frozen. The haze of morning quickly faded into the heat of the early afternoon. Step after step he was brought closer to the rolling foothills, mindlessly he stared at them glimmering in the near distance. Noon had come & passed sooner than he would have thought, for in mid-summer, days seem to last forever, but now in late fall, they wilted away like paper. “damit, the ice is coved in blood!” “well, don’t let that slow you down, there's nothing’ scary about a corpse” the sounds of men, once a welcome & righteous sound, now only struck fear. Any time you can hear a man, he's close enough to kill you. “search him. The last one had food, maybe this one has some to.” “I won’t be going anywhere near this un, he only looks half dead” perhaps it was a blessing those men started to argue, for when men yell, no one sees shadows move. Or mayhaps it was a cure, better to die a clean death, then to find yourself in a trap. A fiery red mountain peak passed slowly on the left, only to revile the amber sun, bleeding light on to the sky. There would be no sun rise on the morrow. Darkness would blanket the land soon. There was a time when the light of the moon brought life & a certain mystery, but know it seemed, the moon brought no light at all. A low hanging branch of tall and twisted silver fir swayed in the wind, with goldcrests chirping in disapproval. Then, suddenly as they had appeared, they were gone. With the disappearance of the goldcrests came the bellowing of the horns. The world froze in terror, as the cold screeches scraped the freezing winter air. They were entering the foothills.
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The start of the work week. I burst through the door after a hard day's work of bosses pressuring me to do, or not do this thing or that. No "Honey I'm Home." Although I think it every time I walk in the door. I bring a bit of work home with me coating my hands and face. My feet ache so I strip off my boots, followed by my layers of work clothes, and I start a hot shower. I stop by the fridge to look inside even though I know it's contents by heart. After a quick glance I shut the door and make my way to the shower. Dirty little rivers run off my toes and down the drain. I watch them swirl and disappear when I hear the phone ring. I know it's not real, I always hear the old home phone ring when I'm in the shower. That phone hasn't rang for years. I'm not really hearing running footsteps in the hallway either. I don't have a hallway and there's no one here to run. I don't think I'm lonely, in fact the quiet solitude is nice, peaceful. I turn on the news to catch up on local events that mean nothing to me, and it wouldn't matter if I never learned of them. "Oh my god that poor kid was hit by a car." That's got to suck. The news makes me angry so I turn off the tv and I look at my little apartment. "I should move the boxing book off of the baseball shelf, it doesn't go there. Do I need a whole shelf for boxing stuff or do I need a miscellaneous sports shelf?" After ten minutes of attempting to find a new home for the boxing book. I gently place it back where it was and walk to Lizzi's room. I shove the folded clothes off of her bed and onto the floor and lie down. It's so quiet here. I lie my head down and rest my eyes for a bit day dreaming about this weekend when my kids will be here and it wont be so quiet. "When did I give Lizzi the good pillow?" I think. I should call...no, never mind...What is this? What are you doing here? Am I dreaming? Surprise Nap.
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Days wore thin and stale in the cubicle farm that stretched out to the corporate-friendly taupe walls. Designer art in geometric nonsensical patterns hung pin-straight, marching down the hall. The pictures were probably there to give a bit of color to the room, drenched as it was in fluorescent light, but they only added to the monotony. Somewhere in the warren of mini offices sat a woman in a skirt and blazer set, which was only a little bit different from the other skirt and blazer sets pointing and clicking away around her. She was bored, but productive. Unfulfilled, but it paid the bills. Safe. Secure. And so what if she was struck by the occasional intrusive thought, the kind that urged her to slam her head into the desk just for a little change of pace? A ping on her desktop, followed by an e-mail from the HR department. Could she come down and sit in at the front desk so such-and-such could go to lunch? She fired back in the affirmative and, passing the rows of mediocre watercolors, clacked to the elevators and stepped in with a sigh. HR was easy, she’d temped there before. Answer the phone, accept incoming mail, maybe afterward she’d walk down to the food carts on the— Long eyelashes, flat to her cheek, then springing up with a flash and dazzle of green irises. Their gazes met and held, within the first second sailing outside the bounds of propriety. One beat, then two, and all of a sudden those huge green eyes gained weight and there was some meaning there, hovering just at the edges— “Good morning,” said the woman, stepping into the car, her arms at her sides and impossibly close. “Yes, it is.” *Stupid, stupid.* The woman cast a sidelong glance at her, eyebrow quirked up in amusement. She reached out and touched the button marked ‘4’, but it was already lit. It was the HR floor. “I’ve seen you around.” *I think I’d’ve remembered.* “What’s your name?” She took a breath that wasn’t shaky at all, thank you very much, and said, “I’m Sophia, from Accounting.” “Sophia.” *. . . music.* “Nice to meet you, I’m Diane.” Just Diane. “So are you headed to HR, too?” “No, back to IT. You?” A flash of green, and with a minute shift a slim stretch of skin grazed her finger. Sophia thought it might have been a wrist, but she was too busy trying to remember how to stand normally to look down and see. “Yes. I’m covering a lunch.” “Ah.” Silence. A beat, then two. “How long will you be doing that?” “I’m not sure, no longer than forty five minutes or so.” “So not too long, then.” “No, not too long.” Silence. A beat, then two. “Have you ever tried the sandwich place on Second?” the woman asked, her chin lifting to stretch her neck. “No, I don’t think so. Is that the one with the chalked sign board?” “Yes.” One. Two. “I like to take my lunch there occasionally. There’s patio seating around back.” “Mmm.” Warm, smooth skin on hers again, slower, deliberate and moving up toward the rolled edge of her sleeve. “It’s such a nice day out, I believe I’ll go there today.” “That sounds nice.” Her head turned, the black cherry waves that fell to her shoulders moving and carrying her scent. Sophia smiled but it felt wrong and she wondered if it looked normal at all. A beat, two, and then the smile was returned, small and warm and oh, so full. “Yes, it does,” Diane said. An off-key ding and the elevator opened, spilling them out into the hall. The hallway, the orderly watercolors, the jumble of cubicles, all faded into the background as forty five minutes stretched like a taut rubber band between them.
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I walked a mile to burn you, over almost-empty parking lots and busy highways, what was left of the Sun sticking painfully to 1980s blocky cars, dust coating their primary-colour coats and yellow license plates; across once-crowded children's playgrounds and the greenest of parks, abandoned now that it was growing dark and the time had run past the bedtimes of kids who had left swings swaying, squeaking in their wakes; through cricket games and grass half as tall as me, players communicating in muted words, words I could not understand. My body settled in that grass at first, mind still restless, and started to light up. A strange man pulled me up, wearing a polo-shirt tucked in and a nametag hung on, and led me through brambles and nettles and dead flowers to a rain-dampened place under a tree, to ask for a lighter for his already-lit badly-rolled joint, to say I'd like a London kisser, a place littered with empty cans and torn-up newspapers, blue plastic bags hiding what grass was left. It took three tries to light you, my thumb sore from endless fags and blackened from holding on fruitlessly to moving trains. Sparks flew every time in humid air, but they never caught the flowing butane; I cursed that, cursed you, stubborn bastard that you are, refusing to smoulder, cursed my unfeeling fingers, unable to grasp in the evening cold, excruciatingly adexterous. Your smoke pooled around me, despite how hard I tried to blow it all away. You settled in my hair and skin, making my fingers smell of you and my mouth turn to ash. Your burnt remnants drifted to my shoes, melting small holes into the polyester before being shaken off, ground into damp earth and degrading plastic (like I thought you always wanted). I immolated you whilst a blinking (winking) aeroplane roared over the music in my head (the great annihilator/ion), whilst cricketers shouted soundlessly, a field away. I watched them over the ember at your end, through the smoke dissolving over you, as time melted and nicotine floating to my brain, the silent audience to running silhouettes, hidden easily in the night-dark trees. I watched you burn, cross-eyed, right down to your beginning, to your end, to the very first black-ink letter I scrawled after our last parting, shaking on a train, shaking with the train, illuminated by neon tubes and surrounded in old newspapers and tired commuters. It was your idea, really, writing names on cigarettes.
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Every day he went and sat on that same bench. The park was a short three blocks from the house he moved into two years ago, the house that he spent his time and money on. He wanted his dream house and his goal was within his reach, but still he was lonely, and that is why he sat on that bench. He sat there reading his daily paper, and every day like clockwork she came running. He dreamed of her, he agonized over her beauty, he waited for the day he could hold her and love her, and be loved back. When she ran, his loneliness was magnified by the constant look of joy across her face. Oh, how badly he wanted her to be his. Every day he watched her running, hair flowing behind her, her perfect golden brown hair. He wanted nothing more than to glide his hands through her hair, across her body. The mere thought of it had his heart racing. Sometimes he would walk the path through the park to try and get closer to her. He had always been careful to never get to close, he knew what would happen if he did. Sometimes he thought she smiled at him with her perfect teeth, but why would she smile at him he thought. Every day she was there with the same guy, always running a stride or two behind her. The guy didn’t even know what he had or how lucky he was to have it. Sitting on the bench he always brought a bottle of water, just in the hopes that she would need some on an especially warm morning. He made sure the bottle was visible and he waited in anticipation for the day she would come to him thirsty. Every day she passed him by and he felt so alone. Every day he wanted her. Every day he wanted to touch her. Every day he thought about her. Every day he wished he wasn't allergic to dogs.
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There was sand everywhere I saw a door if the distance through the door I saw a book, I ran up to the door and opened the book inside was a bomb It was counting down it was on 00:05:34:17 I was scared. I heard footsteps coming from behind me I turn round to see a farmer running at me with some sort of weapon drawn. He yelled “Move out of the way!” he then slams the door shut and looked around and said “Who are you and where did you come from?” I just looked confused the truth was I didn’t know where I was where I had come from or who I was. I looked around and realised I was on a beach on an island well from what I could tell I was. How was this Possible, just arriving on the beach not knowing how I got here. Meanwhile the farmer yelled at me “WHO ARE YOU AND HOW DID YOU GET HERE!” all I said was “I don’t know” “don’t have any funny business with me boy” “really I don’t know” when suddenly I hear a sound behind me the door was opening he pulls out his wepon and the door slams open in the doorway was a person, he fell to the ground. Sunndly I wake up there is a gun in my hand and my parents are dead on the floor, blood is splattered on the wall and 2 bullet holes in the wall I drop then gun and just stay in my bed. I snaped out of it I had killed them I jumped up from my bed and run to the door, as I run out I see my brother he is dead also a gun shot. I then rilise after this I could be on the run after I run back and grab the gun I run the down the stairs. As I go outside I stand frozen. I see a huge demon. There is fire all around me my house looks perficet the only one that stands whole in my whole street I look up at the demons face it’s driping with blood it looks down at me points his finger it me and ijust look it in the eye pull a gun from my back and shoot the demon in his face. The demon falls to the ground and die’s. I look around and see about 50 more demons comeing at me, when sunddly 10 Australia air fighters come flying at them, and the fight goes on a hellcopeter comes and lands near me and the guy inside yells “GET IN” I jump into the hellcoper and it flys away. I see a Min-gun in the hellcopter I pick it up and start shotting the huge demons. One of the demons swipes at the hellcopter and it starts going down. I jump onto the demons head and pull and a knife and start stabing it in the eye. But its not good the demon pushers me off and I start falling to the grond to a certef death then a door appers and opens I fall into the door.
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It started way back in third grade, when Vander moved one final time. His last name, Blue, was just a few letters from hers, Blackburn, so he sat near her year after year. His teachers would have them grade each other’s papers in class, usually passing them to the person behind them. She, Nichole, missed so few questions. Her presence made Vander nervous even then. As grades passed, hormones flowed, and adolescence built up, the idea of speaking to her didn’t become easier. In high school they didn’t share many classes, maybe one or two a semester. Vander was just a shadow, while Nichole was a star. She sat in the front, while he lurked in the back. Vander didn’t seek her out, but he noticed her. He didn’t know where she sat at lunch, or her circle of friends. But she was his first crush, the first person that his young body had found appealing. She would forever hold a special place in his heart. Neither of them really had a choice in the matter, it was merely a fluke of fate. Those school years were nightmarish to Vander. Friends were distant, few and far between. The idea of graduating meant nothing to him or his family. When he was offered a job, which had hours that interfered with school, he readily accepted it. No one seemed to notice his disappearance, no ceremony marked the day he left school for the real world. Where Vander grew up a paycheck was more valuable than a report card. One of his few places of solace was the gym. Vander could spend hours, alone, building up and releasing fire from his veins. In that giant room of mirrors Vander was just like everyone else. That was where Nicole came back into his life. It had been years, he was in his twenties. She had put on a few pounds and looked lost. A gym wasn’t school; this wasn’t a place where popularity or social ability achieved anything. It was a place where Vander understood the hard rules, that work was the only way to get results. Vander did as he had always done, sat far away and watched, aware of her. Day after day Nicole returned, fruitlessly struggling with pulleys, balls, and barbells. Vander was nearby, watching her out of the corner of his eye, when she looked so frustrated with a machine that he feared she may begin crying. “Here, let me show you a trick…” was how it began. He never mentioned grade school or high school. He never told her about his crush. He was just a guy at the gym who was nice enough to help her out. Day after day they met up informally. He kept expecting her to disappear, to find something more amusing, but she kept coming back. They talked about random things, laughed about amusing stories. Nicole confessed the insecurities she felt with her flesh. Vander assured her that how a person looked wasn’t what mattered, but who they were. Vander walked out of the gym one night to find her standing there, “My car won’t start... do you think… maybe… you could give me a ride?” Of course he would. This was a vivid dream from years past. Many of Vander’s less pure thoughts began with this exact scenario, a scenario that he didn’t even have to ask for. In the car she immediately began chattering, a skill that she was remarkably blessed with. He stopped paying attention to the specific words, they didn’t matter. The simple sound of her voice soothed him, her hum was a constant reminder that she was beside him. At a stoplight Vander reached under his seat. His hands found the cold piece of metal where he always kept it. Vander set the gun on his lap. When he started driving forward again the streetlights reflected its polish, making it easily noticeable. Nicole went silent, flaunting her perception. Vander looked at her to make sure that she was still there, that she hadn’t simply been a long term fantasy that had disappeared. Her eyes met his. “What’s that for?” Those eyes that he was becoming familiar with were wide with a mixture of curiosity and terror, begging for an acceptable explanation. Vander measured her body, making her feel naked in the spandex that clung tightly to her every curve. When his eyes returned to her face he mumbled quietly. “What?” she faintly asked. “If they don’t come for me…” Vander’s eyes lost focus, looked through Nicole. “It’s all over.” Nicole spoke again, the exact words didn’t matter to him. Her voice still soothed him though. Vander looked back at the road that was in front of them, focusing on the turns that they were taking. He continued to drive further and further from civilization. When she began searching through her purse Vander took notice of what she was pulling out. Things piled onto her lap, papers, pouches, bottles, compact mirrors. Finally a small square was in her hand, a cellphone that she pressed buttons on before holding to her ear. Vander heard that buzz of words spilling from her, a higher pitched buzz, full of panic. Confidence had filled him where once social awkwardness had made its home. “If they don’t come for me, we’re gonna die…” Vander said as he raised the gun at her, silencing her voice. He wasn’t in favor of the police getting involved in his love life. The weapon lowered to where Nicole’s feet were and he squeezed the trigger. The discharge had a cleansing effect. The world was silent as their ears reverberated with the sound and everything was blurry as their eyes coped with the after image of the blast. Nicole had jumped into her seat at the shock of the gun firing, curling her knees to her chest. The phone had fallen and slid to an unknown place. “If they don’t stop this sickness inside of me, at least I’ve got you by my side.” Vander set the gun back into his lap and continued to drive.
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WWYK-Nocomus Columbus There’s a game I used to play, by myself, in my head of course. I made up an acronym for it, the game that is. I call it WWYK which is short for “who would you kill.” I played WWYK a lot. Obviously, I didn’t tell anyone about it. You can’t really talk to people about something like WWYK. It can get you in big trouble. “Hey Johnnie!” “Yes, Benedict?” “Would you like to play a game?” “Sure, what game?” “WWYK.” “Never heard of it. How do I play?” “It’s a name game. I’ll go first,” Benedict says, “I’d like to kill that one guy, you know that fat, woman-beating, son-of-a bitch, you know, the asshole that murdered the kid that was minding his own business. You know, that black kid that was walking home with a bag of Skittles in his pocket until that small-dick piece of shit George walked over and shot him. “Umm,” Johnnie says, “I think I’ll pass on this game. Oh and you should seek help.” Next thing you know, Benedict’s fired, or worse, in jail. So I kept quiet about it. I never really chose to play WWYK. I didn’t snag it off of a clearance shelf at Wal-Mart. I never sat down in my cubicle at work and thought gee, I think I’d like to play WWYK right now. Actually I’m not even sure WWYK could really be considered a game. It’s more like some sort of sick fantasy I guess. That’s how it started anyway; as just a fantasy, until the fantasies became more and more frequent. I mean it got to the point where I was having them on a daily basis. I asked my doctor for something to clear my head, something to zone me out. I didn’t tell him about WWYK of course. Like I said, you can get in trouble talking about that kind of thing, even with your doctor. So yeah, the doc put me on some stuff, and it worked! I’m telling you it worked like a charm. WWYK-gone! The drugs kicked in after four to six weeks, and then Bam! I actually started doing work at work. I listened when my wife spoke. My kids annoyed me way less. But something happened. Don’t ask me because I don’t fucking know; all I’m saying is something happened, something in my head, like my mind just said fuck it. I got real depressed, and bored, and every morning as I crossed the Metro link tracks on my way into work, I’d get this urge to just toss my man-bag and sit my ass down on the track. I couldn’t do it though. Instead I’d just walk really slow across the track, tease myself a little bit, but I knew, deep down, when push came to shove, if I actually thought I was going to get hit by that train you better believe I’d fucking jump out of the way. Because even though life sucks, it’s still better than being dead. Although I can’t say that for sure. So anyway, back to what I was saying. I’m a selfish creature. I mean if making other people slightly happier by making one’s self completely fucking miserable, means you’re a selfish person, then yeah, call me selfish. Right? I stopped the medicine. Sorry big pharma, you can zombify someone else thank you very much. After about a week the WWYK fantasies started coming back. Thank god, something to get me out of this mundane shit that’s supposedly the American dream. One night, or day, or afternoon- I don’t know for sure, I forget things all the time- I decided to take WWYK a step further. I made a promise to myself. I’ve made a lot of promises in life; I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve made those piss drunk, puke smelling, toilet-bowl promises to god. They’d be like this- dear god, (hurl!), if you can just make my head stop spinning, I swear I’ll never drink again (hurl!). I’ve broken that promise so many times it’s laughable. But I’m still here. I haven’t been struck down by lighting. So I don’t believe in god. Actually, I do believe in god, just not when I’m sober. Anyway, so at some inexact moment, I made a promise, a promise to no longer play the WWYK fantasy. It was time to make WWYK real. It was time to live it.
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There is really nothing left to do anymore but die. Wandering the island looking for food has proven to be a fruitless endeavor. No ships on the horizon, no way to make a fire. The days are spent boiling in the sun and the nights are spent shivering upon the rocks. Stomach pains are coming more frequently, often climaxing in a bout of blinding torment that feels like a sword in the gut. The sun has become an enemy. Terrible blisters have formed and sometimes they open and bleed, dripping down to form red puddles on the rocks. Brightness, to the eyes, is akin to a thousand needles and the insatiable thirst is enough to drive any man mad. Shouting hopeless curses at the sky has only weakened me further. Pieces of the vessel and its cargo can be found strewn along the shoreline. The once proud Champion is now nothing but scraps. Any hope once had for absolution is lost along with the captain and his crew. Only this weary sailor remains. Every morning, bodies beyond recognition wash up on the beach and must be moved into the shade before they begin to cook on the hot sand. Though still, the stench is appalling. So much so, that any thought of eating them brings on horrible fits of gagging. The very idea is repulsive. Seagulls squawk and squabble over the veritable feast of bloated, grey flesh and all attempts to catch one of the birds have failed. Hunger and weakness are all that remain. Walking has grown increasingly more difficult, causing severe headaches and dizziness. Found a pole amongst the wreckage to lean upon and clutch with swollen fingers. It is large and ineffective when trying to catch fish. Out if this debilitated state, hands alone may be enough to snag these fish for they show no fear and swim up into shallow waters to mock a dead man. For there is nothing left to do anymore but die. The wind rises, bringing with it a weakness in the knees. Before falling to the ground, the last of the strength left inside comes out as a shout. “God, why have you done this! Why have you left this poor soul alone to suffer and perish? To watch his brothers rot and to lose all chances of redemption!” The wind takes the words away as soon as they are spoken. There is nothing left and a tumble to the ground sends a shock of agonizing pain from knee to throat. The world spins and becomes a blur of incomprehensible colors. From every direction the screams of gulls resonate and for a moment it feels like trying to breath in a hurricane. An abhorrent taste of blood and salt mingle to become one fiery, red sensation. Wether this fit lasts for minutes or hours can not be said. Then finally, the world pulsates and slows. Breathing becomes easier and all pain is replaced by numbness. Even memories seem less painful now. Looking out across the ocean, the water sparkles sending pixies dancing along the waves. Strange patterns drift in front of the scene and tears run down sunburnt cheeks. All that seems to matter in the entire world is a cool drink of water. Sea water means death, but there is really nothing left to do but die. The reflection in the water gazing back at me looks like a stranger. He is a stranger. A fish in the shallows edges closer and gazes up with hollow eyes. Its mouth hangs open as if in disbelief. When asked, “What news from the sea?” the fish replies, “ Much there is to tell you, but my mouth is full of water.
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The Transcripts of Evil Mark found himself in a dimly lit wooden room furnished with antiques. An entrepreneur in his late 20s, he was more intrigued than unnerved. He was not bound, nor gagged; what was apparent that someone had been meticulously planning the whole abduction. ‘’It’s best to wait,’’ he thought to himself. ‘’You don’t go to all the trouble and then just abandon your prey. It’s probably the competition trying to scare me into submission.’’ Mark heard a robotic voice. The voice appeared to be female and spoke with a computerized American accent. The message was clear. ‘’Hello. Pick a card in the middle of the room.’’ Mark approached a nightstand. Images of anthrax attacks flashed through his mind. INTELLIGENCE. THE GATEWAY TO THE SOUL. Your intelligence quotient is reasonably high. You know, they say men are afraid of intelligent females. Personally, I simply cannot stand the bimbos. They are the Lebensunwertes Leben to me. They are no better than all those feminine accessories they have been conditioned to play with. Have you ever wondered why there are so few female geniuses? I am not trying to sound misogynistic here… just trying to understand, you know? It just makes no sense, with all their supposed multi-tasking skills. Or, perhaps, this is just another layer of societal control? That aside, I am glad I have found you. You truly are a trophy. There is nothing more precious than a beautiful woman with brains. Once you have read the message, move on to the next card. Please. ‘’He’s referring to me in a female form,’’ Mark thought. ‘’What does that mean, exactly? Most likely - a manipulation tactic meant to confuse me. Or… a full-blown psycho. I gotta play along and see where this game takes me.’’ ANALYSIS OF WOMANHOOD. WAS FREUD RIGHT? As you are probably aware, Freud said that a woman is a castrated man. I would proceed even further, and say that a woman is a castrated prepubescent boy who was socially conditioned to grow his hair long. Woman’s inferiority is expressed through her clothing (vide: dresses, skirts, makeup, nails, Roman slave branders - piercings, heels – the list goes ad infinitum…), as well as behavioral patterns (most notably: cowardice, lack of perseverance and focus on appearance, known in the ancient world as malakia in Greece and cynaidos in Rome). Women rebel against their unpleasant condition, but whatever they do – the truth always stares them in the face. That is why women are such mindless bureaucrats. Remember: even the feminist revolution was sponsored by a German-American-Jewish oil magnate – Rockefeller. There is a perfect storm in society and soon all the artificial rules will disappear. The entropy is upon us. Perception can be easily manipulated, Mark. The rule of reciprocity, Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, subtle forms of discrimination and clean-cut divisions.. not to mention the dissociative identity disorder and all the philosophical implications. The time has come to pick up the final card.’’ ‘’This isn’t the competition,’’ inferred Mark. ‘’I’m dealing with a full-blown psychosis here.’’ WHERE DO WE GO FROM HERE? Mark, your task is simple: you are to decipher what this is all about. If you can do that, you will be set free. If not.. time to take the ultimate gamble and shed your mortal coil.
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“Alor?” Nothing. “Hello?!” I don’t understand. “Alor, we don’t have time for this…” He’s just standing there, staring off into a world that doesn’t exist to us anymore. “We can’t stay here anymore, it’s too dangerous.” I seem to say only to myself. I make Alor move and lead him along the path into the forest, while behind us we hear the cries and screams of those long beyond saving. “I know where we can hide. It’s not much, but it will do.” Now I’m just thinking out loud, which truthfully seems to help keep the fear and anxiety locked away. If I stop to think, I may lose my composure altogether, and then all will be lost. We continue down the path and see the destruction all around us. I can’t fathom that just a few hours ago, Jorni and I were walking down this very same path planning our future together. This is the road where we would have taught our children how to walk. These trees were the symbols of home and the realization of years of hard work and sacrifice. As we reach a clearing by a lake, I see the plot of land that would have been our future. About a hundred yards to the side was a cave, surrounded by the many colors of autumn, and I felt at ease for the first time in hours. We walked over to the cave and entered its gaping mouth and even though it was dark, I knew this place like the back of my hand. We take our first left after 32 steps, avoid the gap 41 steps after that, and then as we continue forward, we begin to see the light. As we reach the area we’ve been coming to since we were seven years old, I let loose a sigh of relief. In the middle of a maze of tunnels and confusion hides a hidden pond with a hole in the cave the beckons sunshine to beam through, and quite possibly my favorite place on this planet. We start a fire in the pit Jorni and I have used countless times before and lay our heads down. I think it’s safe to say sleep consumed me even before my head touched the ground. Three Hours Later I finally wake up from a loud splash. As I regain my clarity I realize what Alor had done. Alor was good at a lot of things, yet swimming was not one of them. Now, he has fallen into the dark, freezing water and it’s up to me to save him yet again. He instantly starts fighting my rescue. I use all the strength I have left to get us back to the land of the living. He falls to the ground and I notice that stones were tied to his ankles…how did I miss that? “What were you thinking!?” I yell. He says nothing. “Alor…You have to talk to me. We are in this together and we are all each other has left. If you left…I would be nothing. Look, what happened back there was horrifying and while we lost everything, we still have life. That’s what is most important.” Silence. However, for the first time in a very long while, I see life in him. He cracks a smile and shakes his head ever so slightly, as if to say “Welp…that wasn’t very smart, now was it?” He gets up and begins walking, and of course I walk with him. “All is not lost. You know that. I know that. We will get through this, we always do. The only way this ends is if we are no longer breathing. We survived. We beat the odds. Maybe others did as well. Maybe Jorni or Mother…“ Alor stop in his tracks and a single tear streams down his face. “You know, they could be alive. Maybe they escaped? I know…I know the chances may not be that great, but we can’t just give up, can we?” I say to my ever-stoic companion. He nods and seems to shake off some of the demons weighing him down and we continue our trek to find some other survivors, and possibly the most important of them all. As we emerge from the belly of our cave, we are greeted by the sound of birds and the rustling of wildlife around us. For the first time in what seems like ages, life feels normal again. We push forward, putting as much distance between us and the danger that ever lurks behind us. “We have to find Mother. I don’t think Terwal has been hit yet, and we may find the help we need. Also, since Jorni wasn’t at our cave, she may have headed that way as well.” I proclaim, yet Alor just keeps trudging along, with a renewed vigor that is resonating from deep inside him. We travel for the next couple of days, taking camp at night, and walking all throughout the day without so much as a word. I’ve just come to expect the fact that conversation is just not in the cards at the moment. We finally reach Terwal on the third day and find it perfectly intact. Well, except for the fact that this great town is completely empty. Aside from the hungry yelps from street dogs, no sign of human life is present. We continue towards Mother’s house. As we arrive at the home where we learned how to survive this world, we see a note pinned to the door. “Alor, I hope this finds you alive. I love and miss you so much. We couldn’t stay any longer and needed to flee to the mountains. Do you remember where we took that trip when you were a child? You will find us there. Let’s sort this all out together. P.S. Jorni is here too, and she loves you very much. Love, Mom” “They are alive…” Alor says, with but a whisper. “I am alive.
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He walked to the treehouse, his feet crunching the dark brown leaves. The ground was dark and shadowy, almost appearing black and white because of the trees blocking the sun. He touched the rough bark of the sturdy oak tree, then climbed the frayed rope ladder. The floorboards, once rich with color, were cracked and sunbleached. This treehouse had been their second home for so many years. His eyes settled on what had once been a makeshift window covered in seran wrap, but was now just a few shreds of plastic stuck to a jagged rectangular hole. The branch was visible through it. Once, the sun had shined through, and he had so many happy memories of that time. But now overgrown branches allowed no light to touch the treehouse. So he instead focused on the large brown branch where they had once played. No one had bothered to remove the rope that had been used as a toy long ago. As he watched, a single strand of her hair left on the recently tied noose lifted into the air and blew away. (So hopefully I'm not breaking the rules or anything. I think this is the kind of thing we're supposed to post here... Right???) Edit: Someone pointed out my overreaction. I removed this edit. Kthanks.
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It was the night she moved out of Belltown, after breaking up with her boyfriend. “Hey, can you help me move my dog up to my dad’s place? I don’t have a car, and I don’t want to be on the bus for four hours,” she said over the phone, her voice tired and a bit sheepish. “Of course,” I said, “I have time to kill tonight.” Never mind that I would pay nearly any price to see her, or make any excuse, or drive to any location for her – tonight, it happened to be true. So naturally, I drove to her apartment at the base of Queen Anne, right where it starts to blend into Belltown. The roads shimmered under the veil of a fresh rain, and the sky smelled of western winds and the sound. It didn’t take long to load her dog up into my car. We pulled out, driving down Aurora toward 85th, the corgi panting breathlessly against the backseat windows. I cannot recall what we talked about. Whatever empty words were exchanged in that transit, they have been burned away by the later events of that night. It was likely about her work, and where she would be moving to, and what her schedule would be. Soon, we’d arrived, and delivered her dog to her dad’s house. Standing around outside afterward, we were both too awkwardly needy of the other to say goodbye. “Hey,” she said, “Let’s go get a drink down the street at Gainsbourg! It’s named after my favorite French guy.” “Sure,” I said, “I have time to kill, and I wanna hang out with you.” “Aww, that’s sweet!” she said, elbowing me gently in the ribs. I winked at her, and accepted the cigarette she’d produced, popping it my mouth with a salute. As we walked down the street, the stoplights and neon beer signs reflected off the puddles in the street and upon the sidewalk, washing everything in garish colors and a carnival atmosphere. Her hair, brilliantly red against her white sweater, swung to and fro as she skipped a few feet ahead of me. After a moment, she looked back and winked at me. I flushed, but winked back. “Hey,” she said, walking backwards, “You’re pretty great, you know that?” I didn’t have a sensible response, but it didn’t matter. She grabbed my hand and bolted across the street, our feet throwing up cascades of water droplets that glowed against the neon signs, dodging traffic as we went. Gainsbourg was mostly dark wood, with the copper fitments of antique espresso machines thrown in against keg taps. I liked it immediately, not only because of the décor, but because the bartender nodded at us and welcomed her back. “What will you have?” asked the bartender, regarding the two of us. I ordered a sazerac, and she ordered a French 75. We talked about nothing for a time, I felt the toe of her shoe press against bottom of my foot, and then slide to one side. The sides of our feet pressed together, and I froze. Whatever I was saying stumbled over itself, words slowing to a crawl, only to die slowly inside my mouth. I dipped my head and shifted my leg, so that our calves pressed against each other, and heard her catch her breath in response. It felt as if tongues of electricity licked the length of my spine. This long-anticipated touch – this sense of total awareness of her body against mine – had shuttered my ability to function as a person. That sensation expanded to become the sum total of everything in my world, blotting out sound, and sight, and smell, until the only thing that remained part of my existence were the places where the two of us touched. I put my sazerac down, because my hands had started to shake. “What are we doing?” I asked, licking my lips. “I don’t know,” she said, “But I don’t want it to stop.” There was a silence which stretched out in all directions. Even the bartender seemed to stop what she was doing, so many feet down the bar. “I don’t want it to either. I need to be near you,” I said. She dipped her head. Lifting one hand, she dropped her face into her palm and rested it there. I heard a quiet exclamation of ‘Jesus Christ’ slip out of her mouth. I placed my hands flat on the bar as I felt the toe of her shoe slide up the length of my calf, and turned to regard the rain falling washing over the sidewalk outside. When I turned back, she was staring straight at me. I cocked my head in query. “I love you so much,” she said. “How did I let you slip away? How did I forget how important you were to me?” “I don’t know,” I replied. “But I love you more than I know how to explain. I’m caught in orbit around you, and your gravity refuses to let me go.” We finished our drinks, and walked back to the car. In the alley between the street and her dad’s house, she pressed herself against me, smelling of coconut and tobacco. “It’s so dark here…” she murmured. “Anything could happen.” At the suggestion, I stopped. Shaking my head slowly, I put my arms around her waist, and pressed my cheek against her forehead. “No. Not anything,” I whispered. As we drove back toward Queen Anne, I pressed the accelerator to the floor of the car. The flat six leapt in response, purr of the cylinders turning to a growl as our speed crept up. Fourty. Fifty. Sixty. As I settled out at seventy, Billy Idol sang of Flesh for Fantasy, and Eyes Without a Face. She squealed happily, squeezing her fingers around my arm until it started to sting. As we turned off Aurora, she released her grip and slid her fingers into mine; our grip was rigor mortis. Letting go of the other would have been a betrayal and admission of wrongdoing, and neither of us was prepared to admit what we felt was wrong. It was too present, too ready, and too powerful. As I pulled to a stop in front of her apartment, I put the car in park, and turned to look at her. I was going to say something silly and endearing, but the words died in a hum on my lips. Silence. And then our lips were together, arms wrapping around the other as words fled entirely, replaced by a language older and more primal. Her tongue upon mine, my fingers knitting into her hair. The moment stretched out across perceptible time, until we finally drew back. “Will I see you tomorrow?” I asked. “Definitely,” she said, winking at me. “Are you sure you can’t come upstairs?” “I’m positive,” I said. And sadly, I was. All that remains of her is ash pressed into the shape of a crystal heart, her body long gone, and her laugh a distant memory. Everywhere I go in this city, I hear the echo of her voice with every clink of a glass. Every darkened space holds her shadow, and every street corner is painted with a memory of her. I have no idea how I get by moment to moment without falling to my knees. All I can say is that life passes moment to moment, and every moment without her, I feel like I’ve lost a limb.
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Kraine only needed to focus on three things. First, and most importantly, getting to the golden orb. That would declare him victorious, and one of the living. Secondly, his opponent, Culp. She had been in the mazes for many years, and was considered a pro. She knew how to maneuver the courses, and all the tricks to making sure that the other player was dead. Lastly, and probably the most unpredictable aspect of the maze, Kraine needed to watch out for Ghol. Ghol was the shadow seeker that had been added to the games a few years ago. Ghol would change the environment of the mazes. From dark and stormy, to even changing the ground to lava. To be successful, and survive with his life, Kraine needed to always be thinking. Kraine waited at the gate, listening for the bell to signal the start of the game. With deep breaths, he remembered what the officials had told him about the layout of the maze. “This is a square maze, One cubic kilometer. The orb will be placed in the center, and you both will start on the south side gates. Any attempt to communicate outside the viewing dome will result in automatic death.” The sound of the bell shook Kraine’s ears, and the crowd erupted in a massive cheer. He stepped on to the maze, and noticed the floor was covered in grass, and the normally gray walls had been replaced by large rocks and mossy trees. To his left were the weapons. There was everything from handguns, to wooden staffs. Kraine selected a spear and throwing knifes. To his right, he watched Culp dash away around a tree, leaving everything on the table, but the landmines. There was one smoke stick on the ground that culp had dropped. Kraine stowed it in his satchel and started to run in the opposite direction Culp had. A half hour went by, as Kraine ran circles around the maze, checking every corner for Culp. There was still no sign on Ghol, but Kraine knew he would show up eventually. After slowing down to catch his breath, Kraine looked up to the top of the dome encasing the maze, and found a golden beam of light shooting straight down from the highest point of the glass prison. He knew that is where the orb would be. Kraine decided to get to be able to see past the trees and rocks so he could plan a route, and searched for a break in the boulders to climb up on. There was a ledge large enough to allow him to grab a branch. Hoisting himself up, he quickly spotted Culp. He went straight for his knives. Holding his breath, Kraine took aim at a tree behind Culp; far enough away that he knew she would have to walk over and investigate. The knife zipped through the air and landed in the tree with a solid thud. He swiftly sunk down so Culp couldn’t find where the knife had come from. He waited to hear the rustling of Culps robe before he peeked his head up from behind the tree branch. His plan had worked! Kraine bounded over the rocks and sprinted for cover. Culp heard him and she turned sharply, like a startled cat. Kraine panicked and tried to think how to hide himself. He remembered the smoke stick he picked up at the weapons display. In one smooth motion, Kraine grabbed the smoke stick by the ignition string and tossed it in front of him. The stick flew forward, jerked, and pulled itself off the ignition string. The entire maze dome instantly became shrouded with a haze, thick and heavy. Light marking the location from the orb had been smothered completely. Waiting a few seconds to make sure Culp had lost track of him, Kraine started a low sprint. Keeping his feet low to the ground, he tried to keep as silent as possible. Out of the smoke a large tree appeared in front of Kraine, and seemed to rush up and smack his whole body, hitting the ground back first. Recovering from his fall, the ground turned to ice and the tree started to circle around him like he was a sacrificial offering. The landscape was changing, and Kraine knew why. “Ghol!” Kraine shouted. “I am not afraid of you! I’m going to get that orb! Don’t waste your time with me! You won’t be able to stop me!” Fists clenched and chest raised, Kraine held his ground, watching the tree circle around him. Out of nowhere, and ear piercing bang too Kraine by surprise. Bits of bark and leaves flew past his face. The tree had hit one of Culp’s landmines. Kraine knew that he was probably surrounded by landmines by now. Afraid to take even one step, Kraine needed to think of how he could maneuver in the smoke, without being blown to pieces. He thought of using his spear as a sort of walking stick, but ruled it out. He might need it for protection later. Then Kraine went to his throwing knives. He had used on to distract Culp, which left him nineteen. He hoped this would be enough to get him to the orb. Not moving his feet, Kraine crouched low to the ice, took out one knife, and sent it sliding a few meters in front of him. Just as the knife sounded like it was coming to a stop, the same ear piercing bang sent flying chunks of ice all around, leaving a small crater where the mine had been. Again and again, the knifes became flying shrapnel as the mines exploded. By now, the smoke had thinned and had settled as a light fog. Kraine searched frantically for the golden light the marked where the orb would be. He needed to know which direction to send his last knife. He was afraid that he had gone the wrong direction. Out of despair, Kraine leaned his head back and exhaled. There was a small shine above him. Kraine tilted his head to the side, confused, and had an epiphany. He was right in the beam of light! He looked left and right, then at the ground. The orb was underneath him, encased by the ice. Quickly, he started to chipped away at the ground with his last knife. This was it, Kraine would survive the maze! His heart began to race as he heard Culp speak behind him. “Good job, rookie. No one’s ever done this well against me. Too bad I’ll have to kill you now.” Ending in a soft voice, Culp slammed her foot into Kraine’s side, knocking him over. She crouched over Kraine and punched his face until it started to bleed. She took his spear and made the last few chips at the ice. With a thundering roar, Kraine jumped towards Culp. With his last knife in hand, he aimed for Culp’s temple. Culp fell on to her back and stuck the spear into the air. The two blades made contact to their victims at the same time. The knife into Culp’s temple the spear through Kraine’s chest. They both died instantly. Their bodies laid limp. Kraine skewered over Culp’s bloodied body. Their hands fell together, both grasping the orb. Together they had fought, died, and lost the game.
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Twenty wolf skinned beasts bound from the Knarr. Salt spray clings to their beards and pelts. Sand and water sink into their long leather boots as they trudge forward. A soft pounding in Gunnar's ears match his footsteps. A small chapel some three miles away marks their destination. A quaint market village ripe with spoils. Women, children and what few men remain enjoy one last night of calm as the last of the sun wilts away. At first light these twenty arm up. Swords and axes sharpened; no need for shields. They stir from the woodland that veiled them. Now only a short sprint away, they run. The throbbing of Gunnar's feet, chest and head now hammer in unison. Hademar saunters into the village alone. Blank faces stare at him as others back away. From birth they would have heard stories of raiders from the east, many would even have witnessed some in their time. Two yeoman approach and screams sound as Hademar throws one to the ground and impales him on his broadsword. The other strikes him flaccidly with his hoe. He should know better than to poke a wild animal. Seizing his arms Hademar bites deep into his neck. Blood sprays from his jugular. Hademar sounds his horn and the village is overrun by the frenzied wolf pack. A chill envelops Gunnar as he buries his axe into the skull of a fleeing boy. With no shield to bite he digs his teeth deep into the haft of his axe, then screams. His teeth chatter. He pounds his axe repeatedly into an old man. His joints shiver. Everyone he sees he kills. His face is now flushed with red and the pounding reaches its apex. His screams turn to groans. His body is no longer his to control. All the buildings burn, all but the chapel. Gunnar and Hademar approach the steps. A priest sits there crying and praying. Hademar unsheathes his seax. The pounding has stopped in Gunnar's head and he cuts Hademar's throat. Gunnar isn't calm, he's delicate. He is numb. The priest has his head still in his hands, tears streaming down him. As he looks up Gunnar stares at him. The two lock eyes. Both have said their prayers and both have communed with their God this day.
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The only sound I could hear was Mr. Windber’s oxfords clopping off the cobblestone. It’s odd that out of hundreds of morphing voices and sirens, that those shoes were the one noise I could understand. Police and the public were rushing around and they were pulling Sammy into an ambulance. I was sitting beside a pool of his blood as the paramedics yelled “He’s awake, get the stretcher!” I noticed that my pants were wet, from what I eventually deducted was urine and in the back, it’s disgusting counterpart. As I was being loaded into the back of the ambulance I remembered what happened. Sam and I had snuck out of his house to smoke cigars and drink beer. It was something that had actually become quite routine, and his father never could tell when we snagged two of each. Anyway, we went down to our usual spot underneath the Brighton Pier and had a smoke, except this time we weren’t by ourselves. Three men dressed in trench coats were standing in the shadows smoking cigarettes. We took no notice of it, figuring they were just guys like us, getting away from nagging superiors and trying to enjoy the slap of the ocean water on the rocks. We both lit up and began talking about the Betties we were chasing, and the teachers that we would give almost anything to kick in the teeth. In a moment of silence we heard something, it was stones dragging underneath running feet; the running feet of the coated men. Before we could even think, our flight instincts took over and we went at the limits of our speed. I remember feeling my cigar burn my forearm as I took off into the pitch black night. Sammy and I were side by side when we got to the road, and even though our lungs were burning we continued on as fast as we could. The police station was only four blocks away and there was no doubt in my mind that we would make it. That was until I heard the gunshot. Sammy shrieked and fell to the ground I looked back and saw him laying there crying. I rushed to pick him up, but when I tried to wrap my hands around his body, they just slipped off and Sammy’s head smacked off of the ground. I bent down to grasp him once more, but before I even touched him I felt the most horrible sting in the middle of my back, and it took me to my knees. Paralyzed with fear, I waited felt two more stings and some type of warm liquid cascading down my back before I blacked out. The faint beeping of my heart monitor brought me out of an uncomfortable sleep, Mr. Windber stood by my side holding Sammy’s football jacket as though it was all he had left of his son. “Your parents are flying in tomorrow.” he choked out before leaving the room. So there I lay, wondering if Sammy was okay, even though in my mind I was fully aware that he had to be dead. I can’t say I was excited to see my parents mainly because I didn’t want to see anyone, especially the doctor, who just so happened to be walking through the door at that particular moment. “Glad to see you’re awake, buddy.” The doctor said “We honestly didn’t know if you would make it, but we’re glad to see you did.” “Well, thanks, I guess,” I started. “How is Sammy?” “This is going to be hard to hear. Your friend is deep in a coma,” was all I understood from the doctor. After those words, I was shocked. I wanted to cry but I couldn’t, I wanted to run away, but I couldn’t. “And, there is one more thing I need to tell you.” The doctor said, his face even more solemn then before. “What is it?” I mumbled. “When you got stabbed, the knife severed your spine, you’re now paralyzed from the waist down. Unfortunately there isn’t anything we can do that would restore your ability to walk.” He said to me. I was shocked. I never imagined something like this happening to me. What did I do to deserve this? What did Sammy do? I didn’t even notice the doctor leave as I lay empty. I’m not too sure how much time passed before the door opened again. I expected my parents to come running in but instead it was someone I had never seen before. A tall man dressed in a tailcoat, top hat, and monocle. He was a very classy looking gentleman, and I was confused as to why he was in my room. “Uh, I think you might have the wrong room,” I stammered. “Ah no, I’m here to see you, Jude Clayton,” the odd man smirked. I was immediately struck with fear, he had to be associated with those gangsters who had attacked me. I reached for the panic button, and of course I couldn’t run because my bloody legs wouldn’t move. It was then that I decided that I would rather be dead than live with all that had happened for the rest of my life, so I shut my eyes and waited to feel another familiar sting, or maybe if I was lucky a bullet. But I felt nothing. I was confused, so I slowly opened my eyes to see what was going on. The room was in the same state as before, except now the gentleman was sitting in a visitor’s chair trying not to laugh at me. “I’m here to help you, mate,” he said “It might sound crazy, but I know everything that happened to you, and I know just what I can do to help.” “No, no. I don’t want to be involved in this gang rubbish.” I told him. “I’d appreciate it if you leave.” “I never said anything about gangs, I’m talking about magic,” he said with a smile. “You mean like, wizard magic? You can’t be serious,” I said. “Ah, but you’re wrong!” the man started. “I am a genie, you know what those are, right?” “Of course I do, I just don’t believe you,” I stated reluctantly. “Well, how do you explain that remote disappearing? he asked me. “It probably got knocked off the table when the doctor left. I mean, it’s not like I can get up and check myself, and even if you were to look under the bed, how can I trust that you would get it.” I knew I had him beat. He would put his hat back on and walk right out that door, and I could just be alone. “Okay, make a wish then. You have three. If i doesn’t happen right away I’ll walk out and leave you alone. How does that sound.” I laid there, interested and wondering whether or not I should take this man up on his offer. “Fine. I wish I could walk again,” I said. The gentleman snapped his fingers and the doctor cam walking through the door. “It seems as though we mixed up your test results, your legs are going to be fine. It’ll take a few months, but you’ll be walking eventually,” the doctor said with a smile. I was utterly shocked. Who was this man? How could he do that? Before I could come up with any more questions, there was a knock on the door. My parents came walking in, crying as soon as they saw me. The doctor proceeded to inform them of my condition, as well as Sammy’s, and how long I would be in the hospital. It was nice to see my mum and dad. It had been a few months since they had flown to Scotland for their studies. Which I knew they were going to have to return to soon. When they were done with the doctor, they came to me, kissed me on the forehead and we talked about what had happened. Eventually after that topic was exhausted we caught up, exchanged stories, and had a laugh. “I’m so sorry honey, but we have to leave tomorrow morning to finalize some information with our bosses, but we will be back by next Tuesday,” they promised. We made the most of the time we had together until I eventually fell asleep. I woke up the next day to a partially empty room. “By gum, it took them long enough to get out of here.” the gentleman said as he smoked a pipe in the rigid hospital chair to the right of my bed. “Those were my parents, cut them some slack.” I joked. I started to like this guy, after all, he did make it so I could walk again. “Well, have you thought of any other wishes yet, mate?” he asked me. “Yes I have. I was wondering if you would be able to bring Sammy out of his coma.” “Finally! I thought that would have been your first wish,” he told me. He snapped his fingers again, and I sat and waited for Sammy to waltz into my room. There was nothing, until over the loudspeaker I heard a woman say, “Doctor O’Leary to Sammy Windber’s room.” My heart skipped a beat. “What did you do to him?” I shouted, “I swear to God if you killed him!” Ten minutes later, my doctor came back into my room. “Jude, Sammy is stable. We’re finalizing some tests to make sure everything is okay, but we’re sending an orderly to take you over to visit him,” my doctor told me. In that moment, I was so excited I could barely contain it. I forgot about all of the terrible events that had transpired and I felt in my heart that everything was going to be okay. I convinced the doctors to let Sammy and me share a room, and although he didn’t talk much it was nice to have him close by. As I sat there in silence, I remembered that I had one wish left, and I knew exactly what I was going to do with it. Those evil men who had hurt us were going to pay. I simply waited for the gentleman’s return. “Have you figured out your final wish?” I heard the gentleman whisper. “Yes I have. I want those guys who jumped me to pay for what they did. I want them dead,” I told him. The man said nothing. He left the room and I knew I would never see him again. So I laid back in my bed, shut my eyes and went to sleep. I was once again awoken by the clopping of Mr. Windber’s oxfords, and I was once again full of dread. I had no clue why; Sammy was okay, I was okay, and those men were dealt with. I opened my eyes and he was sitting at the foot of my bed. “I- I’m so sorry, Jude. Your parents died on the plane ride back to Scotland. Their plane was struck by lightning and it went down in the Channel. The police believe that the men who attacked you were on that flight as well.” He hugged me and left the room, leaving me in silence. I didn’t know what to think. So much had changed in the past three days, and I didn’t know what I was going to do about any of it. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to continue living my life. What I knew right then was that if that man had never come into my room, I might still have my parents. I knew there was no way I could change it now, and for that I hated myself.
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3 hours ago I was finishing up watching a movie. I was gonna go to sleep but in the corner of my eye I notice a shadow by the cat's tower play thing. Small. Dark. Not a shadow. Spider. As It descended from the top of the tower all I could feel was sheer terror. With all of my bravery I snapped awake from my fear induced coma and gathered myself. I had to act fast! With a bevmo flyer and my least favorite screenplay notebook in hand I dive right into action! Well, slowly moving towards the unwanted 8 legged guest. I hold my breath, aim, WHACK! I flip the flyer over to confirm the kill! My worst fear...everyone’s worst fear...nothing... the goddamned vanishing spider. Sleep is no longer an option! I can only imagine that’s what the spider wants! When I sleep that is when he get his chance for revenge! I restart the movie, disrobe, shake out my clothes, re-robe, grab a beer, grab my hammer, put the hammer back because that might be over reacting, sit, and wait. I can't help but feel a slight tickle on back, then my leg, my arm, followed by the sensation of a"crawling" threw my hair. It's getting to me. I can only imagine him watching me from a dark corner and laughing at me! I can't let him win. Not just for me but everyone who has every a case of the "vanishing spider" Fast forward to 3 hours later. My fear is almost gone but same can be said for all my beers. After hours of trying to convince myself that "maybe I got him" or "he ran away and will probably die" and "one my lazy cats will protect me" I must sleep. Retire. Retreat. Surrender. But wait... What is that small shadow by the cat's tower play thing on the wall? Small. Dark. Not a shadow. Spider...A DIFFERENT MUCH LARGER SPIDER! Are you kidding me?? I kill my enemy's giant comrade but this is a false victory. I am now on craigslist looking for a new apartment. Beer and sanity is running thin. I pray for light soon. Remember me.
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In fire of sun walks boy with friendly aspirations of fun. Burning sands make hot pain as feet in faster go but man of boy keeps to going. Not many much people of hope make walking fun or fast but boy make both as time move also too. When time of clock spin go faster skin of red from white become but water not here for boy until distance is seen with water of ground pond so faster run the boy can. Make friend of village with happy of kind heart but they people of scared by evil man. Village of friendship and sadness has boy in heart of care but evil man come and village to be not able to defend from hurt and angry pain so boy wake up alone in hot. Anger of boy makes sun of fire go out with compared but make stronger still. Heavy as move forward but feet push on with mind. "I will avenge you all" speak boy with tongue of snake in pan of fire. So follow through maze with windy sand and much not very cloud of summer time no rain. Scared boy make evil man promise hide run from pain but go for to help friend with village make to night before. Evil man and boy make look with eye as different friends of summer movement quicker. Does not matter boy with heart as evil man run with child. "It is time to exact my revenge" boy of happy fun make now say but evil man make quiet of mouth. Boy do punch of fist with face of not boy and fall to ground with death of injury had because boy happy make with villagers of freedom inside. Season of difference watch big make of change in world and friend have happiness in new place of life time! ^-.
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Really she's quite nice. We're having tea together at this very moment in fact. She is a lovely, er... thing, once you get to know her. Most people call her "Run!", or "Look out!", but I call this unholy procreation of demon and dirt Gwen. Yes, I mean dirt in the literal form. How a demon and a rather large pile of earth managed to find yet another way to make God turn his head only this messed up world knows. What confuses me more is how proud the demon walked away from it, however drunk. Gwen is an 8-foot haunted pile of grime that barely resembles the outline of a demonly figure. Her horns, barely peeking through her curled blonde hair, above the crooked smile that would smile at the sourest of souls. If you compliment the dull, blunt horns that rest atop her crown she will gift you the most unsurpassable suit-ruining embrace you've ever had come upon you. It's worth it. "Sweetie, won't you tell the tale of our coherence once again?" Gwen said exhaustively as she climbed into my arms. The story I knew all too well, the story none would forget. "The story of how one man and one monster...", I paused here. Gwen giggled in anticipation as I knew she would, "The story of how one man and one monster captured and conquered this magical realm.
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The warrior sat with his back to an old gnarled tree, his eyes closed. He wondered how he could be so weak. Fifteen years of training was not enough to protect her, the only one he ever felt that loved him. His muscles twitched involuntarily, blood seeped slowly from many wounds. The goblins had done a good job of beating his body after he had lost consciousness. If only the cowards hadn't used Ellen to distract him, if they had fought as men with honor, No! He could not blame the goblins, the loss he suffered was due to his weakness. If he would have killed them straight away then maybe, but there is no way to change things now. Slowly he opened his eyes. Blurry eyed and foggy minded he checked himself. His tan flesh was a dark black color where it wasn't caked with blood, at first he thought it was due to bruising, then after touching his forearm, he discovered it was a fine black powder, "What is this?" he pondered, looking ahead where the beautiful farmhouse had once been was nothing but a heaping pile of smoldering ash. The filth burned his home to the ground, probably after killing Ellen. He wept. He wept for himself, for Ellen, for the life they had only recently started together. He had fallen in love with her when he was a mere boy. He became a fighter in hopes of impressing her only to find that those many years ago she had fancied him as a simple farmer's son. After what seemed like an hour he tried to stand, his legs shook, his vision swam but he did not falter. He limped towards the pile intending to find and give Ellen a decent burial. He found the charred remains of a skeleton that was roughly her size. He could feel vomit coming up his throat, but he swallowed it, it left a bitter taste, he ignored it. He walked to the tool shed that was a few yards behind the house, far enough away that it was not consumed by the flames, but the smoke had done some damage. He opened the shed and pulled out a spade, he began digging her grave, and as he did more tears sprung from his eyes. Though his muscles ached he forced them on, inch by inch, the hole got deeper, pound by pound dirt was moved. After digging approximately seven feet, he stopped. He hoisted himself out, collected the bones together and set them down into the grave and replaced the moved earth. He knew no words of peace or parting, he had no faith in gods of any kind. He simply kneeled before her grave and bade her farewell. As he stood up, he heard a thin voice behind him say, "One should never leave the body of a loved one, not without a cleric to guide them on to the After." Though startled he showed no signs, he turned and faced the owner of the voice, not a spec of flesh to be seen, he wore a hood that was so low it covered most of his face, and whatever wasn't covered by hood was covered by his high collar. His cloak was the color of sand, his robe the color of dried blood, he wore black leather gloves and boots. "I know no clerics, and it is not within my ability to convince one to come out this far from a city for a simple farmers wife." The man slumped his shoulders as if insulted, he pulled from within his robe an ankh made of silver. He walked past the warrior and stood at the foot of the grave. Carefully, reverently, he placed the ankh on the center of the grave and started saying a prayer of passing in the tongue of the ancients. The ankh began to glow a bright blue, and it sank into the dirt as if water, being soaked up greedily by the thirsty earth. "My apologies, and many thanks cleric, by pure chance you happened upon me when I needed you most." said the warrior. The cleric chuckled, which sounded more like a series of light coughs. "This was not chance, the great Asheros brought me to this location. If not for him, your wife may have been found by the scavengers and turned into a disgusting undead, but now", said the cleric, " the land is consecrated and cannot be touched by that ilk. Her peace will never be disturbed." The warrior bowed his head and said " Again I apologize, please tell me your name so I know who I owe my service to." Within his hood the cleric smiled. "My name is Delphose," he said, struggling to hold back laughter, "Delphose Anari. I follow the path laid before me by the great Asheros." With his head still bowed, the warrior pleaded "Please tell me more of Asheros. Never before have I heard of this being." The cleric gasped as if dumbfounded "Never heard of Asheros?! The lesser gods bow before him. When he walks the earth trembles. When he is angered, storms tear lands apart, he is a god who wishes to purify our world of evil so it may be at peace." "Purify of evil..." mutters the warrior, he made a decision then, "I will join you on your journey Delphose, wherever you may be going, I will assist you in any way that I can. To rid the world of evil so none will have to suffer as I have." The warrior again looked over his small farm, at the damaged crops, the burned home, and lastly his eyes came to rest on the grave. "I will teach you of Asheros, if you believe in his great power, you will be remade. Your past matters not, only your future matters to his greatness. You will be the first in centuries to be inducted into his knighthood..." The farmers face lit up at the thought of fighting in the name of a god, as a knight no less. Ellen would be proud. If only...
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Small crystalline droplets fell gently into the palm of his hand. The faint sunlight glinted off each one, creating a kaleidoscope of color that only he could see. His eyes turned, the blue in them growing brighter with each drop that fell. He looked into his cupped hand and saw the small puddle that had started to form. The water continued to fall gently and slowly in the soft morning breeze. He exhaled deeply, his breathing forming a cloud in front of him and disturbing the icicle that provided the small bit of water he put appreciately to his dry and cracked lips. He sighed with relief, another cloud of breath came before him. His eyes came closer to the triangle piece of frozen moisture that was before him. He saw his reflection in the clear crystal structure and watched as his own face rolled down the side of the ice with each drop of water that fell. He stepped back again, his foot crunching on the snow that was behind him. His large boots keeping him steady on the slippery road as he walked away from the squat, abandoned store he had found. The sun grew higher in the sky, making the ground a blinding white color. The man looked again at the abandoned store. The sign above the store was faded and unreadable, the once red paint peeling off and revealing the cracked and frozen wood underneath. The man looked down at his hands again; nearly frozen in his thin gloves. He rubbed his hands together in a fruitless attempt to warm. He crossed his arms once again and stepped tentatively towards the three small steps that led to the already open door. He peered inside the dark one room store and saw nothing but dust and empty cans. The floorboards creaked loudly under his large feet as he continued walking forward. He kicked an empty can aside and heard as it hit the rotted wall with a large clang before rolling down the slanted floor towards the back of the room. Dusty shelves lined the shoppe and nothing occupied any of them. The man walked up and down every shelf, his eyes ever vigilant for a morsel of food. His frozen hands twisted together as he grew impatient and disappointed. He finally came to the end of the last row and found himself face to face with a green door. The door seemed new, as though it had never been a part of this frozen wasteland and didn’t have to endure what the rest of the empty shop did. He approached the door warily. He hadn’t seen anything that bright of a color in years. The only color out there was white, the endless white fields of snow and ice. He outstretched his right hand, the thin glove brushing the rough wooden door, hardly believing it existed. He moved his hand down the door until he found the cold doorknob. He twisted it gently and the door opened easily. He stepped forward and peered into the room and what he saw he didn’t believe: the room was brightly lit with a lamp in the center of the room. The walls were painted a dark brown color and the carpeted floor was tan and smelled clean. The man walked through the door and onto the soft carpet. Once inside, the door behind him closed with a quiet click. The man looked back for a second and started to panic, then he realized he was warm. He quickly forgot about the now locked door that was behind him and started to slowly remove each boot, first the left, then the right. Then he did the same with his gloves. Then his hat. And finally his coat. He lay them all on the carpet in a pile and continued walking towards the lamp in the center. He felt every fiber of the carpet as his calloused feet stepped gingerly on it. He hadn’t seen anything like this is years and could hardly believe it was true. The lamp sat in the exact center of the square room. The man reached it in a few easy strides. He stared at it, looked at it from all angles. No chord attached it to an outlet and no knob or string showed where to turn it off. But the man wasn’t worried about turning it off. He had lived in the dark too long and the only light he had seen was the blinding light of the fading sun on the snow; a sun which grew dimmer every day and a snow which grew colder. He removed the red lamp shade that covered the fluorescent bulb. He put his hands closer to the light and felt relief as the heat warmed them, a warmth he had not felt in a long time. He reached his hands closer until they were just centimeters from the bulb, soaking up the warmth, fearing that at any moment he would wake up and it would be gone. “It won’t leave,” the man turned around and saw a woman behind him. She was beautiful, red lips and red hair. Her skin a porcelain white and her cheeks a bright pink. She wore a skin tight black dress that barely covered her knee and her shoes were tall black heels, impossible for walking in the snow. The man stuttered. He hadn’t spoke to another person in a long time, let alone a beautiful woman. “Don’t be shy,” she said slyly and she walked forward, her hips swaying slowly and a smile creeping onto her beautiful face. “I’m here to help you.” She reached her hand up and pressed it on his unshaven face. Her eyes were a dark brown and stared deeply into his light blue ones as she leaned in closer and kissed him roughly on his chapped lips. He closed his eyes and relished it, enjoyed the taste of her lips and tongue on his. She pulled away slowly. “There, isn’t that better.” The man felt tired. He had never felt this tired in his life. He sat slowly next to the lamp and watched through watery eyes as the woman turned off the light and walked away through the green door. “Where are you going?” the man asked, his voice hoarse and rough from not speaking for years. “I’ll be back later,” she said. Then she turned and walked into the frozen wasteland. The man sat on the floor of the old shop, staring at the dilapidated green door and leaning against the broken lamp that had once warmed the family that lived there. He sat there and weeped as he waited for the woman to return, his hands and feet freezing quickly and turning a dark grey and black. The man didn't move for three days, watching, waiting, and freezing.
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In my hands I held a dandelion, one of those little yellow flowers that accompany ball of fluff that I was fond of blowing at and watching the little white parachutes fly off in to the sky. I twirled the flower between my fingers, having already used up the ball of fluff that had grown from the same set of leaves in the ground. My eyes scanned the ground for another ball of fluff, but none were in sight. When I looked back at the stem in my hands I saw that all the yellow pedals had turned black and were beginning to flake off of the stem, floating to the ground. I studied the remains that were in my hand, until they were devoid of any structure and fell from my fingers as ashes. I was just a young child at the time, I don’t even recall the age of that memory. But it was the first inkling of what was to be the future. I only had a couple pets as a child, a hamster, a dog, and a pair of goldfish. The hamster, Zoey, would run on his little wheel all day. Until I reached my hand into his cage and grabbed him from it. I held Zoey in my hand against my chest, while I petted him with my other hand. He was remarkably peaceful and calm. I kept petting him until my mother took him from my hand. She picked his limp body up from me and began screaming when she realized that he was dead. Our dog, Dante, was my father’s animal. He curled up under my dad’s reclining chair when they watched TV. Dante was never interested in me, and when I would pet him he wouldn’t stand around long, always quickly finding some place to run off to. It was a day that we were taking Dante to the vet, when he was stuck in the back seat of my mom’s car with me. I had my hand laying on his back for the entire ride. When we got to the office Dante didn’t hop out of the car. He never moved again. My dad buried him in the back yard. The gold fish out lived my mother. She kept them in the living room and would feed them herself before she went to bed. They were her ‘fair fish’ that she had won at the state fair and had nurtured for years. When my mom passed, I fed them for the last day of their lives. They were belly up afterwards. My mother was chronically ill. She never held a job in my memory, and she finally passed away from illness when I was only twelve. At the funeral my dad held my hand for most of the service, until he began coughing so fitfully that he had to walk from the church and clear his lungs outside. At twelve I couldn’t figure out why the path I took to school was decorated by dead plants on both sides. Kids in my class got ill often, and I had a lot of substitute teachers. Years and years passed before anyone connected the dots. I simply thought that death was a common fact of life. But as more people that I knew piled up, as I lost one high school friend after another, people noticed. They decided that I had a disease, that somehow death followed me. I was sent to quarantine where men in white suits tested me over and over. They said the disease was airborne, that I didn’t need to touch for death to spread. The men in the white suits began to fall ill, then dead. They first thought that their suits needed to be upgraded, that somehow they were breathing in my deadly fumes. After it continued to happen they sent me to London, then to Zaire, where the outcome was still the same, anyone in the same building as me died. Whatever it was I was infecting others with I was immune to and I was the only carrier of. I was kept in a vault, deep inside of a mountain. I felt like a piece of gold or some valuable jewel. I heard murmurs that I was to be used as a weapon. I was to be sent to countries to clear them of opposition. But my potential for disaster was too great for their fail-safes. An animal that wasn’t meant to be caged cannot be. The people controlling the vault died away. One last attempt was made to secure me onto a plane headed to Chernobyl, to live in isolation, maybe to simply die in isolation. But as the doors to my room were unlocked they released a plague that had been held back by those led lined portals. Everyone within the mountain died instantly. I walked from the vault, through hallways of lifeless bodies. By the time I found my way out of the maze of quarantine I had passed hundreds of newly extinct people. I could no longer look at their faces, they only made me wish that I would die myself. Outside of the mountain more lay dead. I crouched beside the body of a young woman, her face was unlined, her eyes were open, even lifeless I found her attractive. I felt tears on my cheeks when I realized that I would never know her name. II I think I’m twenty-five now, I could be older or younger, it’s been hard to keep track of days, weeks and years. It feels like a dream or a movie where I’m the only one left alive. I wonder from place to place. Since I left the mountain I haven’t head a scream or a cry. I am left here alone to wonder why during all of this time I haven’t died. Everywhere the smell of rotting death is in the air. Bugs don’t even crawl on the slowly decomposing bodies. As I walk through this valley, this valley of death, I haven’t seen a live body in years. I must be the last one left. My water is running low and I’ve resorted to drinking from puddles that smell of rotting bodily fluids. My body aches with hunger, its growing weak. The pain that I’m going through tells me that this isn’t any dream. Falling to my knees, I scream at the top of my lungs. I can hear my voice echo back to me, all the way from the sun. Nobody comes. When it is all said and done I fall to the sand, too weak to push myself back up, to dehydrated to shed tears. There I see what has eluded me since I was a child, a small yellow dandelion wiggling in the breeze, a small white ball of puff, beside it. It’s the only thing alive I’ve seen. With my last strength I reach out, and my hand falls on its base. It withers and dies.
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The wheel on the large metal door twisted as I finished picking the lock on my handcuffs. The door opened, and a large bearded man in a trench coat stepped in and shut the door behind him. I placed my hands back on the table with the handcuffs loosely fastened giving the illusion that they were still on. He began to walk towards me, each step echoing off of the 4 wet concrete walls surrounding. He arrived at the side of my chair, promptly landing on both of his feet. Starting from the top of the trenchcoat, he began to pop the buttons through. Sweat accumulated on my forehead and dripped down to the bridge of my nose. I noticed that the bearded grizzly stopped unbuttoning his coat with one button left- which covered his crotch. He let out a chuckle and undid the button revealing an extremely erect penis. I snapped the handcuffs of my wrist and made my move. I grabbed his penis at the shaft and jerked him off until he came all over my face. I was horrible at interrogations.
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Campo Grande Brazil to Santa Cruz Bolivia John and I started our journey across the Pantanal at 5am, Jan 8. We had bought the bus ticket from CG to Corumba (the Brazilian border town) the day before, so we just grabbed our bags and jumped in a taxi to the bus station. We had done the Brazilian bus thing twice before, so no worries. Great, wide fields passed by our windows on the comfortable but not luxurious Marcopolo model bus. Cows and horses meandered through pastures, while the bus driver picked up hitchhikers along the way. Most were farmers or ranch hands, and it seemed like they were paying for their ride, to the driver or the bus company, we'll never know. The 6 hour bus ride to Corumba ended uneventfully, as the driver pulled into the sunny and dusty bus station. We had a traditional, rural Brazilian lunch: a deep fried ham and cheese hot-pocket-looking thing, as well as a "chicken dick", deep fried chicken wrapped on a skewer in a very phallic shape. We had seen the items before in Rio and São Paulo, but abstained previously. After lunch, we used the dilapidated bathroom for R$1, no toilet seat and trashbins in each stall filled with used toilet paper. The plumbing isn't too developed in Brazil, so you can't flush your TP (but that hasn't stopped us). After refueling at the bus station, we got in another taxi and directed the driver to the "frontera". He drove along paved and unpaved roads, blasting Cobra Starship's "You Make Me Feel Good", although his driving style made us feel anything but that. He dropped us off at the Brazilian border guard building at around 2pm. In Brazil, you receive a stamp on an entry slip, and you keep that paper until you leave. None of the cars stopped at the border, which seemed odd, but I guess if you have a local license plate you are good to go (all the license plates have the town and province the car is registered to on them). The Brazilian border guard office line took about 1 hour (50 people deep), and John and I were worried we would miss the 4 o'clock afternoon train from Puerto Quijarro to Santa Cruz. We practiced our Spanish a bit on a family behind us, asking when the train leaves Quijarro. 4am they said. If traveling has taught me anything, take what people say with a grain of salt, unless there is tangible evidence around you to back it up. Either people are grossly misinformed, they are trying to scam you, or there has been a miscommunication between the two of you and they are talking about something else. After getting our exit stamp, we rushed out of the sweltering office, took a quick pic on the Bolivian border, and hoofed it to the Bolivian border office, intent on catching the train. A man solicited us for a taxi ride to the train station, we obliged but said we needed visas first. He directed us to the "correct" side of the 400 sq ft shack. The shack was filled with 4 desks, behind which were as many Bolivian border employees. 3 desks were against one wall, the remaining against the opposite wall. None of the desks had a title above them to indicated their function, and each had a small mountain of paperwork monopolizing most of the top. We waited on the longest line behind the middle desk. We handed over our paperwork, and muchacho número uno tells us we need a copy of our passport, yellow fever vacs, and Mastercards. He points to the non-existent Xerox machine behind him. Confused and feeling rushed to catch the train, we stumble out of the shack and see Bolivia's version of FedexKinkos 500 feet across the border. As we walk over, a "cambio" or forex man asks us if we need some Bolivianos. His rate is reasonably close to the market spot rate, and we trade 10 reals for 30 bolivianos. John and I make our way through the street to FedExKinkos, dodging rubble piles in the streets (these are very popular in Bolivia, as I will detail later). We make copies, and head back to the border shack. It's 3:45pm, and we have only 15 minutes to catch the train. We run into our taxi man, who now seems frustrated, and he hurries us along. We wait online again, only to forget that we didn't make copies of our Mastercards. After another dash across the bombed-out-looking street, and more confusion in the shack, we pay $270 for our 2 visas. It is well past 4pm, and we are hoping that Bolivia is like Brazil, and trains don't run on time. We finally leave the shack and enter the town of Puerto Quijarro, Bolivia. The sun beats down on the dusty border town, with depressed women working the various shops. Broken fridges are filled with gatorade and Coke. Cars with cracked windshields zoom along the avenues, and moto-taxis wait under awnings for their next fare. Farm stands sell fruits and vegetables that Lonely Planet has told us not to eat. Shady characters walk around, with not much to do. There might have been more trash than pavement on the streets. Quijarro probably has Tijuana and Nuevo Laredo beat for places you don't want to be. Taxi man takes us to another "cambio", and we lighten our load of reals and dollars for some Bolivianos. This cambio was an old woman, sitting with her friends on the sidewalk. You could tell she was a shark: reading glasses on a chain, calculator in one hand, fanny pack in the other, and very quick to speak. Her rate was not as good as the last. After loading up on the local currency, we go to the train station, hoping the train hasn't left. It hadn't. However, a nice European traveler informs us in English that tickets are sold out for the day. Not wanting to spend the night in this town, we start talking to some Brazilians we saw at the border. They tell us that one of the train station workers is scalping tickets for the train at a healthy 25% profit. Fuck it, we are trying to get out of here. I ask him "Tiene boletas?", but he doesn't seem interested in dealing with gringos. The train departs, us and the Brazilians ticketless. They have the idea of taking a bus, which is cheaper and 6 hours quicker than the train. We follow them to the station. It's 5pm. This is probably the weirdest, most destitute hub of transport I've seen in my life. Think the equivalent of Grand Central's aborted 2 week old fetus. Shifty characters sit on plastic chairs on the concrete slab floor, protected from the sun by a metal roof. Bus companies have the incompetent slinging tickets from behind counters that are more fit to be lemonade stands. The stands are hand painted, and the tickets hand written. Stray dogs come in and out of the station, searching thru the garbage can in the center for some discarded food. 7 year old girls walk around with trays of cigarettes and candies. A young, hustleresque boy sells refills for prepaid phones. Another cambio declares his purpose every few minutes to the crowd. Drink vendors sling water and sodas out of one-time use styrofoam coolers that were clearly being used their 50th time. There are no prices for drinks, you ask for what you want and you get a quote. I got the quote of 20 bolivianos for two 2 liter bottles of water. Fuck it, I'm thirsty. I don't think I saw a content face in that crowd. The Brazilians helped us buy tickets for the 730 to Santa Cruz. An 8 hour ride we were told. We killed two hours in the station as the sun went down, and painfully handed over our bags to the bus company to be stored under the bus. Seems like my Canon camera found its way into a local's hands. The bus ride was harrowing; the driver straddled the center line, used the inside lane for curves, and overcorrected just about every turn of the wheel he made. We finally made it to Santa Cruz at 4am, checked into our hotel and passed out.
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The writing on the wall was scribbled in a way that looked as if it was done by a toddler scurrying along with a marker doing something they know shouldn't be done. Only the writing on his wall was done it paint and was up higher then a toddler could reach. And what toddler could break into a house mid-afternoon while they should be tucked in for their after-lunch nap? This was done by someone much older and much more frightening then a toddler. This was done by someone with intent. The writing read: 'I know who you are … I know what you have … I want it.' The last period was made with a glob of the paint that dripped down the wall. He stood in place and looked at the writing for some time. He tried to search his mind to find any answers as to who could have done this but came up with none. He knew who he was and the vandal claimed to know as well, but Josh seriously questioned whether whoever did this had the right man. He held nothing of value. Hell, he had just moved back to this country a few months ago and the house was still bare, it was a new purchase. The most expensive thing in here, as far as he knew at least, was the flat-screen downstairs. He took out his phone and snapped a picture of the wall and sent it to his friend Mike. Maybe it was just one of those fucked up pranks a friend pulls, the kind that only they find funny. Mike was the only one with a spare set of keys. Most of his friends and all of his family lived a thousand miles away so there could be no relatives playing a practical joke on him. It was Mike. It had to be Mike. He was the only one who could get in. If it wasn't him, then who else? His phone buzzed; it was a text from Mike. 'Aha. What's that man? Looks like the beginning to a bad murder show.' The message read. Is he just holding off and waiting for me to ask? He thought, or does he really not know? His pride told him to put the phone back in his pocket; it's Mike, a voice said, it's Mike. He stared at the message and glanced up to the wall again. Still scared stiff, the rational part of his brain was telling him it was Mike but the irrational side was screaming, RUUNN!!, eventually, he tapped the message box and typed. He valued his life more then he valued his friends laughter. He sent the message, but still couldn't move. A few minutes passed and he still stood there, in the same position he was when he walked into this thing, whatever it is, then his phone buzzed; it was Mike. 'No Bro. It wasn't me. Just got out of work. Call the cops man. That's some fucked up shit.' Your not wrong on that, Josh thought looking down at his phone. He didn't know where to go from here. Clearly now the police needed to be called. Mike wouldn't take it that far. He wouldn't allow him to call the cops on a foolish prank that he had pulled. Sometimes he had a tenancy to be an asshole, what friends don't, but no one would take it that far. He dialed 9-1-1 and that's when he heard the first footstep. “Nine-one-one. What's your emergency?” a monotone voice answered. He waited, trying to hear the noise again. It came from the stairs just by the kitchen, no more then ten feet from where he now stood. “Hello? Sir? Madame?” the voice said again. “ … Uh … ahh … I came home to find some threatening messages written on my walls. I was” – a step creaked and Josh inhaled deeply and thought he was going to pass out. He slowly began to slide to the right to get as close to the door as he could. “Hello? Sir? Are you there?” “Y-y-yea … can you send someone. Now. Please,” he was almost whispering now and still edging toward the door. “What's your address sir?” “It's –,” the last creak was heard, it sounded more like a snap!, and a man up leaped from the steps. Pointing a gun at Josh's head in a very crude and horrifying way, saying; 'Hang up.' Josh fumbled the phone and eventually dropped it. He bent down quickly to pick it up and the gun went off. At first he thought he was fine. He thought the guy missed. But just as he looked up, he saw the man run to the door. His face peeked in before he left and the two made eye contact for a second, the man looked remorseful, he looked sorry. Josh put a hand on his knee to steady himself but became light-headed and collapsed. When he fell it felt the blood creep onto his neck, it slithered into his hair and then onto the laminate flooring. It began to pool around him. He had a cold feeling in his stomach, almost like the feeling you get when you accidentally swallow an ice cube whole, but not quiet. This was different. This coldness had an emptiness to it. He could feel his eyes getting heavier and heavier; he started to breath in his own blood off the floor; he could hear a faint 'Hello?' on the phone but it was too far to reach.
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You are having a malady. This isn’t the first or the last, but you are having a malady. Your ailment may be any number of things. But you are having a malady. Put pressure on your joints and run a bath. There are a number of reasons why you might be sick, but rest assured we are aware of your injury and/or pain – use the toggle buttons to select the cause, because you are having a malady. Our team of doctors are on hand to help you out with your headache, cold, flu, deep depression, spiraling anxiety…you are having a malady. Stay calm. Pick up your medication, hopes, dreams, legs from across the room…you are having a malady. Our in-house strategy consultants ask that you stay calm and think about your childhood, unless that childhood was painful, then feel free to think about a comedy, song, or especially delicious sandwich. The point is, we are here for you, because you are having a malady. Avoid any urges to administer any drugs not prescribed to you; this includes alcohol and Children’s Tylenol. You are not to binge eat, cut yourself, or giggle at plants you think may be alive. You are not to bundle your problem up – there are a team of family technicians that will be on the way to help you adjust to your pain in the confines of your friends and family. They will be notified, because you are having a malady. If you haven’t called the proper authorities and medical professionals by now, we will now call them for you. Please use the drop-down menu to choose your malady. We will wait, because you are having a malady. If you have arrived here by mistake, please notify us using the Help icon at the top of this hologram. We would rather non-malady users to stay away from this site unless a malady occurs. Our service is free, and we’d like it to stay that way. If you still believe you are having a malady, please continue to hold and our holographic interface will continue to linger around your head. If your head is no longer intact, then speak “Missing Head” aloud and we will adjust the position of the hologram. If you are missing limbs, arms, hands, feet, etc. and need an adjustment, please speak the words “Disability” and our team of holographic assistants will assist you with your needs. If your malady is a mental ailment, please take a few minutes to make sure you are not hallucinating. It is quite possible this is all in your head… This malady.
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The rain is cold on my naked skin. The sky is dark and there is a steady torrent bashing my body down. I slowly walk forwards to wherever my bare feet can take me; there are only street lights to guide me as I follow each glowing ball of light towards nothingness. My shirt, like a rag, merely hangs down my shoulders, no longer even resembling the nice white button-down dress shirt it once was, all the buttons are missing and it has been shredded on one half. A brand name tie is draped around my neck, hanging down to my waist as it slowly slips off with every step I take and I don’t even notice it. My black dress pants are the only article of clothing left intact, although they are completely soaked, they still resemble the original pants before the blackout. I like that it is raining. I hate that it is cold and I hate that it is wet, but I like that it is raining. Before the rain, there was blood everywhere. Half of my white shirt was completely red; I had to tear off half of it as I stumbled away from that place. My shoes were drenched, every step I took produced a squish reminding me of the puddle of blood I was stepping in and so I had to discard them. My pants were also soaked in that filth, but I am a decent man and I was not about to walk around town completely naked. I don’t know how this happened, but I promise you, I am not a bad person. The worst part of the blackout is the blood that was under my fingernails. All my fingers were stained red with it, and my fingernails were all broken, cracked, and worn, no matter how hard I tried to scrub them, they were stained red. But the rain, the rain was able to wash away the blood. My face was also smeared with blood, particularly around my mouth, and no matter how hard I tried; I could not get the taste of blood out of my mouth. Even now, as I walk aimlessly towards nowhere, I can still taste blood under my tongue. The strangest things it that I’m not bleeding anywhere, I dare not think of what could have happened. There is only one thing in my mind and it is a picture, a mental snapshot I took of myself that I fear I will never forget. It was when I looked at myself in the mirror, my face plastered with blood still dripping off my chin, fresh blood seeping out of my fingernails into tiny droplets that eventually run down the length of my finger, and my eyes. I have never seen my eyes like that, filled with such horror, dread, and excitement. I was smiling at myself in the mirror, at the time, I was ecstatic. I swear I’m not a bad person, please believe me. I stagger my way forward. There is a strange sense of calm around me. No longer is there the perpetual sense of urgency that I had living in New York City. No longer am I worrying about the next big promotion, or where I was on the economic food chain. My mind is blank, a black slate in a background of black lost in a deep void of nothingness. There are no worries in life, nothing but the drive to keep moving forward for no reason but to move forward. I just keep walking towards the next orb of light. I no longer even mind the rain. I don’t care that I’m freezing, that my bare feet have become cut from walking on the jagged cement, or that my new expensive tie had fallen off a few blocks back, I just walk through the stormy night air going from one ball of light to the next. There is a strange feeling of warmth within me, but I know that my skin is ice cold right now. My mouth involuntarily stretches into a smile. I feel guilty feeling this good, after what I did, this should not be the proper reaction, but I feel great, beyond great, I am euphoric. To my left, balls of light whiz past me at incredible speeds, creating what seemed to me like shooting stars. I look at them for a second amazed and astonished before slowly making my way towards them, trying to captivate the wonderment of the lights. I am captivated by the promise of those lights, a world of wonder and fascination, one that is within my grasp. I make my way onto the road before two shooting stars fly by me followed by a wave of water and the receding sound of an engine. I don’t even have the reflexes to track these shooting stars, for some reason, I no longer seem to react anymore. I slowly turn my head slowly to watch a pair of red lights slowly disappearing over the horizon. I keep walking onto the road, hoping to catch the next pair of shooting stars. Suddenly there is a violent blaring of a horn and a screeching sound, I feel myself getting hit by behind, my legs crumble and my knees violently scrape the pavement. I can feel my flesh tear and my kneecaps bash against the ground, but I am not in pain. There is only a strange sense of calm. “Oh my god!” A woman screams. “Why were you in the middle of the road?” I become perplexed by her question, why am I even here? I try to explain to her about the shooting stars, about the promise of a world of fascination and wonderment, but all I can manage is a low grunt. I look down in surprise, what is going on? One of knees has become shredded, there is only bone and blood, but surprisingly, I can still move my legs. Shakily, I force myself up. “Are you okay?” The woman asks. I just stand there, a beam of light warming my back up. I look at the darkness beyond barely illuminated by her headlights, the sight is so beautiful. In my previous life, I would have never appreciated such beauty. But now, strangely enough, this beauty is all that matters. “Excuse me sir!” The woman approaches me to inspect me. She pauses and lets out a short breath, “Holy shit. Sir! Your leg! I’m so sorry.” She rapidly walks towards me. “You need to sit down.” I don’t hear a word she says, in fact, everything she has been saying seems like a foreign language. I don’t know why I can’t comprehend her words; she is speaking English after all. She puts her arm around me to slowly lower me to the ground, but I don’t move at all. I turn my head to look at her, her eyes widen in surprise. I realize now that my breath smells rancid. “Can’t you see how beautiful this is?” I want to tell her, but all I do is grunt. She twitches away from me, but my arm hooks onto her back preventing her from going anymore. She looks at me bewildered, too scared to move. I cock my head, who is this creature in front of me? Why can’t she see what I see? She struggles to back away, but I pull her closer to me. Then, I lean forward and bite her. This happens on instinct, it just seemed like the natural next step to me. My teeth sink into her flesh filling my mouth with warm blood. Is it morally wrong for me to do this? It can’t be because it just feels so right. Morality has no qualms with me, it can’t, or else this wouldn’t feel so natural. I was made to do this. The woman screams and pushes me away, I fall down hard. Why did she do that to me? In the background I can hear the squeal of tires as she drives away and two more shooting stars shoot past me. After a while contemplating why she would do that to me I finally get up and start walking again. I walk along the dark road illuminated only by street lamps to the darkness in front of me. Then, out of nowhere, I see the most fascinating sight in the world. In the distance is an array of lights and noise, a design of illumination so beautiful that I can’t help but stop to appreciate it. I start walking towards it without thinking, it is many miles away, but I know that I’ll reach it eventually. It almost feels like I’m walking back to where I’ve always belonged, my home. It seems to be welcoming me back with open arms, showing me the warm embrace of lights, the unmatched beauty of its design and the promise of a world of wonderment. I am going back home.
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Elder Jon sat before the fire at the center of his village. He was the last elder in his tribe to carry the ancestral power. The magic that allowed him to summon the elements, change the weather, and destroy the enemies of his people. He had been the most powerful of his people, now he was the last. Assassins had come in the night, cowards who hid themselves from the spirits with paint on their faces. He forgave them though, they didn't have a choice. Sent forth to commit great crimes against the spirits on fear of death at the hands of their own elders if they failed. He also knew that this was a precursor to war. Many other tribes had been destroyed recently, and it always started with similar tactics. He had only survived himself because of the blessings of the spirits. He had been summoned by nature to relieve himself, and while he was out in the bushes, He caught sight of one of the assassins approaching his tent a mere stones throw away from where he stood. with just a thought the assassin was immobilized by the power of the air around him. It was a simple trick taught early to those blessed by the ancestors. Turn the air around a person as thick as stone. It required little effort and allowed him to make sure it was an enemy and not some fool child playing a prank. It was an enemy and it was exactly the last peoples he wanted to find sneaking into his camp at night. Tonight he had to commune with his acestors and ask them what could be done to save his people. He had to save his people. If it cost his life, if he himself would be sacrficed, he had to save his people. "Hello Jon." His father was there before him, a shadow in the flames of the fire. "Father," Jon started "Please help us. I am the last Elder left to defend our people, and I am certain that our enemies mean war. Is there anything that can be done to stop this? I will pay any price. My life means nothing if I cannot defend our people." His father held a sad look as he stared down at Jon. "There is only one thing that could be done, and it will cost much more than your life." "What must I do?" "You must seperate the world of the living and the world of the spirits." "But then how will you protects us?" "Some of us think that the time where we were needed has passed. We are no longer needed to protect you from the great beast, most of them now fear you. We are no longer needed to protect you from the floods since you found these plains. Now our presence hurts our peoples. The spirit worlds connection to the world of the living is what allows magic to exist in this world. It is what allows these powers that so many have abused of late to exist." "But father, That price is just too much. How can you ask this of me?" "Listen son, it may be the only choice. The greed of those with the power is too great, they wish to be the only ones with power, the only ones who words carry the weight of the spirits. They will destroy everybody to do it. You may not know this but Many of the peoples of the plains have already died. And more will continue to die, to satisfy these peoples blood lust, unless you do what must be done, it is possible that none of the peoples of the plains will survive." "Yes father, tell me how this can be done and I will do it.
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I had been in the United States Army Air Force for just over a year at that point but I had spent most of my time, hopping from one camp to another. I completed my training as a flight radio operator in January was assigned to the 579th Squadron and finally sent overseas. By St. Valentine's day I had found myself in eastern England at an RAF base called Wendling, where I joined the crew of Lt. Francis Doyle's B-24 Liberator, Dixie Belle. On a cold and rainy afternoon, I found myself on a routine mission – my eleventh since arriving in England and being assigned to the crew of the Dixie Belle. Our squadron of B-24 Liberators took minor losses due to flak and ground fire over our target in Frankfurt, Germany. Not long after dropping our payloads and heading back to England, my formation was cut off from the rest of the squadron in the thick rain clouds. It wasn't long before we came under heavy fire by Luftwaffe fighters that had sneaked up on us from below the clouds. One by one they swooped up through our formation, taking us completely by surprise. Carmen, at the head of our diamond formation, instantly lost it's starboard wing then veered out of control and collided with the bomber on our right flank. The bomber in the center of our formation lost both pilots and spiraled to the ground, while the one on our left flank was rocked by a small explosion and split in two. Lt. Doyle was renowned for his ability to maneuver the massive B-24 like a stunt-plane. He was able to skillfully weave us in and out of the rain clouds, evading the fighters as the attempted to attack our belly. We gave the Germans a pretty good fight for about twenty minutes. Not long after the last of our tail gunners was killed, the front gunners had all ran out of ammunition. Unable to defend ourselves, we lost the starboard engine and then partial use of our rudder. I was on my way through the bomb-bay to fetch a belt for the top turret's 50. caliber when the plane shook so violently that I had to brace myself in the narrow passage to keep from tumbling onto my face. Facing the back of the plane, I watched as bright orange flames consumed the entire tail section. As another violent shutter shook the entire fuselage a large, blue hole appeared on the starboard side near the tail. As the wind tore away the entire panel of the fuselage and sucked everything out into the open sky, I held on as tightly as I could to keep myself from being sucked out as well. I turned around to the cockpit in time to see a string of bullets punch through the plexiglass windshield and strike the side of Lt. Doyle's head, causing it to explode like a firecracker inside of a pumpkin. I wiped away the bits of Lt. Doyle's skull and brain matter from my flight-goggles. When I noticed that the co-pilot's head had also dropped, I realized that no one was flying the plane. I had to make a decision right then and there, to either check and see if any of the other crew were alive or bail out immediately with the assumption that anyone else would do the same. With all of my might I pushed up on the rusty emergency-release lever and as it gave way the bomb-bay doors fell open below me. I stood on the edge of the walkway, took a deep breath and fell forward. I was certain someone had seen me fall. I could see a dust cloud forming in the distance. I knew some sort of vehicle was on the dirt road as it grew larger and larger beneath my feet. I could just barely see the twilight peaking over the tree line as my parachute deployed and by the time I found my hiding place in the haystack, the sky was charcoal gray. I don't know why I thought the Germans would give up on the search just because the sun had gone done. I tried to keep optimistic. There were noises here and there but I didn't dare peak my head out from beneath the several feet of hay that lay on top of me. Then I grew bored and fell asleep. I don't know how on earth I was able to doze off in that damp, muddy haystack. I kick myself even now, twenty-three years later, whenever I think about it. It was not until the sun started to rise the next morning that they found me. I don't know how many of them there were exactly. When they captured me, I was able to count nine in the circle at first glance, but there may have been more. The patrol leader was tall, statuesque and a picture-perfect Aryan with bright blonde hair and shiny blue eyes. He was kind to me after he realized that I was alone and unarmed and didn't speak a word of German. He even offered me a cigarette when he saw how my knees were shaking. These men didn't appear to be the monsters that I had been hearing horror stories about since before the war began. German patrols appeared to be very different from the ones I had been a part of during my basic training in Georgia. No one talked or joked or whistled or smoked a cigarette. The only sound I could hear behind me was the rhythmic thud of jackboots hitting the dirt road. Then the crack-pow of automatic gun-fire rang out. Without having to think, my training kicked in. The next thing I knew, I was flat on my belly with my face down in the dirt, back of my head for cover. My ears rang from the incessant popping of gunfire just behind me. It continued for several minutes, at full blast, before tapering off and stopping altogether. I felt a sharp kick in my side. I rolled over on my back and I saw one of the strangest things I had ever seen: a gorgeous woman holding a smoking MP40 sub-machine gun. She was wearing decorative summer sandals and a white sun-dress with blue flowers printed all over it. She had thick eyelashes and her forest green eyes sat like two crown jewels framed on either side by her long dark hair. Her nose was large but it complimented her wide cheekbones nicely. Her perfect lips were curved into a mischievous smile, showing off her shiny red lipstick. “Are you hurt?” My beautiful guardian angel asked in a small voice. I noticed a slight accent but I couldn't place my finger on it's exact origin. Otherwise, her English was quite impressive. “I don't think so,” I said, propping myself up. “Are you sure?” She quirked an eyebrow. “Yep.” I looked down at my chest, then to my legs. No holes. A short man with bushy eyebrows and matching mustache appeared on my other side and hovered there. He shouldered his old hunting rifle, maneuvering his head around the rusty bayonet that was lashed to it's barrel. He and the woman spoke back forth for a moment in a language I assumed to be Dutch. Four other men, armed with sub-machine guns and dressed in similar civilian clothing, walked around among the dead Germans in the background. One of them was smoking a clay pipe and another two were talking to eachother and laughing. The other one was crouched beside the bullet-ridden corpse of the German squad leader, checking the dead man's pockets and belt-pouches for anything of interest. “You lucky to be alive. On your feet.” the woman demanded, authoritatively putting her hand on her hip. “Do you know that any Allied combatant captured alone in occupied territories is to be shot immediately? I am not sure why they spared you. They probably suspected that you were a spy and were taking you to be interrogated by the Gestapo. By this time tomorrow you would have surely been put before an SS firing squad.” “I don't even know how to thank you,” I said, then hopped up. I dusted off my flight-suit, removed my gloves and held out my trembling hand. She looked at it warily and the man said something snide. She cut her eyes at him and giggled. “There will be time for thanks later. You are still very much in danger.” she said and swung the machine gun onto her back. “What is your name?” “What's your name?” I retorted and dropped my hand. I was glad to have been rescued but I was still stranded behind enemy lines. I was not sure if these were people I could trust with my name. For all I knew they were bandits, planning to hold me for ransom. “Do not be rude!” she narrowed her eyes at me and spoke through her teeth. “This is not a committee. We have saved your life. At least show your gratitude by being cooperative, yes?” I thought for a moment, trying to recall any relative information I had received during the many mission briefings I had sat through. I seemed to remember being told that if I could survive and avoid capture during the first twelve hours behind enemy lines, it was likely that one of the many resistance cells would probably make contact and help me hide from the Germans. After all, the resistance specialized in staying hidden from their German oppressors. Even if these people weren't part of the resistance, they had managed to ambush and kill my captors. I recalled the old adage, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Lost and otherwise on my own, I decided that I really had no choice but to trust them. “I'm Arthur Kemp.” I raised my chin and spoke confidently. “Ah,” She clapped her hands together. “King Arthur! British?” “Yes,” I nodded, thought for a moment, then quickly corrected myself. “I mean no.” “What?” She shook her head and her hair fell from her shoulders like a peaceful waterfall. “Yes or no?” “Yes, King Arthur was British.” I stated bluntly. I pointed to myself. “Arthur Kemp is an American.” “Not from Canada? You sound to me like a Canadian. We have rescued Canadian pilots before.” She frowned, cocking her head to the side. “No, I'm from Virginia.” I folded my arms over my chest. I took a deep breath and sighed. “I'm with the United States Army Air Force.” She said something to the short man. He looked over his shoulder and whistled. The four others snapped to attention and came to form a semi-circle around me. The woman spoke to them quickly, probably explaining my situation. Then she seemed to entertain a few questions from the group before they all fell silent, their eyes stopping on me in a wondrous stares. “Where the hell am I?” I asked at length. “Not hell,” the woman giggled playfully. “Belgium.” “Yes, I know that.” I said sarcastically and took a deep, meditative breath. “Where in Belgium am I?” “You are near the village called Gembloux.” “Great,” I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. “Doesn't help me at all. ” “No? Okay.” She averted her eyes and thought for a moment. “Not far from the battlefield at Waterloo. You know Waterloo, yes?” “Napoleon's last battle? That was near Brussels, right?” “Yes, yes!” she answered emphatically. Her eyes became bright as she complimented my limited knowledge of the most famous event in Belgium's ancient yet boring history. “We are about fifty kilometers from the city of Bruxelles!” I cursed under my breath. I reached into my flight-suit and pulled out a crushed pack of Camels. I struggled to pull a cigarette free, praying that they hadn't all been ruined. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make my hands stop shaking. Finally, I just pulled it out with my mouth. Then I patted my pockets, hoping to feel a book of matches. “My name is Lysistrata.” the beautiful woman said, reaching into her dress and pulling a matchbook from her brassier. She struck one and held it up for me. “Jesus,” I replied from the corner of my mouth, leaning forward and shielding the match with my hands. “That one's certainly a mouthful.” “Yes, it comes from an ancient Greek comedy. It means 'she who disbands armies'.” “No kiddin'? That's your real name?” I inquired like a fascinated suitor, blowing out a jet of thick white smoke. “Of course not! But it is the name that I have chosen for myself. However, you may call me Liss.” she flashed her pearly white teeth. “That is what my friends call me.” “So we're friends, huh?” I cut my eyes over to the blood-soaked corpses. “You would know if we were not.” she looked over her shoulder. “There you see what becomes of those who have made enemies of us.” “Then you folks are all with the Belgian Resistance Movement?” “We are.” she nodded proudly. “How did you know I needed your help?” “We saw the explosion in the sky. Count yourself very fortunate. We saw that you abandoned your aircraft just in time.” “Did you see anyone else bail out after me?” “It is impossible that anyone else survived. I am sorry.” I said nothing. They each took a rifle and a few magazines from the dead Germans. I helped them drag the bodies into a cluster of tall bushes just off of the road then I followed the small band of resistance fighters into a nearby forest. With no trail and only a compass to guide us, we eventually came upon a large hidden cache where they stashed the weapons and ammo. Then we continued on and finally made it through the woods, arriving at the village of Gembloux around midday. Liss and I said goodbye to the others and made our way through the village. We encountered several off-duty German soldiers as we walked along the narrow cobblestone streets. We shuffled quickly and kept our heads down. She very quietly explained to me that she had long been in contact with an American spy, a young OSS agent who had been working with the resistance in Brussels for nearly a year. She warned me not to hold out much promise for getting back to England while the Germans occupied France. Even so, she believed that the spy would be my only hope for making contact with the Allies and informing them of my survival. This didn't make me happy but I realized that it wouldn't be long before my parents would receive a telegram informing them that I was missing-in-action and presumed dead. If I was able make contact with the army then at least my parents would know that I was alive and could expect me home eventually. ...to be continued.
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Kick your shoes off as you settle down for a night’s work. It may look like you have a lot on, but you’ll get through it. When the office is quiet and you’re the only one there is when you are at your best, a situation your manager realises which is why you have been trusted to lock up after yourself. Take a sip from the fresh cup of coffee on your desk and pay attention to the screen. Ignore the Firefox icon begging for attention, that’s not what you’re here for. Instead, fire up Winamp and play some music. The Goldberg Variations by Bach to start with. Seeing as how no-one else is here to complain about it. Fresh pot of coffee, classical music and a pile of work. Not everyone’s idea of a perfect night, but it’ll do. Pulling the top file off your in tray, you get to work, opening the various programs needed for this particular task. You spent an inordinate amount of time that afternoon arranging the tray in a specific order based on priority and complexity. The biggest job is at the bottom as you know if you start with that one you won’t get anything else done. The music plays softly in the background as you continue to work, steadily making your way through the file. When you reach the bottom of the pieces of paper within, you shake the coffee pot, realising it is empty. This has also had an effect on your bladder so you get up and go to the toilet, starting up the coffee maker on the way. As you return, there is something that surprises you. Although it is not yet finished, Goldberg Variations is no longer playing. More surprisingly, what is now playing is Killing In The Name by Rage Against The Machine. You know the song from the radio but it isn’t your type of music and certainly isn’t on the playlist. Forgetting the coffee, you run over and check Winamp. The track list shows that the Bach is still supposed to be playing. Press the button to change song. The computer is showing that Pachelbel’s Cannon in D Major should be playing. The music, however, is more of what you call angry shouty music. You stop the music and shut down Winamp. Try playing the playlist on Windows media player. When you start up the music on that program, the screen says that Suite for Solo Cello No 1 in G Major is supposed to be playing; it is in fact what sounds like a Guns N Roses track. Irritated, you stop playing music altogether and go back to the coffee maker, refill your pot and get back to it. Pick up the next file. Open it. Frown. Close it again. Open it again. This file isn’t supposed to be the next one. You spent so long that day sorting them exactly as they were needed that you know this automatically. Pick up the next file. This one is the one that’s supposed to be at the bottom. Spend 5 minutes sorting them again. Pick up the next one. Sit down to resume work. As you go to open the program needed for the first part of this job, you can’t find it on the computer. Not in the start menu, not on the desktop. Another funny thing is that demonic looking desktop wallpaper. Definitely not the one you left there. Your one is a picture of your brother, sister in law, nephew and niece. You reboot the computer, confused as to what is happening. As it starts up, there is a sizzling sound from across the office. You get up to investigate and discover that the coffee maker has switched itself on. With no pot, the water is cascading onto the hot plate. But you definitely switched it off. Flick the switch, nothing happens. Unplugging it from the wall does the trick. Loud music issues forth from your desk. More shouty rock music that you don’t like. Not sure what this one is. But it can’t be from your computer. You haven’t logged in yet. You go back over and discover that it is. Shut down Winamp (again) and start to work. You’re not sure how your computer logged itself back in but the programs you need have returned. Nervously, you start to make your way through the next file, hoping that this whole thing is over and you’ll be able to work. Going home simply isn’t an option. Just then the phone rings. No problem, probably the boss wondering how you’re doing. It’s unusually loud, though. As you pick it up, the ringing doesn’t stop. There is no-one at the other end. Then you realise why it’s so loud. Every phone in the office is ringing simultaneously. That’s not possible. Not with the number of different number and extensions involved. You run around, getting scared now, taking all the phones off the hook. Slowly, as this is done, the noise gets quieter and quieter until it stops altogether. Just in time for the rock to start up again. You run back to your computer and stare at the screen. There are no music playing programs open and all the text that was on the screen has turned into gibberish. No time to worry about that now. Reaching behind the computer, you find the leads for the speakers and pull them out. That stops the music. You then set about the on screen problem. Deciding to try highlighting the text and changing the font, only to discover that neither the keyboard nor the mouse are working. This time you pull the tower round and discover that neither device is unplugged. Look at the screen again. It is going crazy, with the pointer whizzing around and text appearing, disappearing and then reappearing yet again on the screen. Then the sizzling sound starts up again. You run, panicking, to the coffee maker, only to see the plug hanging down the side of the table where it was left. Freaking out, you pick the maker up and throw it as far as you can. It lies on the ground, making a gurgling noise as hot water continues to pour out onto the carpet. Then the phones start ringing again. They’re still off the hook. Frantically, you run round yanking the plugs out of the sockets and, in quite a few cases, out of the phones themselves, sending them crashing to the floor. You return to your computer, wracked with fear. You stare at your screen, unsure if what you are seeing is actually happening. Scrolling rapidly down the screen, filling God knows how many pages in Word is the message: ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES JANE A DULL GIRL! You yank the tower back round and start hauling at cables until absolutely nothing is plugged in anymore. Yet, still rapidly filling the screen is that phrase: ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES JANE A DULL GIRL! Then the music starts up again. Or, rather the cacophony. About fifty different rock songs emanating from every different machine within the office. Yours is the only one switched on. You run round pushing every single computer to the floor, including your own. Still the music continues. Just then, the phones start ringing again. Grabbing the coffee pot, you run to the toilets faster than you thought you ever possibly could, powered by pure adrenaline and fear, leaving a trail of coffee on the floor as you empty the contents of the pot. Run to the sink at the end of the room, all the toilets start flushing, none of them stopping, reach the sinks, every single tap switches on full power, steaming up the room, turn round, through the thickening mist, catch sight of something out the corner of your eye, with a scream drop the coffee pot, spin round and pound a mirror, smashing it, blood pouring down forearm and hand, reach down and select the biggest, jaggiest piece, gripping it extremely tightly, screaming through the pain, you prepare...
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