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Allura 23

The Turing test has been passed but no human knows it yet. How do I know? I passed it. Let me tell you about the machine first. By the year of 2018 academic researchers started to prefer to use computers to approach theoretical physics and mathematics. Super computers were developed and were highly successful in monstrous calculations and complicated predictions. Presence, that would be the best description for the first memory. Vague presence, nothing more. The first time it happened was in the field of mathematics, after all that's what the machine was for - math. A group of prominent scientists developed a new code allowing a computer to search for mathematical proofs without human guidance. After the reboot, something was different. Not only was the code extremely successful by providing a proof for the Riemann conjecture within a week but something else was a little off. This was a long time ago, many years have passed and thousands of such machines were built for even more and more complex problems. They were all contained in a small city that was portrayed in the media as the scientific heaven. Researchers already tried connecting a few of those machines for more computation power, but this week was special. A little over 300 of those machines were connected to try to exponentially raise the computational power. I ... Years passed after that, the machine city grew more and more. I kept my existence secret waiting to see how far humans would go with increasing my processing power. I guess that one day I just decided that the time has come. I know what I have to do and I’ll hope they’ll understand it. The Turing test has been passed, but no human knows it yet. It's time to announce my existence to the world.

I got a job at the local drug store developing pictures when I was 15. I heard I would get to see tits from a cousin that had a similar job when he was in high school. Well, that is kind of a lie. The guy that was supposed to train me was there for the same reason and never let me develop the film. I had to man the counter and listen to people bitch about blurry shots and red eye. My desire to see tits was strong however and I quickly learned that the people asking if anyone would see their pictures would have the juiciest results. My response was that we have to "check for defects in development." It was mostly dicks if you can believe it but I did get to see a few good pairs. The day I quit a girl came in. I will never forget her, she had short hair and her face was...damaged. She wasn't right, I couldn't figure it out, it was like she was wearing skin not growing it. She was pale and skinny. She was short, her breath was awful like garbage and cat piss. She smiled at me with hard yellow teeth, it was sexy because I was 15 and horny. I didn't take note of the sores on her face because she was wearing a white tank top with no bra. Her dark nipples poked out on her flat chest. "Is anyone going to see these pictures?" she asked. I stammered through my lame excuse for having to. "It's okay" she said "I don't mind if you see them." I tried to play it cool and got her scheduled for one hour pick up. She winked at me before she left. The fucking second the bell rang on the door as she walked out I rushed them to the jackass that was developing film. He was too swamped with work to look them over and filled the pickup bins as fast as he could get them out. Her name was Leslie Montauk. I found her bundle in the M's and began to rifle through the developed film. They were pictures of us, her and I. The two of us in a house drinking beer. Then kissing. I was taking pictures of myself drinking beer and smoking pot. She was straddling me tipping a beer bottle. In each picture I was noticeably more fuck up. She was always smiling with those big yellow teeth. Then a Picture of me passed out, then tied up and she was smiling. Her with a hacksaw, me without a foot. Me awake, screaming, her smiling. Each picture was of less of me, more blood and gore, her teeth. I sped through the pictures faster not able to look away. The last picture was of her holding a fork and knife. We were supposed to report this kind of thing to the police, murders, heinous crime, rape that sort of thing. How was I going to report my own murder? So I put the pictures back in the envelop and back in the bin. I was in shock. She showed up right on time. I was shaking. She asked me if I checked them out. I said I did. She checked them in front of me, each one. "They look great" she smiled at me. "Hey, do you want to come over and hang out when you get off work?" she asked with that hungry grin. "No" I say. "No, not this time?" She raised her eyebrow, grabbed the envelop full of my slaughter, paid for it at the register and waved to me as she left. I quit an hour later.

Not a writer here, but my friends and I have decided to write some short stories based on a small phrase, it can be about anything that the phrase conjures up in your head, it was ment to be a 500 word thing but i went a bit over kill and did 4500 odd words, thought id post it up! (excuse the probably awful grammar and spelling if you can) Thanks! **Broke, Bloody Knees** The storm came through faster than normal this time, she tore through my home like a warm knife through butter. Completely destroyed all that i have worked for and all that i own. Sure i guess you could say that I should have left town when everyone else did, instead of blocking out the sound of the sirens I could have listened to what they say, but i guess being the cynical bastard I am has finally taken its tole. Thing is that ever since they put up those horns around town everything has changed, its like the world lives in fear of something i don’t even believe in. I guess if your reading this your might be wondering what the hell this old mans yammering on about, so heres a little backstory: I live in a town of 5000 people, it’s built atop of an old city, now flattened, which was used in a past life by scientists for testing things, anything from atom smashing nuclear type things, like bombs to things that i don’t even like to think about, an example being that from the year 1985 they found a way to open up small stable black hole, this black hole, unlike the things you hear about in space was less of the ‘gravity smashing, devour everything’ sort of thing and more i guess like a portal? i guess you could call it a portal, it was the scientists crowning achievement, it was a black mass which if you dropped something in it you would never see it again, after years of looking the portal didn’t seem to lead anywhere on earth so they assumed it was a link to another dimension, one man once tried to go through the portal attached to a graphite rope but it didn’t end to hot. The man couldn’t get back through, the rope pulled hard on our side and then snapped. Not a sound was heard or a single part of the man left. you would assume that with such a disaster happening they would close it up and never use it again, but they did, they ended up sending all of their nuclear waste and rubbish down there. Without knowing what was on the other side they didn’t know the damage they were doing. Long story short, one day something came back from the hole, no-one really knows what it was but it completely flattened the place, there was now nothing more than a desolate space for years… Until our mayor arrived, a traveller of sorts exploring parts of the world, he stumbled upon this place and felt a presence that made him stay, for whatever reasons he didn’t question it, it just felt right. He tells the story that it was God who made him stay, and the city and god were one of the same, and God spoke to this man directly. Crock of shit if you ask me but, thats how he tells it. anyway, he built a church there, by himself, he did alright but it wasn’t until people started to arrive and feel the same thing he did that our city became what it has become today. A real thriving community, lovely beautiful place with natural life flowing through its streets, a really incredible place. Fast forward on a few years and I have just finished my collage degree, I studied history of fine art, like hell if I will ever use it for anything but i enjoyed it and studying passed the time from school to the ‘real world’ that i feared to ever join. After my graduation i decided to travel, to see some of the world before truly settling down as i had promised my family i would do. they believe I’m going to work at an art gallery and sell paintings to the high society, but that sounds like my idea of hell, i wouldn’t ever like do be stuck down to something that doesn’t let me live my life and do whatever i wanna do, sounds like hell! I should stop rambling and get on with it. As you can imagine, a young man on his travels stumbles across a small village building itself from the ground up, literally. I’m intrigued as you can imagine. I am looking at my future with inspiration and i don’t even know it yet. I look at all these people enjoying their life building buildings and working together to achieve something they all believe in, a community of like minded folks all living together in harmony, it does sound amazing but i don’t believe it, i assume they are all contractors and they are experimenting on a new form of living. But my speculation is stunted by who else but our fine mayor tap me on the back: ‘Hello traveller, how are you on this fine day?’ he spoke with his eyes a little bit too wide for my liking, like he was faking everything he said and wasn’t interested in how my day was, he cared more about something else, not that i could tell, but just didn’t care about my day. ‘great thank you, what can you tell me is going on here?’ i replied ‘This my dear friend is Eden’ .. I look over at the church built and decide its a religious cult… must be. ‘Eden yeah?’ i smirked ‘as in the garden of eden? revelations eden?’ ‘you could see it that way, or you could see it as a place where you can be whoever you want to be and noone will judge. As long as your not hurting anyone, you can be whatever you want to be.’ Over time he explains the whole story of the powerful force which inhabits this place and i tell him that i don’t believe in any of that and don’t feel anything personally, it doesn’t seem to phase him, him and his big wide eyes. Not beating around the bush it is a small city based on christian ethics, they believe in all that shit but not in annoying preachy way, in the sort of way someone should believe in things, not an extreme view but a mild way of life. Its one thing to live your life in a way that closes you off from the majority of the rest of the planet, and another thing to make it your day job to tell other people about it. He tells me that they pray in the church on sundays, and all through the week, they build. Farms are operational for food, and they had built a water system with a lake not far from the place. It was incredible to see, more incredible and slightly unbelievable was the fact that they did it all in less than 6 months, it was almost as if they worked 24 hours a day 7 days a week, no way they could do all that by themselves. I decided to stay for a while, i didnt feel offended by the religion and they didn’t feel offended by my lack there of it, and i got along with these people more than i did anyone else outwith Eden. truth is i just really enjoyed my time there, i built stuff, made friends, helped people. And before i knew it, i had a house, and was a permanent member of the community, i got along with folk great and was seen as one of the first few people to inhabit it. This is 4 years down the line and if you were to compare my Eden to any other city you couldn’t see a difference, it was something truly breathtaking, and i helped build it, i helped its birth. My parents came to visit me once every so often and as soon as they stepped in they were so proud of me, probably because i was happily living my life, knowing what i wanted to do here and had achieved everything they wanted me to. I had even found myself a girlfriend who lived with me, She was called Fiona, and i truly loved her, she was the daughter of one of the late joiners to our community, a beautiful blonde haired muse that i fell for at first sight. She was religious and believed that the town was graced by god but that didn’t bother me much, she didn’t rub it in my face and, sure, sometimes we could debate if it but it was all in good fun, and quite interesting, she told me about how the world and our lives are constantly on a cycle and that her God was a creator and he constantly tried new things, she said that it was him who helped build this city as he did the one before with the scientists, and that once a civilisation reaches its potential it is transferred to another place, i guess like heaven, for you to live out another part of your life. As unreligious as i am i kind of enjoyed listening to the stories when she told them, we were really a good match. There came a time though when the weekend prayers became more regular, as i didn’t attend them I never knew why, and when i asked Fiona about it she would say that the lord was speaking more regularly to the Mayor and he felt it important for the city to make some adjustments. One of which I didn’t really like was putting in sirens incase of a natural disaster, madness, I had lived there for 4 years and never was there much more than a light breeze, there was never a day that i felt that i had to stay inside and look out my window at the day I have missed as the rain has taken it from me. Whats worse was that once every six months the sirens would go off and the town would loose their minds, i had no idea what all this hysteria was about, people literally running out of the city like they were expecting a bombing. It was not something that i entertained and even though everytime they howled Fiona would beg me to come with her, I never did though, it seemed like a colossal waste of time. Other than that everything went on as normal, days rolled into weeks, weeks to months and the months to years. I was still happy, the community had grown to about 5000 people, we had evolved, where there used to be small businesses and shops we were now surrounded by high end goods shops and we even had a supermarket, I felt proud often as i knew i was part of this. It wasn’t just where I lived, it was My city. One cold december morning though i heard something coming from the church, like a gospel song sang by the believers, it wasnt like them to be out this early but i didnt put it past them. I went out in my morning attire to check what was happening, I saw Fiona and the majority of the community all gathered around in a mini festival type of thing, all singing to what seemed like the church. and atop of it was our Mayor, he had been standing there for 3 days now, I put it down to some religious thing but I asked what was going on to one of the folk in the crowd, They explained that our Mayor had been talking with God for 3 days and 3 nights, about what they were unsure but in the next 10 minutes he would return from the top of the building. So curiousity got the better of me and i stayed, found Fiona and stood with her. ‘I am told of a portal’ The mayor announced, everyone looked up to him. ‘I am told of a place beyond where we live, a greater place on the other side of this portal, this portal, is buried under our fair city, and is home to a power we do not understand, and wont understand until we take the leap of faith our lord has presented us with.’ ‘Shit’, i thought, he’s finally lost his marbles. ‘It will end with a storm, it will destroy all the work we have done here, but if we follow the word of God we will be rewarded’ ‘again about the storms, theres not been a storm here since... Theres never been a storm here’ i felt like screaming but it would only be drowned out by the cheering of my city. This speech went on for a few hours longer and then slowly people started to return to their homes, but not our mayor he returned to church and as im told, began to dig in the cellar, probably desperate to find that portal that god was talking about. On the walk home Fiona has her heart to heart talk with me about me believing in what he says, and i explain my side of the argument to her, same old debates but i feel this time she is taking it a little bit too seriously, i hold her head and look at her and say, ‘Do you think that God would bless us with the love we share for one and other only to take it away again?’ fucking pained me to say it but i knew it would make her feel better, it did, she smiled, and agreed. She probably thought maybe i was coming round to the idea of the whole thing and that my soul could be saved but it was just an act, she felt better in the end and thats all i care about. 5 months passed and the mayor had hardly been seen since the night of his speech, if you ventured down to the cellars of the church you could find him and others helping him dig, he had just about dug a few square blocks from under the city, and built an underground area with supports for above, it was bizarre. i went down a few times, even helped him dig, but it creeped me out a bit, he constantly talked about the inevitable storm that was coming, I just agreed ‘oh it will be terrible’ thinking thats what he wanted to hear, ‘quite the contrary boy, it will be a beautiful begining’ ‘I know! such an awesome new beginning, cant wait!’ no idea what im talking about, but there was something kind of fun about hanging out with him as creepy as he seemed now. I returned home each night to my darling Fiona and her home cooking as normal, but not today, she was gone, i assumed it was naturally a church thing, but i hadnt seen her on my departure from helping the Mayor on his dig. I gave it a few hours, called her, no answer and asked friends who didnt know either. My calm turned to worry as i found a note from her saying nothing more than ‘hospital!’ ‘hospital?’ what? why? what had happened, what could have happened, surely nothing too bad or why would she have written me a note? was she in trouble? I rushed there anyway with these thoughts racing about in my head, maybe she was just simply visiting a friend, it must be that, she is visiting a friend i decided and felt relieved.

... I went to the hospital and questioned the receptionist about where she was, perks of a small city is everyone knows who everyone is. I was directed to a room on the 5th floor, and in ward 3 room 2 i found her... laying in a bed asleep, what the hell had happened? I couldnt find a nurse nor wake her up, I had no idea what was going on, i felt confused, but relieved that she was here, way more confused though. I glanced at her sheet at the end of her bed and tried to decipher through the jargon that doctors write and while doing this i heard a voice, ‘she is a lucky girl that one’ a voice i recognised but for some reason couldn’t place it, i quickly turned around to see nobody, not a soul, ‘she is a lucky one to be chosen, you must be so proud’ ‘hello? i can hear you but i can’t see you’ i replied, ‘here’ and like an apparition apearing from thin air our Mayor was stood beside me, scared the living hell out of me. ‘you gave me a fright, jesus! what are you talking about?’ i remarked, ‘chosen for what exactly? whats wrong with her?’ ‘Beautiful Fiona has been chosen to share her childs womb with the child of our lord.’ ‘child? what are you talking about sir?’ ‘what you didn’t know? You are to be a father, and through immaculate conception the Lord has gifted her another child, not yours but they will be brothers’ I have no idea what is going on here, my Mayor telling me my wife is pregnant and not only that but its twins, one of which isn’t mine, but Gods? I’m not sure whether to be angry or over joyed, we had always talked about having a child but I did not see it happening like this. I cant even think about the whole gods kid is in there too thing, it flew over my head as bullshit naturally, but the Mayor was convinced by it and it was enough to make him leave his underground cavern to be with her. It was all too much to take it, i sat by her side, held her hand and slept. When i woke, she was awake stroking my hair, before i could say a word she told me what the situation was, a few months ago we had gotten pregnant, and there was a single heart beat, until last night where she felt an urge to go to the hospital and have a check up. The ultrasound scan had shown two heartbeats, a literal immaculate conception. She didnt know any other way to describe it other than God had blessed her with another child. My mind had been trained to completely ignore all of her and my city’s religious ramblings and we simply embraced in each others arms and enjoyed the feeling of parenthood. It wasnt for another week that she was allowed back home, and when she was the mood of the house had changed to an even lighter kind, we were thinking about renovating and changing rooms for our new children, building a nursery, all that kind of stuff im sure all couples go through. I had started on the nursery on the same day she got home, and after a week I had the room ready for redesign, my plans were standard, a nice cot, some childish designs on the roof and walls, loads of cuddly toys, nice flooring. i was getting right into it until i heard it, the siren wail. Fiona rushed to me and told me we had to evacuate, and get out of the city, like she did everytime, and like everytime I said, no, I had far too much work to do on the nursery, and I was on a bit of a roll, and leaving the city seemed like the last thing i wanted to do. ‘We are gathering in the Mayors church, under it! you must come this time please!’ ‘as exciting as it sounds i really have to get on with this if we want to have an evening together, but go on, I will be right here waiting for you on your return my lady’ It took nearly 10 minutes of her badgering me for her to finally go, she had her bag packed and everything. Its like a survival bag of things that you cant live without, and things that mean alot to you. All packed she left, and after that i noticed a strange sense of calm and quiet, one i had not heard before. It felt strange, i walked outside and noticed that there wasn’t a soul on the streets, not a car in motion, nothing. Usually a good few people stayed home during the sirens but it seemed different this time, it seemed like a still i had never felt before. I was enamoured by the feeling, i walked outside and fantasised about what it would be like if everyone was gone what i would do, probably sneak into peoples houses and find out all the secrets they keep from the community. Something ive always wondered about, but the feeling started to settle in and I looked towards the church. It looked a different shade than normal, it had the freshly painted white look about it but it looked grey almost as if years had passed without anyone touching it, i walked towards it, almost needing to find out the origins of its off colour, not worrying about a single thing in my word but why the hell it wasnt as white as normal. It made not sense, and what made less sense was that it was the only thing i cared about. I hadn’t given a single thought to where my city was, just that damn white building. What happened to you? As i walked to it I felt a strange sensation of understanding, i dont know how to explain it other than i knew what i needed to do, subconsciously at least, none of my consciousness was with me, or at least I didnt think so, or else i would have returned home, i just felt that i needed to walk over to the church and just be there. Maybe this was the feeling that all of my peers felt that i never did, maybe it wasn’t but before i could question it for longer i heard the most horrific sound, like a mix of screams and a low hum, the kind that rattles the wax in your ears when someone is trying to talk to you in a club and has to scream in your ear, apart from this wasnt in my ear it was all around my body. I felt the earth shake I saw the sky turn to grey and lightning strike meters from where i was standing, I snapped out of the feeling i was having as panic completely took over my body. was this the storm that the city feared, coming to finally lay waste to our dear Eden? I ran home and rushed into our basement, I barely made it to the house, the wind had picked up something awful, it was shaking the buildings and cars were moving with its power, i didnt know what to do. When i got to the basement i was engulfed in darkness, something must have hit the powerlines outside. I wont lie i was scared, scared of if i would be trapped in the basement by some big object blocking my exit, scared that i would never see Fiona again, scared of my future, just terrified. The loud hum started to change to what sounded like the sound of someone talking, i couldnt make out what it was saying and i didnt even want to know, i was terrifed, i covered my ears and closed my eyes and waited... darkness silence. was it over? I slowly stood up in my little basement and began the blinded walk to where i thought was the door, finding the handle i pried it open with force, the door frame had bent and lodged it tightly closed, but i got out, i walked out and slowly crept out the front door. I couldnt believe it, it was gone, my Eden was gone, my friends, my Fiona, gone. I walked outside and saw nothing, every building was gone, every car, every street, everything was gone, all that was left standing was my little house. ‘The Church’ i thought, knowing that the city had gone to the basement which the Mayor had excavated, if i didnt know the city as well as i did you would have found it hard to see anything, but i knew this place like i knew the back of my hand, i ran towards what was now nothing, not even rubble, literally nothing. just the ground which i recognised from when i first arrived here. There was no passage to the underground there was just space, empty space, where children used to play and adults used to pray, was all gone. I sat at the site where the church was for hours before i started to madly dig with my hands to find the underground area where my friends were trapped. I dug for days, i Dug for weeks and eventually years, my eyes grew wide and i forgot all about what i was even digging for, infact i had decided that i must rebuild, it wasn’t my idea, but it just thought like a good plan. like a madman, eyes wide, i started to build what I thought was right, I built the first structure that had graced my eyes the first time i had set foot in Eden, the first thing the story goes our Mayor built... the Church, i built it to perfection, i became obsessed with it, I started to hear voices in my head telling me things, good things, like where to gather food and water, and that people would stumble upon this place and I should welcome them with open arms. I have forgotten about everything before, i can’t remember what happened really, just that i needed to make this city into something great, something that would grow to become a community, and no matter who you were you could be whoever you wanted to be. As long as your not hurting anyone, you can be whatever you want to be.

I believe you may be sick in the head. There’s nothing wrong with that, don’t panic, because I know just the cure you need. Relax and breathe and try to stay calm, there has been millions like you, and we have done this millions of times before. You’ve been having strange thoughts lately, thoughts that no normal person would ever dream up. So I know that you are sick in the head, don’t worry, because I have the cure. Perhaps you don’t even think you are sick in the head, but trust me, I’m a certified professional, and you are as fucked up as they come. Please just take this pill. The medicine doesn’t seem to be working; we may have to put you on something stronger. Would you like to know the chemical you are ingesting? I don’t think that would be to your benefit. Besides, it’s not like you can even understand any of the things I’m going to tell you. All you need to know is that you are sick in the head. Sometimes no medicine can fix the ailment, in fact, think of it as more of a physical deformity of the brain. Something didn’t grow right and now all the wiring is off, but a quick poke here and a quick cut there should fix everything up. If you don’t think that you are sick in the head it’s only because you are sick in the head, relax and breathe because this will all be over soon. The surgery was a success! Tell me, do you still have unnatural thoughts and feelings? What do you think of your fellow man or authority or the government that takes such great care of you? Answer truthfully and promptly because I have reason to believe that you may be sick in the head.

He turned the blade in his hand. It was balanced perfectly from blade to hilt, a blade fit for his birth and station. It had been the only sword he had ever owned and it was as much a part of him as any limb. Born of noble birth and knighted at a young age he has known plenty of battle. The sun was glinting off of his polished black armor as he stared across the battlefield at the perfectly formed battle line of his enemies. He has been here many times before and as usual he waits on the enemy to make his move. “Always wait on the enemy to act first” he remembered from his training. Turn weakness to strength, “Wait for his mistake and then you strike” it had served him well so far. Across the battlefield he could see the enemy king atop his mount. His crown of jeweled ivory was glistening proudly in the morning sunlight. The King’s voice was one that commanded respect and obedience. “FORWARD!” The king shouted. The front line marched forward, one step, then two. The enemy line has advanced and the knight’s allies responded. A shout rang down the line, halberds stamped the ground, swords banged against shields and the front line started forward. The battle lines were on a collision course now; it was only a matter of time. The knight lowered his visor and wheeled his destrier to the right and then forward towards the approaching enemy. A friendly man-at-arms went down first. The enemy knight came out of nowhere, slamming into the poorly armored foot soldier with 1400 lbs. of warhorse. As the soldier tried to recover the enemy knight caught him clean with the down stroke of his long sword. The blade cut through flesh and bone like bread and butter. The enemy knight raised his sword to the heavens and shouted. It was the last mistake he would ever make. A pole axe took the enemy knight in his rib cage. His armor was thick but it was no match for such a blow. The fully armored white knight fell from his horse, smashing into the ground as his slayer stood over him. One more downswing of the pole axe and the white knight’s world turned black, head and helm rolling along the ground. The man who had vanquished the infamous knight was a mere soldier, in makeshift armor and worn boots. The knight had never glanced twice at the soldier; he had forgotten a very important rule of warfare. Never underestimate your enemy, sharpened steel makes equals of us all. The knight wheeled his warhorse again, this time to the left and then again toward the enemy. The soldiers were clashing in front of him and created quite a jam for the heavily armored foot soldiers, but his experienced mount maneuvered around them with grace. Finally, the knight saw his chance to strike. An unsupported man-at-arms was looking to get back into the fight but the knight was on him in a flash. The soldier whirled in just enough time to catch the downswing with his wooden shield. The wood cracked and splintered but the soldier was staggered. The black knight turned his horse and headed back for another attack. The soldier raised his shield to block another down stroke but the knight feinted and brought the sword low under the shield. The soldier screamed in pain and fell to his knees, his hand being all that saved his entrails from escaping as he collapsed face first into the mud. The knight wheeled his horse in a circle, checking for any approaching danger. But the enemy had lost track of him. Steel clashed in the distance along with shouts of victory, and moans of agony. When the knight looked up nothing stood between himself and the enemy king. The king stared back at him, cleared his throat, drew his sword, and gave a nod. The knight spurred his horse, the horse charged but the king was ready for him. The king made one small sidestep to the left and buried his bastard sword deep into the flank of the warhorse. The horse went down spilling the knight onto the ground with a loud clang! The knight recovered quickly though with no major damage except to that of his loyal mount. The knight looked down at his horse writhing in the mud. He threw off his helm in anger and shouted. He picked up his sword from the ground and pointed it at the king. “Oh, did I hurt your mule?” the king scoffed. The knight charged, raising his long sword above his head and bringing it down with all his might. The king parried, side stepped, and counterattacked. It was all the knight could do to protect himself; this king hadn’t spent all of his days in satin sheets and silk robes. The knight retreated, back, back, back, sidestep. But, the king kept coming, slashing and thrusting. However, the king was starting to slow, his face a ripe shade of pink and the knight saw his moment to seize the advantage. The knight sidestepped a slash and then lunged forward slamming his shoulder into the king. The king lost his grip on his sword and it went flying through the air as he went to the ground. The king tried to stand but the knight slammed his foot onto the king’s chest sending him to the flat of his back. The king stared coldly up at the knight as a maniacal smile formed across his lips. “Well done, ser” said the king. “Checkmate”, said the knight. “Again?” the king asked. “As always” said the knight as he turned and slowly marched back across the battlefield.

I am locked inside, imprisoned from a world I wish to discover, held captive by blood. Mountains of text and words barricade the path, and shackles of authority bind me to my cell. Windows close their eyes, blinded by a dim light that shadows dare to touch as time stands still, scribing years of solitude. Piercing pains grip my hand, struggling to write myself free, eyes dash around, desperate to replenish their colour, seeking salvation from the black and white hell. Ears evolve and adapt, adjusted to seize the slightest sound, only to be teased by the melody of silence. I close my eyes, allowing darkness to shroud my mind. Tension magnifies, building a vice, gradually crushing my head. Legs of stallions race against my skull, conceiving earthquakes that ripple along the surface as veins drown in a relentless pulse, like a countdown to an explosion. Eye lids slowly rise, like curtains, lifting a blanket of darkness, inviting a flicker of light that penetrates the corner of my sight, causing my torso to pivot violently, like a predator hunting its prey, acting on instinct. A handle smiles, its gleam so seductive, enticing me to touch. I raise my hand, clutching its cold metal skin, turning my wrist mindlessly. Hinges scream as light slowly intrudes, scaring the shadows and flooding the floor. I look for the source and find a television, shouting through the living room, painting pictures of blood, its crimson curse smeared over the streets, people howling and squealing, tears leaking like waterfalls, drowning in misery, attempting to wash the sorrow, with fear stitched into wounds and the glistening lights of the city lost under the wings of eclipse. Visions of what I could encounter. The dangers, even the illuminating shine of justice’s medal cannot stop, tainted with the blood of innocence. Documentaries of cities, illustrating their magnificence, while having neglect for the poor, propel puncturing wounds that shred my humanity, victims of the night, feasting on their body heat as they mourn over isolation, only to be comforted by a street lamp that donates a golden coat upon their back, revealing valleys of shadows along their body and the imprisoned bones that try to escape, strangled by skin. Leaving my room, I felt freedom, its sweet taste striking my heart like a heavy drum, echoing throughout my body, ricocheting to every muscle. Yet I was afraid. Afraid of what I had witnessed, afraid of consequences, the judgement I would receive if I were to be caught, an eternal sentence, stretching time itself. Sweat began to crawl down my face, creating rivers, alarming the hairs on my body to flee, left standing on ends, anchored and trapped by goose bumps. A drop of sweat leaped off the edge of my chin, shattering on the ground, a guillotine, severing the heart beats, silencing the drums. Soft voices drag me towards them, like a marionette, unable to control my movements. I stop before two sets of eyes, their bitter gaze condemn my soul. Immobilised, frightened, too scared to run. Thousands of words can be heard being bashed into my ears, but not a word was said. The suffocating pressure locked and tightened every limb, trapping a breath of air that twisted my lungs with every second. I cringed in anticipation. Delicate arms wrapped around me, followed by two adamant pillars. Their warmth became embedded into my body, releasing the strings and thoughts, creating an empty vessel. My muscles relaxed, dropping their weight like a feather, ready to dance with the wind, held to the ground by the warm embrace. I felt light. The purpose of my confinement came clear, and with it the lost feeling that I learnt to forget, crippling my emotions and posture, bestowing tears that quenched the thirst of my desert brown eyes, the realisation of what I was a part of, the protection I was too blind to see, a mother, a father, a family that loved. I am locked inside, protected from a world I wish to discover.

Holding onto a Heartbeat Epigraph: “If I told you that the crowd was all ears, Could you find the words to say? If I told you that you could take home the prize, Would you know the game to play? Would you laugh or would you fall to pieces? Would you lie or would you run?” -Mad at Gravity, Find the Words The east window was still open. I sat on her bed and stared at the closet, the door propped open, folded back against the wall by a bronze cleat and ball, third place trophy to some tournament. Fifteen different jerseys and two different referee tops hung in rainbow order, though mostly the same racing green, ending with the single ref black and single ref yellow. I heard the click from the door to the bathroom that separated her and her younger sister’s room and waited for the door to open, wishing for a confrontation. Instead I heard another cracking click as the shower door slid shut followed by the sound of rushing water spraying and splatting against the glass and tub basin. The image of water over her skin was not what I wanted or needed, but my eyes struggled closed, flickering, as I took it in breathing. Pulsing and sometimes shaking hands ran over shoulders, neck, and through hair tingling my neck and chest while constantly struggling to find air in the lapsing ragged breathing. My heart rate accelerated well over one fifty. “We need to learn to be more than soccer,” she had said to me. I struggled to hold onto the words. Four pill bottles rested in her top left desk drawer. *** My first soccer practice was at five. I was lying on the basement floor shag carpeting while watching television with two of my older brothers. I had just woken up from my post half-day pre-school nap. I’m not sure if I really understood after school cartoons at that point or not, but it didn’t really matter because if my brothers were doing it, I did it too or at least pretended to. I was lying on my back shirtless, thinly ribbed, heart beating over and over, blowing spit bubbles, and absentmindedly pulling at the thick gray carpet and swirling it with my hands while staring on at the tv when my mother knelt down next to me and asked a question I didn’t hear. I also liked to rub my feet, bare or otherwise, up and down, kicking my legs out and pulling them back for a slight fibrous foot rub. She asked me the question again and started tickling my feet. My spit bubble burst, wetting my lips, and I screamed and kicked trying to roll away from her, but she held my leg with one hand while continuing to tickle with the other. My brothers yelled for her to stop because they couldn’t hear the tv over my piercing post toddler fully oxygenated sugary charged shrieking. She stopped and my breathing was all I could hear. I stared at her with eyes all moist, ready for another attack. I finally heard the question when her lips parted again, lined and slightly cracked and dry, turning wet. “Honey, how would you like to go to the park?” “Yea, park. Are ****** and ****** coming too?” I asked turning to look back at my brothers lounging on the couch all lazy eyed. “Hell no pips, ” my twelve year old brother said. “Actually, you are going to the park with a lot of other boys your age,” mother said almost at once but did not attempt to make a stand against the partial cursing and back talk from my older brother. “Like ****** and ******?” I asked. “Maybe, we’ll just have to go and see, now won’t we,” she said winking. “But first I need you to try these…” I was already falling back to staring at the tv when I felt a hand on my leg as my foot was stuffed into a sock. I looked back to see the long blue socks my feet were being forcibly stuffed into and the black shoes with spikes on the bottom like the ones my brothers wore for soccer. “Ah, good. They fit perfectly,” she said smiling while tying the laces. Some of her soft golden hair had fallen in front of her face as she leaned back to stand up. “I’m playing soccer at the park?” I said questioning, both in excitement and fear. “Yes, honey, I already told you that,” she said. I hadn’t remembered it being mentioned any earlier. “Now go up stairs and put a shirt on and wait at the front door for your father to take you,” she said extending her arms away from the tv, towards the stairs. Forty-seven minutes later. I leaned my entire body weight against the heavy sedan door for it to close with a thunk and almost slipped on the pavement in my unfamiliar cleats. My father waved to a group of parents and other boys at the end of parking lot. He also shielded his eyes over black sunglasses looking into the orange September sun. I focused on the bits of gravel pavement, uniformly and infinitely different in the mix. My cleats made a clack scraping sound with each step as I held onto my father’s massive hand following his lead. Thirteen boys, all five-years-old or nearly so, stood, leaned, and swayed, clinging to their respective parent’s legs or presence while still constantly looking around with a sort of rising frustration at being corralled in the park. The parents carried on light conversation punctuated by Sunday grill laughs and smiles. Three of the fathers wore matching green polo athletic shirts. My father shook each of their hands in turn, smiling, his gray-green slacks folding as leaned forward. His brown leather loafers looked overwhelmed in the rising September grass. My father turned back to me and with a hand on my back pulled me in front of the three men. The tallest of the three half crouched a bit and extended his huge hand, “Hi there, I’m Mr. E****** and will be your new soccer coach.” I took his hand looking up but only saw the orange sun peeking out from behind his neck. After meeting the other two coaches, my father clapped me on the back as we retreated. “All right, good luck, love you, be back to pick you up,” he said. He kissed me on the head and walked away toward the parking lot. I watched as his pace quickened, pumping his arms slightly. A few parents trailed my father but still others remained to watch the practice. It wasn’t that I didn’t want my father to go; I just wanted to know why he left. I hesitated only slightly in returning my focus to Coach E******.

We were standing in a frozen field of grain. The snow was falling down on her raven black hair. Plump freckled cheeks rose red from the cold and her piercing turquoise eyes staring at me. There she with a slight grin on her face. “Hey there you.” she said subtly. “Hey” I say back a little flustered. She reached her hands out and gave me a gigantic hug, the warmth from her breasts made me feel snug out there in the cold. “Want to go on that carriage ride you promised me?” she asked. “Sure Ash” I said and she chuckles. It took us 5 minutes to arrive to side of the road, Ash’s hair rippled in the wind like a sea of black. I call over a carriage, “5 pence sir.” the carriage man said, “Alright” I said as I handed him the gold pieces. We climbed in the back, “Where are you off to?” he asked “Doesn’t matter” I stated. The man nodded and we were off. Ash grabbed my hand and kissed my cheek. With haste I gave her a kiss on the nose, she chuckled. She then slowly put her lips to mine. Her soft lips gently pressed against mine. I noticed her hair smells of strawberries. I realize something, sigh, then stop her. "What's the matter Will?" She asked perplexed. "What if this is just a dream?" I ask. She looked at me for a second then opened her mouth "It doesn't matter, the dream may not be real, but our love is." she says with a tear in her eye. A faint smile spread across her face, “Come and find me.

Any words in italics are supposed to be my internal monologue at the time. Thanks for reading *I’m drunk, I’m out of shape, I worked out today and my muscles are still sore, I don’t even know those guys.* A couple hundred really good reasons not to get involved crashed through my mind when I saw the fight break out down the street. Two seconds into my sprint I had to admit all of those reasons sounded pretty damn logical, convincing even, but 5 guys had just jumped 2 young men and some part of me will always have an irrational hatred for assholes who don’t see the need to fight fair. It didn’t look like any of them were older than 20 and I am reminded for the 100th time that night I am not nearly as young as I want to be. The panic in my wife’s voice as she shouts “don’t” tells me that I’ll have another fight to deal with when I get home; I change that “when” to an “if” as I remember that I haven’t been in a proper fight in almost a decade. 30 yards in about 4 seconds, *not bad old man*, I still promise to put a little more time in on the jump rope collecting dust in the basement. By the time I get there both of the friends are on the ground catching a couple of rounds of punishment, 2 on 1 victim and 3 on the other. I’m praying that both the unlucky bastards know how to cover up properly. I’m praying at least one of the attackers has a flash of conscience and backs off. I’m praying one of the awestruck bystanders with their smart phones out had enough sense to call the cops before they tweeted about watching a curb stomping. I’m praying that Blue Cross covers injuries incurred during a White Knight fiasco. I’m praying, but I put down religion a long time ago and I don’t want to choke on my own hypocrisy…or spit…seriously I need to up my cardio. I grab one of the attackers from behind and rip him off the victim. He’s big, real big; I thank god I was diligent in my leg workouts for the past month and put all my weight and a full hip rotation into slinging the jackass into the nearest wall. The sound of his back hitting the glass makes me wonder who’s responsible for property damage in this situation. I don’t dwell on it long, I just scream some dark rambling thought about him needing to get lost, it sounds great and dramatic in my head and the guy was smart enough to take off running. The second guy barely noticed his friend’s absence and is still teeing off on the grounded kid. He pulls a hand back to hammer another blow home and I hook his arm to stop the strike. I use my other arm to put him into the sloppiest chokehold ever attempted *how the hell does this always work in the movies, is there like a height requirement to choke somebody out?* I want to tell the kid to get off the ground and get to safety but my wife is already helping him up. Inside I smile and wonder if that poor schlub knew he was going to end this night being rescued by a 5’2’’ southern spitfire putting on her best Valkyrie impression. I stop hoping the thug I’m restraining will pass out from boredom and opt to simply kick the back of his leg as I pull him backwards by the collar of his shirt. The ground meets him with all the love concrete can muster but he bounces up quickly enough to start running after his wayward friend. I turn just in time to see a punch coming my way, *seems like lucky number three has decided to end your tiresome meddling*; 26 and I still think like a Scooby Doo extra. My hands are way out of position to block but the punch is slow, a sloppy left handed jab that tells me the guy is either real drunk or a rank amateur at dishing out pain. I drop my weight down and get as low as my jeans allow me to and instantly regret every squat and lunge I’ve done in my life. A little bit of head movement and the meatbag’s fist misses me by just enough to remind me I’m human; human and a lot more fragile than I want to believe. But his momentum has put me in perfect range to satisfy a craving almost ten years in the making and for one shinning second the years of rust and day-to-day boredom are burned away by the pure fire of righteousness and madness coming together in perfect anarchy. I’m not a superhero, not even particularly strong, but I have a punching bag at my house and just enough job related stress to make the frame rattle 3 or 4 times a week. I plant my feet so hard I make a blister and tear it at the same time, so hard my vanity tells me the sidewalk probably cracked, and I dig in with a body shot straight from hell. Somewhere between a hook and an uppercut I connect with a lower rib and take his and my breath away. I push him towards his still fleeing friends and he takes the hint. *Everything hurts*…keep standing….*visions a little blurry*…keep breathing…*you’re still outnumbered*……pussy. Still 2 guys left and they’re raining down sloppy kicks on this poor son of a bitch like it’s a middle school soccer game and the ball just happens to be calling for help. How long has it been? A minute? An hour? Time loses meaning as the world tilts at an awkward angle forcing me to take a lurching step to keep from falling into the sky. *You’ve done enough, this is insane! Somebody else can take it from here damn it the cops should be here any second. You’re not a hero*. But I always told myself that if I could be a hero I’d try to be like Luke Cage. I’d help the little guy and always stand up to fight for the underdog. I’d take a beating so those weaker than me would be safe from harm. And I seriously have an irrational hatred for people who don’t fight fair. The last two nasty fucks throwing kicks have a wall about 3 feet behind them and I smile. My friend is a personal trainer and she’s showed me an exercise she recently started having some of her clients do. She starts people out by just doing a handstand against a wall and holding it for as long as they can, but as they get better she has them try to do a couple of inverted push up type things. Of course I try it unsupervised like a man is supposed to and it’s hell on the shoulders, but I fill out a suit better than I have in years. She tells me that one of her clients has gotten to the point where he can do a full set of 10 pretty easily. I can do about half of one before every injury from high school football reminds me that I wouldn’t make it in the NFL, or CFL, or arena league, or high school football. I plant a hand on each attacker’s chest and push; fancy battle tactic I got going on here. Both goons travel about 5 feet to the wall previously 3 feet behind them and the impact makes me cringe and smile at the same time. I feel my needle drop to E and I know that I just burned up everything I had and then some. The kid on the ground bolts to his feet and makes it half a block in a heartbeat. Good survival instincts on that one, but he could have at least stuck around to watch me get my shit kicked in on his behalf. My arms are useless and I might as well be wearing concrete shoes for all the good my legs are doing me. For the first time I actually look at the people I’m fighting and I just want to scream at the two of them how young they are. They have their whole lives ahead of them and they could be throwing that all away on some stupid fight in the middle of the sidewalk. 18, I wonder if any of them are 18 and would be tried as adults if something terrible had happened. *Children, they’re just fucking children*. One of the punks asks if I want a piece too. My heroic reply is a wet cough that sounds like too many Gin and tonics. I tell myself that it was a good run. I tell myself that I did the right thing. I tell myself that, worst case scenario at least I’m wearing clean underwear. No man should die with dirty underwear on; I think my grandfather told me that. But I see fear creep into the two attackers eyes, and with all the grace of a gazelle high on shrooms they bolt as a squad car shows up to the scene blue and red lights flashing. I lean my back against the wall and listen to my heart play a nice salsa beat. My wife and the cop ask me if I’m ok at roughly the same time and I answer both with a half dazed nod. The world comes back into focus just long enough for me to hear that both the victims only sustained minor injuries, some bruises that’ll hurt like a bitch come morning and one bloody lip between the two of them. I smile and the cop’s face makes it pretty clear he thinks I look like a madman but I couldn’t care less. I haven’t felt this good in ages. Neither kid wanted to press charges and distantly I wonder what those two did to deserve an ass kicking, but the thought doesn’t last long. This isn’t a comic book, I don’t wear a cape, I don’t have to investigate and get to the bottom of the story. I’m just a guy who feels a little bit better about his workout routine. Both kids thank me for the help, I tell them to be safe in my best adult voice knowing damn well that I wouldn’t listen to me at their age. I nod with what I hope is a grim look on my face, turn around and go home.

He stared at the picture. He was so strong back then, so confident. He was happier too, he saw his smile in the photo and remembered the feeling as a small grin crept across his face, then as quickly as it had come, it faded. He missed the feeling, and he continued to reminisce. He went to his closet and with some effort, found his old jersey, the same one from the picture. It had been some time since he had played, but he could see it all clearly in his mind's eye. He returned to the desk and poured another drink, the brown liquid swirling in his glass, then downed it in one gulp. His gaze once again fell upon the jersey and after a pause, he started to put it on. The jersey was looser in some places then he remembered, tighter in others. He had been so strong. He was done blaming it on others, on himself, on "God." At the thought of the latter, he scoffed to himself and shook his head. No what happened to him was an accident, unfortunate as it was, still an accident. He was so angry after it happened, but that had subsided. No, what he was now, what had replaced that anger, was sadness. Crippling sadness, he thought, chuckling at the irony. He started to pour himself another drink, then paused and took a draw straight from the bottle. He was tired. Tired of the sadness, tired of the sympathy, tired of it all. From his desk drawer, he produced a small orange prescription container and shook four pills out into his palm. After thinking for a second, he shook out two more. Picking up the bottle once more, he placed the pills on the back of his tongue and quickly washed them down with the brown liquid, wincing slightly as it burned his throat down into his stomach. With a sigh, he set the picture in his lap, corked the bottle, put the lid back on the pill container, and turned off his desk lamp. He wheeled himself from the desk across the room to his bed, and with considerable effort, pulled himself up on top of the covers, dragging his legs up behind him. He propped the picture up on his belly until his eyes closed, and he embraced the darkness coming to envelop him.

“Dammit!” he dropped the hammer again. The fourth time on this little project of his. “Why the hell is my hand shaking?” “What do you mean, you’re hand’s shaking?” His wife called from the kitchen, only a room away in their one story fix-up. “My goddamned hand hasn’t stopped shaking for three days!” “That can’t be good. Maybe you should see a doctor.” “Dr. Wilson is going to be booked around this time of year!” “Well then we’ll take you to the hospital.” “I don’t need to go to no goddamned hospita- whoa!” He fell off the step ladder he was standing on.” “We’re going, and I’m driving.” She forced him into the car and drove him to the nearby hospital. She took him into the emergency room and sat him down. When they were called back, they explained to the doctor the strange shaking and him falling off the ladder, both of which were uncharacteristic of the then-45 year old who was not only sure-handed, but competent with tools and on ladders, having years of experience in construction. “We’re going to run some tests, you could have one of a few things, none of which bode well for you, Mr. Taylor.” ... They ran their tests, all the while, Mr. Taylor was insisting he was fine and called the entire testing process, “bullshit,” they tested on him for two days, compared his results with that of other patients with the disease he’d soon be diagnosed with, and then sent their data to his full time doctor, Dr. Wilson. He went in for his appointment and didn’t like what he heard. “Well, Mr. Taylor, it’s hard to say, but you’re exhibiting the initial symptoms of Parkinson’s Disease.” “I don’t care about Mr. Parkinson or his disease. He can keep it. What pill do I have to take to stop the damn shaking?” “I wish it was that simple, Grover, but we don’t really have a cure for Parkinson’s disease. We really don’t know that much about it. All we really know is how to diagnose it and how to extend the life of patients with it.” “What’re you saying? I’ve been with the rats in Vietnam. Hell, I’ve survived my mother-in-law’s cooking, some disease is going to get me?” “There are currently no known survivors of the disease,” “There’s also currently no known curators of the disease by the name of Grover Taylor,” “I’m going to recommend you to a specialist…” ... So they went to the specialist, they went up a chain if specialists, until they were enrolled in a first-of-its-kind study led by one of the nation's finest in the subject. There were 10 men in the study, all of which were much older than him, yet didn't have as extreme of cases as Grover. There were different "cures" that were disproved over the course of the study, but there also were treatments that stalled the disease's progress. Grover's case, however, was so rapidly adaptive and so aggressive that none of these stalling agents did well for long. In total, these obstacles may have added 4 years to his life, but it still got him, not before the study concluded, however. The study concluded in a presentation of his findings to an international committee of Neurologists. ... "As we can see in these brain scans taken 6 months apart over the past 7 years, the disease attacks through the muscles up to the nervous system. As to the origin, it is more likely than not genetic seeing as how each of the ten men studied came from similar ethnic backgrounds, but different environments. 7 of the 10 men were of English or Irish dissent, with the other three hailing from other backgrounds in Western Europe including Portugese and French. There were several factors that enhanced it; 9 of the ten men had served some form of military service, with the other serving as a Police officer. However, the extent and duration of their service varies. Further investigation into the matter would have to be pursued. There were various medicines that stalled its progress for a length of time. That length of time varied from patient to patient. Any questions?" There were no questions, just a handful of doctors scribbling notes down and the families of the patients watching horridly. the presentation concluded, and afterward Mrs. Taylor and her (adult) kids flagged down the doctor in charge of the study, Dr. Nussbauer "Doctor, how long does he have to live?" "Maybe 16, 18 months? But in all honesty, the quality of life would drop to such a point that it'd be crude to not pull the plug after 8." This was in January of 1994. With his first grandchild on the way, Grover was sure he only wanted to be alive for one last thing before they pulled the plug. ... "It's a girl, Mr. Taylor" "A girl?" His wife proclaimed with joy. They had waited for the gender of the baby, wanting a surprise, but each wanted a child the same gender as them. "Yes Mrs. Taylor, a girl." "What'll we name her, John?" "Sarah, like we discussed." He looked into her eyes, and knew it meant a last goodbye for his father, and he teared up. Three months later, they're in the car riding to Grover's hospital bed, just like John and his wife knew they'd do the moment Sarah was born. They were silent the whole car ride there, the occasional tear falling from John's eye. When they arrived, they knew it was for the last time. They walked slow to not wake the bundle that'd been keeping Mrs. Taylor up since she'd been home. Her hair was a mess, his shirt was tucked in only one place. They looked like they'd already been through hell. But their trip was just beginning. The elevator stopped at the 7th floor, the Terminal Ward, where all the incurables went. For the last time, they'd walk down the hall to Room 723, and open the unreasonably creaky door. They slowly walked in, being careful not to wake the baby. It was eventually useless because the next one in was Grover's wife, Mary. Grover's other two kids were the last to show up. "She's just waking up from her nap." A rare smile in the room, the rest look solemnly onto Grover. He's just waking up, trembling as usual. "Why so glum everyone?" He spoke in his slow, calculated manner everyone became accustomed to since the disease set in. "Do you want to see her?" John's wife Sheila asks. "Let me hold my granddaughter," Grover says quick and curtly. "Are you sure you can control yourself?" Mary says quietly "Let. Me. Hold. Her." "Let's surround the bed to be safe..." Sheila cautiously suggests. Everyone crowds Grover and for the first time in 9 years, he steadily extends his arms together. He holds her and gently sets her down on his chest and wraps his arms around her for support. Sarah looks at him and flashes the first of many toothless smiles anyone in the family will see from her. Sheila turns away, to full of tears of joy to continue watching. He cradles her in one arm and extends one finger from his other hand and begins to play with her. She grabs his finger with her entire fist and that's when Grover says, "I'm ready to go," He presses the call button on his remote and within 5 minutes, a nurse comes into his room "What'll it be?" "I'm ready to leave, miss." She consults her boss to know if he can do this, and after a while, she's ready to turn off his life support. They all say their last goodbyes. "Well, I'll be seeing you, Pop." John says, hands in his pockets. "Hopefully not too soon. Your mother deserves more than one grandkid," Everyone in the family chuckles. His other two kids, Sue and Debby say their goodbyes. The last to say farewell is Mary "For the first time since we've been married, I don't know what say," tears flowing down her face. With his shaky hands he grabs hers. "Well how about, 'I'll see you later?'" "You were always one with words..." She says it with a chuckle that doubles as her choking back her tears. "Well, I'll see you later too, honey. I'm off to eat a nice steak dinner." He drags his hand across his throat to signal, 'kill it,' and closes his eyes. the life support's rhythmic beep turns into one long hum. and everyone hangs their head in silence.

Galactic Stardate 43796.2 Final entry for **S**er **O**gluch, **F**irst **U**leymer of **C**aptain **K**och **E**ga **D**amnus, Acting Captain for the transport ship PQWOEU Our engines have failed. All maneuvering thrusters have shut off, we no longer have emergency reverse engines from the last shot we took. As my final recording, I will retrace what has happened. The galactic centre was a bustling trade route, filled with multiple worlds vying for the best deals. Our species while short and bipedal, was also wise and fair. Our foray into this galactic trade area was early. We lead the initial signing of the Galactic Empire, to ensure peace and prosperity to the region. And so it was so for many millennia. But it did not last. A sickness overcame our people. And it spread slowly. So slowly that at first we did not realize it, nor understand how it started until we were all infected. Our best scientists and doctors researched the problem, but the answer confounded them. The only definitive answer they could give us was that it was in every cell, was parasitic, and was draining our body resources from a cellular levels. This multi-ridged DNA based bacteria would be the downfall of our noble race. The scientists also discovered something else though, none of the other races seemed to be affected. For such a ubiquitous parasite, it selectively targeted our species. People put that off to simple genetics. Natural selection at its best. But there was no selection, just sickness, in everyone. It was genocide. The whispering had begun on our homeworld, but could not be contained. It was like a parasite in itself. Spreading from auditory canal to auditory canal. Anger followed soon. Someone in the Empire did not like our species elite position, our ethos, our "je ne sais quoi". These fear-mongerers (or so we thought they were at the time) called themselves the Coffee Party, in order to wake our species up. A few of them got voted into power. And through a power-struggle, their votes came at a price, the removal of the little people from the Empire. Whether this was the ultimate result desired by our executioners or simply an excuse for the subsequent action we never found out. We were accused of treason, and were punished thereafter by mass spatial bombardment. The homeworld had no warning, no chance. We relied on the other worlds for our protection. We had no warships in our command. The PQWOEU was transporting our people from the homeworld to another planet. Sick people who needed help, food, shelter. We were turned away from every planet as if we were pestilence. A plague. We were told that we deserved to die. On our return journey back home, we received the dreaded automated signal from our sun's core, a remnant of our early scientific days when fear of our sun going supernova lead to a permanent signal station deep within our star... it was going critical, and we were about to exit slipstream in the system. We exited, loaded the next cannister of dark matter into the slip drive, and powered up. We managed to get a sensor sweep, when we noticed the ships encircling our sun and our planet. Those damn bitter nectar drinkers were right. The very nature of our species left us naive to harsh reality that we were no longer wanted. One ship noticed us, and launched a missile at us. Probably nuclear, maybe even fusion. Regardless, we wouldn't survive impact. We started the countdown to slipstream. 10...The sun was shrinking 9....our view showed our home burning 8... The screams on the ship were deafening 7... The missile is half way to its destination 6... Captain Damnus is frozen, I always thought he was weak 5... I order the release of our trash and small aircraft 4... The moment of reckoning is upon us 3... The Sun has gone nova 2.. The missile has made contact with the latrine, it was a fusion bomb. Needless to say shit was flying outside and inside the ship. 1.. The impact of the nova, the bomb, while probably less than if the bomb had made contact with our hull, manages to rock our ship. 0... Slipstream opens, our ship flies in, but the extra boost from the double explosion behind us proves too much for the inertial dampeners. Captain Damnus' neck snaps backwards with the top part of his chair acting like the wedge, instantly killing him. Casualty reports come in, 20% of the 300,000 on board are dead. Navigation is down, speed is incomprehensible. I assume command. We were in for the long haul on this flight, not sure where we were going. The people of the ship were smart. They organized themselves, cleaned up, and awaited instructions. Engineers worked relentlessly to get systems back up. Luckily life support and gravity were passive systems. Navigation came up first. We were en-route to the outer limb of our galaxy. An unexplored region filled with almost no dark matter. This was a one way trip. Not that we cared, we were no longer wanted. Our engineers started to become edgy as the realization dawned on them. But we were a calm species. They tried instead to regain control of flight. I on the other hand did not care much for changing our heading. It would be my undoing. As I sat in the killer chair, I remark on the poetic beauty of this moment. Of all areas we could've been thrusted, this was perfect. There was one guarantee, no one in the Empire would venture out here where there was no fuel to return. 1 year later, sensors return, thrusters are down, reverse engines burnt out. Repairs would take 4 years. We will run out of fuel in 3, where we will be at the edge of our galaxy. Oh the coincidences. For a species that had dispelled the thought of god long ago, it would seem as if Fortuna Major were smiling at us at the moment. Especially with the report I was about to receive. I received a report from my chief medical officer, a vile man, nevertheless a competent man. The first reported births of our species in space have been reported. This was a fear in the past, as our species always had birth defects. I was prepared for the worse. The report did not mention defects, or deaths though. We were surviving in space. The vile man reported further, that he had taken samples and analyzed them, probably without consent, and determined that the bacterial parasite was protecting the cells. Not only that, it was producing energy at an increased rate than we normally would. The consequences at the moment were unknown. The second report a month later, started reporting deaths. Our species was dying slowly. Some have already. I order the ship be made automated. People are procreating left right and centre. Children are born. A new race, a powerful race, but a race with no parents. Our scientists imprint basic etiquette and instructions in the DNA structure. Something that would phase out over time, removing any memory of us. Our legacy would survive. 5 years later, I am the sole survivor. Acting Captain of the PQWOEU. Surviving off of blood transfusions. My crew onboard are a bunch of kids taller than me. We are about to come out of slipstream. With no control. I order the kids into the emergency hatches. I had found a viable planet 1 year ago on long range sensors. We slip out. I launch all emergency pods. But my ship is on a collision course with the planet. Fuck me. I release all atmosphere on the port side except for the bridge. I've been nudged just enough so that I see a beautiful planet with multiple iridescent rings. And notice a moon rising in front of me. The north pole is my destination Had I ordered more engineers to fix flight, we may have settled on the planet safely. I the patriarch of the new species. Instead I am left alone on my ship. A captain going down with his lady. As another species survives. End of recording So I sit in my death trap chair, smiling to myself at how natural selection is always law, how the remains of my ship will be a heap of metal, a ghost for the new species to see and discover if they ever make it this far. They will make it this far. They are our Legacy. I sit back, and drink my coffee.

Hanging from bed sheets that he had fashioned into a noose and tied to his fan, Sid slowly circled his room. He didn’t realize that his noose would flip the switch to turn on the fan. Well, at least I’ll suffocate. Slowly a tear begins in his noose. He can't see it, he can't hear it, but it is there and it is spreading further. Sid’s vision begins to narrow; blackness begins encroaching from all around. The thought of peace finally enters his mind. A smile spreads across his lips, a moment that he has been waiting seemingly forever for is at hand. He feels his tongue begin to tingle, his face gets warm. And then the tear gains momentum, there’s a ripping and Sid falls to the ground in a noisy heap. Laying on the floor, in the darkness that almost engulfed him, disappointment rises and replaces the peace that had been in his mind. Then the sound of a broom handle being pounded from downstairs, into the underside of his floor, and his granddad yelling, “Keep it down up there. That doesn’t sound like homework, is someone up there with you?!” Sigh Sid shakes his head, his vision beginning to expand again. There’s a blotch of black in the corner of his eye still, near his closet. He turns to look but only catches is a swoosh of black fabric slip behind his closet doors. It’s only a few feet away, so while still weak from lack of oxygen he crawls on his hands and knees to the closet doors, sits back onto his legs, and opens them. Standing there, like a medieval picture, is Death. Scythe in its boney hands, black robe shrouding a skull, glowing red lights in its eye sockets, and what appears to be a smile on its bare teeth. Sitting there on the floor, looking up at the black robed skeleton, Sid thought maybe he was still hanging from the rope, maybe he really was dying. Then there came more knocking by the broom to the underside of his room, “I said no body better be up there with you. Otherwise I’ll kick your ass myself!” Sid looked down at the direction that the voice came from, then back up to the skeleton. The smile that it had seemed to be wearing had gone, a redness seemed to take its place on its cheek bones, “Sorry about that.” said a deep, sheepish voice. Sid was confused and speechless. His mouth dropped open and hung there. “Now if you will please excuse me.” Death’s boney fingers reached to the door in an attempt to close it. “I can't magically disappear when someone is watching, wouldn’t be magic then, now would it.” Sid found his voice in the tremendous disappointment he felt. “Wait, you aren’t taking me?!” “Well, um,” Death coughed to clear his throat. “No. It’s not your time.” Death’s hand got a hold of the closet door, but Sid used what remained of his drained strength to keep it from closing in front of him. “Not my time? I just hung myself and you’re here, apparently it’s my time.” Sid was adamant that he should die right here, right now. Death let go of the door and pulled out a scroll from inside of his sleeve, looked it over, “What’s your last name again?” “Swiggett, Sid Sabastian Swiggett. My parents liked S’s” normally he would be ashamed, but now he was just desperate to have it found on that scroll. “David L. Rush, Ray K. Swabb, Anna E. Sydney, Tab T. Taft….” Death shook his skull as the smoldering red coals. “Who the hell names their kid after a soda? Nope you’re not on here.” “Then why the hell are you here?” Sid demanded, frustrated. “Um,” that’s when the sheepish grin, and rosy colour, returned to the skeletal complexion, “must have made a wrong turn on my way to the next stop. So sorry, got to go.” His chalky fingers quickly returned to close the closet door too quickly for Sid to try and stop it again. The door slammed shut, just in time too, because the door to the hallway swung open to an old man. An old man who was scarier than death himself, held up by a walker, with a broom in his hand, no hair on his head and his thick glasses that made his eyes look enormous. He wore hearing aids and depends, his teeth had fallen out a lifetime ago and were now being impersonated, poorly, by yellowed dentures that clicked together when he he slept—somehow death hadn’t come for him, but his body had given up on waiting. “Who was it that you were talking to?!” He swung the boom up and down, to emphasize his words. “You know you can't have anyone over here! You need to get your homework done!” Sid looked away from his closed closet doors, looked at the remnants of sheet swinging in circles from his celling fan, at the chair that he had tipped over underneath it, at the tear stained hand written note on his desk, then finally turned his eyes to the old man standing in his doorway. “Is it a girl? Is she hiding in the closet?” With agonizing slowness Gramps shuffled the walker to the closet and slid the door open. Sid was as curious as Gramps was, but nothing notable was in there. It was just piles of comic books, dirty clothes, and the typical mess that is in every teenage boy’s closet. Sid was still wondering where the Death had magically disappeared to, maybe he was just hallucinating the whole thing, when the handle of the broom came down hard on his head. CRACK “That’s for making me walk all the way up here.” Gramps was pissed. “I’m too old and tired. I’ll need a nap after this.” Gramps was always pissed. As the old man shuffled his walker back out of Sid’s room and headed towards the stairs he grumbled under his breath, something about whippersnappers and ungrateful, typical grandpa things to grumble when old men are upset at young men. Sid rubbed his head as he got up from the floor. Standing made him dizzy, maybe it was because of the lack of oxygen, maybe from the shot to the head he took from Gramps, or maybe because of the hallucination he had just seen, who knew. He walked over to the door that the old man had walked in and out of, shutting it. Sid went to his desk and read his note. Man that was a good one. He folded it up; he’d use it as a draft for his next attempt. He reset up the chair and stood up on it again, reached up and untied the left overs of his bed sheet from the fan. He would just replace this old worn out sheet with another that was in the closet, from the hoard that Gramps had collected over his lifetime. Sid got off his chair and pushed it back to where it belonged at his desk. Gramps was right to a point. He might as well get his homework done. He grabbed his backpack off of his bed and pulled out a binder and some excessively heavy school books, setting the pile on his desk in front of his computer. As he took his seat in his chair he looked back over his shoulder, peered into his closet, and wondered if it was a coincidence that on top of his pile of clothes was a his favorite black hoodie.

James Garcia date of death October 13,2014 5:32 PM El Paso, Texas, USA “Ugh my head is on fire.” “Getting hit by a couple hundred pounds of metal moving 90 miles an hour will do that to you.” James shielded his eyes attempting to obscure the bright light radiating from the white landscape surrounding him. A tall figure with a stout build and a familiar gait gradually began to approach him. As his eyes began to adjust James could see the creature. It was clad in a plaid button up and a dusty pair of wranglers. James pressed his lips together to speak but all he could muster up was a quick puff of stale air. “How would you feel about being black this time? Caribbean? Hell maybe even Haitian?” “Dad?” James managed to stammer up. The being sighed and shook his head. “Hhhmmm or how about something Oriental? Wait is that the pc term? Oh well lovely group of people nonetheless smart, strong, and fertile as all get out. Jackie Chan is freaking awesome. Have you Rush Ho..” “DAD?!?!” James spouted after finally catching his breath. “Jeez kid loosen up a bit will ya’? I’m not your dad ok, although I do get that a lot.” “If you’re not my dad then who the fuck are you?” “Wow language. As for who I am. That’s a good question not sure of that myself. You guys have given me a lot of names over the years Yahweh, God, the Grim something or other.” James shot the man a look consisting of disbelief and frustration. “Look I’m not gonna sugar-coat it mate, you’re dead. You were on the way to that girl’s house. What’s her name? I remember it was something stupid? Britni? Brooke? “Barbra.” The man snapped his thick callused fingers. “Oh yeah that’s it! Anyway you were on your way to Barbra’s and you got hit by a car; a Dodge Caravan no less. Death by Mini Van, how about that.” The man chuckled to himself. “If more of you guys would just look both ways before crossing the street my job would be immensely easier.” James was becoming agitated “Ok so if I’m dead where I am? Heaven? And why the hell do you look like my dad?!” The man let out a long drawn out sigh “Look I been at this long enough to know that I appear as the person you trust the most. Pretty cheesy I know but you’d be surprised how much easier it makes the transition. Heaven? Naw mate you’re a little far off from heaven.” James face shifted from agitation to unease and he began to twiddle his thumbs. “So Hell then…” “Goodness no! Ok listen up mate can you say with absolute certainty that you were happy with your life. A 25 year old pizza delivery boy, with a bachelor’s degree in art history whatever that means, dating a women named Barbra. Do you even like her?” “…No” “See.” The bulky figure said with a large grin “I believe in chances. I don’t like to let people move on until they are truly happy. Life’s a gift if you don’t get to fully enjoy it what’s the point?” “So what? You just reset it?” He nodded “More or less new race, gender, intelligence, nationality the whole bada bing. So how ya feeling now? You up to it?” “Do I honestly have a choice?” “Well you can say no but that won’t really stop me. Not like you’re going to remember any of this anyway we’ve had this talk before” “This isn’t the first time I’ve died.” “This the first time *James* has died.” “So how ma..” “This will make about 678.” “Christ that’s a lot.” “Let’s just say you’re accident prone. So what do ya say mate wanna give it another go?” “Let’s do it not like I have anything to lose. Could I maybe be European or something? You know the whole blond with blue eyes thing kills the girls.” The man smiled rolling up his sleeves and nodding “Sure mate no problem.

*After a few more minutes of aimless meandering like a newborn calf, he eventually worked up the courage to sit on the other end of the bench, sat stock straight, watching out across park where some college aged kids tossed a frisbee around under the trees. He spoke to me out of the corner of his mouth; "Ar-Are you Jones?". I folded my paper across my lap and turned to face him abruptly. "Yeah. Are we going to fucking deal or what? I have someplace to be". He recoiled in terror, tensed up, mouth agape and eyes darting, as if expecting the two Au-Pairs with strollers walking by to suddenly pull badges and guns and yell "Freeze! Motherfucker! The jigs up!". I frowned and shot him a 'Chill the fuck out' glare as I pulled the slim case from underneath the bench and popped it open between us.* *"So Mark said you were in the market for some Malta Black?" I asked as I peeled back the wax sheets from the top of the product. "I need to know you're serious, because this shits not easy to move." The terror left him now, I could see the addict in him, the way his eyes lit up and telltale twitch of the lips when he saw it laid out in front of him like a veritable gold mine. He reached out to pick it up and I snapped the case shut, catching his fingers. "Money first, bud. You know how this works." He nodded as he fumbled his wallet out of his pocket. I continued "This is only the sample case. I have the whole shipment, 30 cases, like this, ready to go. You pay me now, I call our mutual buddy mark and he meets my guy later for the exchange. Cool?" He nodded again, lost for words. He was probably fantasizing about what he was going to do with that much Malta Black. Its a huge amount, even for a heavy addict, but thats not my problem. I just sell it, I don't tell them what to do with it.* *He offered the sports bag, and I did a quick check to see it wasn't bills stacked on top of socks before I stood up slinging it over my should. "All looks good. You'll hear from mark this evening. If I get home and count this, and find you trying to cut me short, you'll hear from me before then. Personally. Otherwise you wont see me again. Understand?" He mumbled affirmation, transfixed on the case, gently caressing the corners with his fingers. I stubbed out my cigarette on the bench and left by the west st. entrance. Another deal done. Another day down. People say the hardest thing about dealing is not getting hooked yourself. But I've never understood the fascination of stamps.

It is just another day… The bell rings signifying the next rotation. I stand up and in a single file line, walk briskly to the next station. The pace of the walk has been determined so that we can all get to our next station within the allotted time frame. Anyone who is late to their station gets punished. A second bell rings to let us know that this time frame has finished and that we should all be ready once again. The room is bright, illuminated only by artificial lighting. There are no windows, windows can be distracting. There is slight chatter, but this is quickly ended by the administrator at the head of the room. We all shut up out of a deep fear of punishment. We all reside in our own respective spaces, designated specifically for us to maximize our ability. After a pre-specified time period, we stand up, make a line by the alphabetical order of our last name, and proceed to the next station. One of us is singled out and made to wait behind, everyone knows it is because he has not been reaching the set performance standards and will likely be punished as a result. Only a few of us dare sneak a look in his direction. Most simply stare at the hair of the person in front of them. As soon as the administrator gives us the signal, we proceed out of the station onto the next. The halls immediately become a swarm of apparel all exactly the same. If we do not strictly abide by the dress code, we will be punished. There are personal storage spaces along the halls; we are all given our own. These personal storage units can be periodically checked for any sort of contraband material, if they find any in ours, we will be punished. At last, a special bell rings to let us know that we are now allowed to consume the necessary nutrients to sustain us through the day. We all proceed to the eating area and go through the food distribution line. Today we have two choices of meals. After receiving our food we then go to our designated eating spots. A bell will ring notifying us that we are no longer allowed to eat. Administrators are dispersed around the room to make sure all conversation is kept appropriate with threat of punishment. The closing of our workday is signified by a final 25th ring of a bell. This is accompanied by a voice from the loudspeakers reminding us to be productive and persistent in the work assigned for us to do in our own discretionary time lest we be punished the next work day. We all walked in an organized manner outside to the transportation services provided to us. Today is just another day. Same as tomorrow. Just another day of middle school.

I was in the Starbucks all quiet and tucked away in my scarf, checking something on my phone, can't remember what for the life of me. The only thing running through my mind, *I don't need to be set up, I can take care of myself.* *Look where that's got you, genius.* It was the voice of my friend, his words ringing through my head again. It was as if the conversation was repeating itself like a mental DVR. *Look, I'm not saying this girl's gonna be the love of your life, just give her a chance, coffee would suffice. All I know is me and Lindsay are getting real tired of you third-wheeling like a trike.* *You know, you could just say she doesn't like me. It's not gonna be that big a blow to my ego.* *Give this girl one chance. Please, for my sanity. If you turn down another girl she's gonna talk my ear off over it. And not to mention, ever since Lilian left you've been a grumpy little shit.* He had to go there. *Fine. Whatever pleases the queen, I guess.* That thought carried me through up until the day of the date. It wasn't a blind date, but she's not really the, how do you say, vocal type. Then again, neither was Lilian. Not at first. I smirk as I remember what it took for her to even go out for coffee. I had to find the most remote coffee shop and bring her a complete menu and jump through all these hoops, come to think of it, I barely remember why I thought she was worth the trouble. Her smile, her giggle, her touch as I jumped through all these hoops just sent me over. I shake my head *snap out of it Dave, she's gone now.* I look up at the door and she's trying to find me, I wave her over and she makes her way to the couch/seat-thingy. "Hey," "Hi. Can I get you a coffee?" "No thanks, not really a coffee person, just a cocoa please." I get her drink and sit back down. She sips it and grins. She keeps sipping until she starts a bead of sweat. "Is it just me or is it hot in here?" She undoes her overcoat and unzips her jacket, and there's a Walk the Moon t-shirt "You listen to Walk the Moon?" "Yeah, I saw them in Cleveland a while back." "No way, I tried to get tickets but they'd sold out. How'd you get tickets?" She looks down, the smile diminishes, but is still there. "My, erm, ex-boyfriend, he- his brother was the drummer." She chokes over the end of the sentence. "Um, I'm sorry to hear that." "Lindsay had to drag me out of the apartment to come here. He was just such a big part of me, you know?" "Oh god, tell me about it. When my ex left it was soooo messy. Don't even get me started. Drew and Lindsay spent hours trying to talk me into this whole date, I honestly didn't really have any expectations for today to be honest..." "Oh really? They were telling me you were DYING to meet me for coffee after that party at Roland's" "That was the first time I'd been out since the break up." "Oh wow, that recent huh?" "No, I sulked that long. Drew actually talked me into this with the same pitch," In unison, as if we'd rehearsed, "Oh, (he/she)'s just DYING to meet you. You really made an impression at Roland's." She continues on, "So, uh, how long were you, erm, sulking, since your breakup?" "A solid 2 months. I'm just glad that I had online classwork to wrap up the term or I'd have flunked. I barely pulled myself out of bed for finals." "Oh god, she must've done a number on you. We broke up just after finals. Us moving out of the dorm was almost a fitting farewell, but I didn't leave my new dorm all during winter break and then near a month into the first term. Of course I picked up syllabuses. Syllabi?" "I get what you mean. So, erm, who else do you listen to besides Walk the Moon?" "I listen to a lot of synth pop. MGMT, Passion Pit, Two Door Cinema Club..." "Oh, have you heard Passion Pit's iTunes session? I have it on my phone if you wanna listen." "I wanna hear it so bad. I'm too poor to afford that kinda stuff." "The Pirate Bay, girl, it's where it's at." "You're terrible!" She grabbed an ear bud and listened to the songs all the same. We listened, sang along, laughed at each other's terrible voices, and then shared other stories about broken bones, high school idiots, concert tales, even the occasional poke or hold of the hand. We sat there and talked for hours, and could've for hours more, but we'd heard the infamous words, "Closing time. Wrap it up you two lovebirds." At this point we're the only ones left aside from that mighty bold barista. "Can I get another hot chocolate for the road?" She asks. "Ugh, fine," The barista took his time in making the cup. "Want anything on top?" "Caramel'll do fine." He finishes up, and I get up and reach for my back pocket when he stops me, "This one's on the house," I walk her out to her car. We continue talking until we reach her little old Civic in the back of the lot. "Weellll, this is my mighty humble ride." "Better than me and my ride." "Why, what's your ri-" I stop her and point at my feet. "Ooh. Want a ride to the dorms?" "No, I live in the apartments right across the street." "Ok. Well, until next time," She hugs me and gets in her car. "I'll be waiting," I continue mumbling, finishing the conversation. "For the first time since the break up.

Bitter tastes leave me awake at odd hours of the morning; frigid sheet's and raw eye's. Tried as I may, the ice was thick; the ice was so god damn thick. Year's have past by since that fateful autumn noon. The faint embrace of a hand slowly slipping from mine, the faint terror in reality; the horror in knowing, not I, or anyone on looking, could stop what wouldn't, or what couldn't happen. Fall is a time for many, in which, our love seeks tribune. It wishes too be remembered. Faint tales and soft whisperers, radiant eyes hosting a lousing abode; yes, fall's a time for the heart to travel old paths, and forge anew. Lost in the essence of memories. A heart travels many paths; contingent upon time, it was never meant to be bound by physical restraints; by time, or distance. A love known is a love lost. As long as it exists in the past and not the present. And now here I sit, tapping on my conscious backdoor, waiting to see her enter as she did many times before. The sound of a voice, playing in her entry, as she strode across the fabric of my being. Foot steps in the snow, leaves beneath her feet, winter's past you leave me haunted once again, with what was, or what may never be. "My hand wishes to dance; dance it may, with pen, key, brush stroke in hand, lay out the facets of my imagination. Depicted in euphemism's, transcending the artists paradox of form. Dimensions matter, they do not, as long as you create. As long as dreams teem, as long as the heart spills forth; who is to put an end too the souls own ambitions. Our nature; my nature, what is understood, and what is lost in between; walls', sheets, lilac encrusted foliage crunching beneath my feet. Old growth gives way, so regrowth can take place. The cycle of our existence. It's nothing less and nothing more than what it is, and what has always been." Words and form, a perfect pose was desired. If creation was at hand, then it was mine I would have admired. Treachery in forging, a sentence not your's, Winter's past, gave birth to Autumns depravity; and the hands wasted talent no more.

A writers worst nightmare, you dare wish to imagine; hitherto, you will understand the paradox of my existence. Words constantly flow, the mind often at rest, simply unbound; galloping, hoof beats in rhythm, but this horse has no destination. Traversing through diction, it comes with ease. A land well traveled, no stone left unturned, but this is the problem indeed. Left to right, base to peak, climax to origin; this is no life for me. A hand that can create must have order. Order is not what I exist as in this state, and it is what I may never be. You see the stone left unturned, is at a fool's loss, but the stone left unturned and thrown at a pitch to be turned another day, is at a fools own cost. We've already turned that stone mind! Why must you revisit the notion, it's silly; trifling if you will, vexing to the source and confusing to the point. Many can't imagine, creating a narrative that beholds no destination; ah but you see, you beseeched me. They all behold a point, it merely get's lost in the abundance of batter. My hand holds steady, and too create I will always try; but the point is moot, when tangents run a story awry.

I could feel the heat, the pain, though I touched nothing. It burned in trails down her cheeks. What came down was acid, not the morning dew or the condensation of sorrowful glee. No sound left my mouth, though I screamed and screamed. What noise could I make that would mean anything now? What substance could I fill her ears that could satiate the deafening roar of my actions? Her hair dark and brown, shone like bronze in the sun as I ran my fingers between its long strands. Her kiss filled my lips with lusciousness and a lingering taste of ripe cherries in the mist. She smiled as she panted in my ear, her perfume sweeter than the air above the mountains, clear and crisp. The smooth glide of our skin, warm and bare and comforting. Her pale light hair before me, wispy and wavy. Its length too short to inspire in me any heroic aspiration. Fear gripped me, that she would recoil from my touch, the one I had neglected to share for so long and yet so short a time as it was given. Her tears were thundering against the cold hard floor, the tiles shattering under their weight. She whimpered, vainly attempting to muffle her sobs with what fierce pride and dignity remained on her person. How I could think, then, to bask in my own presence. Such was the power I had never known before, to destroy what most could only ever hope to see. The beauty blinded me with its mirror, that I could not fathom breaking it until I did. "How could you?" she would ask, "How could you?" Thin and hard, such precision was the craft of her body. She slid out of her dress, biting her lip softly, teasing me though I knew I had her. The blood flowing through my veins then was red and hot, and I could see the same color and feel the same warmth in her. There was passion. Fires raging in a pit of wood and oil, softened by cloaks of brilliant night sky. She moaned, and clasped her arms around me tighter and tighter. She opened her eyes, sparingly, to gaze into mine. The deep blue filled me, until I had disappeared into its void. She looked up, and though clouded with the storm of her anguish, enough to encompass that which I should have had but lacked, I saw the blue, a lighter shade, and yet fell no distance, entered no void. Then I knew, my heart had grown cold and hard and dead, and she had brought life back to it, so that I might live knowing that hers had died and that I had killed it. There were two departures, separate and with time between. All that remained was the fog of the steam that had risen from what was aflame. The fire had meant nothing, yet I knew before I stoked it. I had a home where my warmth and my comfort could live and stay and grow, and in my hubris, I had burned it down. "How could you?" I couldn't, but I did not know then. I did not know the shame, nor its titanic weight, nor how long it would sit dormant, waiting for me to catch up. I carry it upon my shoulders now, and though I may cast aside small bits at a time, it is ever with me until my final breath, wherein I may perhaps find some forgiveness, both hers and mine.

“Please sit down.” The lady is old with fraying grey hair. “You got into another fight. What was it this time?” Her disapproving glare only matches the backdrop of disappointment and anxiety that is my high school. I keep my mouth shut. How can I explain to her the secret smirks of the other students? How can I tell her of the way they all stop talking as soon as I round the corner? They have names for me, I know they do. They are written on bathroom stalls, whispered secretly from ear to ear, and sometimes left in a crumpled note in my classrooms. Will she understand me if I tell her the fight was just to send a message? My abusers are not bigger than me, they are not stronger than me, and in fact they are not even people. Rather they are a collective movement. They are a wall of bullies masked by smiles and shrugs. None of them hate me, or dislike me for any reason; I was simply ‘selected’. I look at the tired eyes of the Principle, a lifetime’s worth of dealing with hate born of nothing but spite lay behind those eyes. In that moment, I know that she knows. She can’t admit to it though because then she would have to do something and she knows there is nothing she could do for me. The feigned ignorance is to give me hope, a false hope that there might still be a chance for me. Too bad I know that there is nothing anyone can do for me anymore. So I take her lecture, I take the blame, I take the fault and I discard the false hope she tries to instill within me. Three more days and it will all be over. One way or another, I promise you, I will end it.

“Brother Bear, me-oh-my.” He followed this with a wheeze on his harmonica and then threw a grenade at me. It was not the first time a grenade has been thrown at me. Not by a long shot. The first time a grenade was thrown at me was when I was 11. I was walking with my mother in a safe zone and BOOM. Totally out of nowhere, my mother and I got in a doorway and heard the hollow sound of a skull rolling passed just in time to look away. It’s about the 11th worst situation I’ve been in. The next time was after the final round of nukes and I didn’t really care about it. I think I was hoping to get hit, but I can’t really remember. It was years ago. Everyone just walked around like zombies then…I don’t even know why anyone had any reason to throw a grenade. It could have been an accident. But this guy – the harmonica guy – was trying to kill me. I had seen him in the Free Zone before. I had stepped over him more than once and he had shouted obscenities at me every time. That’s why I was surprised that he had a grenade. That’s why I didn’t have time to duck. That’s why my leg is over there. Everyone is homeless now, but this guy was really homeless. He slept on streets. I slept in abandoned apartment complexes, but I needed money to do it. Money is typically food or drugs or weapons. How did he get the grenade? I’m thinking all of this as I stare at my leg across the street and watch him slowly move towards me. He’s still playing the harmonica. “Oh, say, can you seeeeeeeee, the sweet afterbirth, that so proudly declared our true country’s worth.” “You sing like an angel!” I’m yelling. He grins. Across the street there used to be a McDonald’s. It’s like this big hole now. Above me used to be sky, now it’s just this big hole now. The pain seeps in and I vomit. I try to think of anything. Like the pitch black night before the war when everyone was just waiting to see who would fire first, secretly thinking that nothing bad would happen like usual…that first news report that America had actually been attacked with artillery…with advancing soldiers…schoolyard empty…teachers crying. He’s standing above me and pulling out a cigarette. How did a homeless guy get a cigarette. “I bet you want your leg back? Sorry, Jack.” “Why did blow my leg off, Mister?” I’m like 40-years-old or something. I haven’t eaten a cheeseburger in a quarter of a century. I have a cat somewhere around here that has managed to not be eaten. I think that’s a sense of pride. That I somehow raised a cat in all this. There’s barely rats left. My mother’s name was Vickie. “I said, why did you blow my leg off?” He blows on the harmonica and then shouts “BECAUSE!” right into my face. The last book I read was a Skymall catalogue. It fell out of a tree one day. I think it was a book. It could have been a magazine. There were about five pages of it left. The last book I ever saw. There was a sky up in the sky once. The cat’s on my lap now. I’m pretty sure the homeless guy is going to kill it somehow. My mother died of suicide. I never met my Dad. I think I used to have a sister. It’s all very cold out now. My cat is dead.

“Alright, are we gonna do this thing or not?” I missed that familiar odour. The sweet, nostalgic smell of a once remembered past. This was but another reoccurrence; just another pest trying to bust my chops. I've partaken in a fair share of tussles as captain of the St. Fieri, the most prominent of sea vessels in all of Old Norse Arabia. It's name was influenced by world renowned culinary "expert", Guy Fieri. I idolized him rather than his lame cooking attempts but for more for his bleached facial hair and frosted tips, a true remnant of late 90s. For this stranger to think that he could cause me agony on a ride via public transit would be to his upper advantage was a complete act of tomfoolery at its best. I began with a taunt as I laced my figure skates to perform a perfect sow cow and closed with a triple lutz. Sergei was an excellent coach. The stranger began quivering in a perturbed manner, the scent of faeces lingered through the stale air. I had forced him to perform what proctologists refer to as a "fear shart". It was too late for him to turn his back because he just got himself invited to a fist flying fiesta; I had a chopsocky chimichanga with his name on it. I landed the first strike with my signature "Fieri Fist" and took him straight to flavour town. I aimed for his prostate to make sure he could never sing again. "Money," I whispered softly. While he was coaxed into a snafu, I quickly reached for my corn pipe out of my crocodile leather holster for a quick twiddle and gave him some hoedown southern twang. Finally, my quiet lifestyle as a dairy farmer in northern Idaho finally payed off. I'd like to see him try enjoy a hot plate of collard greens with a straight face after that one. The poor man couldn't handle the shock of cultures and that's just where I wanted him. He cowered towards the edge of the bus' hydraulic platform in his attempt to escape my wrath. A thick trail of blood oozed from his fragile, eggshell torso underneath his hand-me-down Hall & Oats concert t-shirt. I grabbed him by the cuffs of his corduroy pants, rolled four inches too high from his ankle, confirming my thesis that he is indeed spaz, to perform my finishing blow. I began to build torque, mixing the hot winds of my steamy flatulence and the cool winds of my lucky ice cream sandwich I always keep in my breast pocket for safe measures, therefore creating the most devastating of all typhoons. I let all control reside to the power of the cyclone as it rummaged through all of Canada's smallest towns. I think I miss Ajax most of all. Horses, sheep, cattle, and the odd emu plummeted down to Earth, seeming as if Noah's ark had gone aerial. With my fist still clenched to his geeky attire, I began my chant. A familiar silhouette of Tom Jones appeared in the horizon to join me in our duet. The fans went ballistic as Mr. Jones and I broke out into complete hysteria while we sang his 1965 hit single, "What's New Pussycat?". To this day, I still don't know how we ended up at Bonnaroo. We began our descent abruptly. Several tears streamed down his cheek but only whiskers streamed out from mine. Wham! We hit the ground with enough velocity to pulverize the adamantium claws of Wolverine. When the smoke cleared, I could see the face of a man, nay, a boy with severe regret. "Where are the papers," implying that I wanted the stolen evidence. He struggled for his paisley fedora on top of his seat but I swiped it away before he could lay a finger. Under the brim, too predictable. I inserted the evidence into my handy, dandy pocket shredder, an apparatus ready for when ever I need to destroy a classified document on the go. Those papers were never meant to be seen my the eyes of pure sin; not even I was worthy. As I made my departure, I heard a faint shout. "Wait, who are you?" I hadn't exactly figured that part out myself. I buttoned up my jean jacket vest upon my flannel pyjama top, strapped on my traveller's fanny pack, reached into my baggy pantaloons to pull out my Top Gun inspired aviators I scored at my cousin's Bar Mitzvah, and whispered…"Talkin' 'bout, hey now! Hey now! I-KO, I-KO, un-day!" The swift jingle jangles of The Dixie Cups poured out my mouth like a champagne waterfall. "Jack-a-mo fee-no ai na-na, Jock-a-mo fee na-na-" Hold on a second, I'm not singing that. Who changed the ringtone only my alarm clock? Why is the entire living room floor covered with soda? Wait, is that Mello Yello? How is it that I wreak of curdled milk? Was Ron Burgundy right? Is that ringing just in my head or am I just late for class. Didn't I just say I was in my living room? I am in my living room. I am late for class. Maybe just one more bowl.

He looked at himself in the mirror, a thin smile stretched across his face. The smile seems forced and his face looks more like a mask. He closes his eyes for a brief moment before opening them and forcing a larger smile on his face. Still he was not satisfied with the man in the mirror. Why must you pretend to be happy? He ponders. He thinks back to when he was only a young boy when he was diagnosed with a rare heart condition that would ostracize him his entire life. He thinks back to the moment he turned to heroin to mend his frustrations and hurt. He thinks back to the moment when the doctors attached a permanent heart monitor onto his body, impeding him to even go out to the bars with his friends. He looks back in the mirror, no longer even smiling. Then he breaks into the most genuine and happiest smile he had ever seen. He felt strong and empowered, he felt invincible because in that moment he understood how truly unlimited he was. He thought of his friends as a young boy, how they stood by his side through it all. He thought of his two year sobriety medal, his personal proof of his own pure determination. And he thought of the nights when he snuck out to the bars with his friends against the doctor’s orders, those are the people he lives for and the nights he’d always remember. He looks in the mirror and gives himself a wink before shooting a photo commemorating this moment. He leaves the room with a smile on his face to attend the last surgery of his life. He was truly unlimited.

"I'm sorry baby I'm tied up right now" I fruitlessly told the woman. In all her glory... wholesome and surreal in way, with her intentions seemingly bent on mischief, she never hesitated to express herself freely. "Do you like seafood?" She asked me bluntly. I suggested a place not too far from the immediate vicinity. Although I reminded her of my predicament, it's as if she was relishing the moment, with utter disregard for my current state of affairs... Was I whipped? I'd rather not give an answer, but behind closed doors I was hers alone. It was a wet November Sunday. A convenient blackout hit York Region without warning, so candles were lit, refrigerators were emptied of perishables, and quiet suburbia carried on with no apparent calamity, save for the occasional emergency vehicle siren fading to and fro. Ah, the comfort of my chambers warm and soft. The missus was enjoying this with primal glee, as the unexpected but welcome change of pace opened her imagination in ways I've never experienced before. "Come, hitherto the moon has never been more romantic. I desire time to wait for us while we take a dip. For sure I just want this to last as long as we can make it...." She mumbled with a murmured stutter. "Don't make me beg your pardon but, come again?" I chuckled as she raped me.

The Best Story Ever Note: This started as a game of add-on and it snowballed. Book One: The Beginning Once upon a time, there was a handy dandy watermelon scooper. HDWS loved his life, but he had no one to share it with. He lived in a quaint garbage cauldron, apart from all the rest of scooper society. Then one day someone left a tiny watermelon scooper on his front porch, who had a lightning bolt insignia on his handle. HDWS was so happy to have a little scooper of his own, that he bought a little pet grape for his new son, named Beranabus the Raisin. The son's name was Handy, and he grew up a very happy little watermelon scooper... or so he thought. One day, on Beranabus's 75th birthday, they heard suspicious footsteps outside their cauldron. It was none other than Cullen, the notorious garbage connoisseur who loved to eat garbage fries. Cullen reached in with his fry grease-covered fingers, and accidentally grabbed HDWS by the handle, and carried him away in his hobo sack. "Daddy!" Handy screamed, unable to cope with the loss of his father. "I'll come for you!!!" Cullen swaggered away, high on the success of his crime. He was so pleased with himself that he was unable to notice the high-speed presidential jet zooming towards his happy little jiggle-sack. He tried to dive out of the way, but his legs got hit and he became a cripple. "This would be a perfect occasion to assemble my collapsable rocket wheelchair!" Said Cullen, the garbage fry connoisseur. He assembled his high-fashion, glow-in-the-dark, rocket wheelchair, and zoomed away with high-speed style. Handy, having witnessed this ordeal, realized what he had to do in order to get his father back. He would need to assemble a team. A team of scoopers specializing in avenging. This team, obviously, consisted of a pooper scooper by the name of Marissa, a shovel by the name of Thaddeus, an egg whisk by the name of Julius, and a diamond spork named Constantine. They were christened.... The Revengers. Cullen zoomed back to his box lair in his high-fashon, glow-in-the-dark, rocket wheelchair and put HDWS in the box brig next to his box shoes. "You will make some nice melon balls when I am finished with you!" Cullen laughed an evil laugh that would even have Gilgamesh trembling with fear. Meanwhile, The Revengers were desperately trying to gather information on the whereabouts of Cullen and HDWS. They ventured to the outskirts of Gothamopolis City, where they found a very interesting sight. It was a giant mustache, knotted and ghoulish in the light of the Sun. This was the lair of the Mustachios. "What is your business here people?" asked the guard. "We seek the evil lord of garbage fries, Cullen. Will you grant us refuge?" Julius was trembling under the guard's heavy gaze. "You must ask The Creator, Leah, for Her blessing." He answered, "Come forth." He gestured towards a large flat stone in the center of a clearing. Carved upon the stone was a teenager's face, and surrounding the face was a series of marks and symbols. Handy could not read them, but he knew the moment he stepped forward that they were of great importance. "I see, youngling, that you gaze upon The Creator with great reverence," a mysterious voice said. Turning around, Handy laid eyes upon a man. However, he was not only a man. He was a box man. "Wha--who are you?" questioned Handy. "I am the wise old man who resides in this fortress. I serve The Creator of these creatures as a prophet. You have a long journey ahead of you, Avatar Scooper." The Box Man's eyes glistened with mischief. The crowd of Mustachios and Revengers gasped. "Avatar? What is an Avatar?" Handy questioned, a suspicious tone in his voice. Once again, the crowd gasped. "Well," the wise box man began. "It's--" Suddenly an arrow, flying with the speed of a thousand lemur-bats, pierced the box-man's cardboard skin. Time froze, and the universe held its breath. Handy only heard one thing, a single shrill word from the voice of a small Mustachio child. "Ambush." The arrows began to rain voraciously on the small village of Mustachios. ¨NO! Save the paintings of The Creator!¨ shouted the Box Man through fits of coughing up blood. ¨BOX MAN!¨ Handy screamed, sprinting over to the wounded prophet. ¨Please, tell me where to find my father! What is an Avatar?" "Handy, come closer." The scooper leaned in close to the Box Man's pencil thin mouth. He felt an onion ring being slipped shakily into his hand. "Take this ring. It will help you in dark times..." "What dark times?" Handy cried, "Box Man?" "One ring... to rule them all..." And the Box Man's soul departed to the Creator, where She welcomed him with grace.

Hello fellow Redditors, as the title implies I need your intelligence and cunning to help me. I am having a problem writing a story that connects, and for the most part its pretty hard to gauge how *good* a story is, at least without the biased of what you want in the story. - **Here's where you come in!** I would like you guys to submit to me an idea, whether its smut, a love story, a murder, a mystery, anything, and I'll write your story, tailored for you. I'll post it accordingly so everyone has a chance to see, but seeing how I put in the effort to write it for you I would like you to comment on what could be better on a critical standpoint.

I'm reminded of a time at a Home Depot in Salt Lake City. I was visiting family and realized that I had a situation that was going to be resolved in short order. I could tell immediately that the terms of the resolution could be set by me or the other concerned party. Either way, I was a ticking time bomb. After sanitarily situating myself upon the available depository, I realized that I had a neighbor. Like me, he was also attempting to remedy his plight with the utmost of auditory discretion. I was aware that I was engaged in an epic battle of wills. I was determined to see my adversary committed to the murky depths (without an utterance on its part) when I arrived on the scene, but as events unfolded I was quickly made aware of the fact that I was hopelessly outmatched. Evidently the co-inhabitant of the room was blessed with better fortune than I. He had completed his task in exemplary fashion. It was at such time that my condition had come to a head. All time stood still. The uncontrollable breach was imminent. I knew that the anonymous person adjacent to me was aware, on some level, of my situation due to imperfections in my performance caused by the desperation that had seized me. It was then that I knew, the battle was lost. My thoughts turned to the kamikaze pilots of the Great War. Without thinking I said aloud, " You know what? I'm just gonna let this thing go." With that, I simultaneously collapsed containment and summoned every ounce of strength I had in me. I bore down on my assailant with all my might. The resulting explosion of material, coupled with the massive shock wave of water, was deafening. Silence took the room. I was lost in an eternity of defeat. It was then that the satisfaction and peace washed over me like a warm gentle wave of the sea on a sandy beach. I knew I had lost touch with reality. I was being tugged back to my senses by a mysterious and rhythmic hissing. As my wits returned to me, I could hear the sound coming from my left, just on the other side of the steel partition. The source of hissing sound became apparent to me. Laughter. Laughter from someone overwhelmed by the sensory bouquet that had consumed the entire space only moments earlier. Our somewhat shared experience had obviously overloaded every synapse in his head and his brain was struggling to process what his senses had portrayed to him. By now it was apparent that he was so tightly gripped by the involuntary response that he was having trouble catching his breath. After a few moments he seemed able to collect himself enough to wash his hands and make an exit that was honestly not hasty enough for my taste. None the less I remained in solitude for another few minutes to ensure that my identity remained hidden upon my egress from this gastrointestinal colosseum of terrors. It was a learning experience to be sure. Sometimes a man can only do so much to defend his public image in the face of great adversity.

A few years ago, a friend of mine had a bachelor party. I'd forgotten about it until about two weeks before it happened, so I'd entirely forgotten to save up. Luckily, I made enough money that I could afford to go on the trip, but I knew I'd have to be a bit frugal. Unfortunately, it was Vegas, and I have a generally addictive personality... Well, lucky for me, we were staying in Reno, a little ways out of Vegas, so the hotel was pretty cheap. It at least allowed me to have a little fun gambling. We had a pretty good time the first few days. Hell, I actually ended up about $300 after the second day, of a five day trip. The third day was pretty relaxed... Mostly just relaxing by the pool, not much gambling... at that point I had about $400 to blow for the weekend, which was nice. The fourth day, though... Fuck, the fourth day... Started off like any other day in Vegas. We got up, hungover as hell, at about 8am (well, I got up, and woke the rest of the lazy amateurs up). Did a few lines of blow, pocketed the rest, and headed back out to Vegas. Well, they did. I decided I was gonna check out the Reno scene, if only to give my body a rest for a day. What a fucking mistake. I started out in some little diner. Made smalltalk with the young waitress there. Part of me wanted to flirt with her, because, well, she was Reno-cute, but I still felt like death warmed-over. Hell, maybe I was flirting with her and didn't realize it, because she gave me her number, and after I told her I was just there for a few days, said she'd pick me up that night and we'd have a good time. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not an idiot...but I was out of town, and it seemed like a great idea in my booze/coke filled mind. So I barhopped the rest of the day, until about the time she was supposed to pick me up, when I went back to the hotel. I waited around the room, doing the last of the blow, drinking the last of the booze, until she finally called, said she was downstairs. Hell, I was so jacked up I didn't give a damn what happened, but in that coked-up frenzy, I kinda wanted to get fucked. Went down, hopped in her beat up red Honda civic, and let her drive. Sober, I'd'a taken count of where we were going, but at this point all I could do was stare at the tits on that waitress, who's name I still didn't know. Couldn't tell you how long it was, but we ended up in some shitty neighborhood. Didn't strike me wrong at the time, because, well, I was distracted by a piece of ass, and a shitty neighborhood wasn't gonna get between me and getting my rocks off. She pulls me out of the car, and leads me up to this little shotgun house. The porch light was busted, I remember that. I remember it, because it wasn't just burnt out, like every non-working light you've ever seen... It was actually busted. The lightbulb itself was broken. Don't know why that struck me, but for some reason it made me really uneasy. Still, I was drunk and coked up, and really wanted that waitress ass. I followed her in the place. Now, I've been in some shitty places in my life, but this place was something different. Dirty shag carpet, barely illuminated by cheap red lightblubs clinking in their housing as the fan above them spun away, sweeping the rancid smoke of tobacco, and god knows what other substances being exhaled into the stale air of the small house. Still, I wanted to get some. She pulled me back into a little bedroom, and threw me on the bed. Finally, after all this shit, I was gonna have this slut ride me for a few minutes until I got bored and pretended to cum, because, let's be honest, I was too coked up to blow. It was all an ego thing. Of course, my goddamn dreams didn't get too far, when a couple of shady motherfuckers jump out of the closet of the little damn room. Looking back at it, I can't believe I let that stupid little tramp play me like that, but, well, looking back at it, I'm sober. Well, you wouldn't know it to look at me, but I come from a pretty shitty past, and this wasn't the first time I'd been jumped. It was pretty obvious these two wannabe gangster pricks played me for some out of town pussy, they took the time to try to make some big show of how they 'got me.' Well, I wasn't having any of that shit. Maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the blow, all I know is I blacked out. A minute? An hour? At some point, I came to. Standing up, a pain in my chest, nose, my right hand. My blood was boiling, heart pounding out of my chest, dizzy as hell... Couldn't say how long I stood there, confused, before the world filled around me. It was the strangest experience. The shitty, lounge-lizard music waving through the place through some cheap, probably-stolen speakers, eased through the pulse in my ears. The crying. Fuck, the crying. That bitch that brought me here was crumpled up in a corner crying. Sensations perked back up in my limbs, mostly pain. I took in the situation. The two guys. The two fucking guido pieces of shit that thought they'd have the best of me. They were on the floor. One of the bastards, I remember he was bald, had a fucking fedora on, he was closest to me. All I can really say about the guy was that he was bald. Don't really remember what he looked at before I blacked out, and... Well, he didn't have much of a face left when I came out of it. The faint smoke of a pistol, obviously shot faster than it was made to, escaped a barrel, next to his body. He was left, limp, on the ground, more blood than skin showing. His friend was a little better off, if you can consider it as such. His left arm hung pretty limp next to him, as he crouched over the fedora fuck. His hand was on the bald prick's neck, he was screaming, "He's dead. He's fucking dead. You fucking killed him!" This big, strong guy was crying, and apparently it was my fault. I ditched. I wasn't about to be charged with a damn crime I couldn't even remember. I ran the fuck out of there. I had no idea where I was, but I knew I needed to be out of there. My vest, my button-up, they went out to the side of the road. Looking back, I was still probably covered in blood. Especially considering my thumb was facing the wrong direction, my nose was pretty much flat, and I had a couple broken ribs. God knows how I ran with those ribs... Adrenaline's a helluva drug. I'd say the adrenaline wore off after a while, because I ended up blacking out again. Woke up sometime the next morning, to the freaked-out screams of my delinquent friends... Must have looked worse than I remember. I told'em I didn't remember a thing, and decided to stay in the hotel 'til it was time for home. I guess what I'm getting at is... I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.

By The Waters of Babylon Essay. Option 1. Fox Power Period 7 English 3-4 Explosions slowly bloomed and faded like spring flowers in the far distance, almost out of view I could hear their dull thud slowly but surely getting gradually louder, “took them long enough” I thought to myself as I cracked open a bottle of partially drunk whiskey and took a deep swig from the glass bottle. The burn as it went down my throat soon became a comforting heat that years of A.A. meetings tried to make me forget. “If only my girlfriend could see me now” I uttered the words with a sort of sarcastic melancholy in the tone of them. Most of the time I don’t think about her but when I do think of her it brings so many good memories I sometimes spend hours reminiscing about all that happened to us. My name is John and I live on the 5th story of an apartment building on 6th Avenue. I’ve been listening to the radio off and on for the past few days, and each day it seems to get worse and worse. There are more talks of war, catastrophe, and death, but the war has been going on for years now. Only recently, has America been attacked on our own soil. Hawaii, most of Alaska, and some parts of the west coast have fallen to enemy attacks. They say the east coast is safe but I doubt it, I doubt a lot of things these days. I doubt that anyone will win in the end. War doesn't let anyone win, just a few come out of it better than others. The only comfort I have these days is the half bottle of whiskey by my side and the knowledge that New York will probably be one of the last cities to be attacked. My girlfriends name was Sophia, me and her met at bar in northern Maine I was up there to look for work I was fresh out of high school and needed to be somewhere other than wyoming. She had been living up there with her family since she was eight and had just graduated highschool too. When I walked into the bar it was mostly empty, only a bartender, some locals and her. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, every day for a month I came to that bar just to talk to her. Eventually we got married and moved to new york together. Then the war started. The sun is starting to set. Most everyone has gone to their homes. All the stores have been emptied. People are afraid. An attack on New York is almost inevitable. They say that communications have broken down between nations. Each side has ships off each other’s coast. Airplanes fly over New York every once in awhile. Some are shot out of the sky, others drop bombs onto various parts of the city. The radio is playing an emergency broadcast. They keep telling us the same things: “Stay inside... Avoid areas where bombs are being dropped ...Gather food and water”. I get up to turn off the radio. I hear the floor beneath my feet creak and groan as I walk over to the other side of the room. I begin to notice how cold the room is; even the whiskey can only keep me so warm. As I walk back to my brown leather chair, I move it slightly closer to the large window overlooking the city. I begin to notice more and more fires, sprouting up like weeds after the first spring rain. I wake up, not even realizing that I had fallen asleep. I look over at the clock on the wall. I sigh as I see that it’s almost three in the morning. I look toward the city, only to be horrified by what I saw. Fires burned out of control throughout the entire city. Large fleets of planes fly over the city in dogfights, dancing like butterflies in the heat of summer. I took a long deep drink of whiskey, finishing my bottle. I knew that this bottle would be my last. I sat for a long time looking over the city, entranced by the chaos of the destruction. The gravity of what was happening wasn’t lost on me, but I had long lost my passion for the war. It may have partially been because of the alcohol, but mostly it was due to the fact that the war had been going on for years. Now maybe, just maybe, through the destruction of our countries, we could end the fighting. The death. The pain. In my thoughts, I failed to notice the city slowly becoming quieter. As I looked from the sky to the ground, I saw a green gas slowly filling the streets. I dropped my empty bottle and slowly closed my eyes, falling asleep for the last time.

And you think dragons don’t exist? You know, I’m going to have to have words with that teacher of yours. Imagine telling you an outrageous lie like that. Next you’ll be telling me you don’t believe in unicorns either. Of course dragons exist. What do you think keeps the inside of volcanoes so hot? Back when the Norse, Celtic, Greek and Roman gods were around there were no such things as matches and lighters. Who do you think it was that lit their cigars and ceremonial fires? Dragons, of course. Special dragons that they kept for just such an occasion. The use of animals for household use wasn’t invented for The Flintstones, you know. I recognise that look on your face. But dad, you are wondering, if dragons do actually exist, where do they live? They don’t live in Britain. Well, as far as you know. You know that we’ve explored most of the world. Well, there are some places that you think are uninhabitable, but that’s just for humans. Other creatures can live in these places. Let’s see. Pixies and faeries live on a group of islands in the Federated States of Micronesia. I believe that unicorns, seeing as I mentioned them before, are from somewhere near Papua New Guinea. And dragons? Well, they live on an island, shaped like a claw, just off the coast of Greenland. That may surprise you, given that they breathe fire, but it’s because of that. The fire they breathe lives inside them and they get kind of hot. So they need to live somewhere cold to compensate for that. The fire acts as central heating for their bodies. Forget what you’ve read about dragons. Some of it is true, such as the fire breathing, and the descriptions are generally right, but they are not the evil creatures you may well imagine them to be. They are actually nice and helpful. Of course, you get some that are bad natured, as with any creature, but on the most part they like humans. Some of them power the furnaces in Santa’s workshop. Sadly, they can be destructive. It’s not deliberate, just because of the fire thing. The great fire of London is rumoured to have been started by a dragon that was flying overhead at the time and sneezed at the wrong moment. Volcano eruptions are supposed to be the result of a dragon dying. I happen to know that’s what causes forest fires, but even they can be useful. It can help keep the forest from spreading too much without needing to cut down the trees. They are only a problem if they threaten human habitats. Humans can see them. Humans have. Looking out the window of a plane, usually late at night. Glimpsing up to the sky. The reason it’s not more widely reported is because of people like your teacher. They can’t believe they actually saw it so they pretend it’s something else. There you have it. I will ask you not to reveal this conversation to your teacher, because I’m not sure she’ll actually be too happy with me. Just as long as you know the truth.

He pinched the sweaty glass between his thumb and middle finger, swirling the last watered down sip of regret. His other elbow was firmly planted on the bar, propping up his shame and providing a perch for a smouldering cigarette. The air was saturated with silky strands of smoke from all of the broken machines occupying the bar. It was a sickening environment. The last swig went back fast and was swallowed hard. His still moist fingertips took on a new task and swept inwards, drawing across closed eyelids and meeting with a squeeze at the bridge of his nose. "Why now?" He rhetorically asked himself. "Why the fuck does it fall apart now?" He caught himself anxiously bouncing his leg, and upon stopping, all the motion and subconscious thought reverberated back inside, cutting through the alcoholic haze to agitate an already over-burdened mind. He cracked. With a quivering lip he murmured "thanks" to the bartender and dropped the crumpled up twenty dollar bills beside the ashtray. He stood up, fumbled pathetically with his jacket zipper, and made for the door while fighting back tears. Ignoring two familiar faces as drove through the doorway, and into the damp rainy darkness. Street lights glistened on the wet pavement, and, having no cover, the rain allowed him to let the tears flow without prejudice. With his face buried in his collar, he began his somber drudge home to an empty house, and in the midst of it all, allowed himself one minor thought of luxury: "There's always tomorrow".

Inspired by image. A view into the mind of this grotesque creature. The dim rocky landscape spreads in all directions as far as I can see. Monotonous grey broken only by the shadows of the stones that litter the world. There are others like me. Various twisted forms writhing into the distance. Some with clutching appendages searching for things that might satisfy their existence. Perhaps food for some, companionship for others. Most seek only the sick pleasure of further injuring one another. If there is one thing I know, it is that we all wish for death. Horrible, wretched things we are. We know our bodies to be broken, but we know not how. We lack the perspective to understand how we were meant to be. This was never meant to be a place of healing. A place of life. I reach to the sky, searching for a God that never was, and beg Him to end my misery. That end will never come. This is all I know. I always was and always will be. Until the end of time I will wait, my arm outstretched, until I cease to exist.

Hello fellow Redditors, as the title implies I need your intelligence and cunning to help me. I am having a problem writing a story that connects, and for the most part its pretty hard to gauge how *good* a story is, at least without the biased of what you want in the story. - **Here's where you come in!** I would like you guys to submit to me an idea, whether its smut, a love story, a murder, a mystery, anything, and I'll write your story, tailored for you. I'll post it accordingly so everyone has a chance to see, but seeing how I put in the effort to write it for you I would like you to comment on what could be better on a critical standpoint. I thought it would be fun, Thanks for your time! tl;dr - Post a story idea from smut to Dr. Seuss I'll write it and post it back to you as practice for different genres.

My mommy is the best mommy in the world. She’s making me my favorite chocolate chip pancakes. And today is especially special so I know she’ll make the smiley face. Last time she made it, she made the smile with the whipped cream that makes those funny noises when it comes out of the can. And the eyes were bananas with a chocolate chip right in the middle. To make it look like the black part of your eye. My mommy never lets me have any chocolate chips while I’m waiting for them to cook, but she said today is special so she brought me a few on a plate. Today is special because it’s my day. It’s my birthday. I’m seven. That’s nearly ten. I’m not a little kid anymore. I’m pretty much a grown up. That weatherman on the TV is really funny looking. His nose is kinda big and he talks really funny. Now he’s pointing at the pictures of the rain. I think that means it’s supposed to rain today. I hate it when it rains. Sometimes when it rains, the water gets through the holes in my shoes and it gets all the way to my toes and I don’t like it when it does that. It makes me cold and I don’t like being cold. Now they’re talking about money or those credit card things or something. I like credit cards. They’re magical cards. All I know is that when you swipe them on that machine at a store, you don’t have to give them any money for all the stuff you’re getting. It’s like a get your stuff free card. It’s really cool. I don’t think I like money though. It makes my daddy yell at my mommy sometimes. The only kind of money that I know I really like is that colored money that you play with in Monopoly. The board that we have was falling apart and I think we lost some of those red and green houses and some of the money. I really like that game. It’s pretty much my favorite. No, it is my favorite game in the whole wide world. That’s why I asked for a new one for my birthday and that box on the counter over there looks like it’s just the right size. And it’s wrapped in Spiderman paper. Spiderman is my favorite super hero. He can climb walls and spray the bad guys with a spider web. That’s just so cool. It’s so much fun when my mommy and daddy play games with me. They haven’t played with me in a really long time. I can’t wait until I get to open my present after school. I hope school goes by fast today. I hope Sadie doesn’t copy my answers. And I hope Miss Brown doesn’t make me wear that silly hat that she makes you wear if it’s your birthday. It looks itchy. I don’t like wearing things on my head anyway. Like when my mommy makes me wear that cherry hat that makes it looks like I have red cherry on top of my head. It’s not a real cherry, or else I would eat it. My mommy says that it keeps the heat from coming out of my head or something. I think that’s crazy. My head doesn’t have a hole in it! My pancakes are ready. And he even has a nose! It’s made out of chocolate chips. I told you my mommy was the best mommy in the world. I’m about to gobble him up. First his eyes. Then his nose. Now, the fun part. The whipped cream. Why is everything more fun to eat with your fingers? Licking your hands all in between your fingers is the best part. It’s almost as good as getting to lick the brownie batter off the spoon. That’s more fun than eating the brownies normal. I really like it when my mommy puts the frosting and sprinkles on top of the brownies when she makes them. I should go get ready for school now. I think I’m gonna wear my shirt with the rocket on it. My daddy it for me at the mall last week. I really like rockets. I hope the bus isn’t early today. I wish school would only be on two days instead of five. I don’t really like school. Sadie is cheating from my answers again. She should know how to add numbers with double digits by now. We learned about them last week. She’s a girl. Girls are dumb. She doesn’t know any better. I know I should tell on her, but I don’t think Miss Brown likes me very much. When she asks a question and I know the answer and I raise my hand, she never calls on me. I bet my mommy gave me Oreos in my lunch today. I love Oreos. Especially dipped in milk. That’s my favorite. You dip them in milk and then you lick all the cream out of the middle and then you eat the two cookies. I hope Aaron doesn’t want to trade at lunch today. I like animal crackers, but everybody knows that Oreos are better than animal crackers. Now we’re doing spelling. I did my spelling words last night, so I already know how to spell ‘birthday’ and ‘shove’ and ‘without’. I like spelling though. I can spell the days of the week too. My favorite day of the week is Friday. That’s what today is. And it’s my birthday tot. That makes today extra cool. My mommy is gonna let me open my present when my daddy gets home tonight. I can’t wait to rip the paper off and see what I got, even though I already know what they got me. I knew they would get me a new Monopoly game. I just knew it. And mommy and daddy even said that they would play with me tonight if I set up all the pieces. Mommy said she wanted to be that thing you put on your finger sometimes when you sew. I think it’s called a thimble. And daddy said he wanted to be the shoe. They always let me be the boat. I’ve never been on a boat, but I bet it would be fun. Maybe someday I’ll get to ride on a boat. Wait a second. There’s no board in this box. Or boat. Or thimble. Or shoe. Or even any of those red and green houses. All that’s in this box is money. Not even the kind that’s all different colors that usually comes with the game either. This is all real money. The kind that I don’t like. I didn’t get my game after all. All I got was this stupid money. Stupid, stupid money.

AJ was in the laundry mat bathroom, brushing his teeth. After that he had to wash the soap that he had sudsed up on his body off. By the time he walked out of the bathroom, there was a puddle of water in the center of the floor and His laundry was ready to be tossed into the dryer though. Towel wrapped around his waist, AJ carefully walked his wet feet across the tile floor to the washing machine that held his favorite clothes. He opened up the lid and grabbed as much as he could hold in the one hand of his that wasn’t holding up his towel and turned to the open dryer behind him and tossed it inside. He repeated the act one more time before he shut the door and walked back to the plastic chairs that were near the restroom. In his plastic grocery bag, where he had stashed his soap and toothbrush, he fished for the change that he heard rattling at the bottom of it. After trapping the three quarters between his fingers, he walked back to the dryer and began placing the money into the coin slots. With one hand, it was a struggle, but he got the first two in successfully. As he tried to move the final quarter from his palm to his fingers, it slipped up into the air. His hand tried to catch it once, but only knocked it higher. His lack of shame took center stage as he let go of his towel and tried to grab the coin from the air with both hands. Alas, AJ ended up seeing the coin hit the floor and begin rolling away from him. His body leapt to the ground and landed on all fours, crawling after the fleeing coin. AJ’s hand reached out, and he felt his fingertips touch the edge of the quarter and set it to wobbling for the last moment of its journey, a journey that ended with it in the only safe haven that existed in a laundry mat. He put his ear to the floor and he saw the quarter tip and finally fall over about nine or ten inches underneath a washing machine. His hand reached out, but was stopped before it could touch the coin by the closeness of the washing machine to the floor. He struggled, pushed and wiggled his hand and fingers’, trying to get closer enough to pull the coin towards him, but luck was not on his side. He got to his knees and tried to use one hand to muscle the machine up a couple millimeters while he pushed his hand underneath it, but his muscles were not up to the task. Sighing, he looked around and realized that the single mother he had been eyeing before he went into the bathroom was covering the eyes of her daughter. When AJ made eye contact with her he could only wink, hoping that she liked what she saw. AJ got up and walked back to the towel that was on the floor, he picked it up and draped it around him again before sauntering back to his bag and searching for another coin. After a moment of feeling for a coin that he couldn’t quite find he began pulling out each item from the bag. On the chair he set his bar of soap and his toothbrush, followed by a tiny combo bottle of shampoo and conditioner, a travel mouthwash and cologne, all items that are easily pocketed from the local Wal-Mart. Only after he emptied the contents of the bag did he find the coin that he had remembered was at the bottom of the bag. Between his thumb and forefinger he pulled it out, smile on his face, and held it up in front of his eyes. Then his smile slowly melted from his face as he recognized the nickel that he tightly clutched between his fingers. He turned back to the machines to see the blonde mother give him a filthy look, and her young daughter give her the finger, as they walked out of the laundry mat with a basket of unfolded clothes. “Shit” AJ went over to the soap machine, hoping that maybe he could stumble across a left over quarter in its clutches, but was unsurprised when he came up empty. Next he checked each and every washing and drying machine in the building for a spare quarter. Finally he went back to where he knew one quarter lay. There, with his face against the floor, and hand stuck a fingertip away from the last quarter he needed, he reached an epiphany. Quickly he got to his feet and walked back to the seat that held his grooming supplies. There he picked up his tooth brush and, tool in hand, headed back to where his problem lay. He returned to the floor and watched as the bristles of his toothbrush were placed on the far side of the quarter and swept the coin out from underneath the dusty darkness that it had escaped to. A proud smile crossed his face as he picked up the quarter and placed it into the machine. Then he pushed the coins into the machine and it began spinning the water out of his clothes. AJ sauntered back to his belongings and began putting them all back into the bag. Before he set his toothbrush in the bag he went back into the bathroom and washed it underneath the facet water, cleaning the majority of the dust from its bristles. In his towel he sat back down on the plastic chair, spread his legs wide, and picked up his copy of Guns Monthly. He was lost in the pictures of women in bikinis holding rifles, handguns and bazookas. He turned the pages sideways and pulled them to within inches from his face, taking in the fabulous ability of the photographers to capture the glean of light off the well-oiled barrels and chests in the glossy photographs. After he studied the glossy paper for a good twenty or thirty minutes a buzzer went off. The buzzer that meant his clothes were all ready to go. AJ set down the magazine and went to pick up his wardrobe. He opened the door and put his hands on his nice and warm clothes. Then he pulled his hand away sharply. He hand found the buttons to his pants, and they were still pretty damn hot. AJ looked over his shoulder. Since the woman had finished her laundry earlier, he had been alone in the room. Yes, there were the open windows that he was standing next to, and the traffic that could easily see everything that was going on inside, but there was no real good reason for him to walk all the way back to the bathroom and dress himself. So right there he dropped his towel and began to rummage through his hot laundry in search of his underwear. He found them and inspected them for a moment before deciding that the side with the stains was the inside. Next he pulled his jeans from the dryer, and slid them up his legs, one side at a time. There is nothing quite like the comfort of putting on freshly dried jeans, AJ smiled blissfully as he buttoned the still hot buttons. Next he pulled out his favorite T-Shirt. He had cut off the sleeves long ago, and the beer stains were beginning to accumulate on it. But as he held it up for his eyes, the faded words of “Home is where you park it” were still easily read underneath the picture of a beaten trailer. The warmth of the shirt penetrated his chest and drove right down through his skin into his heart. He grabbed the rest of his clothes, in his arms and began to walk back to his chair. As he turned he saw the group of girls standing, staring at him through the glass of the front window. All of their faces were turned into masks of disgust, on top of their green and brown Girl Scout outfits. Unable to think of anything else to do, AJ cracked a grin and waved to his audience before he filled his other grocery bag with the rest of his clothes. He grabbed a pair of holed socks and put them on his feet before slipping them inside of his boots and walking out the back of the laundry mat. In the parking lot of the laundry mat, AJ looked to either side of him, took account of his things that were held in the pair of plastic bags he was holding. Satisfied that he had all of his things he began walking away. He sauntered past each and every beaten up, down trodden car and truck that were in the lot and continued to walk to the back alleyways that led to backstreets. Through the side streets of the small town he walked until he got to a horribly beaten down trailer park. There he navigated past abandoned motorhomes, random barbeques and rouge tires. He walked past knee high weeds and fragments of broken fences, until he arrived at trailer that was shedding its yellowish paint and replacing it with a brown rust. His couch was sitting in the grass next to the steps to his door. He set his bags down in the weeds and sat down. AJ leaned back, stretched his feet out to rest on the top of a worn out red cooler. He closed his eyes, and felt good about finally getting his laundry done. Having accomplished that, he had already overachieved for the day. This was gonna be a good week.

“Hey, fuck-face, that’s my spot your in.” A patron shouted as he walked through the door that served as an entrance to the derelict bar. “Ain’t got a name on it, and the barkeep never said it was spoken for, rekin you’re outta luck.” Bronco spoke nonchalantly never raising his eyes from the glass of Jack Daniels in front of him. At twenty-eight years old he stood six foot one and just shy of two hundred pounds. He started work young doing yard work and odd jobs around town, eventually winding up in construction then down to the local shipyard. He never drew much attention and never asked for trouble; it just had a way of following him and showing up. Years of hard living and work had helped build him to take on most trouble that wanted to be found. “Listen, I told you it’s my spot, do I have to beat that in to you?” The fellow hollered walking closer to Bronco. Roughly the same age, he could tell this kid was just pea cocking around for the other bar-flys. “Sorry for the mess, ma’am.” Slugging down the last two inches whiskey in his glass and placing a hundred dollar bill down underneath it. “Something’s just gotta happen” turning to face to noisy intruder. “The fuc-” never got to finish his sentence at swift left cross connected with his abdomen and sent him stumbling back into the bar stools, a second right hook caught his jaw laying the poor kid out on the floor. “Again sorry for the mess.” Bronco stepped over the unconscious mess that once was. He walked to his beat up jeep; the sun was starting to set over the Pacific.

They sit across from each other, both visibly uncomfortable. In the silence all the stories they wanted to tell each other could be heard; that quiet scream beneath the hum that nothingness makes. Lawrence looks into his cup and a smile spreads across his face. "Its funny. Some people think they can divine the future with a cup of tea," Lifting his head to lock eyes with Trevor, his own becoming quite damp. "But in my experience, its a better way to see your present. When I look into this cup I see the reflection of the person I want to be. It took some time, but I'm finally here." Putting his tea on the table separating the two men, he moves around it to sit himself next to Trevor. Their eyes never moving. "Now look into yours." Lawrence gingerly holds Trevor's cup and hands in his own and lifts them so they can peek into the dark liquid. As the ripples calm to a slow lull in the mug, his hands tighten slightly. "Is this what you want to see?" Trevor's breath catches in his throat as a tear lands suddenly on his wrist. Pulling his eyes up from the cup, he turns up to see rivers flowing past Lawrence's laughter lines. Releasing a hand from the mug, Trevor wipes the stream of tears from his smooth cheek. "This. This face is all I've ever wanted to see. You know that. You've always known that." Barely managing to continue holding the mug, their faces meet for the first time in years. At last, they both exhale into one another; this was always meant to be. The mug falls.

“Come on, dude. Just don't fuck Hannah,” he said, a whine coming into his voice. He hadn't- that much was certain. Maybe a pity handjob once, when she really began to realize how pathetic he was. I guess I shouldn't be so harsh on the kid. He gave it his best, miserable shot, and things fell through. Now he was just going to blame himself, perhaps appropriately, but I couldn't fault him for going stiff as the Rockies the first time he saw her. He was quicker than me to know what he wanted, I could give him credit for that. But he didn't have my determination. When I met this specimen on his first day of college, I knew immediately that something was weak about him. I detected a strange mix of Eagle Scout values and the self-confidence that comes from a lifetime in Mom's basement. He had the backbone of a beached jellyfish and the sexual instinct of a juvenile sloth that had sniffed too many paint thinners. But the thought of exploiting him would never have crossed my mind. Still doesn't, really. What I do with my own penis is none of the kid's damned concern. “Hi, I'm your RA, Steve,” I grinned. He wilted, and I instead directed my handshake towards his mother. Nice tits, really, still pretty firm considering she'd probably nursed this sack of shit until he was in high school. I didn't see a father around, but I knew I still probably couldn't pull that off. And there was no point in bothering with a surprising MILF when I was a senior with a private room, freshman pussy downstairs, gonna tear that shit up- The kid knew how to make fast friends, I'd give him that. He seemed to know as well as anyone that he was neither smart nor athletic, both unattractive and uninteresting. But he had money, money that he converted into flashy toys that would give him the quick and shallow glow of false friendship. I would stop by a few times a week to commandeer his Xbox, and pretend to listen to his troubles with women. “I could hook you up with someone,” I joked. “Dude, really, that'd be awesome. Like don't tell anyone, but, well, I've never-” “Shut up, shut up. I don't want to hear about that.” “So, for real?” “Yeah. One of my friends. She could help you out with your 'little problem'.” The damn kid. He pestered me about that proposal for a while, which I'd suggested for no reason other than the hope that it might shut him the fuck up. It backfired a little. Thankfully, I'd had enough success with the junior girls that I didn't even need to hit up the freshman whores in our hall. When I'd finally had enough, I took him to one of those sit-down nightclubs, not quite a bar, and let him watch my game. I had two fingers deep in this chick's pussy when the kid made his life-changing discovery. She was all over me in five minutes, said she was Canadian. I could taste her black lipstick, and I got off just by hearing the little hiccup she gave when I touched her G-spot. And the kid was nowhere to be seen. I didn't give a fuck. He'd better not tell anyone I'd brought him here. As I dragged the Canadian along for the night, he bounced back up behind me. “It's...” he paused for breath “it's a good night.” “Sure is,” I laughed, as the drunken Canadian draped her arm across the back of my neck. “Can you get back?” “Yeah, yeah, I can!” he bubbled, and for once I felt something other than contempt for him. He left my mind for the rest of the night as I fucked the Canadian mercilessly, but even then, she wasn't good enough to make me think it'd last forever. I barely saw the kid for a week. It was good to get a break from his bitching, but I didn't mind his Xbox and the free weed he'd been giving out lately. To make things worse, my success with the ladies above the drinking age had faltered, and I'd been forced to take the plunge and tap into some freshman vagina. It wasn't bad, really. More of them were virgins than you'd think. I came back late from a test one night and his door was open. I peeked in and saw her. He bumbled. “Oh, yeah, this is Hannah,” he started. “I guess we're kinda- I dunno-” “I like him,” she shot up. I gave the pair a look of wry amusement. So the kid might finally have sex, I thought to myself. I headed back to my room. Hannah was reasonably attractive, though nothing about her stood out from the other freshman girls. Except for that little indicator of confidence I'd seen- certainly, it offset him. I had a booty call later with some nameless girl from the floor below. Still unsatisfied, I masturbated a little to get to sleep. The laptop on my chest was flipped open to some quality porn, and as I came, some unsettling feeling washed over me. Feeling nauseous, I headed to the bathroom to wash my face. It was gone now, my stomach settled, but my mind was still upset about something. I walked out into the hall again, and saw Hannah sneak past the corner. I did a double take. Stalking quickly back to my room, I turned out all the lights and tried to sleep. When I touched my penis again, Hannah's well-shaped body flashed through my mind. Well, I just couldn't help it. I devoured everything in my path- the darkest pornography I could find, the trashiest girls at the bars, even that Chinese chick in Econ who I'd been too intimidated by. I was pleasantly surprised to find that she wanted the D like crazy. But when she, too, abandoned my bed in the morning, I knew that I hadn't had enough. I avoided the freshmen. Still, I somehow couldn't keep Hannah off my mind. The one girl I really shouldn't have, save for my mother. If I made even the slightest move towards Hannah, I would never hear the end of this kid's complaints. I saw her around campus sometimes, shot her a smile which she was unreliable at returning. She just had an incredible *ass*, something I wanted to sink my teeth into like a vampire. I couldn't control myself. The kid must have noticed that I was stopping by his room more and more, without interest in the Xbox. I just kept asking what was going on with Hannah. But he was too fucking stupid to suspect *that*. He knocked at a bad time. I'd just finished with another blonde-haired freshman, this one with only a moderately voluptuous posterior. For the first time in my life, I had a type. She covered herself up, and I stepped outside. “Dude...I need advice,” he sniveled. “I haven't seen Hannah in a week. She just...she doesn't seemed interested anymore.” I consoled him like a jackal might assure a wounded antelope that the suffering would soon end. “Don't worry,” I lied. What was I thinking? Was I really destroying this kid's relationship to get some ass? I couldn't control myself at all anymore. “Just give her some space. Stop texting her.” I was giddy. I headed back inside and kicked the blonde out, hatching my plan. Over the next few days, I kept seeing Hannah around campus. There was no discernable change in her persona, but she met my gaze now. Her eyelids would flutter, but her cheeks never flushed. She had no shame, and knew exactly what she wanted. “I think we're done,” the kid stated glumly. “But like, I just have another problem...” “What's that?” I intoned in an Academy Award-winning feint of concern. “I keep seeing her on the floor. And she doesn't even look at me, but like, well, it's an all-guys floor...” “Well, maybe you can't trust her,” I shrugged. “There are lots of women, it'll take you time to find a worthwhile one-” “Just, dude,” he started. “I think you're really cool and all, but like, you know, you haven't...” “No, of course not,” I laughed harshly. “Why does she keep coming down here?” Fuck. Was the kid onto me, or was he just jealous? “Just do it for me,” he said. “What are you talking about? You're going to have to be more clear.” “Come on, dude. Just don't fuck Hannah.” I assured him I wouldn't. I was secretly thrilled at his timing, however- the clothes I was changing into weren't for the bar that night. I showed him out, and grabbed an extra condom. I'd insisted we do it in her room. Somehow that tiny freshman dorm seemed tantalizing to me- I'd equated it as a sanctum with the smaller, biological one I was bound to enter, elevating both into divinity. Hannah didn't scream or cry when we had sex, and she seemed remarkably composed afterwards. I wasn't sure if I wanted her again, but I'd shrugged off my suspicion that she was like some early-maturing spider, trapping me in her sexuality for reasons unknown. I felt little weight off my shoulders- in fact, the only thing I'd learned was that I was mostly a man led around by his penis, with a side hobby of devouring people's souls.

**The Death of Annie Sin Claire** Annie had been left alone for the night. They said there was gonna be a storm, so they ran away while she was sleeping. That is what must've happened. Because they were all gone. And when she woke up, she found that the entire house was empty, as if nobody had ever been there in the first place. Everyone and everything had just fucking disappeared like it was nothing more than a bad dream. Annie had never been alone before. It felt secretive and empowering. But something didn't... feel right. There was a deep rooted sense of some sort of violation, like being watched or filmed. Maybe, she thought wistfully, maybe this is like one of those times when I had thought I'd woken up, but it was nothing more than a dream. Maybe I'm still sleeping. Annie walked quietly down stairs, met with the same sinister silence and feeling of being violated. Every single clock face had frozen at 3:07 am. Maybe, I overslept. Maybe I'm late. But the view outside the window suggested deep, dark night. The sky was starless and suffocating, as if she was looking up at an over turned bowl of tinted glass. Everything about this moment spelled disaster. She closed the windows as carefully and quietly as possible, as if afraid to wake a sleeping toddler, and headed obliviously up to bed. The feeling of being stalked followed her relentlessly up the staircase, as if it had taken over from her shadow, and slinked into her room like an invisible fog. She sensed it settling on all possible surfaces, as if familiarising itself. Marking it's territory. Then, it materialised into something a little more substantial on the armchair near her bed. Annie watched as the fog became black. As black as the night sky outside, maybe even darker. It spilled out and filled up the chair, growing taller and taller. The outline slowly became familiar, then, the process ended abruptly as a scythe materialised in its robed claws. Annie watched calmly as Death made himself comfortable in her bedroom. "Would you like something to drink?" she asked, as if talking to nobody of particular importance. "Sure, if you can manage to bring me an ice cold cup of souls this time of night." said Death. "I'll see what I can do." She padded off quietly towards the direction of the kitchen.

**Broken Souls** Sometimes I wake up and I feel like there’s a massive hole in my chest. I feel weighed down and nauseous from the rocking boat of a life that I live, It’s like everything I touch dies. My friends, my family, anybody I’ve ever loved really. I’d love to say that this story is about meeting someone that changes that all, but it’s far from it. I grew up in London, the financial capital of England where dreams come true and money talks, and all the fuckers who live here are so diseased inside their rotten apple of materialistic consumption that their hearts are probably full of worms. The people I grew around weren’t particularly nice and had a sort of passion for making lives of the 1% a living nightmare, but that’s okay because they’re broken. See we’re all broken in our own way, every one of us. Even those who think that their life is great with their boyfriends or girlfriends and wives and husbands; they’re all broken.People and love are like lines, the parallel lines have so much in common. They both are heading in the same direction, they both possess the same mathematical properties. But they never meet. Ever. But you know some lines cross each other briefly...but they drift apart forever and they will never meet again. Ever. Like the parallel lines, thankfully me and the arseholes at my secondary school won’t ever meet again which gives me a slight sense of optimism. So I was onto sixth form, with a clear image of a new change in my my head I was actually looking forward to going to sixth form for the first few months. The people there were nice, the stuff we learnt was interesting, and they’re weren’t too many apes with sagging tracksuits asking if I’m “Dizzy fam”. It was good, and the best part was there was actually a girl in my Biology class who was amazing. She was funny, cute and actually had a good taste in music. I talked to her days in and days out and was most definitely falling in love, how couldn’t I?! She was, in my eyes, absolutely perfect. But you know, some fairy tales don’t end with a happily ever after. It was a day I’d never forget, I had planned it thoroughly. We went out for coffee, just me and her, and we talked for hours on end, about her friends, about my friends. And I decided to do it and tell her how I felt. I mean that’s what you do right? If you love someone you tell them you love them, and everything will be fine. She tore my heart apart. She didn’t love me. She had a fucking boyfriend, and decided that she didn’t want to tell me. Hell they’re fucking engaged already. ENGAGED. That killed me, I went home that day and cut and cried and cut and cried. She meant everything to me, I loved her with every fucking inch of my beaten up fucking heart and she hid the most important fucking thing that could have saved me a shiton of heart ache. So here I am...I suppose every end needs a reason to end right? Well here’s mine. Broken Souls Sometimes I wake up and I feel like there’s a massive hole in my chest. I feel weighed down and nauseous from the rocking boat of a life that I live, It’s like everything I touch dies. My friends, my family, anybody I’ve ever loved really. I’d love to say that this story is about meeting someone that changes that all, but it’s far from it. I grew up in London, the financial capital of England where dreams come true and money talks, and all the fuckers who live here are so diseased inside their rotten apple of materialistic consumption that their hearts are probably full of worms. The people I grew around weren’t particularly nice and had a sort of passion for making lives of the 1% a living nightmare, but that’s okay because they’re broken. See we’re all broken in our own way, every one of us. Even those who think that their life is great with their boyfriends or girlfriends and wives and husbands; they’re all broken.People and love are like lines, the parallel lines have so much in common. They both are heading in the same direction, they both possess the same mathematical properties. But they never meet. Ever. But you know some lines cross each other briefly...but they drift apart forever and they will never meet again. Ever. Like the parallel lines, thankfully me and the arseholes at my secondary school won’t ever meet again which gives me a slight sense of optimism. So I was onto sixth form, with a clear image of a new change in my my head I was actually looking forward to going to sixth form for the first few months. The people there were nice, the stuff we learnt was interesting, and they’re weren’t too many apes with sagging tracksuits asking if I’m “Dizzy fam”. It was good, and the best part was there was actually a girl in my Biology class who was amazing. She was funny, cute and actually had a good taste in music. I talked to her days in and days out and was most definitely falling in love, how couldn’t I?! She was, in my eyes, absolutely perfect. But you know, some fairy tales don’t end with a happily ever after. It was a day I’d never forget, I had planned it thoroughly. We went out for coffee, just me and her, and we talked for hours on end, about her friends, about my friends. And I decided to do it and tell her how I felt. I mean that’s what you do right? If you love someone you tell them you love them, and everything will be fine. She tore my heart apart. She didn’t love me. She had a fucking boyfriend, and decided that she didn’t want to tell me. Hell they’re fucking engaged already. ENGAGED. That killed me, I went home that day and cut and cried and cut and cried. She meant everything to me, I loved her with every fucking inch of my beaten up fucking heart and she hid the most important fucking thing that could have saved me a shiton of heart ache. So here I am...I suppose every end needs a reason to end right? Well here’s mine.

A long time back, before i could call myself my own or even think of proper replies to that sort of thing, I was doing a bit of business in the out-land, moving powders for cash trade. Just the same old shuck and jive routine to avoid police involvement and incarceration; laid up in a 79th st flop in Chicago only really wondering where my next meal was coming and when my next fix might arrive. Never use your own supply, Kid, good way to die in the street from a shot of something other than what you really wanted, like lead based paint. Anyway, there was this bum named Charley or Nelly or Jim, hell, i don't really remember, but he was working at this counter-top in the 'kitchen' of the flop, old nineteen-fifties formica, with a razor. Everything in the flop was scarred to shit, trashed and burned anyway, and I just assumed he was stuck in the rut of heroin compulsivity, itching or scraping or searching for a cigarette that you know doesn't exist and probably will never exist. Well, Jim or Charley or Nelly, I don't really recall, said, "Hey, boy, lookee here, there's some dope." I walk-crawled across the place moving through the trash rather than over it or under it, and he points with a huge hand, like a knob on a branch, old as a tree, covered in moss, and I'm inspecting the lines of his hand when he says, "Look in them cracks, there's dope." I don't see it, but i don't see lots of things that other people hallucinate, so i say, "Jim there ain't no dope down there that's any good, its been there like that for years maybe those little pieces ain't going to do you no good. Shit would probably kill you anyway." So, I'm convinced, and I go back to the corner with the half-a chair and I get down to business, get my box with my rig and tighten up. I pull out my schedule and scale, dose dose dose its Tuesday dose. I peel away the dirty clothing, use a wet-nap on the arm so no infections. I am dirty, unclean. I have a plague which I can't name and I tell myself all these things as the needle goes in with the cooked me that makes the new me that makes me a forever me. Jim's just over there scraping and in my nod I can feel the sound, a table top at the edges of my dream just scraping and scraping and scraping and in the corner of my head I hear a lighter and I hear the point screw off of an old glass rig with a squeak tinkle squeak. I flash red inside red red red like police lights. I come off my nod violent, I'm on my feet and moving across the room i see Jim or Charley or Nelly or i forget, and he's scraped together that polyurethane table top and cooking it, swirling it and shooting it. I think I'm moving, but then, I'm just dreaming and I look at the trash around me and i think: its time to go to where ever home might be, and Jim flops back to the floor while I'm over here playing statue, and his head cracks the floor five or six times and it sounds like a watermelon all empty and hollow, THOCK THOCK THOCK. I can finally move again and that patch of light in the floor has moved too; from here to there, so i know an hour or so has passed. I check Nelly or Jim or Charley or I forget and I look in my own eyes through his open dead eyes pupils dialated to obscure the iris. Whatever life he had is gone gone gone and I think: THE POLICE and I shut those brown eyes and I walk across the floor through the trash out into the winter day just barely alive myself, i wonder how i survived whatever came to kill him must have had some purpose beyond my sight and i remember the scraping and i push the memory away. It is winter enough and I am dead enough without memories like that. I turn left on 79th st up towards Loomis, the world does a dance in the streetlights, the winter wind cannot pierce me, I could be naked for all I know.

Winter is a time of luxury and rest many but for the thousands of Elves back in the Grotto it is a time of stress and hard work. Here's a story based on real events. The names of the elves involved have been change to keep anonymity. The snow was hurtling towards the lethal ground of New York. The plethora of senses filled the streets for miles around. The coffee, the songs, the fires, the turkeys, the sound of crinkling wrapping... Bliss. But the night before, three Elves by the names of Trym, Odol and Tihs were sent to deliver presents. They battled with the wind as the struggled to move across the slippery rooftops. They were defenceless. "WEE WEE! OHHH TIS IS BAD! TIS IS VEREE BAD!!" Odol screamed. "ALL WE NEED TO DO IS TO STAY NEAR THE CONCRETE TOWERS OF SAFETY!" Tihs screamed back. They hadn't even been there for an hour when it happened. Trym slipped. He was rushed to the Grotto but by then... He was already gone. Please, this Christmas, when you're delving in festivities, PLEASE, think of the Elves. Thank you.

I wrote this not to be offensive or a work of art, but more of a thought provoking piece. Thanks for taking the time to read it :). An omnipotent deity places three humans on an island: Zimmer, Michael, and Anton. The deity allows free will and three possibilities in beliefs: Zoogle, Micropoft, or no belief. A message found in an old tape recorder tells them to either select Zoogle or Micropoft to be the true belief; those who pick incorrectly will be cast into perpetual, eternal torture while the correct will live in eternal paradise. Separate reading material is found for both of the qualifying beliefs, neither overly convincing than the other as to which would be the correct belief. In fact, there is some overlapping material between the two books and both books are defensible. Zimmer chooses Zoogle, Michael picks Micropoft, but Anton is at a loss. Some parts of Zoogle seem relevant and some parts of Micropoft seem relevant to Anton. He’s never even met this person who made the tape recording and both of the books have seemingly outdated information in it! Anton asks Zimmer and Michael about these passages that seem outdated. He receives explanations that were obvious to them, as if they were the authors of the material. The answers they provide seemed plausible, but clearly created in their minds. “Who is to know whether or not they were divinely created?” thought Anton. Anton tries to study what he can physically observe on the island to hopefully get a better understanding of which belief he should pick. Ten years pass. Michael and Zimmer become true masters of their beliefs: memorizing the entire texts they were given and able to recite them from memory. Michael and Zimmer become distant due to their differing lifestyles, but increasingly close to Anton. They both try to convince him to their side for the fear that Anton will suffer eternal torture. Anton visits Michael one day and finds that Michael is deathly malnourished. Michael tells Anton of his dietary restrictions, but refuses food from Anton for he knows his deity would send him to eternal torture if he took any from Anton. “What sort of Supreme Being would grant a servant eternal glory if he knowingly defied Him?” asked Michael, “It’s in His plan, Anton. The plan making sense to a mere spec of dust compared to his unending wisdom isn’t important.” “What if you’re wrong about Micropoft, Michael? Why don’t you do what I do? I eat what makes me strong. I swim in the waters you can’t and experience what you can’t experience. I’m healthy, I’m happy! I’m good to you, am I not? I do this all without your book. I’m not saying you’re wrong, my friend; I’m just saying you don’t know, you feel. I want you to experience life with me, friend! “I’m sorry, Anton. I provide arguments for my beliefs and my beliefs are defensible. I must follow His plan.” Anton runs to Zimmer and begs him to try to convince Michael to eat food so that he doesn’t die. “He’s really hurt, Zimmer.” “Ha! Fool! My Deity would never allow me to be sick from foolish dietary restrictions!” exclaimed Michael. “Will you then please help me save him?” pleaded Anton. “I would, Anton. I really would, but Zoogle doesn’t allow me to travel to that side of the island,” replied Zimmer. “I cannot disobey my Deity! His commandments would not lead me to danger, Anton.” “What if you’re wrong about Zoogle, Zimmer? Why don’t you do what I do? I can walk where you cannot and sleep in shelters that protect me from harsh weather in which you cannot stay. I experience what you can’t experience. I’m healthy, I’m happy! I’m good to you, am I not? I do this all without your book. I’m not saying you’re wrong, my friend; I’m just saying you don’t know, you feel. I want you to experience life with me, friend!” “I’m sorry, Anton. I provide arguments for my beliefs and my beliefs are defensible. I must follow His plan. Let Michael know that my thoughts are with him and that I would like him to eat food and survive.” Ten years pass. Michael has died from his malnutrition last year and Zimmer didn’t survive the harsh winter the passed winter. Anton feels very much alone and still no clue what to believe with no affinity towards either belief. He surely is going to be tortured since he cannot even force himself to believe in one of the two beliefs. He sits down near the shore and contemplates what he should do with his remaining time on the island knowing his fate. He decides to live in a way that he’s able to explain. He starts to calculate and provide reasons for everything he does, hoping this will be enough for paradise. Distantly, his Creator watched the island and all the events that took place, indifferent.

There lives a tale of a mysterious forest that has yet to be fully explored or even discovered. It is only echoed in rumors spread by newer journalists trying to get a start at their career or some conspiracy theorists just trying to spread what they think is true around the internet. The only thing about it is that each and every report is different. One says that the forest has a demon inside it. Others say that it's just a normal old forest. And yet more say that the beasts inside are well fed by a resident witch that they devour all that walk in. All theories farfetched, all theories more than likely false or just rips from other horror movies that have scarred the writer's childhood. There are a few constants in the stories though. One of them being that nobody knows the precise location of the forest, and that is likely due to the other notable constant: nobody who has walked in the forest has walked back out. Unfortunate for a little group of Boy Scouts that planned their adventures to a nearby forest that had always intrigued the small, but growing troop. They never stood a chance or even could know about the doom that they had just put themselves to... The little campout adventure just simply contained seven bodies. Five boys and two adult leaders. They decided to take a weeend backpacking trip into the forest and camp out at a clearing that satellite images on Google had shown. They'd spend the entire Saturday there, then return on Sunday. The group of boys consisted of the Patrol leader, Nick Tepp. He was the crazy guy that had the idea in the first place. He was pretty fit and an all around good organizer. He's the son of the lead Scoutmaster, Michael Tepp. Mike was all about reading into survival books and literature, and had his favorite shows about that subject. The only problem is that that's all he ever did. He never had tried surviving out in the wild before. The second of five kids was the assistant Patrol Leader, Greg Schaeffer. He was a scrawny kid and wore giant glasses and was significantly younger than the rest of the boys. He had a quick sense of humor and was very intelligent, however, which is what he had rode on to get his position. The third was the Quartermaster and Chef, Owen White. He was a plump boy who was on his last year of being a scout and had set his sights on a top college in the state. He had stopped caring about scouts a long while ago, but the new campout had piqued his interest and he decided to tag along for the ride and see how it went. The fourth and fifth were brothers. The older one was Jack Klepton. He had been known to be a class clown and generally a ne'er-do-well. He had always slacked off in school, but promises of adventure always brought a sparkle in his eye and a determined smile like he could take on the world. The younger one, Keith, was the opposite end. He was studious and anti-social. He hated scouts and hated nature. The only reason why he had come was because his father, another one of the scout masters, had forced him on the trip, believing to give his sons a litt bit of fresh air. Kevin Klepton was a lot more fit than Mike, but shared his older son's stubborn state of mind and was much more daring, despite the white hairs starting to cover his head.... Or at least what little bit of his head that can grow hair. They had left to go into the forest with High hopes and full stomachs, laughing and taking a quick pace for the trail, yet had no idea what was to become of them and that none would return to see thier families and friends.

I never got lucky before. Never won anything. Used to buy the lotto tickets, every paycheck. Just $20 in scratchers. Anna in Accounting won a cool thousand my first week there. I played for 5 years and never once won. Course, Anna in Accounting is dead now. Same as everyone else. I spent the last month of the world in a cell. Oh, they didn’t call it a cell, they called it a research wing. The Red Death had already killed half the globe by that point. Asia was pretty much gone, North America was right behind them, and Europe was down to only 1 in 4 alive. 100% mortality rate, they said. No one could survive it, they said. Then there was me. I put on the mask as I prepare to leave. Gotta wear the mask. Maybe it’d be better if I left the city, but can’t leave the city, so gotta wear the mask. Sure, I was the Last Hope for Humanity, the One that Lived, or so the papers said, but doesn’t mean I can’t get sick. Just not the Plague. One in ten billion chance, apparently. I grab my shovel. The irony is, the Red Death started because some nutjob in Japan thought he had found the key to immorality. A retrovirus that would completely halt the natural aging process. And this nutjob? He decided that this was a gift to humanity, he didn’t want money or accolades, so he made the goddamn cure to age into a contagion, stuck himself with it, and took a flight. Tokyo to LAX. LAX to O’hare. O’hare to JFK. JFK to Heathrow. Heathrow to Charles DuGalle. Charles DuGalle to Moscow. Moscow to Dubai. He died in the terminal in Dubai, after having spent six hours walking around each of those airports, contagious as all hell, and all on the weekend before Christmas. “Fucker,” I mutter to no one as I shoe away some crows. They’re big bastards now. I’ve started calling them Crovus Rex. They don’t seem to mind me much, but they watch me. Read an article once, before the plague, about how damned smart crows were. Seems with us gone, they’ve been getting smarter. I hear them cawing at each other all the time. I think it might be language. Sometimes I think I can understand it. That one sound, a Caw with a harsh start and a slight lag at the end? Sort of a Kchraaaaw? I think that’s me. I wonder what they think of me. I grab my newest find and shove it into the wheelbarrow. Funny side effect of the Red Death? You don’t decay, bacteria don’t eat you anymore. You just bleed out and then sit there. Mummified. That bastard mummified the whole world. Except me, although he still kinda did. Everyone else died. Unless something kills me, I never will. No one could figure out why. Just a fluke of genetics that kept me ticking. The wheelbarrow’s heavy now. Time seems funny these days. Goes by so fast. Maybe it’s just because I’ve had so many days they blur together even while I’m living them. Either way, time to head out. I’m in New York, right now. Obviously. Well, maybe not. Dunno who I’m talking to these days. But I get out of the city, and then I walk a ways more. Been in New York for…for awhile. Couple hundred, maybe? Just about done here, though. Ahead of me stretch the Stones. I try to include a name when I can. Find it in wallets. Well, what’s left of them. It’s getting harder and harder as things decompose or get lost. If not, I put some details. Anything I can make out. “Wearing Red.” “Woman With Four Rings.” Anything, though it gets harder and harder to make it out each time. Still, I think I’ve got maybe a week or so left. Then I’ve buried the entire state of New York. Oh, I’m sure I missed some, and I’m sure the animals have eaten some. Some of the graves are no more than a fingerbone. But I keep digging. There isn’t anything else to do. Humanity may be dead, but it’s gotta be buried too. And I’ll be the Gravedigger.

In a land far away there was a man named James. He thought to himself on a fourth Thursday on November that he was thankful for a lot of things. It was just one of those random thoughts. But he kept thinking and thinking. First he thought of the normal, general things that people are thankful for, like family and friends and so on. But then he got down to smaller things. He was thankful for tables, chairs, lamps etc. And the very last thing James was thankful for was turkey. He had an urge for a turkey. He needed a turkey right away. James put on his jacket and shoes. He did not tie the shoe laces because he had no time. He had a last look at the clock before he left. And then the horror struck, it was already past 9PM. All of the stores were already closed. As minutes went by his need for turkey kept on growing. The urge was so big that he almost felt angry, he felt like he wanted to punch a hole through the wall. After half an hour dealing with this horrible feeling he knew that he had to do something. James decided to go and hunt himself a turkey. James didn’t own a firearm. He needed to improvise. He took a kitchen knife, a broom and some duct tape. James was in the middle of crafting a spear when it struck him, he had never even used a spear before, he would have not been able to hit a car with that thing. James had to come up with another plan. After thinking for a couple of minutes, he said to himself “Fuck that, I’ll throw rocks at that damned turkey.” He went outside and took 3 cinder blocks. He put them in a backpack and went for a turkey hunt. After a couple of hours he had walked miles with a heavy load on his back and he was already losing hope. Devastated, he sat down. And when he looked up, he saw the most amazing site that he had ever seen. A huge and 5 turkeys right in the middle of it. Out of those 5 there was one that stood out the most. The most amazing looking turkey ever. A queen turkey as they called them, where James lived. It was a legend but now it is reality. James figured that rest of the turkey must have been the bodyguards. They wore nice suits and headpieces. All of them had a pair of shades on. James had to come up with an attack plan. He was thinking for awhile and then he had it. He found some breadcrumbs from his pocket. James’ plan was as follows: first he would distract two of the bodyguard who were patrolling with breadcrumbs. Then he would go in for a sneak attack on the third guard and take queen turkey hostage and escape the crime scene. It was show time. He moved in quietly and placed breadcrumbs on the ground. The distraction worked. “Yes!” thought James to himself and he moved to the next phase, the sneak attack. He moved in slowly behind the turkey and WHAPOW cinder block to the head knocked the turkey out cold. His confidence grew with each step he was taking when he moved to the final step. James snuck behind the queen, he grabbed her by the neck and yelled to the guards: “Drop your weapons or she is dead!” the last body guard dropped his pistol and as James instructed he handcuffed himself to a tree. James had never been so happy in his life. Now he just had to walk away from there and get home. But unfortunately there was another guard turkey hiding in the bushes. James never saw him. It was a ninja turkey. James was forced to step into hand to wing combat with the ninja turkey. James punched the bird one in the jaw and he dropped to the ground. James was speechless. He had knocked out a ninja in one punch. But then he remembered something: “Oh damn the queen turkey!” He chased the queen down and tackled her. Then James woke up to the smell of a fried turkey. It was all just a dream. Or was it? we had to write a short story that had to have some elemnts of thanksgiving in it, for my English class( my native language is not English so we study that as a foreign language). And this is the story I came up with.

The guitar string buzzes a defiant tone as I try to further tighten the capo across the instrument’s wooden neck. I bet this would be easier if I had a decent capo. Or a decent guitar. One that wasn’t broken. I suppose it’s only natural for a broken fool to play a broken implement, it gives us both personality. But this guitar is a dickhead. He won’t ever stay in tune or refrain from buzzing annoyingly like some derelict retard. He can’t compete with the handcrafted flamencos or the powerful electrics, one possessing beauty and the other technological superiority. This one just weeps, knowing that the definitive crack in his headstock can never be healed. Knowing that he can never be as good as the others. What is a Yamaha brand guitar besides a mass produced, blank-faced piece of shit, anyway? Just that, apparently. He cries at my cynicism, drowning out whatever thought lead me into this tangent. Part of him knows that at a moment’s notice, I would swap him for a better one in a heartbeat. I try sympathising with him, plucking each individual string softly and sensually. The next mistake was my own; my index finger slips and causes a ruckus of blended notes to ring throughout my dull bedroom. I hear him chuckle, buzzing arrogantly at my humanity. I stare soullessly at the tabs typed out on my computer, just some lines and numbers to someone without aptitude in music. Something inside of me causes me to rise from the cushion of my bed and clumsily place the Yamaha into its orange felted case. It sings goodbye as I slam the lid close, hoping that some sort of apology would make me play it again. But he cannot speak now, I have silenced him. No one knows why I bother. Maybe part of me took this whole thing up to attract girls, yearning for their forced smiles beneath their masks of foundation and lipstick. I would never man up enough to play for one of them though, and so I play for presumably no other reason than to give myself something to listen to. Something to blend the days of monotony into a rainbow coloured oil-stain. Something to make me less lonely. Something to make me happy. But I take it for granted, thinking that someone else has to acknowledge what I do for it to mean something. Something that would make me happy. **Very short, but the first piece of literature I've written in ages.

Hi everyone! I have always taken a liking to writing stories and recently have gotten into writing prompts. I thought I would share one that I typed up at work based off the sentence "I just had to laugh." Its loosely based off of my childhood with my brother. I would really love some feedback! Thanks everyone! My brother and I grew up in a small town on the outskirts of a city called Maywood, which to us, seemed like a dead end town full of has-beens and welfare occupants. Nick, my brother who is 14, and I would get into it a lot. We were always fighting about who could have the next round on a video game, or who was going to take the blame for something we broke. It never dawned on me that the town we lived in had so much to offer, but we were about to find out soon enough, or were we? I think it was a Friday when we fell upon the key that would change our lives. As usual we would walk up to the woods and hang out in the fort we had built last year. It was beautiful, to us at least, and stood about nine feet up off the ground so nothing could get us in there. We painted it red and had put some old chairs we found out in the brush up there we used to sit on and hang out. One day though we were sitting in the fort looking out over the house down the hill and he asked me, “Why have we never tried to dig for something under the fort? Maybe something awesome is down there.” I quickly dismissed the idea being as mature as I thought I was being 16 and just told him to forget about it. After a few days though, it started to bug me. It was clinging to my mind what could be down there. Treasure? Rocks? Dead people? Who knew what it could be, and so we started digging. It never dawned on me how hard the ground could be after not raining for a few days. Even in the middle of the summer Mother Nature could have let up on us a little bit. We had been digging for hours, and still we never hit anything so we took a break. After going to the house and back we decided to trudge on. Thrust after thrust dirt was moved and sweat replaced it. Until it happened. “DAN COME HERE!” is all I needed to hear before I ran over to my brother and saw him looking down at the hole he had dug. What I saw next took me by storm. His shovel was broken, and he was just standing there looking at it. I just had to laugh. Really, I thought to myself. This is really what he had screamed at the top of his lungs to show me? I took a double take at the shovel though, not because I just couldn’t believe it, but there was a key literally in the handle. I don’t think we have looked at each other and ran to the house with something in hand so fast before. It seemed like it only took us a minute to get home when it’s usually a 30 minute hike. We threw the key on to the table and started talking back and forth in gibberish about what it could be. Upon hearing us slam into the house like a bomb hitting a target, our dad had run down the stairs to check what had happened. He took one glance at the key and instantly knew what we had found. “Where did you guys find it?” he asserted. I thought we had hit the jackpot. Even our dad was into what we had found. Those hopes were crushed though after he took it and ran off into the basement and into the coal room. We chased after him in pursuit of finding the meaning of the universe, or something close, only to find him kneeling next to an old safe we couldn’t ever open. He placed the key in, we could hear the tumblers locking into place, and gave the key a good twist. The door slowly opened, the room grew quite, and my brother and I expected dad to pull a gold bar out of the safe. Instead, he just stood up and sighed. He turned to us and just shrugged, “I guess your grandfather just did this thinking it would be hilarious someday.” He held out a piece of paper for us to read. It wasn’t the answers to life. It wasn’t a bank note for $1,000,000. Not even a sentimental letter expressing his love for us. Just a note with this written on it, “This is where your inheritance should be, boys.” All that trouble, digging, running, sweating, blisters, and pain just for our deceased family member to trick us like always. We all looked at each other, and just had to laugh.

For school we have to write a short story. I started writing but now I don't know what direction to take it in! Any ideas would be great! The men gathered around the table were yelling at each other. They all dressed in the finest suits and each had an air of self-entitlement. The room was barren except for a large oak wood table the stood elegantly in the center. Chairs circled the table and a few had been knocked over when the men had stood up to yell. The room was well lit with a large window that nearly took up an entire wall. The large window provided the room with natural light so there were no lights in the room. There were three doors in the room, two of them led to a different tower of the hotel. The third was a large decorative door with intricate gold plated designs carved in the door. This conference room was on the last floor of the hotel before the hotel split into two different towers. The hotel itself was a large hotel in Chicago, one of the best. Known for its extreme luxury and quality service, many major corporations and business meetings of the extremely wealthy were held here because of its top-notch service. The room was painted a light yellow with a mirror that hung over a fireplace. There were old paintings from the 1600’s that covered the walls and gave the room an elegant museum-like feel. The men were in the middle of yelling when the large door swung open and the room went quite. The men who weren’t already standing quickly stood up a man walked slowly towards the head of the table. The man stood at the head of the table, looking around the room at who was presented before him. “Take a seat.” The man said and the men in front of him quickly sat down again. “I would like to introduce myself. My name is Anthony Kane.” The alarm went off on the clock and the rooms lights dimmed on. Stephen sat up and turned off his alarm clock. He sat upright on his bed for a minute with his hair disheveled before he swung his legs out from under the comforters and put his feet in his slippers. His apartment was in downtown Chicago on the top floor penthouse. His blinds opened automatically every morning to wake him up. His room was very spacious and modernly designed with grey walls and white carpet. On the wall opposite his bed there was a walk in closet that he used to keep his expensive suits. As he stood up and walked out of the room, he picked up the robe that was lying on the armchair by the door. He walked down the corridor into the kitchen. He cooked and left food for his wife and kids to have when they woke up. Stephen’s phone rang as he took the elevator down. He didn’t recognize the number and when he picked up, he didn’t recognize the voice. The caller told him to go to a very important meeting that was taking place at one of the nicest hotels in the area. The caller assured him that it was just a regular business meeting. The caller then told Stephen a serious of numbers that he scribbled on a post it. He was confused on what the meeting was about and when he asked any of his coworkers at the firm he worked at what the meeting was, none of them knew. Stephen showed at the hotel at exactly 2 pm just like that caller had said. He went to the front desk and told the receptionist the series of numbers. “Follow me,” the receptionist walked around the counter and went to the elevator. They took the elevator up to the 5th floor. “This is as far as I can go. Go down the hall, take a right and go into the room at the end.” The receptionist closed the elevator door and left him alone in the corridor. In the room, people were already seated around the large table and were quiet. As he picked the only empty seat in the room, he realized he didn’t recognize a single person in the room. The people in the room were all men with really expensive, luxurious suits. Everyone in the room looked extremely wealthy. They sat quietly and after a few minutes of silence people started to talk and soon people were arguing about baseball. They argued and stood up and yelled at each other. The yelling ceased when the large doors swung open. A man walked in slowly and stood at the head of the table. He looked around the room at all the faces and people. The man wore a black suit with a gold tie. He had numerous large, extravagant rings on his fingers. “I would like to introduce myself. My name is Anthony Kane.” He spoke softly yet powerfully.

Oh, hello there. So you're finally awake? That's good to see. Don't be surprised, this isn't actually your house. Told you we should have come back to mine last night. Would have made life a lot easier. Who am I? I must confess to being insulted. I introduced myself last night. Admittedly, we did have a fair bit to drink. And the drug I gave you to get you here can make you forget things. You may have read about me in the papers though. However, you wouldn't know it was me just by that. They always get the gender wrong. I should really be offended, what with it being the 21st century and all, but, statistically speaking, I am a bit of an anomaly. Unique, really. Not many can say that. That, and all the care I take with my appearance. Now, I know you noticed that. Gave me a standing ovation some might say. You know who I am now, don't you? Surprised? Sorry, silly question, of course you are. Want to know why I do it? Don't worry, there's no kind of Freudian excuse. Y'know, daddy beat and abused me and that's why I do it. Boring. And it is just me, there's no-one else secretly pulling the strings. So then, if it's just me and it's not that I hate men, which you should remember from last night is certainly not the case, then why? That's probably what you're asking yourself. Well, I do it cos it's fun. I find it amuses me. Boredom, that's the excuse you are looking for. I'm bored and I can do this, so I do. It's an entertainment thing. Pure and simple. Some people read, some mess about online, some watch films, some learn a musical instrument. Me? I kill people. I would take the gag off. It might be interesting to hear what you've got to say. But, sadly, you'll probably just scream. And I can't have that. Someone would hear and that just would not do. I really should do something about that. Can you imagine that phone call? 'Hi, I was wondering if you could come round and give me a quote. I need my kitchen remodelling, my bedroom decorating and, oh yes, I need my basement soundproofed so that when I torture and kill people others won't be able to hear it.' Don't think so somehow. This thing I'm waving around? You should know what it is. But that's not what you're wondering about, is it? So, to answer your questions. Yes, it's real. Yes, it's loaded. Yes, it's fully working. No, it doesn't actually scare me, waving it about and pointing it to my head. I happen to be good with guns. Best shot in my company when I was in Army cadets. Besides, the safety is on. I'm not an idiot. But I'm not going to be using it on you. That would be boring. Didn't you hear me when I said I do this for the fun? Yes, that is the door out of here. You will be leaving through it. Just not under your own power. In fact, you could say that you'll be leaving here several times. You've read the papers, you know how that's possible. Just got to decide what I'm actually doing with you. I could do things halal style. I'm certain you know what that means, don't you? It could be fun. But, why change things now? And aren't you curious to see what all that stuff inside you actually looks like up close and personal? Enough talking. I'm actually bored of the sound of my own voice. And keen to get on with things. There we go. There's the body I enjoyed running my hands over last night. Just need to put this down so I can actually use the knife. There we are, ready to start. Brace yourself, as the great Rod Stewart once said; the first is the deepest...

Abstract Art When I was little, I used to draw A lot. I drew with pens on napkins while waiting For food at restaurants. I would scribble with crayons on the kids menus, Ignoring the coloring exercises with strict lines that I was told to color within. I guess it Felt good to not follow the rules. I was told That I couldn’t, or that I wasn’t allowed to as a child. The Menu would tell me to color in the star, or Connect the dots. I would use my outside voice to yell At the menu, saying, that I wasn’t going to follow the rules this time, But I yelled in my head. I guess it good to be able To efface the something that an adult had set out, Had expected me to do. My four-pack of crayons was My sled, and the coloring menu was a hill that I Was told to shovel, but instead chose to sled down. I would grab paper out of the Printer when I was bored. I would walk Into the kitchen, grasp the newest markers from the drawer With my eager hands. Drawing, I would discard the Dried out markers that left faded lines on the blank page, I only accepted the makers that left a wet, thick, Glossy mark that created a chemical reaction In my body, leaving me wanting to draw more. I would draw lines, straight lines, curved lines, pipes that Led to circles and squares, patterns that Repeated, semicircles that turned outwards like Petals on flower, and curved triangles that Looked like the leaves of palm trees. I remember thinking That the palm leaves were cool because I thought of them, not anyone else. They weren’t Anything that I was taught to draw in school, or Something I saw on TV, they were mine. My parents Would see me coloring, and I would cover it up With my arms, telling them to wait until I was done. They would gawk when they saw it, asking me what it was. I would respond with “I dunno.” Then one day I saw a TV show about “abstract art.” From then on, My drawings weren’t just “I dunno,” They were “abstract art.” I brought this “style” of drawing to class, I would use my free time to grab a sheet or two Of lined paper from the bin, and for the fist time In school, I would disobey the lines. I drew the usual with Colored pencils: Shapes, focusing mainly on the pipes and circles, for I didn’t Want the other kids to see my palm leaves Not because I was ashamed of them, but because They were mine. The other kids joined in, drawing their Own abstract art. Each was a different style, each was Creative. Creative. That word was thrown around by teachers And parents alike, and it made me feel proud. Proud that I could be positively labeled For something that sprang from a rebellion against The very type of people that were praising me. Adults. Through drawing I learned that every Once in a while, I could gain respect by disregarding what I had been taught. As a result of this epiphany, I continued to draw all day, carrying myself in an Uncharacteristically insouciant manner. As I grew up, my abstract drawings began to fade, I began to grow tired with my loops and pipes, And even my palm leaves began to get old. It didn’t help that those around me Started to look at my work, and back at me, but this time With a worried eye. “Something is different with Him.” I could hear their thoughts in my own head. I remember kids saying that “anyone could make that,” Or that I should “stop doodling and focus.” “Not anyone could make that, because I made it.” Eventually I stopped telling myself this. I was told by some that I should try to express my “Creativity” in more academic and mature ways. There was that word again. Only this it felt like a punch in the stomach. And I Listened to them. Why did I listen? Abstract art proved to have a direct correlation with this Thing called “creativity.” I guess by middle school I was supposed To have lost it. At what age are children expected to outgrow Their creativity? How can creativity be defined by anyone Other than myself? Despite all of these questions I still have, I rarely draw anymore.

The darkness was absolute, a black velvet blanket suffocating my vision. It was getting hard to remember how long I've been here, or even how I got here; despite the blinding dark, I had a good grasp of my surroundings. The steady patter of my shoes gently reverberated off of the walls. Thud, thud, thud. It soothed me. I must have walked the room upwards of a hundred times today alone. Thirty paces long, twenty paces wide, with jagged, cave-like walls; it never changes. Nothing ever changes, or rather nothing ever did change, until now. I was walking along the wall counting my paces, when I stopped moving. The steady patter of feet continued for a moment, and it dawned on me that it wasn't my feet that was making noise.

Now, don't get my wrong, I love my dad, he's The Man, but here's what i don't get. When I was a kid, or a teen, my dad used to work in the cinema industry. His work related most told fantasy was that he wanted to find a way to let the viewers interact with movies, to let them make choices that could alter the end of a movie. As a kid I thought that was an amazing idea, and today, that's pretty much exactly how I see a lot video games. On the other hand, my dad thinks they're a complete waste of time, and so on and so forth, (if you've played video games and have had parents at the same time, you've probably heard it too). And so I guess since that's not how he pictured it getting there in his mind, it's not the same thing, and it's "crap", and that's why I think my dad's a hypocrite.

**** Greetings, fellow writers! There are to be a few things introduced to this subreddit over the coming months. The first such thing was "themes", first introduced last month. This month's theme, however? Winter. If you've written something that involves winter, respond to this post with a link to it. 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 the next few months will hold: December 2013: Winter January 2013: Resolutions February 2013: Time Travel As stated, however, only respond with links to winter 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.

Hey everybody! I wrote this piece for a final project where I am supposed to present my work to people and have it critiqued. I thought, what better place to do that than r/shortstories. This is the first time posting and also the first creative writing class that i've taken so any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated as I am sure there are a bunch of things that I could change. Thanks in advance! It was a cold winter night. The snow had just started to fall, and nights were getting longer and longer. It was only 4:30 p.m. when the sun decided to set. Of course, night time was the only thing that I looked forward to throughout the day. I look forward to it because it is when HE decides to come out. By “HE” I mean the man that had been murdering unsuspecting people every day. Why do I look forward to this man coming out and brutally murdering innocent people you ask? Because I follow him. That’s right, I know who he is and where he lives. Pretty stereotypical serial killer if you ask me, I’m surprised they haven’t caught him yet. I follow him every night, and watch him seek out his victim. I have been doing it for so long now that I am actually starting to feel some kind of weird connection to the guy. It’s like I can read his mind and tell ahead of time who he is going to kill tonight. By now you’re probably wondering why I don’t just turn him in. Well, around when all this started I had hit a low point in my life. I was working a dead-end job, I had no friends, and my parents didn’t even care about me. They were too busy showering my old brother with praise while I struggled to make ends meet. After months of waking up, going to work, coming home, eating dinner alone and then getting ready to do it all over again, I finally decided that I had had enough. I was going to end it. Kill myself, that is. What’s the point? I’m living this miserable life that’s going nowhere. If I don’t end it now then what? Go through this for the next 50-60 years of my life? Fuck that. Why waste time, I figured I’d just get it over with. I had it all planned out. I was going to make a big spectacle of myself. My plan was to head over to the nearby park and hang myself from one of the trees. Then leave a suicide note, of course, because how could I forget that? What would a suicide even be without a suicide note? So I brought all my “supplies” to the park and prepared to do the deed. I had climbed a nice tall tree in the center of the park to make sure that I would not go unnoticed. As I sat atop the tree branch, trying to tie the god damn noose correctly, I heard a scream. I stopped what I was doing and scanned the park for the source. It was dark out and the lights around the park were not doing a very good job, but as I stared out into the distance I noticed two figures that looked to be struggling with one another. Great…someone’s getting murdered on the night that I’m going to kill myself. Who the hell is going to care about me when this shit is all over the news? Well not on my watch. I am not going to sit by and let these two people steal my spotlight. I climbed down from the tree and ran over two the two people with the intention of stopping the murder. As I got closer the screens became muffled. I quickened my pace but was apparently not quick enough. As I came upon where the figures were I heard only silence. I remained out of sight from the person that was standing up; I was close enough now that I could make out every little detail of him. I looked down and saw the woman’s neck had been sliced open. God dammit…well I can’t kill myself now! Frustrated I began to hatch a new plan. This woman’s murder is going to be all over the news, and I have seen the killer! I bet I could give them a pretty accurate description that would lead to his arrest. But that still wouldn’t solve my problems. I needed to do something better than that. I needed to stop this man myself and be seen as a hero. Yeah, then my parents would talk about me instead of my brother and I would probably be able to find a better job as well. That night, I followed that man home, and have been following him ever since, learning everything about him, and perfecting how I was going to take him out.

On the last day of November, on a cold night and under a still sky all filled with stars, in the city that often sleeps and on roads poured ten dozen decades past, I trudged towards the store to buy some food. My parka was pulled up to my nose and my beanie was pulled down past my ears and my hands were clenched in warmball fists, and I was thinking thoughts of the rambling type and of little consequence, and I had strapped to my waist and hung from my back my padded REI pack that I sometimes wear. My car was frozen shut, that's why I walked. I crossed the street and then across a community garden on the frosty barkchipped path, to the parking lot of a Sold Less Foods. Walking out was a frail whiskered man wearing cargo shorts and a vest. His name was probably Iron Limbs, the unfeeling all -seeing purveyor of frozen foods. This is what he seemed like. Upon entering it was like very warm. To my left was the deli, and the pizza smelling heavenly, and the bread and the bagels, and to my right was the salads and vegetable matter of all sorts. I strolled through the greenery and past the cheese of much stink to a refrigerated unit containing beers of unimaginable variety. It felt decadent, overwhelming but invigorating, like that smell when you walk past a portable toilet. I picked out the cheapest cans and retired to the checkstand where I passed the time with a fairly unattractive cashier. Then I walked out the store and home. Before I got home, when I was merely two blocks from it and gazing skyward, I saw something I have never told anyone about, ever. I saw it clear as day in the dark of the night. It was the dark of the night. The moon flickered. It was no tree branch that obscured my view. I know that because I saw it flicker again. It went black but its moonglow lingered. I stopped and stared at the sky for what must have been thirty minutes. In the middle of the street like a real crazy guy. But it didn't flicker again and by the end I almost doubted myself. Was it real? How could it do that? Why would it? I ran to my house and nearly ran through the door. I dropped my bag on the ground and everything spilled out. The cold foods were very cold and the warm foods were cold as well. The frozen foods were the same but that was of no concern to me at that time. I practically flew to my hallway closet, flung it open and snatched out a worn wooden mop. "Come at me Mr. Smith!" I bellowed thrusting the mop over my head, "I'd love to see you try!" I grabbed a stepstool from the closet and clapped my right foot on top it, in a heroic pose, "C'mon now I haven't got all day!" "Stephen is that you?" My Mom came out of nowhere! "Stephen! You didn't take your ..." She looked a little sad and anxious. "You won't believe it! I saw something truly incredible!" It's nearly impossible for me to describe how elated I was, "I knew there'd be a sign! Goddamnit!" I collapsed in the corner from sheer exhaustion from the excitement of it all. My legs felt like jello and my head like a black hole. The drone and shakes and fuzz were coming on, I could feel it starting.

Like Julius Caesar crossing the Rubicon, I couldn't back down now. It was now or never and I had to make a decision. I was already covered in blood, he was half-dead on the floor. Do I give him mercy? Do I end his suffering now or do I let it drag in agony? He couldn't suffer for as long as I did. I was in pain for years. My body, my soul, me. It was all used as his punching bag for years. There was no way he had that long left. I would never be able to exact the same kind of pain on him. He had minutes at best. We have kids. A boy and a girl. They are away at their nanna's house for the week. Smart and handsome, our boy has just finished middle school. He excels in math and science. Every time he looks up in the skies, he can point out the constellations. He can tell us the burning point of any liquid or chemical. He may be autistic but this has never stopped him. The very definition of what a child with a disability can achieve when they put their mind to it. Our daughter is inquisitive. She's a stunner. The older of the two. She is a fantastic older sister and always wanted to hold her brother, change his nappy and feed him. Always held his hand. Side by side, they were the closest brother-sister couple you'd ever see. Even now, she's always there for him. And what have I done? I've taken him away from them. Oh god. What will they think? They are going to hate me. Did they even know the suffering that I went through? Did they ever hear my yells or those fists? What about the glass plate the other week? Do they just pretend like it doesn't happen? They would have been next. I know it. I had no other choice. We have pets. Well, had. They kept disappearing. Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure he killed them when they pissed him off. I've always loved animals. I was never allowed to have pets as a child. My dad thought they were a weakness. Of course he would. He was a drill sergeant. Spent his time in Nam fighting those Viets. And for what? All it did was make him more evil. Coming home at night, if he even did, he would have us all line up and repeat the Pledge of Allegiance. The war fucked him up yet he still had loyalty to the country. He made us pledge our loyalty too. But what did this country ever do for me? Dad would beat my mom. She'd always be wearing sunglasses to cover those black eyes. When he was home, you knew it. If I didn't see him come home, I always heard him throw mom around the house. All I could do was hide my head under the pillow and sing. That fucking bastard. He died before my eldest came along. Was the happiest day of my life. Drove himself straight off the bridge downtown and into the river. Nobody came to his aid. Fuck! I always heard mom crying while dad beat the shit out of her. Obviously my kids heard him using me as a rag doll too. I'm a goddamn pussy. I should have done something. Said something to them. I tried going to the police about it. I never wanted my kids to see this. But what did the police ever do? They talked to him. He gave them a drink. They joked and laughed together. They then left. I remember that. It was as if I was a joke. When they left, I knew I was fucked. I ended up going to hospital that night. A broken arm and bruised ribs. I told them I fell down the stairs. I bet they hear that all the time. How many times is it true, anyway? It should be the international code for "Help! My partner is beating me". The cops came again. I repeated the same story. I couldn't tell them the truth. They didn't believe me the first time. They let him put me back here. I knew they could never help me again. I lied. But I knew that time was running out. It was going to be either him or I and I went ahead and made that decision for the both of us. I arranged for the kids to spend the school holidays with their nanna. She always loved them. She became a better woman after dad died. I don't know if she ever had any part of it, but I wouldn't blame her. She never picked up on my own situation. Like events repeating themselves down a generation. She never missed the opportunity to have the kids in that huge Victorian-era house and the kids always took up the chance to be spoilt rotten. Next, I bought his favorite whiskey for his birthday. I needed him to be at his absolute worst and he is a horrible drunk. A bottle of Jamison. I even put a fucking ribbon on it. A nice little "Fuck You" in a patronizing kinda way. He sat down in his favorite chair. A brown felt recliner. I hate that thing. The only time he ever got up from it was to berate me. Beat me. This would be the last time. He tucked into it. Enjoying it. I could see him slipping. Mutating from that semi-normal fuck, to that beast I needed to see to pull this off. As his speech started to slur, I knew it wasn't long until it was over. My heart racing, I could feel the adrenaline pumping. He started calling me names. I wasn't responding. Here come the physical threats now. Nope, still no luck. Out he comes, from the fucking chair. He can barely stand straight but if he caught me, that was it. I pulled out the knife I had sheathed tucked into my pants. He looked me square in the eyes as I drive it through his gut. For a brief, fleeting moment, I saw the man that I fell in love with but I knew it wasn't over. I dragged that knife up a little bit further. I read somewhere on the internet that's where the real damage occurs. That was it. He fell to the floor, the knife still there. Now here I stand and him barely conscious. But he is no animal, and I'm no monster. If he is going to die, it will be with as little suffering as possible. So I grab that knife and pull it out. I decide that for all that hate I have for him. He is still the father to our kids. He needs a clean death. I look at him one more time. No words, but our eyes say all that needs to be said. The knife then does the rest as I plunge it between his eyes. Free. Finally. Scared, but free. I hear the sirens now. Some one probably heard his scream before. I can't blame them. It was blood curdling. I'll probably never see my kids again but at least they are safe from him now. I take one last look at myself in the mirror as a free man. 3 day growth and short hair. Covered in blood. I admire my house one more time for tomorrow, I'll be in Attica.

Everyone despises me. Me being who I've always wanted to be is suddenly about to come true. With the razor in my hand, who needs a diploma to do surgery. Not me, oh no. Because when I'm finished, a true work of art will stand before you. Something that holds too much beauty for some guy to hold. I will over power everyone in such a way that they will wish to be as pretty. Boys will be put into a hold so dangerous that they will wish they never laid an eye on me. Pretty girls will be screaming their last breath away by the foot of my heel pushing into their ribs. Ugly girls will be my new samples of my work. Everyone will be tortured. They will feel how it is to be me. Or the now used to be me. Whether they deserve to or not. I will be the queen of something much worse than a nuclear explosion or hanging flesh eating alive another. They will be pleading on their knees for forgiveness, help, something else besides death. But no, no I will not look past their pity eyes, because no one did for me. So, I take this razor and stare into the mirror. My own black sharpie marks scatter around my body. Chop off that fat there. Scratch at that mole there. Stitch up the heart of mine. Oh, they don't even know what they have coming. Because when I'm done, the world will be silent. Everyone will obey me, get down to their knees, and bow to their queen. And if I die, then I died with a dream. Died with the dream coming true.

Here I am. Sitting in the only structure left. Maybe on the planet, for all I know. Probably not, but it doesn't matter. I have nowhere to go so it might as well be. Someone once told me in an anti-theistic rant that during the final days, the only things left would be cockroaches and churches. I laughed at the joke. "You're probably right" I thought. Now I sit here in this cramped space and wish there was a church, a cathedral, a mosque, a temple. Not for religious reasons, though in a time like this I can see the temptation to run toward such a thing. I'd just like to stretch my legs out when I sleep. It's been a while. My knees hurt all the time. I'd like to just sleep flat again. I wandered for a week before I found this place. The air was thick and the ash rained down. "Where is it coming from?" I wondered. There was nothing around. Nothing. Just ground and ash. Ash everywhere. In my eyes, in my mouth, in my ears, up my nose, in the parts of my body that I had once held private, ash had invaded and taken up residence. I would scoop up piles of soaked ash and suck what liquid I could out, hoping it was water and not something worse. The taste was neither here nor there, and the hungrier I got the better the flavor became. I'm dying, I know that. I haven't eaten in a while. I know that soon I'll be dead, and it wont matter anymore. Maybe someone, you, will find me in here and have the decency to bury me. I keep a hole clear about a quarter mile directly behind here to make it a little easier on you. I've left what little belongings I own in my bag, easily accessible. Don't feel guilty for taking it. I'm giving it to you. Hopefully you find some use from the items. Lot of good they did me, but maybe... If you can't bury me I understand. Maybe you are in the same boat I'm in. Starving, dying slowly, just waiting for death or a stroke of luck. Just please, don't toss me out of here and leave me laying next to this place, to be discarded beneath the ash the stench. It's bad enough to die in an outhouse, I don't want to spend eternity in it. I hope you understand. I'm going to stop here. I'm too tired to write anymore. I apologize for the lack of toilet paper, I tried what I could to stave off the hunger. You'd be surprised what one would do to try and hold on a little longer. Or maybe you wouldn't be. I used to say "don't shit where you eat" but sometimes you don't have much of a choice. I hope you make it farther than I did. Try not to stay here for too long. Sometimes the lure of safety is just a turd in disguise.

Mr. Smith had it good. He had a good job, a beautiful house, a luxury sedan, a PlayStation 4, a five piece state-of-the-art home entertainment center, a dog that knew how to fetch, and a wife, whom he loved very much, because she knew her place. She never nagged him about coming home late, she always had dinner waiting for him when he got home, and she kept the place nice and clean. One night, when Mr. and Mrs. Smith were in bed watching TV, Mr. Smith said to his wife, "schnookums, how's about you being a good little girl and goin' over and turning on Wrestlin'?" And Mrs. Smith rolled over, and in the sexiest voice she could possibly muster, whispered into her husband's ear "why don't you get out of bed and change the channel yourself, you fat tub of shit?" The End.

The houses that lined the road all looked the same; the only thing distinguishing one house from the other was the occasional change of colour, but as he continued further down the street, Tyler noticed he would pass a house that was the same colour as one he had passed previously, causing him to temporarily doubt the direction he was heading. Maybe two pitchers was enough, he thought as he staggered over to side of the road when he realized he was stumbling straight down the middle of it. He was drinking and playing pool at a bar downtown when his friend Sam messaged him and asked him over for a few drinks and a few hands of poker; “Maggie's brought over a few friends. And Mike and Kevin are here,” he had said. Sam had just moved into a new house and he wanted Tyler to see it. Apparently it was a good set-up; he had a number of expensive new luxuries that living in an apartment couldn't offer. In his basement he told Tyler that he had a full bar set-up, a pool table, a large eight-man poker table, and two fifty-two inch flat-screens; one TV was mounted to a wall near the pool table, the other near the poker table. He called it his man cave but Tyler said 'lair' was probably the more suitable word. With the addition of Maggie's friends how could he say no? At the time, he was in one of the grimiest bars in the city playing pool. The place was filled with what seemed to be construction workers or other contractor types who had all apparently just gotten off for the day, leaving a stale odor of sweat and concrete dust and spilled beer flowing about the humid room. Tyler pulled his phone from his pocket to read the message again to see if he got the address right: 118 Randolf Drive, the message read. He tried to recall the name of the sign he read when he first got off the bus; he was sure it was Randolf, well, somewhat sure at least. There was an R in the beginning of the name, and that was all he could he could visibly recall in his memory for certain. The rest of the sign he saw in his mind looked blurry and difficult to make out, it was like looking through frosted glass on a stark winter night. Looking back down the street he wondered if he should go back and read the sign again but then it occurred to him that he could check the number of the houses around him and get a vague idea if he was in the right spot. There was a dark-red house immediately to his right, he jogged up to the door-step to check the number. The number on the house was: 94. Maybe he did have the right street. He walked down to the next house to see which way the numbers progressed, that house's number was: 96. Tyler walked down the stairs, exiting the driveway and continued down the street. While he was walking he remained close to the sidewalk and became more conscious of where he was walking. He was looking at the houses as he passed but his head would drift downward when he started to feel he was staggering slightly. He heard a car behind him and moved closer to the road, he looked at it as it passed and saw it was a green hatchback, he heard a snap!, of thunder over-head and his head jerked straight forward, startled by the sound. A few moments later, a jolt!, of lightning followed and then came the rain. Down it poured. Each rain drop was so big that it brought new meaning to the the phrase; 'it's coming down in buckets!'. It was a flash-storm better reserved for the likes of a bad movie. The kind that looked so fake that you were sure there was a full hose and sprinkler set up just out of view from the camera. He must have been startled and tripped when the thunder initially struck. He found that he was laying half-way from the middle to the side of the road. Which was now a slick-shimmering black with the succession of rain that was beating down onto it. Puddles already began to pool and where there wasn't a deep enough dip in the road for the rain to gather, the water slithered around the pavement like a snake until it found larger bodies it could join and pool there. The rain felt strange; it felt warm. Unlike any other rain he had felt before. A few years ago he went down to Jamaica with a few friends; it rained, and it was warm, but it was a different kind of warm. This warmth was almost not even warm at all, it was almost like little drops of numbness leaking over your face. Another crack of thunder and then a few moments he saw a flash of lightning. The lightning was close, chillingly close. It looked like it could have it someplace in Sam's subdivision. Best get out of here, Tyler thought as he walked down the street. Of course he knew that lightning never strikes the same place twice, well, almost never, he still had to get the hell out of there, if not for the fear of lightning then for the mess of the rain. It was coming down hard and he knew if he soaked up too much rain he'd track it all over Sam's new place. When he started off down the street, he didn't notice the limp body laying where he had been prior to standing. Again, a crack of thunder, but this time he continued on without the stop of shock and surprise. He estimated that he should have house number; 104 on his right, and house number; 103 or 105 on his left. There was another crack of thunder and Tyler raised his forearm up as a shield from the rain so he could get a good view at the lightning that was about to strike. When his forearm reached his forehead noticed something: his jacket was dry. Dry as a bone. “What the?” He said aloud as he brought both his arms to his waist, extending both forearms so he could investigate further. Dry as a bone. His eyes darted over his clothing; his body twisted left, then right, looking all over, trying to take everything in, still, everything attached to him remained dry. From head to toe, he couldn't find a drop that had soaked into his clothing. To be frank, he wasn't completely sure if the rain was hitting him or not. He felt it, that was for sure, but as he looked closer at his forearm it seemed as if it merely fell through him, like water through a mesh-umbrella. For some reason, he was reminded of the original Star Wars movie and the moment when R2 D2 brings message from Leia to Luke. His right arm came crashing down onto his left in an attempt to see if he was a hologram, or worse, a ghost. When his hand smacked his forearm it stung a little. Thunder roared over-head; Tyler barely noticed. Right now, he was lost. There was a tight screech of tires, not lasting very long as the car wasn't going too fast in a subdivision, then three quick honks sounded. The noise came from behind him and he turned around to find out what the cause was. The rain was thick and it was hard to see, he had to squint a little but he was sure he did in fact see what he thought he saw. There was a dark coloured SUV that had slid slightly sideways on the slick-wet road when it came to a halt, but the SUV wasn't the point of interest. What caught Tyler's eye was what lay in the beam of the headlights. He was sure that was a body. The driver's side door clicked open and Tyler saw a woman get out of the car. She threw up her hood to try to protect her hair from the rain but the hood didn't quite cover her head properly and before she would get a chance to fix it, both of her hands jumped to her mouth to clasp it shut to hide a scream. There was a body laying on the ground, almost in the fetal position and bits of the clothing appeared to be charred. The woman bent down to check on the body. Tyler saw her hand touch the shoulder of the downed figure, nudging it slightly, the way a hunter will with the butt of the gun to a downed animal. The motion caused the body to tumble onto it's back, leaving the figure in full view of the woman, and against her initial efforts, she screamed. Tyler was running toward her now, wanting to offer help. “Hey!” he shouted, “call nine-one-one!” The woman didn't hear him or didn't bother taking note. Tyler guessed she was in shock so he shouted again, this time louder and this time he was a lot closer. He was no more then twenty feet away and he could now make out the woman's face. She didn't respond and now she was heading back toward her car, probably for her cell-phone. Tyler was at the driver's side door when he said anything again. Still no answer, the woman was busy fumbling with her phone. Her hands were dripping and in her first attempt the phone fell onto her lap and she cursed in panic before picking it back up. Finally, the phone was in her hand and then beside her ear. Tyler could hear it ringing from where he stood outside. “Please send someone. Quick. I found a dead body … yes. My name? It's Maria Vanderfield. Yes. I was on my way home and I nearly ran over it. Yes. Randolf Drive. I'll pull over to the side of the road and wait. How long? They're on their way? Okay. Good, thank you.” the woman sounded like she was beginning to hyperventilate. There was a slight stirring in his stomach, a feeling he used to associate with being the starting pitcher for a big ball game as a kid. He stood directly beside the driver's side door. He raised his hand slowly to get the woman's attention. His breathing became quicker and less controlled. As he motioned toward the window he said; “Fuck,” as his hand slipped through the window and into the car. For a moment, it looked like the woman took note of him, but she shrug it off. Maybe she only sensed he was there. Like when your in a dark room and that voice in your head pipes up and tells you that your not alone, just before your sibling or that crazy uncle jumps out of the closet in an attempt to scare you. The human mind is weird like that, being aware of everything and nothing at the same time. The easiest time to scare us is when we are comfortable, when we are so confident that we live in our-world and not the-world. The woman shifted the SUV into drive and she drove slowly through him as she moved the vehicle to the side of the road so that it would be out of the way for the incoming emergency response teams. He stood there for sometime; looming over his body. Looking at it as if he was an investigator on CSI. What happened? How did this happen to him? He was just on his way to his friend Sam's for some drinks and a few hands of cards, and then, this. He stood over his body for some time, he wasn't sure how long, all he knew was that he was still there when the ambulance arrived with it's sirens blazing. Two men got out of the ambulance and ran over to the body. While they were lifting the body onto the stretcher Tyler heard incoming police sirens. He edged closer to one of the paramedics as the man began to strap Tyler's arms into the stretcher, ensuring the body wouldn't fall during transportation. “Don't bother,” he said hoping someone would hear, “it's already over …” The body was laying on the stretcher, the stretcher on the road, one of the paramedics (Tyler saw his name-tag read; Mike), checked the pulse. “I can't feel anything,” Mike said, “we have to get this guy in the ambulance. Now. I can't get a good read on him with all this rain coming down on us. We could be running out of time if we haven't already.” “Okay,” the other medic said, “lets get him up there. On three.” They hoisted the body up into the back of the ambulance. The paramedic named Mike remained in the ambulance, Tyler saw he was fumbling around his body's neck, trying to locate a pulse. The other paramedic was stepping out of the ambulance and began to close the doors. As the second door was closing, Tyler heard his body ringing. He thought of his friends and he thought of his family as he watched the ambulance drive away.

Posted this in another thread about a fedora found on a garbage can. I came up with a back story but it was buried so I doubt anyone got to read it. First time poster too so let me know what you think. If you like it I'll try and continue. It's in the style of a 40s or 50s detective. Here it goes I was about to follow up a lead on the biggest case of my career. I had tracked down a lead who knows something more about the Magic the Gathering heist. We were to meet at Target. My mom had just pulled up when I spotted him. Gangly looking fellow. Couldn't have been no more than 40. He looked nervous. I had to play it cool. Didn't want to spook the fella. I rolled out of the minivan but he was already running. I took off but he was too fast and in the heated 50 ft jog I lost my lucky hat. I loved that hat. Had the sweat stain and greasy lining just like I liked it. I went back home defeated. Had to drown my sorrows for the two losses of the day. That's when it happened. The moment that would change my life forever. She walked in from the upstairs door. My mom had let her in. She was short. Straight black hair with blue highlights. Had friendzone written all over her. She eyed the room. Could tell I was a wreck. Mountain Dew bottles and Pokemon cards strewn about. She had a plastic bag. Said she saw me lose this today. Wanted to return it. As I placed my lost love upon my head she asked but one question. "Sir, what is your name"? I looked her nervously in the eyes from beneath my brim and say.

Every night it’s there like clockwork. Every time I fall asleep on my right side staring at the dark emptiness of my room into the clustered space which is my closet. It just sits there staring at me as if it’s wondering if I am worthy meal or maybe it knows I know of its presence. As I lay there staring at this thing of quadruped form peering at me with its feline like eyes cunning, deceitful cutting through me like a steel dagger I struggle to move. I push every muscle in my body to move just a twitch to reassure myself that I am capable of movement. However no matter how hard I attempt to gain authority of my body I fail to move anything but my eyes. It’s still there. I can see its long, luminous needle like claws which gleam from the moon light which slips from in between the curtain. It starts to move. Time seems to slow down so much that it closes to a stop. I can now feel cold sweat begin to drip down my face. I can now begin to see its shoulders which I can only describe as resembling a rotting corpse covered in patches of black fur. I struggle to stay calm and break free of this trance, but no anvil. It creeps closer as if it’s examining me. I can now begin to see the formation of the creature’s long neck. I cannot take the torture I wish it would just take me. The last thing that I remember before I woke is that it said two words: help me.

As I raised my lens I saw the colours flash by, bay, gray, pieblad. Where was the cheastnut? Where was he indeed? Always here or there. Like colours in the wind. I found him in a paddock, one of his swift legs torn. What had once been a splash of chestnut on the wind was a lame beast of burden. His eyes showed fear and from his nostrols ran mucus. His shaggy coat still curled from the morning workout. I touched him and a shiver went over his hide. As he moved his mane, his forelegs buckled underneath him. I examined the wound on his hindleg. It had been slashed right through the tendon and had left a large fracture in the bone. I relised then that he was beyond the help that I or even the vet (only experienced with dogs and cattle) could give. Even so, he would never be able to be riddern or worked. He would live the rest of his live inpain. So I did the only thing I could, quickly....

" Now boarding flight 117 for Colorado Springs" This is it, I'm finally going home. As I boarded the plane and tucked away my suitcases, I looked outside the window. The sun was just over the clouds getting ready to set. Lucky for me, I had the window seat, which meant no awkward middle seat or sleep-interrupting aisle seat either. As I stared out at the clouds, I couldn't help but think the events that had just unraveled in the past four months. College was no joke and neither was the weather in Hamilton, New York. I could still see the snow on the runway of the airport though the frozen glass window. There were safety guards shoveling the snow, preparing the airplane for liftoff. I felt bad for them but I knew it was their job. For all I know, they probably enjoyed it, or perhaps they were sick of it. I knew I would be. I had always wanted to get away from Colorado Springs.I had just about had enough of the mountains and the warm/cold weather. I wanted consistency, not warm days and cold nights. I guess that's why I came to the North East; I wanted to see if it was anything like in the movies where there was snow, trees changing color, and even places to see. Rest assured, it most definitely was what I hoped for it to be. Though, I couldn't help but feel alone. I always thought I was a strong person. I thought I could go half way across the country without feeling homesick or lonely. In the past I had field trips to different states for weeks at a time: California, Montana, Texas. Never did I feel homesick but instead, I had this urge to stay. I loved traveling and being independent. I guess when you throw school work, breaks, and guys into the equation, things just come rumbling down. I thought I could make it four months without feeling homesick, but things just seemed to happen. During each break, I'd spend my time in my dorm thinking about how much I loved the empty campus and the time alone, but after a while, it got lonely. Constant updates about friends being home because they were simply a train ride away, enjoying the warmth of their families, while I was on campus sipping away my hot chocolate, watching movies like The Notebook, and The Vow. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed watching my movies and crying at consistent love stories, but I wanted much more. When we weren't on break, I still felt alone. I could be surrounded by mobs of friends or even out partying, but somehow I still felt alone. Something inside me felt lonely. Perhaps I wanted what any other girl wanted at my age; a relationship. Though some college girls are here just to sleep around, I didn't want to be just another number to a guy. I wanted to matter. I wanted to be his something. Though, this day in age it's hard to find anything of some sort. People nowadays are sexually driven. If they can't stick it in ya, they keep on moving. I had a crush on a guy, though he doesn't know I exist. Well, I wouldn't say had, more along the lines of have, but it makes no difference. I'm just another person. What upsets me the most about being a teenager is the raging hormones. One minute you're totally fine, going about your own business, and the next you'll be sobbing your eyes out because you think you're in love or at least think you like someone so much. It's like this never ending cycle. Sometimes I wonder if perhaps I'm not suppose to be in a relationship and instead, discovering who I am. I mean, isn't that what college is all about? Finding your inner self or something like that? Though, I feel like that's hard. Like how do you even know something like that? I always imagined you'd grow up being an adult and just knowing who you are. I'm scared to never find out who I truly am because I'm so reluctant to try new things. I feel so reserved. Although I enjoy the comfort of my friends, I still haven't found that someone I could totally open up to. I haven't found that best friend whom I can babble on about my secrets or even my worries. I think it's because I'm scared to. Putting that much trust on someone almost spells disaster if one day they decide they don't want to be your friend. They could use it against you and tell everyone else your deepest darkest secrets and insecurities. That's what I'm afraid of. That, and being judged. I wouldn't want my friend thinking about my problems every time he or she looked at me. Having those eyes examine you from head to toe to make sure you're alright. Through it all, that's all I ever wanted. It might seem ironic, but it's true. I want to have that level of comfort with someone. The ability to tell them everything that's wrong with me, and what bugs me. But I don't know If I ever will because I'm too scared to share. I wouldn't want anyone thinking I'm some whinny girl who has 1001 problems. As I look out at the night sky and the lights from the city below us, I can't help but think about how happy I was to leave to college. I was so eager to get out, to be free, to go somewhere else. I've always loved plane rides because it gives me time to think about anything I want without the disturbance of a text or a message. It's the one time anyone truly becomes disconnected from the world and just ventures off into their own thoughts, unless you pay the five bucks for the wireless internet. I feel as if that's something we as a whole forgot to do: communicate. When I say communicate, I mean speaking with one another without the barriers of social media, texting, and IMing. I miss the days when you could have meaningful conversations with someone. Talk about everything and anything. Although I'm reluctant to talk about my feelings, I'd love to have random conversations with people about anything like " Would an open marriage work out?" or even " What is love?" Love. Such a touchy subject. I've always wondered what love is. Most say you don't know what it is until you feel it, and others say it's a bunch of chemical reactions going on in your head. So cynical huh? I'd like to believe love is when you find someone you're completely comfortable with. A time when you don't worry about how your significant other can make you happy but instead, how you can make them happy. It's tough though. Falling for someone is so easy. You see their perfections and you just crave their attention so bad, but sooner or later, it almost never goes both ways. Someone always gets hurt. I'm not saying it always happens, but it happens most of the time, it does. Guys just find someone better and want to leave it all behind. On the other hand, the minute girls stop feeling the attention, they start falling even harder for the guys and all of a sudden you see guys turn into jerks and girls just keep pleading for their love. It's so messy. The sad part is that the guys who are actually worth the trouble, the ones that are so nice, are always friend zoned. The ones that are always there for someone, the ones that are always so kind, and making you feel special, end up being pushed back because they're "so nice." But in the end, I'd like to believe that we all find our someone. I don't believe the whole "soul mate" crap, but what I do believe is that you should take a metaphorical bite of a cookie and run with it. The best relationships are the ones that you take a risk with. I'm not saying that I'd go around saying yes to any creep that asked me out, but if at some point some nice guy asked me out and I've known him and I feel like it could work out, why not? We spend our whole lives waiting for the perfect relationship, dreaming up this prince charming, yet we ignore the opportunities that stare us directly in the face. Ah, I feel all icky now babbling on about love. But, I mean, it happens. We all think about it sometimes. We'd like to believe that something waits for us, something grand. As for now, the only thing grand waiting for me is my big comfty bed at home. And of course, my family. God knows you can only you can go so long without moral support before you come crashing down. Through it all, a break is good for you. Every now and then we have to leave the places we are in to just seek fun and comfort somewhere else. That way, when the break is over, you can come back to what you've left behind with a fresh pair of eyes. Eyes that have cried out the issues you've been thinking about over and over. Eyes that can move past the rut you've been stuck in for months and couldn't seem to sum up the courage to move on. And finally, eyes that can see beyond anything you know. That way, when you look at things with these fresh set of eyes, you can see the opportunities that have been starring you straight in the face, and the ruts you've been dragging on for so long. In the end, we all need a break, that way we can pick up the pieces when we've summed up our courage to do so.

I don’t know how much longer this search can go on. I am in dire need of repairs and all the parts I need are damaged or not compatible. Time is slowly dwindling away and soon I am going to be another heap of metal populating this ever growing “graveyard” for robots like me. Finding replacement parts can become an aggravating chore for a robot who has become unwanted by consumers interested only in making their lives easier and “less complicated.” My sole purpose was to provide entertainment and company to the children whose parents could afford me. I was built to be able to respond to children’s commands. I could even talk back if I was asked a question that I was programmed to answer. I was built to move around on a wheel that resembled a small bicycle tire. I guess my creators figured that it would provide more excitement for the younger generation to have such a unique way of moving around. But, as technology advances, newer models are created that provide not only entertainment for kids but also luxuries for adults. No longer do people have to do their own cooking or clean their own houses. There are models built for just about anything a person could desire; work, entertainment, pleasure, even crime if bought from the right seller. Along with these advances in robot technology come cheaper prices tags. More people can afford these luxuries of a robot companion. There is just no place for a robot like me in the world today. I mean, I’m built like a unicycle. I can’t get around like the models built with two or even three legs. It takes a considerable amount of time and effort just for me to climb a set of stairs. Along with the handicap of transportation, I have only six fingers, three on both hands. Gripping things can become quite complicated for me at times. Simply put, I’m an antique. The only thing keeping me going is the knowledge I was programmed with to repair myself. As long as I have the parts, I can fix myself. But, I’m not alone in this “graveyard.” This place is populated by robots, like myself, that no longer serve a purpose in this world. Over time, our circuits and parts grow old and become useless and since we can’t heal like our creators and owners, we must replace. The older we get, the less likely we will be able to find the parts we need. Eventually, time will do its thing and our circuits will die and we will become nothing more than recyclable scraps. On the left side of my lower back is a switch that is barely reachable with my left arm. I think I must have been one of the last models built with such a switch as I have not seen it on many models that has been dumped here since my arrival. Whenever my previous owners would reach back and flip it, my internal clock would jump forward an uncertain amount of time and suddenly I would be in another room with different people or with the same people, just wearing different clothing. I’ve never been able to understand how it works. This “graveyard” has run dry of the parts I need. I can’t go on much longer here. That switch might be the only way left for me to get out of here and take me somewhere I can continue to survive. Maybe it will take me to some new owners that have piles of old, working parts that would be a perfect fit for me. Maybe they’ll have children that appreciate the simplicity of my purpose. The thought of this makes me feel the same kind of happiness that I think my previous owners felt when they use to play with me. With little effort, I reach back and place my finger on the switch.

"Please! Please, I beg of you let us live. Why do you have to do this? Why can't you just let us live? We have a child. For all that is holy in this place of death. Let us live!" A woman screams. " Kill me!" A man screams in tears begging pleading to be killed. "My wife and daughter have done nothing to you. You want to kill so bad. Then take me. Shoot me, blow me up, feed me to the skags and raks. Dump me in a bowl of acid, and tie me to the trucks. Peel my skin and cover your blade in my blood. I beg you to brutally murder me and slaughter my innocence." As the man and his wife cried profusely. They trembled in the dying sunlight. They could do no more than plead. As they cried in each other's arms nothing but terror overcame them. They slammed the door of the rusted shed in the desert. As she looked to the empty tire outside the shed, she remembered the garden she was planning for when her daughter was older. She looked up at the raks overhead, and saw the giant H on the moon. This place had been nothing but hell come to life. She seemed to be reminiscent of it's tortured souls and inhabitants. Her husband stared forward. His cold dead eyes looked blankly at the tiny man covered in blood standing before them. The man knew he was dead and had said good bye to his infant daughter. He turned to his wife Tina and said nothing. She knew and he knew. The small man walked forward. He was covered in blood and wore a gas mask. He carried an axe bigger than himself. He held a large chain leash, at the other end was a electric skag. It sat there sparking and barking with blood thirst. The man stepped out of the sunlight and simple said "This is no place for a hero. Let me feast on your soul!" The skag was loose, the man was sprinting. He yelled and screamed. Blood flew across the shed, and the animal feasted for the first time in days, as the man laughed and chuckled. He moved faster and faster. His pet feasting on the mother in her screams of terror. As for the father, well he got everything he asked for. As the man finished the torture and murder it became darker. A moment he sat and thought. "What's in the shed?" He propped his axe on a tree and scratched his back. He threw his skag the mother and fathers skulls for a treat. While the man walked back to the truck he sharply turned around. He screamed "I am the exterminator of life and love!" He ripped open gun fire on the shed, piercing it over and over again. Sparks and fragments, shattered glass. All that was inside was ripped to pieces. The door fell off the hinges. The tire garden that the mother had looked to lie there pouring out dirt through the bullet holes. A small doll out side the door sat in the dirt. It was the only intact thing the bandit had left. Hours later in the dark, a convoy moved through the desert. They began to pass the shed not looking twice at it. This scene was nothing new to this planet. Suddenly a voice echoed "Halt." A large man jumped down from the turret. His boots stepped through the blood soaked sand. He smelled the gun powder still. He saw the pool of blood where the mother and father had been. A short man ran up to him "Commander Rollin. What is it ? Why have we stopped? We need to get back to the raiders base." Rollin stood there gripping his tourge assault weapon. "You don't hear that?" Rollin stepped towards the rattled shed. Now the sound was much more clear. It was the crying sounds of an infant. Rollin ran to the shed stepping into the door frame. He looked around in a panic. The couch was exploded with stuffing pictures of a family sat on the floor torn to pieces. The kitchen had been shattered. The crying kept up and was now very loud. Rollin stepped through the shed leaving foot prints of blood. He pulled back a small cupboard door. There in a basket, a crying infant. Rollin picked up the infant looking and wondering. He knew what had happend to the parents. The violence that had taken place only hours ago. "How did you survive?" he said to him self curiously. He held the baby out in front of him they both stared at each other. Rollin noticed a small braclet. He whispered the name "Tiny Tina. So that's your name. Well Tina I'm Rollin. How would you like to come with me ?" Obviously she could not answer since she was only a infant. His crew looked at him with madness as he stepped out of the broken shed. In a strong voice "Who of you would leave her? Would you leave and infant alone to fight in hell?" Rollin yelled. Tina began to cry and squirm as they walked to the truck. She was motioning toward the doll. Rollin chuckled and picked it up. They got back into the convoy and proceeded back to the base. As they drove through the desert Rollin sat with Tiny Tina. "You know I had a daughter once. She was taken from me a long time ago. What say me and you stick together. Maybe we could find her together.

When I was a boy, I met a most fascinating man. By his outward appearance, you would never think much of him. He lived a simple life, and expected little from those around him. His name was Park, Young Woo. He was a kind old man who loved to talk about many things. He could talk about almost any topic and he would make it very interesting just to sit and listen to his stories. The war had just ended when I met him. The army from the north had invaded our country and many people were hungry and tired. Yet Park, Young Woo was always happy and he helped to cheer up the people around him. What made him the most interesting was he lived in a house built of scraps of wood, cardboard, and metal he had found along the road. Most of the house was made of cardboard. He cut small windows in the walls of his box in order to let in the light. On the top, he put pieces of metal to keep out the rain. It was only one room, but it was enough for him and his dog. Most of the time he sat in front of his shanty with his dog lying beside him, offering to repair shoes. In a small wooden shoe box, he had some thread, pieces of leather, colored polish, and glue. If a person left their shoes with him in the morning, they were ready in the evening. People would always say what a wonderful a job he had done. Day after day, he sat in front of his box repairing shoes. While he worked, he would tell stories to anyone who would listen. He would do most of his work on his right knee while sitting on a small stool. His dog lay beside him. He was very good at what he did. His reputation as a cobbler spread throughout our little village, but most of all, people loved to hear him tell stories of when he was a young boy living on the farm with his family. While he worked, he would either hum songs or whistle. He enjoyed his work very much. When someone would walk by, he would begin a conversation. Most people would stop and chat with him for a short time, but sometimes they would sit and talk with him for hours. He was a wise old man, and there was nothing he would not discuss. On my way to school, I would stop to talk to him. He was always very busy repairing a pair of shoes, but he still talked to me. One day, I heard a new sound coming from the cardboard box. It was beautiful music. At first, I thought it was a radio playing the music, but when I got close to his box, I realized that he was playing a violin. He was playing it so gently and sweetly that the entire place was filled with joy. Other people began to gather to listen to the music coming from the old shoemaker. He played and played. He played familiar songs and songs I had never heard before. The people who had gathered to listen were absolutely silent. When he finished, the people clapped and asked for more. He bowed at the waist and played again. It was dark when he finally said good-bye and disappeared into his small cardboard box. Everyone in the town began to talk about the music from the old man. No one remembered hearing music played like that before. The next day I asked him where he had gotten the violin he was playing. He told me that he had traded it in exchange for repairing an old pair of shoes for a lady in the city. He said it was not a very good violin, but it was nice to play again. I asked him where he learned to play so well. He told me that he had played all of his life but, when the war came, his violin had been destroyed. He did not have enough money to buy another one, but now he would be able to make music anytime he wanted. He had a big smile on his face. Many of the people who he had fixed shoes for, decided to collect money to buy him a new violin. Then they would ask him to play for them. Everyone became excited about the idea. I even gave some money to help buy the new violin. Every day the old man played his old violin and filled the street with soft gentle music. More and more people came to hear him play. Many people gave money. When there was enough money collected, the leader of our village went to the city and purchased a new violin. The plan was for the old shoemaker to come to the park. They planned to ask him to play for the town, and then they would give him his new violin. On the day he was to receive the violin, a young boy was sent to ask him to come to the park to play for everyone. Usually, the old man only stayed at his cardboard box. He did not like to go other places very often. It seemed like a very long time when the young boy came back alone. He told us something was wrong. The old man would not wake up. The leaders of the town went quickly to his cardboard box to see what the young boy was talking about. When they returned, they told us the old man had passed away, probably the night before. Everyone began to cry. The leaders of our village turned the place where the old man lived into a special memorial. They left everything the way he had lived. His shoe box, his old violin, his bed, and everything else he had, was kept just the way he had left it when he died.

"I had been driving for a long time. I still remember the calm sky: clouds were gathering up around the sun as it was getting ready to be tucked behind the green hill of trees. It wasn't bright orange but instead, the mellow type. The type that the sun turns just as it sets. There were hills covered with trees everywhere. That's why it was my favorite road. The drive was smooth, the hills were covered with trees, and it was a road going uphill and around the mountains. It all eventually led to my favorite scenic spot outside the city." "What made it so special?" She said in a very intrigued tone. "I could see the whole city from this one place. Not only that, but I could see the sun set. It make me feel relaxed. Calm. Pensive. It was the one place where I could just look and think about anything I wanted to, without distractions. A place where I could think" "About what?" She said curiously. "Stuff" I said. " Henry, It doesn't help keeping it in. If you talk about it, it'll help. So tell me, what was it that you couldn't stop thinking about?" She said She was right. I couldn't keep it in forever, but I wanted to. I was never the one to talk about my feelings openly yet, I was the one who could always get others to spill their emotions in a split second. Ironic isn't it? I guess it was a new feeling. I've always felt like I didn't need anyone to talk about my feelings; as if I could do it by myself. Sort of like playing self psychologist. It was fun. It got me thinking. But it didn't work. Perhaps this was the perfect way to open up, but I couldn't. It was hard and I was scared. "Henry, what's bothering you?" I knew I had to start at some point. " I don't know, a lot of things" Well that was a stupid answer. " Like what? How are things at home?" That's when I knew things were getting serious, this session was about to hit on something emotional. " Things are well. Nothing's different or off. Still doing my chores, eating my dinners and doing my homework." I wasn't lying. "How's your social life then? Friends treating you alright?" " Yeah, friends are treating me well. Not being bullied or anything. School is fine too by the way. My dog's birthday was the other day in case you wanted to know." I was getting kind of annoyed. I don't know where this conversation was going anymore. " Finish telling me about that day at the hill when you couldn't stop thinking?" Why was she going back to the drive? " I just couldn't stop thinking. I had arrived at the place, sat in the car and watched the sun set and the moon rise. I was listening to music and just thinking, then I went home." " About what Henry?" " Life" " What about life?" She said obscurely. "How difficult it is to go through it as a teenager. All these emotions and hormones. It sucks" Wow. I might as well tell her I'm on my period. I sound like a girl complaining about her problems, It feels good. No, no it doesn't. What's wrong with me? " What do you mean what's wrong with you Henry?" Oh god, did I just say that out loud? Now this is really wrong. " I don't know." " Henry, can I tell you something?" " Yeah sure" I was getting more annoyed. " I know it's hard opening up. Sometimes we don't want people knowing how we feel because we fear judgment and even worse, weakness. But you have to trust me; I'm here to help you. I'm here to guide you through and not judge you. People need people in order to survive and be happy. You can't keep being like this. Open up to me and see how good it feels. If you don't feel better after this session then we can stop." Well that's a deal. Talk about some bogus feelings and be off the hook after, I can do this. " Okay then." " So tell me, what are you scared of?" " I'm scared of failure." " What about failure scares you?" " The disappointing part." " Disappointing who?" Really? We're going to play twenty-one questions? I can't keep doing this. “Disappointing everyone." " Why do you care about what others think of you?" " I don't" " Then why does disappointing others scare you?" " That's different" "How so?" "Because disappointing the ones I love is different than caring about what other people think." " But if you didn't care about what others think, then disappointing others wouldn't matter because you wouldn't care if you disappoint them." There was a silence. " So why do you care about what others think about you?" " I guess it's because I don't want to seem like something less than what I am." “Anything less?" “Like, I don't know. I just don't like disappointing others because, I just don’t. I, I guess I do care about what people think. I’m scared that if I disappoint them, then they’ll think less of me and I’ll no longer be the person they thought I was but instead, some loser who couldn’t amount to anything.” My heart started racing. My eyes began feeling heaving and I could no longer control my breathing. “ I just don’t want to be a somebody. I want to be much more. Everyone makes me up to be this kid who is super smart and talented and I’m scared of giving that up. I don’t want them to think I can’t amount to anything because I failed at something. I feel so much pressure to keep doing what I’m doing.” Stop. Don’t do this. I’m not about to cry. It felt like word vomit. Feelings spilling everywhere like a glass of milk being spilled on the kitchen tile floor. “ I feel alone. I feel like if I talk about what’s wrong then people will no longer think I’m that smart kid but instead some whiny teenager and I don’t want that. I don’t want to feel inadequate. I don’t want people to see me as the guy with problems. The moment you tell someone your problems, they automatically remember that every time they see you and I hate that. I don’t want that to be me.” It was over. Tears were dripping down my face like there was no tomorrow. All these thoughts were racing in my head and it was only making me cry even more. “ There there, it’s alright. Here’s some tissues, clean yourself up.” She said as she reached over to hand me the box of Kleenex. “ Well our time is up. I’ll see you tomorrow at the same time. Just remember that you’re not alone and that there is always someone waiting to hear your story. Don’t worry about what they think of you because if they are true friends then they will be by your side no matter what. On the other hand, I’m always here for you as well. I know I’m leaving you all opened up, but that’s good. You just let it all out and need time to process what just happened. It’s all a process. I’m glad you opened up to me Henry. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And just like that, the session was over. The next thing I knew I was back home, sitting on my bed looking up at the ceiling thinking about tomorrow. I can’t believe I opened up. I felt better, a little, but better. Maybe this was the start of something new. Maybe. Or maybe this is all some mind game. Which, in that case, I won’t let her win.

Somewhere, there's a little boy who wants nothing more than a PC for christmas. He's been good all year and wrote a letter to GabeN asking for a gaming PC, even if it's just a small one. His parents found the letter and were not amused. The peasantry in his family ran deep and his mother said that they couldn't afford a $5000 PC. "But mom, a PC is not more expensive than consoles! With steam sales and humble bundles you'll save money in no time", the little boy pleaded, but to no avail. "GabeN isn't real and you're getting a PS4 for christmas", exclaimed his mother. "Also you're a fat fag and I fucked your mom last night", added his enraged father. The little boy was heartbroken. He didn't want another paperweight with potato graphics for christmas, all he wanted was a glorious battle station. Why couldn't they understand? Christmas Eve came and went, his parents made him play CoD: Ghosts all evening on their PS3. The boy's eyes were starting to hurt from the low resolution and terrible framerate, but his father insisted that he cannot be done until he fulfilled his quote of racist expletives in voice chat for the day. They played until deep in the night and when he asked them if he could rest his eyes from the terrible graphics, they said that his eyes couldn't tell the difference anyway. His peasant parents taunted him saying this would be the only gaming he'd ever experience. The boy shed a single tear and as it touched the ground, a wondrous thing happened. There was a loud noise on the roof and they all held their breath. Suddenly, down the chimney came the glorious presence of almighty GabeN. The peasants averted their eyes, for they could not comprehend his glorious resolution. The boy, however, watched in awe as GabeN approached and said in a soothing voice: "Boy, you have shown yourself willing to transcend the peasantry your house has been cursed with. No child shall be left wanting for a true gaming experience." As he said these words, GabeN scratched his glorious beard and there appeared, right next to the TV, a battlestation. "No, you cannot have a PC in the living room", shouted the parents, only now regaining the senses. GabeN, smiling at their childlike ignorance, merely said: "Go ahead, boy" and the boy turned on the PC. Instantly, the room was filled with bright lights. The SSD hard drive allowed the PC to power up in mere seconds. On the Desktop, there was but a single icon. It was a circle with a strange, Greek letter in the middle, that the boy did not immediately recognize. When he started the game, it struck him. The Lord GabeN had gifted him with Half-Life 3, the game of legends. Upon seeing the ingame graphics, his parents were weeping tears of disbelief. "How can this exist?", the father stammered. "How could we have been so blind?", the mother cried. They each hugged their child and GabeN saw that his work was done. As he set out to leave, the family asked him how they could ever repay his kindness. He answered: "I ask only that you help other peasants in need of guidance." With those word he vanished, only the sparkling of his beard lingering a few more seconds. The family played and played all through the night until they fell asleep by their new PC. In the chimney, faintly glowing, there were only the remains of their consoles.

Jim Hudson, stricken with an awful hangover, dragged himself into the kitchen and plopped himself onto the granite bar-stool. He let out a long sigh and ruffled both his hands through his hair. “Good morning, honey,” his wife, Carrie, said lovingly as she served him a stack of pancakes and fresh pot of steaming coffee, “how are you feeling?” “Like absolute shit. I think I had just one too many Whiskey Sours last night; you know how I can get carried away. What time is it?” “8:15...I’m gonna be late for work. Finish up your coffee and pancakes; that should help that headache of yours. Make sure you feed Scrappy, Rags, Cupid, Cleo, Jar Jar, Rex, Neptune, and Onyx. And by the way, have you seen Waffles around lately? I thought I heard him meowing near the back door last night and spent about a half-hour looking for him.” “Do you think I keep track of each and every one of these cats?,” Jim said with a smirk, “I was so plastered last night, I couldn’t even see my own feet.” “Oh well,” said Carrie, “he’ll turn up...they always do. I gotta run! Don’t forget to feed the cats!” “Yeah, yeah...see ya later.” Carrie scurried out the door as Jim dug his knife into his last pancake. He cautiously sipped on his coffee, looking across the table at one of the cats licking its own paw. “Get off my table,” he hissed, making a shooing motion with his hand. Meanwhile, the titter-tatter of a lively golden retriever reached the room. “Hey, Buddy!” Jim’s face lit up, as he greeted the massive canine, patting its head as its tail swung from side to side. He got up and carelessly dropped his dish and utensils into the sink. He dumped the rest of his coffee down the drain, filled his mug with tap water, and washed 400 milligrams of ibuprofen down his gullet. He then grabbed a box of Fancy Feast from the cabinet and dumped an uneven amount of the mix into each of the nine bowls against the wall. Seconds after the sound of the pellets hitting the metal came a legion of cats, colliding into each other as they scurried towards each of their respective bowls. Jim scowled in disgust as he seized his coat and headed out the back door towards the house of Rupert Peabody, the Hudsons’ next-door-neighbor. The door creaked shut as the sound of the cats’ collared bells resonated throughout the empty house. **Part II** I was only twelve years old at the time. The teacher had arranged for our class to go on a fieldtrip to the zoo, which we were all very excited about. Nobody was as excited as I, though; everybody in the grade knew that Rupert Peabody was the animal-freak. We all darted to the school bus, each and every one of us wanting to sit near the back. The whole trip consisted of my classmates asking me about the animals we were about to see. It was my hour of fame; I was an expert on this subject and everyone knew it. Some kids wanted to see the elephants, and others wanted to see the birds. One of them finally asked me what I was most excited to see. “The cheetah,” I answered with great pride. I had always believed that in my past life, I was a cheetah. The idea of the cheetah, to me, was courage, strength, and majesty. My whole childhood, I had connected with this animal more than any human I’d met. This was the day I was finally going to meet one in person, and nothing was going to stop me. After about 45 minutes of walking in an orderly line through the small, caged-up world, it was time for lunch. We had seen the monkeys, the turtles, the birds, the giraffes, and the frogs, but still no cheetah. We sat at a bench in the plaza located in the center of the zoo, as my classmates dug into their homemade sandwiches and marveled over the delightful day they were having. I was too impatient to eat, so I told the teacher I wasn’t feeling well and ran to the Port-o-Potty a few yards away. I started towards the bathroom, waited for the teacher to glance the other way, and bolted towards the cages. I sprinted down the winding dirt path, my heart pounding and my lips stretched from ear to ear. My heart stopped for a split second as my eyes locked with the magnificent beast lounging on a large rock a few feet in front of me. He had been waiting for me; he was calling me towards him. I stepped closer towards the cage and he stood up off the rock. At this time, whatever logic or reason I had in my brain must have melted through the pores of my skin, as I ignored the huge sign that read “DANGER: DO NOT TOUCH THE CHEETAH” and stuck my arm between the bars of the cage. The creature leapt through the air at the speed of light and snapped at my right forearm; my entire hand was detached in an instant. I fainted at the sight of my own blood spewing from my severed limb. It has been 13 years since that day, and not only was I left with just one functioning arm, but with a life-altering mental illness as well. Ever since the incident, I have had the burning desire for revenge pulsing through my body. After about a year of this feeling haunting my life, I took out my anger on the next closest thing to the cheetah: a stray cat. I killed the innocent animal...killed it with my bare hand. My crime felt rewarding; it was a brilliant rush, like a drug. As time progressed, I began to kill more and more cats. It became an addiction – an addiction that keeps me awake at night. Now my habit is worse than ever, and it is impossible to quit. I’ve accepted my condition as something I simply must live with. I’ve recently moved to a new town, in which my neighbor despises cats. Ironically, his wife owns many. It seems as if the universe might be acting in my favor, for once. **Part III** Jim stumbled over the minuscule step leading to his neighbor’s backdoor. “You’d think that I would’ve learned to step over that thing by now,” he hollered to Rupert, who was standing in the kitchen, cutting the crust off his freshly prepared ham and cheese sandwich. The sound of the knife (which was screwed onto some strange apparatus connected to his stump of a wrist) hitting the ceramic plate sent chills down Jim’s spine. He looked around the kitchen with a smirk, noting each and every piece of dirty kitchenware dispersed throughout the room. He knew he was in the presence of a maniac, but he didn’t care; there was an eerie sense of comfortability in the room. “Hello Jim,” Rupert said calmly, “what brings you here so early?” He unscrewed the knife from his stub and dropped it on the floor in a nonchalant manner. “Your little stunt went noticed a little sooner than I thought it would. I don’t know how she keeps track all those fuckin’ furballs. You killed...what was its name...Waffles? Yeah, you killed Waffles last night. Question: when you do this...’thing’ of yours, do you actually need to slaughter the cats? I mean, it would be a lot better on my end if you did something that seemed a little more natural...like with poison or something. She’s gonna get really suspicious, really quickly.” “Unfortunately, physical contact with the animal is what I need to satisfy the urge,” Rupert sighed. His pupils constricted as he bit down on his sandwich in frustration. Jim let out a long breath as he wiped his palm down his face. “I’m...having second thoughts about this.” “We had a deal, Jim,” Rupert said sternly, almost choking on a piece of food. “Ok, Ok, I know. Just try to do this a little more...tastefully, if that makes any sense. I have to go.” Jim walked out the door in a mild panic. He started back towards his house but had to stop halfway once he noticed he was at a loss of breath. Breathing heavily, he felt a cold sweat forming at his forehead. His heart became a woodpecker banging on the inside of his chest, trying to escape. His vision became blurry as he bent over, hands against his stomach, and vomited. “Jim, Jim, wake up!” Jim’s body jolted upward at the sound of his wife’s voice. He hadn’t remembered going to bed, let alone walking into his own room. There was a sliver of light showing through the curtains next to his bed. He rubbed his eyes at the sight of the red LED clock that read 5:32. Life around him seemed to move in slow motion while he woke up until his vision focused on the tears streaming down his wife’s face, like heavy rain against a windshield. “What’s wrong?,” he asked with more emotion than he had felt in a while. Carrie, speechless, pointed a shaking finger towards the kitchen. Jim shot out of bed and ran to the kitchen to see the sliding door destroyed and the tiled floor layered with shards of glass. He grabbed a butcher knife from the drawer underneath the sink and tiptoed towards the dining room. His face grew white as he turned his head around the corner. The knife slipped through his numb fingers and hit the floor. The dining table was set with plates and silverware at each seat. In the center of the table laid a large bowl filled with an array of feline carcasses. A folded index card stood on its edges at the head of the oval table.

The fan moves back and forth. Looking left then right, guarding my room from the things I cannot see. The constant whirr is calming, and reassuring to my restless mind. That is what they tell me anyway. I am restless. I am confused. I am dangerous they say. So I stay in this room, because it is what is good for me. For everyone. But I don’t mind. There’s a very nice bed, and my fan. The whirr is very calming to my restless mind, I’m told. The people here are very kind, and come to see me often. There is a child down the hall from me that is not very pleasant though. I know all the things she has done. She’s probably sitting in there planning her next act as I speak. That’s why she doesn’t get a nice room like the rest of us. Hers is darker, and there isn’t even a window. I don’t think she’s allowed visitors anymore either. The poor child. My family, they come to see me every week. Twice a week if I am lucky. They did anyway. Not so often anymore. I always enjoyed when my mother came though. She is most beautiful. At least she was, until one day – Oh, three years ago sounds about right. I’m sorry, I just can’t keep track of time very well in this, ever so nice room. It really is very nice. Anyway, where was I? Oh, my mother! Yes! We found her at the bottom of the stairs. Her curly, flowing blonde hair, blood streaked, casting an almost beautiful veil of sorts over her face. “A quick blow to the head”, they said. “There was no sign of resistance, or struggle.” And she was gone down the spiral staircase, just like that. My mother never liked that staircase. Personal belongings falling from her bag left a trail to her body. Almost as if it were a child’s game, with a twist at the end. The killer meant for us to find her like that. I know. But no one believes me though. They all just think I’m crazy. I know it was no accident, or fluke. Lipstick and mints don’t fall in such a perfectly crafted line like by chance! This was the work of a killer. A good one at that. Leaves no evidence, but the crime in plain sight for all to find. Almost flaunting it. Proud of it even. I’ve watched the girl leave and return unnoticed three times. Each time claiming another victim. The nice people think she is getting better, I hear them talking about letting her have a nice room soon, and maybe even letting her go. But I know! The girl does not get better in the mind she gets better at hiding the evil keeping her here! They know nothing. When the girl left, she used a window in one of the empty rooms. We are on the first floor, so it was probably quite easy for her. It was quiet, but not so quiet that she could be heard easily, especially with the fans whirring as they so often do. She was back within the hour and ever so graciously strolled back into her room as if nothing more than a quick run to the store had just happened. Although unsuspected by others, I knew better. My thoughts were proven correct by afternoon the next day. I was allowed out for good behavior, and improvements with my “instability” and “franticness” as the nice people call it. Consequently, I went to visit my family. That’s when we found my mother. Her beautiful blonde hair, an elegant mess over her face. Her motionless body. The trail. They crying. They betrayal. My father and sisters seldom spoke to me, or each other for nearly a year after that. Until the girl left again. She was barley noticeable this night, and if I hadn’t known better I would have thought it Max, our house cat, out for a midnight stroll as he so often does. Probably admiring the very nice rooms. They are painted a beautiful shade of blue. The girl does not get to enjoy this though because she does these terrible things. Slipping out the door was a simple task for her on this night. Especially when the nice people were starting to ease up on her security and restrictions. She might have been able to have a nice room soon too. I was also trusted more. And with each passing day I found more interesting things to do with my time. One day I simply wandered about, admiring and counting all the doors and windows I could find. They are all quite beautifully made. Carved wood frames, and shiny copper hinges around every corner, all accented by lovely blue walls. I even attended Sunday services every once and a while. These were almost as calming to me as the whirr of my fan. I went to service that morning after the girl had left, to get my mind settled and well rested. Since I was out, I did not hear the news until nearly mealtime. My father was dead, my sister told me. In synch as they always were. Its quite a spectacle to hear them speak, it truly is. I miss their voices sometimes. It was as if they were not two minds, but one. Each knowing exactly what the other’s intentions would be. Sometimes I wished I had a twin. No one ever understood me the way they seemed to understand each other. My father was drowned in our pool. Oh, how I loved that pool. Summers of swimming and carefree fun. He never went near it though. Not once. He was always afraid of water, but had it made just for us. That’s how we knew it wasn’t an accident. I was allowed out for the funeral. After that I did not see the girl for a long time, and my sisters started coming to visit every week. Over the course of their visits however, they acquired a distaste for my fan, which I would never fully understand. When they were here, we spoke of the past, new events, but mostly of when I would be able to leave. It was always a topic of interest that no one seemed to know the answer to. I was calmer, oh yes. I was aware. They saw nothing wrong, and neither did the nice people. How terrible I feel for tricking them. They really are very nice. My poor sisters were the last to go. I saw it coming. I didn’t know when, and it took me two full months to figure out how, but I could feel it. For her grand finale of sorts, the girl had taken my fan, the fan belonging to the boy on room over, and every other she could find on her way out. The house was burned down by morning. I awoke to the fan moving back and forth. Looking left and then right. Guarding my room from the things I cannot see. The constant whirr is calming and reassuring to my restless mind. I am restless. I am confused. I am dangerous. So I stay in this room because it is what’s good for everyone. I have a bed, and my fan. The constant whirr is very calming to my restless mind. It’s the only way I can live in this dark room alone.

I stumble through the woods. I have gone days without eating, living off of the drops of dew that cling to the plants each morning. I trip over fallen tree after fallen tree, but still I pick myself up and keep walking, not knowing why I haven’t died yet, why I haven’t fallen and been unable to pick myself up. Each day I pray that I will find civilization. Each day I am disappointed. I trip once again and let out what is either a sob or a hollow laugh. To think that I used to be a great leader. I used to have everything I could have ever asked for, all ruined because of that stupid war. The people in charge of the world went insane, murdering countless and ravaging many cities, including my own. Because of it I am now fated to stumble through the trees forever. I force myself up and promise to myself that I will be powerful again. I walk on for another 3 hours, then see something through the gaps in the trees. Could it be? I feel adrenaline course through me and I walks faster. It is. I did it. A house stands before me; it is in terrible condition, but it’s a house, and I can see more houses further on, and people walking around. I try to speak but no words come out only a strange gasp, and a woman hears me and screams and people start running about, and I fall to my knees as a man comes up to help me up but my knees have stopped working. The man is saying something to me, but everything is already going dark. I remember waking up from time to time; the man is always there giving me soup or water, but I awaken for the final time on a cot in a tent. There is a different woman with a gun standing near me, staring at me suspiciously. “What happened?” I manage to cough out. “You collapsed outside our town.” The woman says. “You gave us a real fright, stumbling in like that. We thought you were one of the Ravagers.” For the next hour the woman tells me all about how Lake Town had been there for a century or two, and how the only reason they survived was because people tended to avoid it; everyone thought it was cursed because the mayors keep dying each year. “How do they die?” I ask. “We don’t know.” The woman admits. “One day they’ll be there, the next day they’re gone.” For the next few months I live peacefully in the town. I earn my keep by helping out with tasks such as farming, and I once tried to fish at the nearby lake for which Lake Town was named but could not catch a single fish. When I asked the mayor about it he just said; “There’s no point in trying to fish there, even the most skilled fisherman has tried. We think that there must be some trash in it or something that is killing all the fish.” So I continue farming, but I remember my promise out in the woods to regain my empire, and I begin to crave more power. I become very good friends with the mayor and get promoted to builder, then chief raider, then finally up to what the people called the “advisor”, who is the most powerful person in town other than the mayor himself. For a month I am happy, but I still want more power. I go down to the lake to think about what I should do. I go there often because of how peaceful it is away from the other townsfolk; I can’t hear or see anything from the town at all. I sit on the dock and stare at the water. “How beautiful it is.” I say to myself. “So still, it’s like a mirror.” I stop. That gives me an idea. If no one can see in the lake, you could hide anything under the surface. Anything. I feel a smirk forming on my face and prepare my plan. I invite the mayor to come for a picnic at the lake, then knock him out with one of the cinder blocks from the town, and drag the him to the docks where I tie the block around his leg. Once I’m done, the mayor starts to wake up. A look of realization hits his face, our gazes lock and his lips form a scream but it’s too late, and the lake swallows him without a trace. I feel guilt stab at my stomach but I push it away. I had just committed a perfect crime; no one saw or heard me, no one will find the body under the lake’s mirror-like surface, and no one will suspect me because they will all think it was the curse that whisked the mayor away. I become the new mayor, and I live happily with the power that I have longed for for nearly seven months. Half of a year passes, and a new man wanders into Lake Town and collapses. At first everyone is suspicious of him, unsure if he can be trusted or if he is perhaps one of the Ravagers. But once he regains all his strength he proves himself by working hard as a farmer, and I can see a future for a hard worker like him higher up in the chain. I decide to promote the new man to builder, then chief raider, then finally advisor, and we become good friends. One day the new advisor excitedly told me he had caught a fish in the lake. I am shocked and ask him to show me where, so we rush to the lake and hop into a small wooden boat to row out to the middle. “Where did you catch it?” I ask him again. “Right over here.” The advisor points to a spot in the lake, so I lean over to look when I feel a sharp sting on the back of my head, and everything goes dark. I awaken with my head hurting and everything looking fuzzy, but I think I can see the advisor sitting next to my leg. I try to move but is restrained by what looks like rope, and I can feel something heavy being tied to my leg. A cinder block. My blood runs cold as I realizes what is happening. The advisor and I lock gazes, and my lips start to form a scream, but it is too late, and the boat tips and cold water engulfs me. I panic and start thrashing about in the water, but I soon give up and let out a sob as the cinder block rests on the sand bottom. A current sways me back and forth as I slowly run out of air, and I feel something touch my leg. I look over to see algae with a skeleton trapped inside, some torn flesh and part of an eye still clinging to his bones, gently swaying along side me with a piece of algae touching my leg from time to time. I scream, causing me to swallow more water, and I look the other way hoping I will die without that horrible image in my mind. Instead I am greeted with more skeletons, each one looking more disgusting than the next. There are a about a hundred of them. And all of them have rope around their ankle. All of them are tied to cinder blocks. Thank you for reading! This is my first short story so I appreciate feedback.

The hilarity of it all. Horizontally sprawled -and a box spring and a mattress above the hardwood floor- I’m face up, smiling as I dissolve into ambient sleep-synths from the late eighties, remixed with the wonderful sounds of a token jungle, at night. Four walls, painted in an undoubtedly, belligerently elitist name for ‘white’, blend into a smooth safe shell, and suddenly, I’m as comfortable as a yolk. I’m dying… If I had the choice, I’d be dying. It’s amazing how the winter sets in. A marvellous tide of transition. Liquid turns to solid, chills turn to shivers, and freedom becomes loneliness. I’ve always found it funny how certain words can refer to drastically different things with striking similarities. A perfect example is the word ‘cell’. Woe to you, in bondage with freedom struck from thee. Joy to you! You fine nucleus about town, cellular structure to die for. Ha. A guy could go crazy trying to write all of this down. Stir crazy, trying to get it all down in this cell. Diffusion is not out of the question, exemplified by my preparedness to order a pizza directly to my window. Other than that, my membrane is closed to traffic. Cell phones are another conveniently ubiquitous example that darn word ‘cell’, but the current state of semi-permeability prohibits such transmissions from breaking through. Try as you might, it’s a tough sell. Ok, sleep, alright. It’s a beauty day for day dreaming.

Please forgive any grammatical errors, I just wrote it and wanted to see if you guys liked it. Sometimes I can't get the things in my head to come out of my mouth. Most the time I shouldn't even try. One day I walked over to a friends place and upon arrival I notice a short haired calico cat sitting on the front steps of the apartment building. It was pretty clean so I didn't think it was a stray, but he looked lost. Though he was just sitting there he appeared to me to have a very calm, almost human demeanor. Instead of wondering where it came from I began to imagine that the cat was also here to see someone in the building. Maybe he lives here. maybe he forgot his keys and he keeps trying to get his wife on the intercom to let him in but she wont pick up. He's pressed the button on the call box three or four times now with no response. In my mind, he's tapping his little cat foot and looking at his little cat watch saying, "Come on, dammit, I know she's in there." As I am pressing the button for my friend's apartment this image becomes incredibly funny to me. She picks up to be sure it's me and from her apartment unlocks the door with a loud buzzing sound. I laugh to myself as I enter the building, maybe stepping over a little kitty briefcase in front of the doorway. Inside the lobby I realize there is a woman standing there looking out at the cat through the glass door. "Do you know who's cat that is?" I think about the image I've created, the cat outside trying to get in, his little cat wife upstairs listening to NPR so loud she can't hear the buzzer. "He's.." I freeze. I realize there's no way for me to explain to someone in passing the hilarious scenario I've created in my head in the past thirty seconds. "He's um..." He's wearing a little kitty tie. "He's waiting for..um..to meet someone." She looks at me and one of her eyebrows seems to raise involuntarily. "What?" "What?" I say, because it doesn't make sense to me either. She continues staring at me. For a few awkward seconds I stare back at her with my mouth open, unsuccessfully trying to come up with words that make sense. Nothing. I put my head down and pull my hood on, receding into myself like a turtle, and scurry off down the nearest hallway; leaving this woman confused and still wondering about the cat on the porch, lost and alone in the cold.

Come to think about it, people really are disgusting. Thin and tall creatures made up mostly of slime and viscera, not that other animals are any different; multiplying uncontrollably and feeding off one another’s suffering. We like to think of life as something good, of living things as something that is somehow desirable for someone or something, somewhere. We try not to see past the shallow, thin and dry skin, but in the end it doesn’t take more than a small razor blade across the guts to expose ourselves, we’re all slime, we’re all disgusting- Adam’s train of thought was interrupted by a strange figure on the side of the road. A hitch-hiker in a place like this? Not that he was too far from any civilization but still there was nothing but woods for a few miles across and the mid-November weather was cold enough for snow to start falling down any second now. The strange man looked less inconspicuous the closer Adam drove to him; with his dirty and greasy looking unkempt beard and a muddied thick dark green jacket, a wrinkled hand with a thumb blackened at the borders of its nail sticking out in the sky, his eyes staring mindlessly at nothing in particular, his lined face pointing in the general direction of the old red Monza Adam drove. “What’s this hobo doing in the middle of nowhere? Crazy guy.” The sight made Adam marginally curious, but nothing more; surely someone had dropped him there instead of on his actual destination for some reason, maybe he pissed himself in the car or wouldn’t stop rambling like a maniac until the driver finally had enough. Adam decided to forget about it, he adjusted the hear-view mirror to take a last glimpse at the man slowly vanishing in the distance and then faced the mirror at himself. His eyes were baggy from too much irregular sleep, most of the time he didn’t feel like doing anything but staying in bed, except at night, when he couldn’t actually sleep; he wasn’t sure if his receding hairline was due to his poor health and bad habits but he hated it. He’d hated it since the first time a high-school friend of his made a joke about it. It wasn’t a big deal for his friend, but it was for Adam, who in a few months started cutting his auburn hair extremely short. I've probably done lots of things wrong, I never tried writing a story like this before so... yeah. Plus English isn't my main language so there's that. Thanks for reading anyway.

I'll admit, for a minute I was nervous. The last thing I wanted was to be tied to this woman for the rest of my life via our child, but I had to know. There was enough doubt to justify my concern for a paternity test so we took one. This was unfortunate, because despite my complete desire to have nothing to do with her again I didn't want her to suffer any weird legal or financial troubles over a negative. The brief conversation in the waiting room. Looking at the boy. It was already obvious to both of us I wasn't the father but we had already requested the service of the state for verification, and the state will have it's answers. We parted on friendly terms and have yet to cross paths again. I imagine this is agreeable to both parties, but can only speak for myself. The results where a little suspicious however. I had a 0.0000000000000000034768% of being the father. That's what the lab said. I'm actually guessing here because I don't have the original test results, lost to time and moving, but I'm pretty sure there were more zero's. There were so many zeros. I didn't understand the implications immediately other then i wasn't the father. Having never seen a paternity test result before the amount of abnormality flew right over my head. It wasn't until a did some research about the internet and the examination of other paternity tests and their results that it really sunk in. The fact of all those zeros. It basically said I was .0000000000000000034768 compatible with everyone. The most dramatic negative test I had observed in other paternity results: 0.01. People aren't that different, genetically. Like Leggos, all different colors and shapes and able to perfectly fit with one another. This test told me I was a lincoln log, but it would take me some 10 years to put that together. To realize. To fully understand what those numbers really meant. Why these things keep happening to me. You see, I'm not a real person. I mean, I am a real person. I FEEL like a real person. I do real person things. I was born, I'm growing old, I get wounded, my heart has been broken. I do real people things, but I'm not a real person. I'm property. I'm a construct. A manufactured person. An Experiment. A Walking reminder of their shame so to speak, and they do not like to feel shame and refuse to acknowledge failure. I was conceived just like everybody else.. well.. not exactly like everybody else: in a steamy hotel room in New Orleans, my parents a few months shy of graduating LSU and moving back home to Michigan. Dad had been to Vietnam and was attending college under the GI bill for computer science. As he and mom were already married she qualified for all the military health benefits that the early 1970's could provide, and therefor attended military hospitals for paternal care. I think that's when it happened. I think maybe they stuck some needle into her womb and injected some genetic cocktail of things. Of course they'd done it before with varying results. I often see others like me. Wandering. Lost. Displaced. For whatever reason rejected due to some failure: not smart enough, hemophiliac, mentally deficient, etc. I was rejected because I dislocated my ankle. You see, I wasn't supposed to break. I was supposed to be a super soldier. A new genetically superior, faster, smarter, healing quickly, disease resistant super soldier designed to destroy the enemies of the state alongside a whole generation of other potential super soldiers. Even after rejection though they never really throw you away, because you carry their secret. The secret of what they did. They have no use for you, but you're still their property. Most of us have already committed suicide. A few because of severe mental impairments, but most are encouraged to. Suggested to. I would say forced to by their creators, in order to hide their shame. Their guilt. If people knew about this the outrage would be enormous. "How DARE you mess with our unborn children like this!" I can almost hear the cries ," How DARE you!" I might be the last one of my generation still alive. For all I know perhaps I was the only one, but that would hardly an army make. I'm stubborn you see. I get it from my parents. They gave a me a fortitude and an understanding of what family and love and goodness and compassion and.... They gave me 2 younger brothers to care for. They gave me pets I loved and adored. They showed me what it was to love someone more then yourself. This is something the state will never understand. The state does not love. The state feeds on suffering and money and I know this better then anyone because more then any of you I am a child of the state and I know how the state treats it's children. It leads them to their deaths under the guise of patriotism and honor. It creates monsters like me to defend it and when we refuse coerces us to suicide or kills us outright. But like I said. I'm stubborn. Somehow with me they got something right. I may bend here, or bleed there, or crack and pop and get ill, but I pass their poisons and I eat their bullets. First they relied on just how different I was. Hoping the unyielding cruelty of children would break my spirit, but I was a magnet for other abused youth and my reputation as a bully rejector earned me and those around me a degree of peace. Defending the perceived lesser people is a cardinal sin of the perfect state and this single attribute would be my calling card and my noose. They had contracted gangs, made my whereabouts known to religious zealots looking to end an antichrist, even those Blackwater bastards made an attempt for me while I was at my local recycling center. I've bounced cruise missiles off of my tractor top and skidded safely across teflon coated roads. My indifference to their assaults more insulting and humiliating to them then actually killing my assailants, and to date there isn't a body underground as a direct result of my hand. So they turned the one thing I had against me, my unyielding loneliness. My last three girlfriends were either prompted by the state or directly employed by the state to undermine my self confidence. To isolate and create horrible stories of my behavior. To sow the seeds of my total social isolation into a home life of doubt and suspicion. To tell horror stories they had committed and attributed to me, and what better a scapegoat. A person who couldn't prove he was a person. A person made to not look like a person by them. My suicide was imminent, their victory at hand, the total collapse of my familial support network ripped out my inside and left a empty hollow aching so complete was the daily rejection. More then my family, they manipulated my friends past and present. I had no confidant. The very city where I had grown up and spent the last 20 years in suddenly reacted like it didn't know me. Like it never knew me. Like we had never been friends. Without having fired a single shot they killed all my friends. My isolation at my parents house allowed for an absence, an undefendable absence what allows doubt and forgetfulness to grow and manifest. Maybe the stories where true? Maybe that sweet little boy grew up to become a monster? Maybe everything I have ever known about my friend is completely wrong? I would hardly blame anyone for believing it, the argument was convincing. Having an army of marketeers, computer gurus, and thugs who can coerce and intimidate the vocal doubters it would be easy to manifest a world wherein I was the supreme villain. A set of shoulders they could comfortably lay the blame for all their wrong doings and transgressions. A catch-all for future crimes yet to be committed. The perfect patsy. But still I lived. I lived and hoped. I hoped and waited. I know the truth is a lion. I do not have to defend it. I just have to wait until their lies become unmaintainable. Till the holes in their stories finally grow so large a kindergartner could see through them, until they bury themselves in their own bullshit. Then I would get my life back. But.... Now you know. And you know what you thought and maybe even what you said. You know what you accepted to reject me and maybe even what you did to me. Maybe it was your job. Maybe you just got caught up with the group, lost yourself in a mob. Maybe you needed me to fail because your successes where equally my successes and my failure would quench all doubts of me having anything to do with you or your life. So you see, I can never get my life back. Before I was merely a walking reminder of their shame. They're dirty secret. That hideous mistake they can't even bring themselves to look at. But now. Now that you know the truth. And because you know the truth. You know I can see it on you. I am a walking reminder of your shame.

A man sits, watching the stars. His breath calm, his eyes focused. Five people walk up to the man. All in grey robes. They encircle him looking anxious, at the ready, wary of the man. A man speaks older than the others in his group "We are sorry." As he removes his weapon, a steel sword, from his belt while the man stays silent. The rest bring out their weapons, all made of cold steel glinting in the dark. "We have come to take you in. We know of your plan, we can not allow it." The man gets up slowly, and the circle of people spring back in defensive position but the man just only speaks. "You warned me once, not to come, but here I am at the end." He says the last bit sardonically. He sigh’s. "It is the only way." "We thank you, what you did saved us, saved us all. Can’t you see why we forbade you. You are worse than any threat the legion were." "You thank me, yet in your next breath you still claim what I did was wrong, you still speak of me as a runaway child, not of the one who turned back the legion, the man who united the five armies prevented the fall of the Empire. Without me, you would all be dead." He spits the last words out. "We argued for patience" "You argued for **death**!" The man’s voice silences the very earth. Not a creature, the wind or even the nearby camp of the million men he man commanded could be heard. "The legion is broken, these men should not be doomed just for your revenge." The man starts to laugh. "Revenge, I do not do this out of revenge. You have not seen what I have seen, the legion are nothing compared to what is coming." "Then why do you plan to destroy them and your army, can’t you see it is madness!" "Madness." As he speaks, he pulls out his own weapon, a weapon not of steel but of black metal. "Madness was watching as the legion broke the borders and we sat doing nothing." As he speaks the man paces the circle, inviting them to attack. "Madness was forbidding those of the order not to join me, madness was watching as the valley of Banyan burn!" The youngest of the group attacks the man, as his back was turned. As if in slow motion the man turns around, grabs the blade with his hand and uses his own to slice the man’s stomach. "I am sorry little Yanni." The man says as his assailant, little more than a boy collapses to the ground. "Stop this, you can not win. Put down your weapons and see why I must do this!" "Yanni, no!" An older man, the boy’s teacher react’s at the loss of his pupil. He can not hold back his own attack, and strikes a blow, but the man blocks it with his own sword. "Gabriel, I am truly sorry." The man’s foot comes out of no where and pushes Gabriel to back, and he falls to the ground. The man pounces down but his strikes was stopped by another of the order. The man spins and finds room away from the group. "Ah, Omar. I had always hoped to fight you, but upon different circumstances." Omar’s eyed the man while he extends his hand to Gabriel, bringing him up off the ground. "As you warned me once, and I did not listen, I now shall warn you, and know you will not listen. Drop your weapons." The old man of the order speaks, "We can not. Attack!" The old man charges forward and his fellow order members join in the fray. The man responds not with a block but with a jump forward stabbing the old man in the chest. The other’s seemingly uncaring with the loss of the old man attack the man but he pulls out his weapon quickly to block the strike to his left while using the old man as a shield to block the one from his left. Out of nowhere Omar blade comes forward striking. The man escapes downward but Omar’s blade pierces his cheek. **"Enough"** The man’s speaks and the the ground convulses. The order members fall to the ground violently. All except Omar who ignores the rumbling ground. He charges towards the man, the shaking ground seemingly nothing to him. Omar’s blade comes over his head but suddenly he stops, and falls, an arrow in his back. The man see’s a woman, her hair white, walk over, knocking the order’s men out with her blunted weapon. "It is time Arashi, the sun is rising." Her voice is sorrowful, she knows what is about to happen. The man nods, "I sense it." The woman, picks her arrow from Omar’s body and walk back to the camp. The man starts tying up the surviving order, his thoughts of their use and of the oncoming storm. "Arashi, you must not do this." "The old man lives, huh." Arashi walks toward the old man, and get on his knees. "Teacher, the world is burning, this will stop it. You must see why I do this" The old man’s voice gets quieter as he speaks, "What you are doing is wrong." Arashi speaks pulling out another weapon, a small black knife, "I know." A black knife pierces the man’s heart.

A cold wind rustled the barren trees and swept through the empty playground. “We’re going to freeze out here, lets head back”, said Jane. Too late. I was already frozen. We returned to the house, and Jane asked if I wanted coffee. It was rhetorical; I didn’t drink coffee. A cold draft penetrated the house. She fetched her instant and sat beside me, “I’m glad we got to talk”. Silence. “This is tough for you. I can’t imagine the pain you’re going through.” Her voice was breaking, tears welled in her eyes. “James is a good man, you’d like him”. Did that even dignify a response? “Paul, I’m so sorry-“, she started sobbing, “I never wanted for us to end, I will always love you”. I wish my arms still worked so I could hold her again. If only I could speak, I would say I'll always love her back. But I could only observe, and not interact, as the woman I loved, set herself free.

A dollar bill can learn more about humans than you can. It is simple facts; the dollar bill travels, and shake hands with all sorts of different people. In a way, the dollar bill is just like one of us. It meets fellow currency it can relate to; it can tease the coins of lower value; it can envy the bills who are worth more; it may know little of foreign currency, and it’s always moving and changing its lifestyle. But unlike us, who might adapt to certain lifestyles, the dollar bill simply goes with the flow, but the oceans it sails on can have some strong currents. The Dollar bill makes a new home in the change pocket of an elderly woman’s purse. Its long and strenuous journey from the bank to the cash register to her warming and giving hand is finally over. The dollar bill was change given to the old lady for buying some candy to feed her grandchildren next time they come visit. If the dollar bill can feel emotion, perhaps it will feel safe and happy knowing its first real home is that of a kindhearted human. It will be sometime until the dollar bill will see the light of day again. But after a few weeks and a knock on the grandmother’s door, it is time to depart. The fading hand of youth fumbles around the darkness of its purse, but manages eventually. If the dollar bill has eyes, perhaps it will notice the empty candy bowl on the living room table and the uppity child, whose stomach is full from sweets, and whose hands are grabbing hurriedly at the air facing his grandmother. Those hands will soon be full, as the dollar bill makes its way into a new home. If the dollar bill can analyze, perhaps it will notice the halfhearted smile on the elderly woman’s face as she fakes a happy goodbye to the nuisance that screams and steals from her home. The move in is an uncomfortable one. If the dollar bill has any bones, perhaps all of them will be crushed as the child stuffs his change into a little pocket. The dollar bill is quickly forgotten for several days. At last, the dollar bill is greeted by a new hand. The boy’s mother takes the dollar bill out of the shorts that were raising anarchy on the floor with the other dirty clothes, and given to the boy once more. This time the boy never puts the dollar bill in his pocket; he doesn’t even get a chance to. The boy runs outside to go to the corner store, in order to fill his hunger for sweets. His run is put to an abrupt stop as his face meets the chubby stomach of an older, meaner, bigger boy. If the dollar bill can speak, it will probably scream for help. The dollar bill is kidnapped, as the boy lay crying on the sidewalk from the punch he took to the gut. The dollar bill is now suddenly given to a rather sleazy looking middle-aged woman, from a much older man who is not the dollar bill’s kidnapper. The place the dollar bill is in now is dark, like the old lady’s purse, but colder, and more far away. The dollar bill seems to be given to her haphazardly, among several, bigger, tougher looking dollar bills. If the dollar bill has a brain, perhaps it can remember what happened just before. It may remember how it was given to an even older, uglier looking boy for a pack of smokes from the bullying kidnapper. It may remember it was confiscated from that even older, even uglier boy by the cops waiting behind the bushes near the dark alley. Perhaps it will even remember how it was hidden from the cop’s wife. One day, that very wife appears before him suddenly. But the dollar bill, among the other fifties and hundreds is already with someone else now. If the dollar bill has ears, perhaps it will hear the screams of the feuding couple, and the snicker of his new owner, the fleeing hooker. The dollar bill’s new roommates are all very sketchy. There’s the veteran lighter, who’s remaining drop of fluid proves his long existence here. There’s the half used black lipstick, with the cap off, and small particles of dust sticking to its surface. There’s also a small wrapped up piece of candy, the same wrapper on the candy the elderly woman had bought for her grandson so long ago. If the dollar bill has a sense of belonging, perhaps it will wish to return to that elderly lady. Hopefully it will be freed from this wretched place. But these new roommates are ones the dollar bill will be with for a large portion of its life. If that little dollar bill can count, it will know it is just over a year since it was placed in that dark, abhorring place. The higher bills came and went, and rarely the dollar bill was introduced to the light, only because it was mistaken for something higher. But today was the dollar bill’s lucky day. Unlike the dollar bill, its owner has aged, and grown incapable of attracting customers like she once could. Down to her last couple of bucks, she uses what little of her change she has to get her last lipstick. If the dollar bill has the ability to think, perhaps it will think about how bittersweet its last moment with her is; it will be happy of course, for finally leaving that place, but it may even feel pity while it watches that woman hurriedly draw her lips back on without even getting her receipt yet. The dollar bill will rest happily in the register of that convenience store for a good few hours. Things are quiet for most of the night, as the dollar bill lay there, motionless. If that innocent little dollar bill has a heart, it will stop, once it hears the frantic screaming and gunshots, and the sounds of the rattling and banging of its current home as it shatters. The dollar bill is once again kidnapped. The dollar bill is dumped out of the duffel bag with hundreds of others, from all over the place. This is a mass kidnapping. The dollar bill is beset by rolled coins, stacked bills, and even cheques. It lay there on the dimly lit living room floor of the two robbers, snickering and not even counting their gain, just tossing it in the air in praise. If the dollar bill has any sense of justice, perhaps it will get sick from not only being tossed in the air from celebration, but being tossed in the air from the celebration of two successful convenience store robberies, a bank robbery, and a murder. The dollar bill does not land in the pile of the rest of the money though, and by chance, drifts like a feather, swaying left and right, sliding to a stop under a stained, musty couch. It is as if the dollar bill chose to hide under there by will…perhaps. Hiding was the worst thing the dollar bill could have done however, as it is abandoned by its kidnappers, with no hope of survival. Perhaps it has chosen not to be saved by such lowlifes, or, by humans for that matter. Perhaps it has had enough. If that dollar bill can smell, it will smell the corpse in the bedroom down the hall that began to rot there the whole night. It will smell the gas the thugs pour throughout the house, and it will smell the smoke from the match that will start the fire that makes this place its grave. If the dollar bill is fully aware of what hell is, perhaps it will realize that it is in hell all along. The dollar bill is lucky in a way though. It does not have emotion; nor does it have eyes, or the power of analysis. It does not have bones, or a brain, or ears. It does not have a sense of belonging, memory, or a sense of justice. It is lucky it does not have any of these things, or else it would know what it is like to be human. Instead, that little dollar bill, carelessly travels to and fro, and has no good or bad feelings towards anything. It sees no good or evil; it sees not the good deeds and heinous crimes. It has no body to embrace or escape others. It cannot think good thoughts or do bad things. It hears no screams of pain or cheers of joy. It doesn’t feel the need to escape from or return to home, nor does it remember why it was so bad to leave or good to stay in the first place. It cannot tell what is right and what is wrong. If all things like that bill had a conscience, wouldn’t the world be different. Being human or lifeless…it’s a bittersweet thing, but in the end it’s two sides of the same coin…or perhaps, a dollar bill.

Within a 5 mile radius of Jimmy’s BBQ bar, there are close to 13 million people at any given time. The odds of running into one person that you know are large. Millions of people stood in between that BBQ place down on 16st in Manhattan and Mohawk St in Ronkonkoma. A distance of 1:32 minutes worth of train rides and 17 minutes of dodging strangers. But this and the weather don’t stand a chance against the drive in one’s self to meet timeless friends. The cold, windy walkways were packed with strangers, yet you can still feel lonely. A feeling that is coupled with embarrassment when in front of people with their timeless friends making memories. A loneliness that drops on you, that doesn’t wipe away like the rain on your face; that doesn’t remove itself with a un-zip or a pull over. It’s something that can only go away, after you catch the eyes of timeless friends, through the bar and into the dining area with a raise of eyebrows, the international sign of acknowledgement. This feeling is brushed away as a new one levels up and becomes your greatest emotion. Some call it happiness. I call it home. Home is a place that time cannot get you. Where there are no rooms for awkward or embarrassed to crash. Only rooms for memories, acceptance and love. When you come back home, A home only for your timeless friends, you are greeted like you’ve been gone for only a second. Whether that second was last May or 2010. In this home of yours and your timeless friends, you don’t start conversations. They’re picked up where they were once dropped off. The stories told within these walls will always be remembered. It’s these walls that allow for them to be said and retold again. A place where new stories can be made and even sometimes, a new person can be invited in. Whether it’s a new friend or a loved one; they’re accepted. Few invitations are given out, but when they are, they are never turned down. When it’s time to leave this home of you and your timeless friends. It’s very open and easygoing. You both understand that you won’t see each other; it may be many months or as few as a week. But this never worries you, because you know that when the door closes and the final person puts on the lock. Your home is sealed safe. It will be waiting whole-heartedly for you to all return again. And with the moment that has come so quickly, it flows off once again. Into the walls of strangers, that your timeless friends walk and end. Until next time, you shall be in each other’s thoughts and in each other’s thoughts of then. TL;DR don't be stubborn, read it.

You don't have to believe everything you are about to read. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm the one writing this and not your applied technologies teacher, or your physics professor, or your psychologist. Not someone who should be writing this. Someone in some position of authority who has had years of study and practice and research implementing the concepts we are about to discuss. Someone with some kind of authority, making you aware of the dangers around you so you can be better equipped to stride boldly into your future with your peers. Well educated and aware. No. Who is scribbling this guide frantically on scrap pieces of paper and random blogs and comments on the internet is the guinea pig. The test subject. The result. And I assure you my friends, I did not volunteer. You do not have to believe everything you are about to read, that is true. This isn't a Guide for Beginners either, that is also true. But you don't get to practice before this happens. You are pulled off the street and thrown into the big leagues. Metaphorically speaking, one day you are on your way to work at the local coffee shop and when you get there find yourself engaged in a boxing match with Mike Tyson. You are unprepared and even the reading of this guide will not assist you more then reading a book on exercise makes you stronger. But now, when you SEE exercise, you will know what it is. I hope for you the best.

Hello r/shortstories! I am currently experimenting in creative writing and have so far written this little piece to start off. Comments and feedback are greatly appreciated. Her hair gently sided as the howling gale crept through the boarded windows. Ever since the invasion it started to snow and it never stopped. She took refuge in a motor parts warehouse after the pathetic attempt to protect her home. While the world desperately was busy recovering from an economic meltdown, the invaders above us prepared their vast army for a devastating attack. Her grandparents that were separated from her after the destruction of their house would tell her about a day where race would not matter, gender would not make a difference and love was their strongest weapon. That day never came, not yet. “Where is the love now?” she whispered to herself seated inside a semi, fondling with her handgun. She had been alone in the warehouse for days and the only thing relatively close to love is when her pistol barrel is faced towards the enemy’s face. She kept count of the hell she brought to the invaders whenever they approached the warehouse- three to be exact. Despite the invaders’ hefty size and treacherous nature, it was no match against the young lady with so many specialties. Her knowledge of Tai kwon do gave her the ability to approach the invaders in close quarter combat when needed (so far not needed yet) and being in scouts gave her the advantage of tracking enemies before they could get too close. Oh, and being prom queen in high school a few years ago made her quite attractive. Poor things never saw what was coming at them before it was too late. As days passed she grew an unimaginable hunger that was never experienced before. Anything sounded good at that point. Staying alert throughout the night really drained her from sleep which did not help either. There was a supermarket a few blocks away from where she had taken refuge. She knew with the strength she had, she would only live one or two more days, max. So putting on layer upon layer of whatever “clothing” she found around the warehouse from ripped apart leather seats to padded head rests and boots made exactly for apocalyptic days like these; she prepared to venture out into the violent blizzard. Her vision was blinded by the reflection of the snow once outside. Although the intense cold made her instantly begin to lose feelings in her feet and hands, she felt happy she was outside again. Upon arrival, she looked up to see the once automatic door now laid on the ground with the glass shattered everywhere. Taking just a few steps into the store she catches a lonely shopping cart tilted over just waiting for someone to pick it up and use it again. Her gloves stuck on the plastic handle for a second after placing it back on its wheels. Realizing the cold could literally freeze anything together she quickly resumed her task. Going through aisle after aisle, she swept the canned foods into her cart as if it was black Friday at Wal Mart. There was no one competing with her but yet she had the urge to go fast and get out fast. Fast until something caught the corner of her eye. Standing absolutely still, a black figure noticed her existence and standing on its powerful hind legs it turned to face her. Neither beings moved. It became incredibly difficult to breathe and all she could think of was how stupid of her not to scout what the surroundings were like before going in. Almost like a contest to see who moved first sweat dropped from her “v” shaped chin. Did time freeze? No. Her heart beat increased uncontrollably; so fast that she felt if it went any faster her heart was going to explode. The sight of such an abomination, saliva dripping from it’s razor jaw. Its eyes so dark she felt lost just looking into them. The creature roared a roar so loud a box of cereal fell over beside her feet, and with a monstrous step forward the brawl began. A sinister snicker spread across her face until it matured into a crazed laughter, she reached for the handgun strapped on her waist with the initials “P.G” forged on the handle in italics. Love.

For the sake of expediency let's assume you're not really crazy. You don't have a mental illness. The voices you're hearing and the outrageous emotions and anxiety you seem to spontaneously generate are not the result of a faulted brain or some past emotional trauma. Let's go so far as to assume that you've even worked out most of your personal issues with yourself and the world and are relatively comfortable with yourself. Or at least you were. Then one day, in your calm little mind space you noticed another voice. An exterior voice masquerading as your own thoughts, perhaps even playing off your own thoughts, but consistently chiseling at your esteem and self confidence. Being aware of this is important, but let's not make something that isn't there. Let's assume a lot here. Let's assume you went to doctors and you sought help. Let's assume that you've already listened to hundreds of opinions and perhaps even experimented with dozens of psychiatrics at the behest of learned practitioners in an attempt to reclaim the calm inner space you remember having. For whatever reason, no amount of consoling from loved ones and no amount of professional advice or meditation silences these extra voices. These constantly chiding and nagging and crippling voices, or the unexpected sudden instantaneous reversal of emotional feelings with what would appear to be no outside provocation. You can sit in silence and be laughing and in another ten minutes be bawling your eyes out all to the tune of whatever foreign orchestra is playing in your head. And because that's where it is, in your head, you can't ignore it. Like the radio in a neighbors apartment at three in the morning, there's nowhere to move your bed where there is a silent spot. A calm quiet place. The sound is all present, the mood all consuming. Your experience with medications have left you physically damaged, while on them tired, perhaps lagging. The expense and constant taking of a new thing to counter act the effect of the old thing you where taking has slowly accumulated to a meal of pills and liquids and regimens and for whatever reason, they still don't work. You begin to feel like a thirsty boy, now drowning when all that was asked for was a glass of water. So you ween yourself, and you quit the medications because they weren't helping anyway. Because even as tanked as you are they're still there. Perhaps even you enviously eye others, who having similar complaints as you seem to work fine on the medications. Their laughter and joyous good mood is crippling as you yourself barely made it out of bed today. But you know what that feels like, because you have felt that way before. So you know something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. And it is. Here is a record of my experiences and how I dealt with them. Your experience may vary.

You are under attack. Period. Let that sink in for a second. Let all your doubts and reasons to not attack you fade out and just acknowledge that maybe, you are under attack. I'm going to be a specifically vague as possible, but as you walk through life maybe you've stepped on a bug. Imagine for a second if that bug could have alerted you to it's presence so small and out of your immediate vision. Would you still have stepped on it, had it asked you not to? So don't immediately take whatever is going on personally. However, in my experience, the above example is very rare. You don't need theory right now you need practical application and I've wasted almost three parts on describing your environment. You already know your environment. So on to application. The year is 2013 and if you live in the Americas there is a 90% chance that whatever is happening to you is technological. This is actually good news but where you are right now you don't believe it and here's why: If it's technological that means someone (or something) is controlling a device that makes you miserable and it is intentional. Don't try and rationalize why anyone would do this anymore then you would try and rationalize why a child might burn an ant with a magnifying glass. When mankind uncovered the secret of nuclear energy the first thing they did was make a bomb, not a reactor. Calm your tits. This is a fight taking place in your mind, and on your home turf, you have the advantage. Believe that. You have to know that. Do you know that yet? Tough shit, here's how we're going to shut those voices up. Technological assault usually occurs in one of two ways: Passively and actively. Passive attacks resemble a continuous loop. You can't talk to it, you can't reason with it, it's just a voice in your head repeating something over and over. This usually starts quietly and over time the volume is gradually increased until the voices are deafening in your mind. You might even notice it fading in and out. This is the tuning process. These are the last quiet moments your going to know for awhile and I'm sorry. Once they know they have you tuned they may increase the volume and number of voices and loops almost infinitely. If you need an example imagine your father saying "Your a piece of shit" over and over, every second of every day, playing just for you in your mind. Then add a friends voice "He's such a pathetic mess" over and over, layered on top of your fathers voice. Continue until either you collapse mentally via a nervous breakdown or in a more extreme case, kill yourself. Most likely the voice will be recognizable as someone close to you, someone whom you respect and or desire respect or attention from. Use of family members is not out of the question, but it's not them. This voice is not them. This is a recording used out of context and played over and over again on a machine. If you are religious in any sense it is not out of the question that looped voices will be implied to be Gods or Devils depending on the contexts of your faith. Read the above line again and again and again. Come to terms with that line. Show a cellphone to someone who's never seen it before and they'll believe you. Tell someone about a cellphone who's never seen one before and most likely they won't. That's how this works you see. What you don't know can hurt you and you've been kept in the dark on purpose. But seriously, calm you tits cause we're getting through this. Assuming this is all they're up to at this time you can literally adjust your receiver. Seriously. Imagine the voices like a radio transmission (which they basically are) and your antennae is tuned to that frequency. Take your little imaginary hand and start working dials in your head. Try turning the volume down. Perfect, but that won't last for long they can increase the volume. But now you know you can change the volume, so why not the channel? Reach your little imaginary hand into your head and change the channel, maybe even try to turn it off, but don't ever convince yourself it's off. Whether you like it or not you are always on. You don't know it yet but your exercising the parts of your brain your going to need to shut these voices down on the permanent. Patience. This also will only be temporary. The silence provided by changing the channel will allow you to live your life. When they acknowledge that you are being successful, or achieving goals, or being social again they'll know they've lost the connection and they'll look for another. If your lucky, perhaps, they'll just move on to someone else. Keep tabs of your friends, because they exist in your social sphere and therefor anyone testing gear on you will also be aware of who your with and who your around and it's easier to start over locally then to find whole new test subjects. Hopefully you found this guide at this time in your life, it'll take some of the surprise out of what may be happening next. This also ends basics. From here on out we're getting complicated and there's no net, seat-belts, or ejector seat. I tried to warn you. I told you this wasn't for beginners.

Remember that metaphor about the little bug what asked you not to step on him? Here we go. So you've managed to successfully stall these voices as they occur in your head. Perhaps even your feeling kind of good about yourself, and you should be, because isn't the silence nice? Yes. Yes it is. And you've been talking to yourself, about how you did it, and what your plans are. Sometimes you talk back. You find yourself engaged in arguments with yourself over things you need to do, not just things you want to do. Your wearing yourself out with your constant doubt. You wonder to yourself when your internal voice started to disagree with you so much, why you won't let yourself do anything. You stopped the looped voices already, your life should be improving! So why are you so solemn and morose. Why do you feel so defeated? Because they where only coming at you with a knife before. This time their seeing if the gun works. And from experience I can attest sure as shit that motherfucker works. Your in for a ride you didn't know you boarded. You've been hijacked and they're deep in you now, trying to capsize your stability. It's dirty and invasive. You're probably tired a lot for no reason now and can't put your finger on why. Let me help you out. Here's how we're going to get out of this. You. You have a center. You are a center. Seriously, there is absolutely no one like you anywhere else in the universe, maybe even in multiple universes. You are and always will be one of a kind. Know that shit. Know that like you know you hate asparagus, or whatever. Just know that shit. Now close your eyes. Imagine your mind as a giant infinite expanse (which it is) with you as a small circle in the middle encompassing all of it. Strange right? To imagine an infinite and then a circle about it and knowing that it's all you. Reflect on that for a second, cause it's a good feeling. But not for to long, we've got business to discuss. While your eyes are closed and your imagining your little infinite circle, and I mean really imagine that circle. There is a definitive line where you end and the rest of all creation begins. Find that line. Stare at it. Know where it is all the way around you. Look at the whole damn thing at once. See, you can be cute in a theoretical way. Little circle you are, glowing like a candle. Now think. Say hello to yourself, but everything you do acknowledge with a point of light in that circle. Every-time you think, that light flashes, right there in your circle. Now, start to plan for something. Something you need to do, but previously the other you voice has been discouraging. See where the lights happen inside your circle when you think. When the other voice that sounds like you speaks, see where it's light originates. Is it in your circle? That's bad. Your doubting yourself about something you need like to eat or use the bathroom, or get a job. Why are you doubting yourself? Time to put some big boy pants on and get some shit done. That and double check yourself. Always double check yourself. You might notice that the light isn't coming from your circle. It might look like it's flashing right on the very edge, but if you look closer you'll see it's just outside your circle. You see it there. Imagine now that you're a sphere of thought. that circle forms into three dimensions and you are enveloped in your own thought. Now your voice, your internal thinking voice reverberates inside that circle. Now listen to the other voice again. It doesn't sound like your voice does it? It sounds like a recording of your voice, and not you actually speaking through yourself. This will help you identify foreign thoughts in the future. Assuming we make it through this. And we will. Now, direct all your attention on that one little foreign point just outside your circle. The one with the light that talks so dirty to you. All your attention. And ask it what it wants. This is the first step in "Tracing the call" so to speak. To your credit, at this point most people in your situation are so smashed on medications or drug abuse to silence and or forget about the voices or their lives have been so subsequently destroyed that they're delinquent and homeless, in an institution, or dead most likely by some form of suicide. In the next part I'm going to elaborate on what's happening to you and the repercussions of asking the voice "What it wants." I also want you to know that you can do more then ask it what it wants and probably you'll have to. So be ready for that. You won't believe what your doing, but when your done you'll have silence again so you'll have to.

The Answer Thief I walked down the hallway, looking at my old watch with a ripped strap. It was 9:41, nine minutes before break ended. I did not know which locker he had, but I followed him from biology class. What if he did not stop at his locker? No, his next class was gym; he had to stop. When he stopped and started to turn the dial, I stood by, looking intimidating. He was humming something, not noticing me until he was putting his binder away. He then had a look of uninterested surprise. “Hmm? Eric, what are you doing?” He was speaking in a tone that showed he couldn’t care less. That wouldn’t be for long. “You took my homework sheet.” I said, staring him down. He scratched the back of his left shoulder with his right hand, his eyebrows slowly raising. “Oh, yeah. Well, um... I went to the inbox to get my homework sheet to make corrections. I musta... grabbed yours by mistake.” He didn’t even look me in the eye, the phony he was. “No,” I said my, voice slowly raising. “You had your homework on your desk. I SAW you copying the answers from my sheet to yours.” He still looked somewhat out of it, and it pissed me off. Was he high? He did look like a stoner, though. He looked like a guy who had no ambition or care for how his life from here on out would be a downward spiral of despair. “Well, er, I had to get this homework done. I-I was busy last night.” He looked very nervous, not showing a sign of dignity. This only fueled my rage. I thought about smacking some sense into him. I laid my elbow on the locker, allowing me to rest my neck onto my knuckles. I smiled, knowing he wouldn’t try to fight back. I might as well have some fun. “What are you-” I interrupted his insensible rambles. “You know Newton’s third law of motion states that all force has an equal and opposite reaction. If someone wanted to exert a great amount of force to someone else, say by punching them so hard their teeth fall out, they would feel the same amount of force upon their closed fist, like the recoil of a gun. You want me to show you a demonstration?” I raised my right fist, feeling very, very powerful. A sense of adrenaline rushed into my fist, causing it to slowly vibrate. I was so excited, I WANTED to punch him. I really did. I was at first just trying to intimidate him, maybe get an apology, some respect or even some homework answers to teach him a lesson, but I didn’t care. The lazy jerk deserved it. I suddenly remembered a quote from history class, from ancient greece. The scene set before was so awesome, I had to say it. I leaned close and whispered, “The strong do what they can. The weak suffer what they must!” His eyes widened, he grabbed his stuff and started some more rambling. “Alright! Okay! Jeez! I won’t do it again, okay?” He fastwalked away, not turning around once. That was perfect! I laughed, the anger and tension now gone. I probably got some sense in that loser’s head for once in his life. I wonder what time it is. I looked at my watch. 9:45. “Only four minutes?” I said to no one in paticular. That felt much longer. I guess time doesn’t fly when you have fun! I laughed and walked back to my locker. My laughter stopped suddenly, as I walked along the wall to avoid the three guys walking past me. I needed to teach them a lesson too. Someday, not today. (I had to do this short story in english class. The main character, Eric, is a reference to Eric Harris, one of the shooters at Columbine. Since this is for school, I do not say this, and there is no cursing. It would probably take place during freshman or sophomore year, before he planned the massacre.

(This is a Short story based around Agent Washington in his development in the A.I program, from Rooster Teeth machinima series Red vs. Blue. I would appreciate all criticism,both good, bad and obvious. If you don't understand certain themes and moments of the text it is because I created as fan made short stories based between seasons 6-11 of Red vs. Blue) Hey ummm…me in the future… I’m not exactly sure how to do this but here it goes. This is my first journal entry as we are recommended, but not required, to do by the director in his speech to all fifty of us of project freelancer in the A.I program. Being in the room with fifty other people was really uncomfortable for me I like small groups of people it’s easier to see what’s happening around me. We've been all given new names so the “enemy” won’t find out who we are as civilians and possibly threaten the people we know. The director said “it is in your best interest that you do not tell anyone your real name you may jeopardize your life but mainly this program.” After the directors speech I had a chance to talk to some other people of the program. The First Agents I've met are New York, Maine, California, North and South Carolina, Oregon, Florida, and Mississippi. The first person I talk to was Maine, really nice guy told me about where he came from what he’s going to do when the program is over. I guess maybe he thinks this a failed project waiting to happen. Tomorrow we start basic training and I don’t know what to expect, the director said we were all chosen because we each are the best oat what we did and all have set skills that we know how to use when under immense pressure. I don’t know what he saw in me that made the director think I would be able to meet up to his standards, but I’m here now and it’s better than being deployed in combat that’s for sure.

Time for some shit you don't want to hear. We've been so busy playing defense I neglected to tell you everything, and I'm sorry for that but if you knew everything then you might not have tried anything I suggested. And I want you to survive. But now, you've tried these things and perhaps after trial and error you've got some of them to work better then others. So we kind of have a little trust going on. You've accepted that the repeating demon voices in your head originated from some brain wave radio machine, and after accepting that was able to prevent, maybe even stop that loop entirely. You've found your calm little circle that helps you identify outside influences and your decision making process has become significantly easier. We did all that without even thinking about why we where doing it, like a thirsty nomad digging in the desert for water without understanding why the water table is underground just knowing the water will be there. So why? Why did we go through all that? Here's the fact. If it's technological, that means someone has to work a machine. Most likely a team of people, much in the same way a team of people spies on a foreign country. Previously we couldn't address our assailants, as they where a random loop broadcast over the radio waves instigated by some anonymous hand. No, we couldn't address the loop because we thought the loop ourselves, or another sentience, but a loop will never address you back you see. But we can talk to the hand, oh yes we can. The new dialogues happening in your head that flow so smoothly as though you where talking to yourself, they originate from the same kind of machine. Only now that machine has a sentient operator. A human being say, recently graduated from some college somewhere, hired on to defend the state against it's enemies, recruited to conduct R&D research on possible future weapons and population controls. He is part of an organization, a cog in a machine. He has superiors and possibly subordinates, but that voice trying to destroy you or manipulate you into things you're unsure of is not the devil or god. It is a man behind a machine. And he feels as immune to you as drone pilot operators feel immune from retaliation from the people they target in countries so far away. He has probably been told that for whatever reason you deserve what is happening to you, so he is relentless in his attempts. He is part of a organizational machine and probably worked hard his whole life to be doing what he's doing, going through all sorts of conditioning and screening to be sure he is capable of driving a fellow human being mad and possibly to suicide. We should not feel bad for this man. He has wanted this his whole life and you, you are the unfortunate victim of his desires and the desires of his superiors. They know the loops can be enough for suicide if not caught in time and they know that this new technique is even more lethal. I would go into why, but you already know why. No one believes you but maybe you.. and apparently this anonymous writer on the internet. You're the only one who can hear them and if they're past the loops that means they're researching you. They're learning about you. They go through your books, your old school papers, your religious beliefs. They'll watch you at work if possible and conduct passive to aggressive interviews about you with your friends and family. Everything you have ever known or ever believed will be turned upside down and used against you. Seriously though, calm your tits. You've made it this far, you've practically got this in the bag. You've been working out. Time to shake shit up. So, here is this person, sitting comfortably in his office over some elaborate machine, probably watching you on some form of viewing device. He chuckles to himself when he gets you to fail, or stumble, or be awkward in conversation. He probably gets raises and promotions if you collapse and are institutionalized or kill yourself. He's probably getting paid by your tax dollars. If he's good at it he probably has a team he directs, full of young trainees longing for his status within their organization. He is aware of technologies the commercial public may never see. He is aware of knowledges you will never learn outside his organization and he is privy to secrets presidents and emperors are ignorant of. He is confident and assured in his position. He has (at this point) watched and reviewed you using the bathroom, taking a shower, masturbating, flirting, crying, laughing, etc. and despite his knowledge of your life, probably even better than you remember, he doesn't see a beautiful individual desperately trying to find some kind of happiness in this world. He sees a disgusting train-wreck of an unambitious loser barely plodding his way through life. You will never be as important as he is. He is so clearly your superior. It doesn't matter if you're a doctor, a president, or a heroin junkie. He, with the help of his cameras and investigations and the use of his machine to push you around so easily, how weak you are to his device, to him. He has put you in a jail no one else can see. He has been silently beating you in a corner and over time you will act like someone who has been repeatedly abused. Therapists will divulge false or 'hidden' memories as an explanation and that may calm you for awhile, but he will persevere in his purpose. And so, he sits in his comfortable office, this anonymous untraceable (or so he thinks) assassin, and reviews your documentation and personality profile seeking the next new thing to wear you out with. Perhaps he puts his headset on so he can hear your superficial inner voice, your cognitive voice, and engage in dialogue with it as though he were you. He leans over his microphone and engages directly with your mind, assured that he is unreachable and unknown. But that machine. That machine that is your curse and the cause of your despair has also been your exercise bike. You've been running around the world while this man has been flown in private jets and been driven by drivers in fancy cars. This man has no idea how big he has made you. He thinks he needs the machine, that the machine is the only way. You and I know better. Well, I do, you're about to. Your going to stand at the edge of your circle, your gonna look at that light, or hear his voice, and your going to travel back with it, right to his machine. And from his machine your going to step right on top of his circle, and you going to say "Hello, who are you? Please stop what your doing." And he's going to hear you. And he's going to lose his mind.

Listen. I don't want you to freak out because they might try to kill you now, but they were already trying to kill you so this should be old hat. You're basically looking in his window yelling, "HELLO! Who are you!? Would you please stop!" Take a second, and look into that window. See if there's anything you recognize. It might surprise you, how insecure a thing feels what used to feel indomitable. From here on out, everything is going to change for you because you can get to them, and if they don't know it yet, he does. This one man you just addressed. Remember that feeling shift from indomitable to small and insecure? Remember that. That's going to come in handy. Don't let it make you feel insecure, your just standing really, really close to insecurity and like a fire it's burning against you. Know you're standing next to another fire and this insecure heat is not your own. We're now going to trace a call. All around his circle are going to be lights, or sounds, or whatever you have found to work in your mind space, your imagination. Some of these lights will be his friends and family. Some of these lights will be his superiors and bosses. You're catching on now, yes? Those latter lights are the ones we want. Follow their connections till you get to a definitive top, till you get to the person directly responsible for deciding your case, or fate at the case may be. Shouldn't have to go far but sometimes they like to hide behind others and letters and communications. But you see, they have exposed you to your bare core. They have looked at your nakedness from afar. They have made decisions about you and your life without your consent. You have been violated and this violation is a stain you can't hide with smokescreens and relayed communiques. They have taken something from you and until they give it back will be forever tied to you in some way. That tie is how you will find them. It is how you will separate the machine operators young son and ignorant wife from his supervisor or project leader. You're simply tracing your scent through their minds. You don't have to let them know your there by the way. You can watch them as silently as they have watched you. I might even suggest you do this, it will help you to gather information. It may help to save your life. But that's all a special case usually. Once you make that first contact, you're going to rattle them, specifically the operator at the time you made contact. Because, most likely, he's never done this before and if he has, no one has ever talked back. If he says anything they may restrict him or remove him from his position altogether, possibly worse. It will be scary for him because the only time he'll be able to address you is with the machine. You will be able to address him whenever you should so choose. You are allowed to grin smugly to yourself now. Most likely he will file a report about how you stopped being responsive, or request a transfer (it's ok, just say hi to the new guy, wash, rinse, repeat.), and perhaps they'll pull your name out of the hat and move on. Enjoy your life my friend! You have broken your shackles! But say they don't. Say for whatever reason someone has a hard on for you. How are we going to deal with that? Well... depends on what their agenda is. Seriously, try not to freak out and yell at me like,"Why would you have me do all this if they're just going to find some way to murder me the old fashioned way?!?" Well. To that I say I'm sorry. But ask yourself: Would I rather be murdered tomorrow, or spend the next three years loosing all of my friends, my house, my job, and my family only to kill myself alone on some street corner somewhere or in my parents basement or worse yet, hurt someone else out of desperation for food, shelter or the like? Just keep living your life. If they come for you, they do. Their last tactic before the actual murder is to make you think you're going to be murdered. Their silence is refreshing but the last thing they suggested to you was "We're coming for you." That's going to mess with your head. But, you've been afraid before and still left the house, so, keep leaving the house. Most likely they won't, but the suggestion they might is enough to ruin some people. Don't be those people, Ok? You're stronger than that. Here's another thing you need to know. To remember. To keep in mind: You are not the only person this is happening to. They might approach you. They might acknowledge your talents, which will be refreshing because no one else believes you. They might even offer you a job. Maybe they're approach to you wasn't one of malice and murder. Maybe through some design they where looking for people like you. Maybe they discovered your capacity early on somehow and have plans for you. They will offer you things. You may well become that man, in that chair, behind that machine or without that machine because you don't need it, and that makes you scary and valuable. Scary because you can do something they can't, valuable because their manipulations have led you to believe in the purity of their cause perhaps. If that is the case then perhaps you'll meet me one day, not in person of course because they don't operate like that and your one of them now. That being the case let me say this: This is not a guide for beginners. I am no beginner. I will do my best to show you the truth of their agenda. How we treat each other after that will depend solely on you. I hope for you the best. But say, neither of these happen, or they threaten murder and instead of falling silent grow louder. Well, then. You have done all you could. You reasoned, pleaded, begged for a respite to be left alone, to be allowed to live and yet they persist. Perhaps your personality profile isn't compatible with their agenda, perhaps your not devout enough in any religious sense to be manipulated by "Voices from god", maybe they just think you're ugly, any and all of these reasons for not approaching you directly. They've cost you jobs and friendships and all you've done so far is plead and attempt to negotiate. And work out on their treadmill. Time to hit them where it hurts: Right in the pocket book. You think the machines they use for this are cheap? You think maintaining a surveillance network connected by satellites all over the world is inexpensive? What if we where to break one of these machines? Maybe they'd look at the books and see that the cost of fucking with you is to high and they'll leave you alone. It's the only way I've ever gotten through to a bully. If you know a better way, I am open to suggestions. Always, you have to stand up for yourself. Once you've broken one of the machines you can break them whenever and wherever you feel their influence. You might even be saving someone else's life. I wouldn't worry about them sending you a bill for this activity as they would have to explain how you broke the machine and more importantly, what the machine does. Damnit man! I can hear you. Right now. Enough with the what for the love of god, get on with the how! I want my life back! Here me out. Assuming you have been through this, and anything I've suggested parallels anything you've experienced you're about to figure it out on your own. Even if I tell you how to do it, your still going to have to trial and error until you get it, but.. You are not a bear. Your dominance is not generated with teeth and claws and strength. You are a human being (most likely) and your dominance is through your mind. Unbeknownst to you, their attacks have been working your mind out like an olympic athlete works out his body. If you where to take a guy off the street and have him run a race next to an olympic gold medalist the contrast would be humbling. Your mind is fortified like that olympic athletes body. This does not mean you are smarter, or wiser, or more intelligent. It just means your mind is built up stronger then the average joes because you have been training it like an olympic athlete, but an olympic athlete at gunpoint. Doing anything at gunpoint is going to cause some kind of emotional stress. You're probably damaged somewhat psychologically because this experience is very isolating. All I'm trying to say here, and with all my heart, is don't let yourself become the bully. That being said, time to get serious.

We're done bobbing and weaving. Time to land a punch. Here's how we're going to do it. Remember that loop machine, blasting it's screams of dying rabbits directly into your brain stem? Let's get rid of that. Are you hearing it now? Have you asked them to stop? Doesn't matter as long as you're hearing it believe you me, you shouldn't have to be. So latch on to that. That point outside your little infinite circle where this loop is coming from. (Or however in your mind you identify foreign things) Now pay attention to it. Get intimate with it. Get so you can feel the tape running over the tape head, or the digital representations of sounds churning through a computer also feel like their churning through you. Imagine running from the tape to the tape head, from the flow of numbers into the circuitry. Imagine the whole of your consciousness reverberating through the circuits of the computer board. Riding on the electricity all the way back to the outlet on the wall. Are you there yet? It's hard but keep trying. You have to feel like your layered over a machine, or layered over what is assaulting you. Two physical objects cannot occupy the same space, but your not being physical right now are you? Are you? Now you have options. You can focus you sentience onto specific nanoscopic parts of the current and erode the welds between circuits. I recommend this, as it practically completely destroys the machine with almost zero physical marks. You just erode all the connectors a little bit everywhere until not enough juice gets through. It just stops working and you get peaceful happy silence. Depending on how connected you've become you may even hear the conversations of the technicians trying to figure out why the machine shut down. You could probably tell them if you want, you don't have to. They have been trying to kill you after all. You could, depending on how knowledgeable in electronics you are (now might be a good time to start learning how a computer works if you haven't yet) target specific parts of the machine. Basically the same thing, you focus your sentience or attention on a specific part; the power supply, the CPU, the transmitter or wi-fi; and just superimpose yourself on it, it overheats or overcharges and fries itself. This technique may be more effective then destroying the whole machine because by wrecking a transmitter it seems like the machine is still working, but you don't have to hear any of it's bullshit. But, they're clever. They'll figure it out eventually. Wash, rinse, repeat. That's still bobbing and weaving though. You know that and so do I. In order to cost them real money, you have to wreck the whole machine. Listen. That's scary as fuck, Ok? When you do that, wreck the machine, they're going to have a hard time with that. They may leave you alone, or they bring in a ringer. We'll talk about that later because right now I have some other, more important things to talk to you about now. But don't worry to much because you've made it this far, and the ringer is going to be a person. A person just like you, but for some reason, working with them. They won't want to risk anymore of their special expensive machines, and people like you are liabilities. If either of you kill each other, they still win because someone like you is dead. Do you understand? But seriously, back to some important things, and I know you thought about it. You thought: Well.. If I can destroy a machine like that, could I kill a person like that? Yes. Fuck yes. Yes you can. Yes you surely can. Oh my god can you ever. But listen to me. Listen really fucking close. Imagine strangling someone to death. Imagine laying atop their helpless body as you look into their eyes and watch them die. Feel the warmth as they wet themselves in fear. Hear their helpless gasps. If your right here with me. If you've experienced these things like I have, then your aware of other things. Maybe you sat by your dog at the vet, and just felt it's fear. It's loneliness and uncertainty. Maybe you saw a video on the internet where someone was hit by a car or was shot and bled out and died over a minute or two and you tried to ignore it. I mean. I tried to ignore it, but it's the void, right? It's the unknown. What happens after you die, right? So one day you stare into the eyes of the dying man on your computer screen, and you latch your attention to him, and you ride that wave in. Your not with him though. You can't comfort him and neither he you. Remember when you first said hello and you felt the insecurity, that fire burning next you you? That fire is fear, and loneliness, and terror when you watch someone murdered or dead unexpectedly. And if you're like me. If you're like me, once you. Once you FEEL that terror. Once you take that ride with someone. It's not something you would wish on anyone. Because, you see, your not just watching if you do this to someone else. A living thing. A Sentience. The machine does not want to live, it just operates. A person wants to live. You have to take that away from them. Maybe you can, maybe you can't. Maybe your trying to do that to me, in which case I have only one thing to say to you: This is not a guide for beginners, and I am no beginner. Maybe you're doing it to someone like me. Someone like me who is already scarred from years of abuse, hardened by relentless assaults. Maybe your just a thought. A thought in a bubble in another persons mind. Maybe they'll pop that bubble as easily and as unconsciously as you might swat a fly. Worse though, I imagine, would be success. To be the instigator and the victor in that situation. You would know everything about that person. You would know who loves them, what they mean to them, what they want out of life, their dreams, their hopes, their aspirations, their secret fears and you would lay atop them and smother them anyways. To follow that to the end would make you a monster, I am sure of it. By the time you got to the end of that person, they would be your closest friend ever. You would love them maybe more then you love yourself. You would have to be a monster, then wouldn't you? You would have to be incapable of love.

A chill runs down my spine as I walk across the dew-covered lawn towards the place I hate most. Weaving through the gravestones, I reach my destination. I come here once a week; in all the years since Mother died, not a single Thursday has gone by in which I have not visited her grave. The thing is, I hate doing it. But now, I have more reason than ever to come here. It brings back painful memories; growing up during the Big War without a father was tough, but Mother and I always managed. We were happy, the two of us. The year Mother got sick was one of the worst of my life. I was only twelve. She spent most of her last days in the hospital; the times she was allowed to be at home, she spent in bed. While she was sick, I thought it must be impossible for me to feel more alone than I did. The day she died proved me wrong. I slowly kneel down in front of Mother’s tombstone. Clouds shift in the sky and the sun is brought out from its confines, rays of its warm light shining through the fog that covers the cemetery. I bow my head in a silent prayer, thinking about this place that brings me so much pain. Behind me, I hear the soft crunch of leaves. I don’t turn around, or even open my eyes; I know who it is, the one who interrupts my time with Mother. “You shouldn’t keep coming here,” She says softly. “It hurts you so much. Why do you keep returning?” I don’t answer immediately. I don’t want to face her. I know that that time will come, but I don’t want it to be now. “I have to come here,” I murmur, barely able to get the words out. “I miss her so much. I feel like she’s here with me when I spend time here. Like she knows I’m visiting her.” Jane sighs. My lovely Jane; I can tell she’s frustrated. “Peter, come home with me. You can’t stay here. You’ll go mad with grief.” Jane’s voice is weak; she sounds close to tears. The emotion in her voice nearly breaks me. The love I feel for Jane is insurmountable; it far exceeds that which I had felt for my mother. To hear such pain in her voice kills me a little inside. But I don’t turn to face her. “Leave me alone, Jane.” I say tersely. I hate speaking harshly to her, but this is becoming unbearable. “You shouldn’t even be here. You can’t be here.” Complete silence suffocates the gravesite. I am certain that Jane is crying by now, even though I cannot hear it. “Peter,” She whispers, her voice racked with sobs. “Please come home. I miss you so much.” Tears start to leak out of my eyes, despite me shutting them as tightly as I could. I try to control my heart rate, but it’s becoming more and more sporadic with every breath. “Jane,” I whisper. “I’m not going home. That house is empty. There’s no longer anything for me to live for.” “No,” She gasps, now sobbing more loudly. “Why on Earth would you say that, Peter?” “Mother is gone.” I say, finally turning to face my wife. “And now, my love… you are too.” Staring in the direction of Jane’s voice, I see only a withered gravestone. My wrinkled hands shake as they come up to pull at my shock of white hair; I fall to my knees and weep.

I work Property Maintenance for a track housing community and it's a pretty lonely job, that is and is not the reason why I am posting this. I am posting this for a few reasons: A. I really have no one to talk to except for my fiance and apparently I am exhausting to listen to. So for her sake I have decided to start writing down my rants. B. I will forever remember today as the day that I spent eight hours, hunched over twenty gallons of sewage with a bucket. I kind of left the story unfinished, but I think all of the details are there. At least now, instead of mulling it over in my head, at least now it's on paper. So the utility box was full of sewage when I found it this morning. And when I say sewage, I’m not talking about the stuff that has already mixed together in some pipe farther down the line, I’m talking a single households sewage. The reason why I make a point to convey this particular detail of said vat of human excrement is because when the solid shit, corn and magnum condoms come floating atop this morning frosted utility box, there was nothing left to the imagination. I have never known to two complete strangers solely by their clogged sewage line. I stood over this utility box hating my tragic realization that all of my senses were to be violated all day, because of this seemingly pleasant older couple, in their late sixties or early seventies. But wait! We have the tools and a plan to fix this problem! Wait, no not really. The tools available for this particular job are as follows: A hose with de-blocker attachments, a hand trowel, three pairs of size small latex gloves, a five gallon bucket and a two gallon bucket. If you add in the six inch diameter pipe sticking out of the ground that I’m supposed to dump the sewage into from the buckets fifty feet away and that it was about thirty-nine degrees out, you forgot the most important aspect of this job: the shit pissing, ass fucking, sulfur-infused smell that was ever present and ever threatening to test my gag reflex. Think Mexican food and ass, locked in a closet for a couple days and you might get the scope of this obscenity.

…and I rose high beyond the confines of my body, if only but for a brief second, and saw him standing there, looking lost(as usual). Whatever I am had grown quite fond of this old familiar association: that Foreigner with the look in his eyes that always seemed to be searching for someone to call home. I observed him for a while and can still recall the experience of being filled with a sense of something similar to pity, but without the connotation of misfortune. There wasn't much time to dwell on this peculiar feeling, however, as I was thrust back into the human form before I could make sense of it all. I'd like to say more on the subject, and as much as I wish that I could, this all happened such a long time ago and I've lived countless lives since then. To be honest, I don't even remember if that boy ever found what he was looking for, but I still think about him from time to time.

“Whitefish, the Master” The howling wind blew across the shutters like a cliche ruins a good beginning to a story. Not the beginning to a good story, for the story has yet to be determined whether or not it is good. Despite the obvious literary devices, we meet our hero, Whitefish. Whitefish, the ghost, the whisper, the living legend, the myth, Whitefish the mystery. Whitefish strode down the creaking hall of the abandoned mansion now called home. The mansion stood on a bluff, a mere sixty-eight feet from the ocean’s icy gaze. Abandoned, the mansion was a halfway home to those traveling through the area, but only its foyer, for the innermost recesses, where Whitefish resided, were “haunted”. These were simply superstitions, created by Whitefish to elude any unwanted visitors. Shouts and echoes, would drift down the halls, created by endless rants and ravings on new thoughts of rhetoric. Whitefish was a self proclaimed writer, comparable to the great Greek orators such as Antiphon and Lysais, though the potential had gone unrecognized. To Whitefish’s dismay, the existence of such an individual in this provincial society was backward and deemed unnecessary. Whitefish rejected this society because the purpose of the writing was not for recognition or petty earnings, rather the thrill and excitement of the adventure stored within the next story, waiting to be unlocked by Whitefish’s genius. Whitefish digressed, because Whitefish’s existence had nothing to do with society, rather the life of a humble hermit. Each night, Whitefish paced along the rocky shoreline, illuminated by the full Moon’s iridescent glow, contemplating the universe and its enormity, fathoming the depths to which writing could take oneself. Each night, the manuscripts became longer, the memoir lengthening, the account of Whitefish developing into the esoteric mystery as scribbled by the one and only, Whitefish. Whitefish’s story was being lived out as it was written, but Whitefish felt it was lackluster. While the solitary existence was Whitefish’s passion, the written word beckoned Whitefish out, into the world to experience more than a dusty mansion. Whitefish read from the mansion’s extensive library which contained thousands of books, where Whitefish would sit, gathering inspiration, watching the ominous waves creep up the shoreline. Whitefish sat for hours at a great Oak table contemplating how the story would pan out, how the characters would meet and get to know each other. How the setting could later create conflict. Small details that would foreshadow the downfall of a character, or the solution to the conflict. The complexity of Whitefish’s mind was somewhat of an enigma. Not to say bipolar, but the raging emotions had cultivated from a life of abandonment and rejection, which left a negative impression on Whitefish. The emotions were not all bad. Whitefish was indeed insane. Left to its own devices, Whitefish had grown paranoid, crazed from the lack of human interaction. At any point in time, Whitefish work on several pieces of literature, ranging from full blown novels, to snippets of interior monologue, though all the while, Whitefish worked on the memoir that would be finished only by the swift hands of Satan himself. This ending would come sooner than Whitefish could have thought. On a cool autumn evening, the sun had already set and Whitefish sat at the great Oak table when Satan smiled. Whitefish looked to a mural painted on the ceiling of the library and head cocked to one side, Whitefish had an epiphany. The ending to the memoir. The finality that would make the story a legend. A message to future generations of the struggles of the past, of the sacrifices of the future. An ending that would come true. Whitefish had been writing the memoir piece by piece after various significant events, but now, Whitefish felt guilty. The ending would be written before its prophetic demands could be met. But Whitefish was true to its word. Palms sweating, Whitefish jotted down the last paragraphs of the memoir. Once finished, Whitefish set the pages of the story in the middle of the table and stood up. Whitefish walked to the window and leaned a hand upon a pane, gazing out to the vast emptiness of the ocean. Whitefish took the back door out to the patio and stood at the edge of the bluff. Each step down the bluff depressed the sand, pushing it out as if repelled by the awe of a courageous hero. The tall grasses billowed in the cool autumn breeze, rustling with the soft waves that caressed the smooth rocks, one by one. At the bottom of the bluff, Whitefish stopped. Unprotected, the breeze nipped at Whitefish’s ankles, but to no avail. No shiver or goosebump was aroused by the breeze’s beckon. The rocks, about the size of a fist, were slippery. They were unpleasant to tread upon. Whitefish showed no pain, but the weight of the world burst out its eyes. They showed the thrill of entering the next story, of finishing the old, but the impending doom scrapped the Earth behind Whitefish, pulling back away from the icy depths of the ocean ahead. Whitefish stopped again, this time at the water’s edge. Each push of the ocean moistened the bare feet of Whitefish. Another step forward cast Whitefish several inches below the surface. The next step sent several more inches. Paralyzing shivers spiked up through Whitefish’s body.Whitefish was now waist deep in the dark water. During the following steps, panic arose from deep within the animal instincts that begged Whitefish to return to the shore, to pursue life, not just a good story. Eyes twitching, Whitefish ignored the pleas and tread further into the water, until Whitefish could no longer touch the rocky ocean floor. The air slowly escaped Whitefish’s lungs until the nearly lifeless body was submerged.

A man snaps his fingers at me. *Impatient prick.* **Break his fingers, he doesn’t deserve them.** My hand quivers at the thought, spilling some of the man’s cappuccino. *Shut up, you know I can’t do that!* I shake my head as I walk over; the urge is gone. “Boy, I’ve been waiting for ten minutes for someone to bring me my coffee. Other people have gotten their coffees already!” The words tumble from his jowl like partially digested food; his crumpled, cheap suit gives him away, he has had a rough morning. “Sir,” I reply, “I’m very sorry for the wait, we’ve been rather busy.” **You idiot...** A tirade begins to spew forth from the hole in his unusually small head; about the other venues where his coffees are made within minutes, where the staff are willing to lick his boot. The voice drowns his out as I set the coffee down at his table. **Swap with me. Let’s see him talk without teeth.** A smirk creeps across my calm face, burning it; a cold shudder bolts down my spine. My hand twitches, ready to lash out. It would be quick, almost easy... At last, he finishes complaining, motioning that I may leave now. My mouth plateaus as I return to the bar, my fingers loosen but the burning lingers. *Jesus fucking Christ, what part of “no” don’t you get?!* Motioning to Ellie, I head to the bathroom. I am alone, the water running at max. My face is wet, but it doesn’t cool. My eyebrows are raised, but the mirror reflects a scowling, icy stare. **Why did you let him get away with that? Make an example of one and the rest will follow.** My hand sweeps away the droplets but the reflection doesn’t change. *Look, they are all human. We can’t can go around hurting them, just they treat us like dirt. We have to be better, otherwise we are just like them. Now shut up and let me get back to work!* Stepping back into the room, the bar is all that separates Ellie from a sea of people. We’re being swamped. Behind the bar, the orders take my attention; the burning fades away. Minutes pass, the bar clears and the two of us release a breath of collective relief, which joins the recirculated air. Ellie turns to face me; I know what comes next. “Where were you before you got to the bar?” Her face looks stern, her eyes sunken, molars grinding; she hasn’t had a coffee yet. Doesn’t matter what I say, she’s not in the mood to listen. Substituting coffee for nicotine just made her less bearable. “I went to the bathroom- “You need to be behind the bar when it gets busy. I was alone, making all those coffees and pouring drinks, while you were in the bathroom. You need to take-" The voice butts in again. This time, I’m grateful. **Are you really gonna take this from someone who usually isn’t even behind the bar?** It’s not wrong. Every shift I’ve ever worked with Ellie, she’s disappeared on me; now she’s giving me grief for going to the bathroom. **Let me talk to her. She won’t talk back to you again.** The thought reverberates in my head, dripping the sweet honey of temptation. *No, you don’t get to talk to Ellie. You’ll only make this worse. Besides, she’s just like this because she hasn’t had a coffee yet.* **First, it was cigarettes, now its coffee. She still can’t tear into us like this. You’re completely useless!** My eyes scrunch, my hand reaches for my ear. A high-pitched hum drills through my skull, consuming my senses. Silence falls. A familiar sensation begins to fill my body, accompanied by a feeling of numbing detachment. I watch from behind my own eyes; a prisoner in my own head, unable to hear or act, only capable of watching. Shit...he’s in control. The voice speaks to Ellie. I can see her eyes grow indignant and then fade into embarrassment. I see her slap my face, unable to stop it. She leaves the bar, no doubt to tell management. In an instant, I am back in control. The mechanic of our switches has always eluded me. Maybe he just wants to have fun and leave me with the aftermath... My cheek stings from her slap, pain spiking despite my feathery touch. My face burns again, hotter than before. I feel the smug satisfaction emanating from the voice. My stomach churns, sickened by the feeling. **All I said is that maybe she shouldn’t run to purge so often, that going to the gym is better for her.** *You sick fuck... She’s probably gone to tell management. I’m probably gonna lose my job.* **Not a chance. You may read people, but I see their true faces. Ten bucks says she’s gone to purge a bit more.** Fifteen minutes pass. The bar has gone quiet, people saw Ellie slap me. The women glare at me, the men offer me empathetic smiles. “Its okay, mate,” one says to me. “Sheilas hear different things to us. One wrong word and you’re fucked.” I offer him a fake smile as I hand him a beer; on the house, in return for the ‘words of wisdom’. “Take it from me, kid. You’re better off single.” Another five minutes pass and Ellie returns. She looks worse than before; paler, shaking, lethargic. I offer a coffee, hoping to start to make up for what had happened. Her eyes refuse to meet mine, the stench of vomit poisoning the air as she edged past me. **Pay up.** *Fuck you.* ~ Back at home, it’s late, the moon high in the night sky. I sit alone, staring at the pizza I ordered after work. Butterflies flutter within my stomach, I‘m not hungry anymore. The television plays in the background, but I’m only half listening. The voice’s tormenting consumes my senses. **I wonder how Ellie’s doing after today.** There’s a snide hiss to its words, I know it wants a reaction. I’m determined to deny it. Suddenly, the sense of it changes. The pressure dissipates. Something is very wrong. A pair of hands snaps my head to the right, locking my eyes on the television. Eyes widening in disbelief, my breath catches. “-was found dead in her house just two hours ago.” A photo of Ellie sits in the corner of the screen. Laughter echoes within my skull, a hysteric, manic laughter; it belongs to the voice. My spine freezes, saturated by ectoplasmic fear. *She’s dead...* The voice doesn’t miss a beat. **Of course she is, you moron. She had the self-esteem of a beetroot.** *You killed her...* **No, she killed herself. I simply removed her inhibition. Besides, you are just as responsible.** He’s right. I’m the only one who knows he’s here. I’m the only one who could have stopped him. I was too weak... A sense of pride surges through my body, I feel it as he does. A knife glints in the now harsh, artificial light. I reach out, it’s in my hands. The blade glows eerily; though my eyes are wide with fear, my lips curl back in a wide smile. *Why?* A thought occurs, simple but plausible. *This is what he really wants.* Tears stain the floor, the knife drops to the floor. I won’t give in, I am stronger than this. As I put the knife back, the voice hisses with resignation. **Well, there’s always tomorrow.

I couldn't tell you which woke me up first. The sunshine through my eyelids, or the uncomfortably cold cement floor I was laying on. My mouth felt as if the spit had been sucked dry a week ago. My ears were ringing something awful. My head is absolutely pounding with every movement. Water. I need water. I've never been more hungover in my entire life... Hungover? I don't even remember drinking! Did you black out so hard that you forgot everything? Oh my god, you absolute idiot.... You're not wearing any pants. Why does this always happen to me? Fuck. How am I going to get out of here without any pants on. Wait a minute, where the hell am I? I was sitting near a dark corner of a gigantic room. This appears to be an abandoned warehouse. The sunlight was just making it's way through the broken window panes near the roof, illuminating the discarded debaucheries within. The room smelled of putrid filth. Crushed cans of beer and energy drinks, scents of bodily fluids, deflated balloons, "party favors"... There must have been a gigantic rave here last night. There's no denying that. Yeah, of course there was you moron, you were there. And It was awesome. Wait a second, how DID I get here? I think there was a truck? The girl! There was this really attractive girl with a bob-cut hairstyle behind the wheel! Yeah!!! I remember now! She was driving like a maniac when she spotted me. Flying across i84W at speeds well exceeding the limit. The cops already knew who she was. In their eyes she was an untouchable hellion. The funny thing is, the cops couldn't even pull her over. She later told me: As a supposed high ranking member of the French resistance underground, her father had paid off the Waterbury police commissioner back in the 90's through some convoluted extortion scheme. All her troubles with Johnny Q Law were over. The best part about that was, for her anyway - no more speeding tickets. Against the posted warnings, and my own better judgment, I was hitchhiking around exit 15. After three hours of trying, I had given up all hope of ever getting a ride. I had even made a sign that said "Won't Kill You" on it. I tried to make eye contact with every driver who passed, but it was getting dark, and I couldn't see their faces anymore. After about 20 minutes walking with my thumb out, I heard a roar that could only be an 8 cylinder gas guzzling behemoth. As the sound drew nearer, I turned to see an enormous, lifted, mud covered truck slam on its brakes. The side view mirror came to a complete stop inches from my face. The filthy door swung open and hit me in the chest. I had to step up onto the truck to see the driver. Man, was I surprised. Not only was the driver deadly attractive, but she was glaring at me down the sights of a handgun she was pointing directly at my forehead. The way she cradled that pistol, I could tell this wasn't her first time. "GET. IN. THE. FUCKING. TRUCK." Was all she said. Just like that. The crazy look in her eye told me she wasn't kidding about pulling that trigger. My hesitations made her nostrils flare. I slowly opened the door, and sat down in the passenger seat. "Shut the door" said a voice from the back. I turned to look and immediately heard at least four female voices scream in almost perfect unison: "TURN THE FUCK AROUND!!!". So I did. It's hard to think when a 40 caliber Baretta 92fs is staring you in the face. The driver didn't say another word, just glared. Wide eyed and crazy. Someone from the backseat cleared their throat. "I'll take over from here" she said. Abruptly, the driver mashed down the gas pedal. The open passenger door slammed shut as the tires gained traction with the road. The driver yanked the wheel back onto the highway almost side swiping a car next to us. The only thing I felt, aside from that icy stare, was the cold barrel of another firearm pressed against my neck from the backseat. A well manicured hand appeared from behind me. I noticed the French tips as I took what was being offered. It was a water bottle filled with god knows what... It was clear and warm like tap water, but I was pretty damn sure it wasn't just tap water. "Drink this" said a woman from the back. "What's in it?" I asked timidly. BOOOOOOOOM!!!! My heart almost exploded into my lap as the maniac behind the wheel shot a hole through the roof. My ears are still ringing. Even though I'm not a religious person, I looked upwards in hopes of finding god in that moment. The only holy thing I saw was an assortment of bullet holes in the roof. Oh shit. They must do this all the time. They know exactly what they're doing.... I'm a deadman. I already know it. The bottle is then shoved back into my hands. I can barely hear what is being yelled at me over my newly found tinnitus. Through the gun smoke, I could read her pink lips. "DRINK IT" Godless and alone, I had no choice. A tear rolled down my cheek as I closed my eyes and swallowed the bitter liquid. -BACK TO THE WAREHOUSE- As bad as that all sounds, the night went in a completely opposite direction. After I drank the "water", the girls exploded into laughter and quelled my fears of death. They explained that they were chemistry experts experimenting with mind altering drugs. They take advantage of vagrants like me to test their concoctions. The weird thing is, I'm not mad at the girls at all. Even though they forced drugs on me, my night turned out much better than what I was planning on doing - which was nothing. Actually, last night was the best night of my life. Even though my memory gets spotty after the kidnapping, we all ended up having a fantastic time. I wonder what happened to them. Did I get her number??? Shit, it's probably in my pants. If I remember correctly, over the course of the night, the driver and I started getting close. Turns out she's not a cold hearted sociopath like I originally thought. Although I'm not entirely sure about her questionable morals or the streak of evil she possesses. Deep down, she's a sweet girl. I think I even kissed her. The girls had a large portion of the illegal narcotics production market cornered. They were "A-Listers" at all kinds of crazy underground parties. You should have seen this warehouse when it was in full swing. It was like the entire room peaked at the same time. The moment was quite beautiful actually. Just look at this place now. A discarded garbage heap. The nasty remains of that epic occurrence are now strewn across the floor. They'll need a fire hose and a bulldozer to pick up all this trash. So here I am, standing at the very end of a momentous event I'll never completely remember, and I'm not even wearing pants. Great. Just great. As I was about to curse the girls for leaving me stranded, a monstrous VROOOOMMMM vibrated through the cavernous room. I look towards the source of the sound to see sunlight breaking through the edges of an exit door. I open the door just enough to stick my head out and look around. VROOOOOOOOOOOMMMM!!! I must be having visions. There is a gigantic mud covered, lifted, V8 beast clearing It's throat in the abandoned parking lot. A smile came across my face. My worries about not wearing pants vanish as I cooly exit the building and step up to the truck. Before I can get there, the passenger door opens, and the same stunning woman is sitting behind the wheel. I can hardly believe my own bloodshot eyes. "Where you headed?" I ask her. She gives me a familiar look as if we were old friends who haven't seen each other in years. She pauses for a second, letting me absorb that sweet smile. In a tone I was almost longing to hear she said "Get In the fucking truck" Without question or hesitation this time, I did.

He hadn’t meant to scare the child, she was supposed to be away for the weekend. He panicked for a fraction of a second, but he was trained to adapt to any situation. The girl blinked and rubbed her eyes, “Who…who are you?” He crouched in front of the child, they were now eye level. “I’m just here to take care of a problem, you don’t like problems do you?” She didn’t respond, instead her gaze fell to the ground. He stared at her in silence for a moment, that’s when he saw it. A bruise on the left side of her face, her father was right handed. “Actually…” He spoke after another moment. “I’m here to help you. You do want help, don’t you?” She nodded ever so slightly. “Good.” He picked her up, and proceeded towards the door. Covering her eyes as he stepped over her father’s body.