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Allura 24

Jenkins reporting in from the friend zone. Time seems to go so slowly here. Ive lost track of dates all together, none of that seems to matter anymore anway. No sign of intelligent life, just broken husks of men. Some of the younger men tell tales of their days outside of this wretched place, most of them just hang their heads with incoherent ramblings. Most of the older men here have gone completely insane. Waiting for her attention madly grasping at every word she says hoping somehow to get out of here. I feel I too will join them soon. The oldest man tells tales of a man that got out of here, speaking of a bright light taking him up. The others just dissmiss him as crazy. This is truely hell on earth. Hell hath no fury like a womans friendzone. May god have mercy on our souls. Jenkins signing out.

It was a bright night, a full moon was in the sky. Two friends of mine and I were staying with my dad's friends at this house out in this big flat grassy field. It had a single short wall to divide part of the yard with the gravel drive way that ran along the wall. At the end of the wall was a car port with a car parked under it. For some reason my two friends and I ran out of the house and started running toward the car port on the side of the wall with the drive way. There was a sort of urgancy to get there first, yet there was no reason to be scared. If anyone was watching us they would just assume it was three kids trying to race each other for no reason other than the fact that we were kids. I wasn't the fastest, and the drive way was a good distance. I can remember seeing the stars shining bright in the sky aswell as the moon that hung just over the side of the car port. As I watch my two friends getting more and more distance in front of me, I saw something on the horizon releash a huge flash. I stopped dead in my tracks and gazed at this phenomenon. I could see my friends do the same thing. A few moments later an ear shattering boom swept across the field and my body was overtaken by an immense force that knocked me off my feet and onto my back. I sat up with my arms and dumbly gazed at this bright mass expanding in the distance. Enormous debris was flying far away in the distance. My two friends were already running back down the drive way toward the house. As they passed me I could see utter fear in their faces. They didn't bother too look down at me, and kept running at full speed to the house. I knew I had to get up and run too, but my mind and body were so dazed at what just happened that I couldn't move at all. I was just sitting there staring at this ever expanding fiery mass, and all the debris that it conjured. Back in the direction of the house I could hear a voice calling, I couldn't hear exactly what they were saying. It was enough to snap me out it. I got to my feet and took one last look at the explosion and the debris that was still hurdeling through the air. Running as fast as I could I made it to the house, I saw everyone sitting around and my two friends were already telling the adults what happened. I was still in shock and probably looked just as clueless as the fathers. Some time passes, more people gather in the living room; mothers, daughters, a baby. I am sitting by myself. All I can hear are some murmors from the fathers trying to figure things out. I look around to see everyone else with someone, trying to reassure eachother, and I am alone. We all decide to go outside. There is no more debris in the air, and all you can make of the explosion is a cloudy mass. The moon is still bright and visible, as are the stars. after sometime of hushed conversation that I can't make out, something happens. I look to the moon and lines of light start shining through what appear to be cracks in its surface. The light grows brighter, and as before an unimaginable sound cracks the silence of the night. My heart races and my body is unmovable. Shock overtakes me as a large chunk of the moon flies toward the Earth. It travels slightly beneath the horizon and then makes impact. Another quaking noise goes through the air, but this time at a deeper volume. A tidal wave of lava, smoke and fire rises and billows, covering the night sky. It is moving in every direction at an insane speed. As everyone is in panic, running and grabbing children, trying to espace their certain doom, I find myself alone, again standing in this grassy field with no one. The most terrifying of all things engulfs my mind. I am going to die alone, with no one to care for, and no one to care for me. There is nothing I can do about it. The last thing I can remember as the mass of lava approaches is not the fear running through my body, but the slow, calm breeze of the summer night. I accept my fate, and instead of dying in a state of chaos, I decide to come to peace with it, knowing I cannot change anything. I turn around, facing the other direction of the impact. Stars are still visible in the other half of the night sky. It is cloudless and bright. I lay down on the cool grass and gaze upon the universe. There is nothing specifically going through my mind, I am not worried about anything, but I am also not happy at the same time. I am just living in the moment. As I feel the rumbling behind me, I knew it was getting closer. I take one last look at the night sky, and close my eyes, only hearing the world now. The rumbling grows louder, and my heart races. All of a sudden I hear a tone, my heart is beating slowly. I feel nothing and see darkness. I wake up.

A gust kicked dust across his boots. The road seemed to be dissolving in the wind, as it picked up and whirled the dirt about. As it ascended, his trench coat fluttered against him. In the corner of his eyes, he could see his compadre on either side; steadfast in resolve, they stood like stone against the rising dust tide. For miles ahead and miles behind, for miles to the left and to the right; nothing but dirt, rocks and flat. The land between the roads was a wasteland of dead plants and loose soil, turned infertile by the folly of man. The sun was once beating down, but the storm that once loomed in the distance was now upon them. A tower of cloud, sucking the air from around them. He knew what was upon him, It has come. The sky darkened as the storm began to pick up. The winds stopped coming from behind and were coming from anywhere and everywhere. Swirls and eddies of dirt and dead grass flung about. Yet here they stood. Lighting struck through the clouds, but they still stood fast. He could feel his resolve as one with his allies; what they faced soon would test this resolve. The storm raged in large gusts, but there was naught for it to throw around except dust and pebbles. No rain came, only howling winds and terrible lightning. They felt locked into place, iron willed to not give an inch. Then It came. A tornado forming up the road in front of them, but as it touched down a great flame came from the ground, and the twister sucked the flame high into the sky, and lightning cracked and exploded from the cloud to the flaming vortex. As it neared them, their resolve was never stronger. It is coming, but It will not hurt us. Whatever form It takes, no harm shall befall us if we stay our ground. He knew it, and so did the only two human beings he had for miles. The pillar of flame made its way closer, only a few hundred yards away, when it widened with great speed, like a slow moving explosion, only to stop growning just as suddenly, and it stopped its advance. The pillar ripped open in the middle to expose some terrible darkness, when out It stepped. And It’s form was not pleasant. A gargantuan demon from the earth to the cloud; he had a dark and smokey skin and was not easy to get a focus on, except his head. Large curved horns, and the face of a nose-less, eyebrow-less man except with fire coming out of cuts and scars. Their resolve was unshaken. It won’t hurt us, It is testing us. As he approached one large step at a time, It got smaller. A lot smaller. Until It was barely smoking and easy to see, and only a foot or two taller than a man. It was a man, at least so it seemed. His face had grown out of that mask of fire and scars, and He was a handsome man at that. Nothing hideous, but you could read the malice in His eyes. And so He approached ever so casually, while their hearts raced. The Prince of Darkness, Lucifer. “And so I am.” Said He with a voice eased and mid pitched. Terrifying, it would seem, was not his approach now. “And you are the band...” “Aye,” he answered, feeling confident in speaking. “He who is the bringer of arts and music, we beseech for Your Blessing, so that we may unlock the greatest potential of man through power greater than he.” “And so it shall be, but what do you offer that I, who is ever so generous in granting thee Power beyond man?” “We offer NOT our souls.” “What? That is the only wa-” “EAT LEAD MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!!” They pulled tommy guns out of their trenchcoats and unloaded on the motherfucker. Satan was dead before he could shit his pants, and they absorbed all of his powers. Now, The Man In The Badass Trenchcoat was Prince of Darkness, and could shred harder than any man alive. The band went on to be really big for a few years, then they all died of various drug and alcohol overdoses. The end.

<span>I don&rsquo;t know how long it&rsquo;s been inside this place. The black and white monitor on the right wall says three months but I know it&rsquo;s lying. I know it&rsquo;s been at least years. How many I have no idea. The only company I have now is myself and the occasional hand that opens the food flap at the bottom of the door with vitamins. How long has it been since I had a real meal? How long has it been since I&rsquo;ve been <em>hungry</em> for a real meal? How long have these walls been moving? I have no idea. Only that it&rsquo;s been far too long since I&rsquo;ve talked to anyone beside my imagination&hellip; my hallucinations... <span>I used to be able to tell those apart from reality. I used to have <em>her.</em> She kept me sane in this wretched place. What was her name again? Not like it matters. It feels like an eternity since I&rsquo;ve spoken to her. I think I met her before I was brought here. We were together. We shared not only this cabin, but also a mind. It&rsquo;s as if she were made for me. But they took that. They took everything. I can&rsquo;t remember much about the outside anymore but from even just the thought of somewhere other than here is pleasant, whatever that might be like. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>Now I only see her in my dreams. That reminds me- when was the last time I&rsquo;d gotten any sleep? I&rsquo;m getting awfully tired. The hallucinations are getting worse. It&rsquo;s slowly walking toward me now. Like a frail old man with a cane. I can&rsquo;t quite tell what it is yet; a dark figure in this empty white space. I don&rsquo;t remember how big it is. Not like it would matter. I only move to get my vitamins. I wish I knew what they wanted with me&hellip; I wish they&rsquo;d just kill me already. I&rsquo;ve been in here ages&hellip; doing just this. Waiting for maybe the hope that I will have someone to share with me again. Maybe they&rsquo;ll bring her back. But I doubt that.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span><span>&nbsp;</span>We used to talk all day, her and I. Although I don&rsquo;t remember what about. Maybe about that outside. Although I&rsquo;m not even sure if an &ldquo;outside&rdquo; exists. <span>&nbsp;</span>What have I been doing these past days? Staring at the date on the monitor hoping for it to change? The date&rsquo;s been 04:03:34 for an awfully long time. If I chose to believe that, it would mean she&rsquo;s been gone for one month and six days. I can tell from the lack of her face from my memory that this is wrong. I&rsquo;m kind of getting nervous now. The figure is getting closer. Details are becoming more clear. The way it saunters says it&rsquo;s all just a dream but it&rsquo;s almost like I can feel its malevolence. It has to be fake. I know it&rsquo;s fake. How long has it been since I started hallucinating? Nothing can get in here to hurt me. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>That&rsquo;s what I learned from her. She used to comfort me when I was on the edge of losing my mind. Before and after we were taken. Nothing can hurt me in here. Nothing can hurt me inside these walls because there are no doors. Nothing can get in. I&rsquo;m kind of starting to doubt that since they had to have taken her away from me somehow. I&rsquo;m still really paranoid. It&rsquo;s really close. It looks familiar. Black hair, dark eyes, dark grey skin. It wears a dark suit labeled &ldquo;NAVY&rdquo;- the word feels so comfortable. Even though I don&rsquo;t understand the meaning. I don&rsquo;t remember what it&rsquo;s like to be able to read- it feels good. Especially that word. Navy. I&rsquo;m feeling nostalgic but I&rsquo;m not sure why&hellip; </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>I want to remember. I miss her. I miss her so badly. I don&rsquo;t know what I miss. Is it her or is it the idea of her? Or is it just the idea of0 having a companion? I want to remember her. I don&rsquo;t remember her at all. I don&rsquo;t remember what she was to me. Was she a positive figure like I thought? I don&rsquo;t remember. I need to remember. The man is so close to me now. But he can&rsquo;t hurt me. He&rsquo;s a hallucination. His dark eyes look almost red. Are they red? His skin is so grey. Why does he look so familiar? I think he&rsquo;s going to hurt me. He has a knife. A sharp, long, thick knife. The blade is glistening in the fluorescent lighting that seems to be coming from nowhere. It&rsquo;s so mesmerizing. I almost forgot about being terrified for my life. His arm is drawn back. But he can&rsquo;t hurt me. Not here. Not here. Not inside these walls. Not inside my own head.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>I finally remembered. That summer day. The sun was shining so bright, the sun. The sun was beautiful. The sky was so&hellip; blue. Like the uniform I was wearing. I had just gotten home to my wife and children after being overseas a few months prior. It was horrific&hellip; what I saw&hellip; I knew I&rsquo;d never be able to shake it. I was looking at the garden my wife had planted over the spring. Purples and pinks and yellows, so vibrant- bold like her; my wife. She was so kind, innocent, sweet, caring. She&rsquo;d always been so empathetic toward my feelings. Especially since I&rsquo;d been back&hellip; how could she still have stood to be around me? I&rsquo;d lashed out so much lately&hellip; I don&rsquo;t know what was wrong with me then.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>That&rsquo;s when I decided to apologize to her. I went inside after that, she was cooking dinner for me and my children. My kids. I had kids. We&rsquo;d brought them into this world together, her and I. The apology didn&rsquo;t go well&hellip; she was saying these things&hellip; these weird, weird things. She was scaring me. She was getting so close to me while she was talking. In my face. She just looked so&hellip;determined&hellip; I don&rsquo;t know what for&hellip; but it was scary. All of a sudden she had gotten close&hellip; too close&hellip; &ldquo;Baby I know there&rsquo;s nothing you can do.&rdquo; It was malicious. What was she going to do to me that I couldn&rsquo;t stop? Who was she? I grabbed the knife of the counter. The sharp, long, thick knife. The blade was glistening under our&hellip; fluorescent&hellip; kitchen lights&hellip; </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>&ldquo;You know there&rsquo;s nothing you can do.

I could begin this story with connotative diction to ensue the readers attention into the greater purpose of this story; which I will, or I could digress back to the basics, where it all started...... Lucid thoughts plague my brain. Yet opaque vision has blanketed my eyes. Where am I? All i can perceive is the bright lights all around. My mind is a cloud floating with no destination. My body is a rock; solid with no ability to move itself. I am stuck; but where? My memory is faded by the spinning motion in my brain. For a slight instance; i feel underwater. My body is detached, yet instantaneously my senses are heightened. I begin to feel every lone action of energy touch my skin. As if I Im a voodoo doll being pricked. I wake up.

Come Fly With Me We are strolling along 3rd Street in Santa Monica, again, and our conversation, again, has turned stale. Again, because we are again at yet another start of our relationship, like the fourth or fifth time really. We don't talk for six months then we start all over, small talk and getting to know each other and first dates all over again. Not fourth or fifth time we have tried to make it work, but maybe really the fourth or fifth time that we have forgotten why we donít work out together (because you are a self absorbed, emotionally void prick) and then we run into each other (usually in some bizarre place where we find that we have yet another thing in common) and exchange conversation (really just witty one liners) that made us remember what we liked about each other (and that I don't remember because I haven't run into you in a while). We walked arm in arm, silent, with both my arms holding onto your one arm. We stop to watch one of the street performers. Some Asian idiot with like thirty bowls threw them up in series of like three bowls at a time, then caught them on his head until he had al thirty bowls up there. Some people just have that knack for balance I guess. They are able to throw everything up in the air and have everything land all choreographed and perfect right on top of they're fucking heads. I put my hand on your neck and slowly run my fingers through your short hair. I always liked that despite everything, any adversity or state of strife, you always kept your hair nice and short. I run my hair up the back again and feel the top of your head. It is all bumpy and uneven. Ha, you probably wouldnít even be able to catch one bowl. I touch the top of my head. Hmmm, bumps and lumps and bulges, but one flat spot in the back. The man ends with thirty bowls balanced on various locations on his petite, sinewy little body. The crow cheers and people smile. We walk away before he asks for tips. We walk up to the sushi restaurant that we had reservations at. You suggest that we sit outside. Some things never change. You order the same sushi that you have ordered since the first date we ever went on. The same tuna that I can never remember the name of or how they prepare it whenever I eat sushi without you. The name I just canít quite remember and the waitress can never guess it correctly. Even writing this now I can't remember what the name is. But you order it and I tell her I will have the same. And we sip our hot saki and look at each other from across the table. A list of my vices runs through my head: thin boys with dark hair and light eyes and pale skin, smoking, drinking... I see you have dyed your hair black, it suits you well.Suits me well because it is attractive or suits me well because it is black? You look away with that drawn out smirking smile. The sound of your voice has that slightly effeminate quality to it, with exaggerated ups and downs. You look back up at me. In my eyes. What is important here is that you donít look anyone in the eyes when you talk to them. It is quite bizarre really. Maybe a habit from doing drugs, maybe because your big black pupils give you away. I can know you and know you, and never really know what the fuck you are thinking. If you are really here or somewhere else. I remember a girlfriend told me once there was only one part of a man she could ever figure out. Did you call me to fuck me or be friends?í I ask this very candidly hoping to achieve some shock value that would result in honesty.I don't know. God, fucking honesty. Half of me wants to fuck your brains out and the other part of me wants to be friends. Fuck honesty, this is too confusing. What am I doing here? How many other times have I been in this same exact moment? I set myself up for deja vu. What do you think? you ask me, looking at me.Honestly, I do not know what to think. I could go either way, I guess.Fuck me, I have been here a million times and no matter if I give the fuck or friend answer, I always end up with the fuck. You really are gorgeous. You look at me with those fuck me eyes. Those light green, dark hair, light skin fuck me eyes. But you know that. And it is true. I do know that. Too bad just being gorgeous cannot constitute a whole relationship. Too bad for you, I think. But really too bad for me. You are quiet tonight. I am wondering really if I want to do this whole routine all over again. The flat spot on my head can catch a few bowls, but your head would never catch anything. I am quiet every night.í I donít know why I say this, but I just do. Then I quickly jump to something else. I donít want you to start thinking that Im thinking about us. Wouldn't that just be just to bizarre to be a street performer? Working for tips, juggling and dancing around and shit. Spray painting your self with silver spray paint every morning to pretend you are a fucking robot. Putting a box one your head and acting like youíre a television. You laugh. Some people sit at computer screens everyday for twelve hours inputting numbers. That is equally strange.í Our sushi arrives and then you read the same sushi script I now know by heart: See the juice on the bottom. Thatís lemon juice. Itís acidity cooks the raw fish, and you can see that on the top where it is white colored. This is my favorite. The only thing I have ever ordered and will ever order.The tuna is this little slimy, juicy pink mound, the size of my small fist. It is sliced into about ten thin pieces. I am done eating in a few minutes and the drink the rest of my miso soup. You are done too and fold your napkin. There is still like three or four slices on your plate. And your soup is half full. And you rice has not been touched. You have gone through two or three bottles of saki though. Nothing is more simultaneously amusing and depressing that the charade of a drug addict pretending to eat. I wonder if you feel sick. I wonder what drugs you are on. I look at your collar bones through your shirt and cheekbones, and I am sure probably every other bone later tonight. You ask if I want the rest of yours or are still hungry for anything else, and I say no. So we light up and smoke while we wait for the check. So, what on earth should we do for the rest of the evening?í I ask you with tired enthusiasm in my voice. Lets just walk. So indefinite, so open. That was just like you. We walk along the store fronts and look in but not really seeing. We huddle together because it has become quite cold. At the end of 3rd street a man with a key board plays and sings Frank Sinatra. Lets stop and listen.í I pull your arm and we sit on a bench off to the side and smoke. I want to hear ëCome Fly With Me, tell him. And you walk to him and tell him. This is my favorite Sinatra song. And we sit in, huddled together, long after the song stops and the next one comes on. We could get into a lot of trouble together.í You have often told this to me and I am never quite sure if you mean trouble together or with other people. I have been in this exact moment a hundred other times with you. Again, the scheming script: So what if I called you and I had a different name, like Miranda or Judith or whatever. And then I said I know so and so and she said that we would really hit it off and we should go out. And we could first date as other people. Totally different people that we could create. Like I would be a veterinary assistant and you would be a gynecologist named Carlo.í You laughed. And then it would be like date rape you know. It would totally be hot.í I was getting into this, ha this would be funny and definitely not boring. And then we would go out, as Carlo and Miranda, and go to dinner and the movies or whatever. Then you would invite me over for a coffee and I would accept because you were so romantic and charming and witty and talk talk. Then after the coffee you would drink a few scotches and start coming on really heavy. And like touching me. And then I would get all upset and tell you stop like five times and then threaten to leave and then you get forceful. I make a break for the door and then you stop me and rape.í One question. Why would a gynecologist be living in a studio apartment in Santa Monica?í He laughs. Cause his mansion is being renovated. I donít fucking know. Think big picture. Think rape scene. Think trapped against the wall of your apartment with my arms pinned down by your arms. And Iím wearing a white dress with a black purse.You contemplate this and laugh. ëMe and you could get into a lot of trouble. But I think you already know that.í We sit and talk out other schemes, other worlds and lives that are far from our own.Well, Iíll tell you a scheme.í You lean in closer. ëWell, you know the guy at the bar, the one that is always there, blond hair, maybe light brown. Light eyes and good teeth with a different girl on his arm every night of the week. Picks fights and rips people off. Has an expensive new truck but hardly works. Great house great room mates and tons of friends. The guy whose ass everyone kisses.í Named Chris or Nick or Tyler or Tony. Yeah, sure those guys are fucking everywhere.Well, we go to the bar and find him, Chris, Nick, Tyler Or Tony. Then we lure him back to the car, drug him with rufies, take him back with us, then strip him down and leave him all naked in Mexico or San Franís gay bars or whatever. Thatís very good, very trouble.í You smile that lets me know this is a good idea.Not really revenge oriented, more just for kicks.Yeah, for kicks. You stop and think.We stop talking and listen to Sinatra some more. Come Fly With Me comes on again. So which bar do we find him a. Hook, line and sinker. I do believe the contestant has entered into the first round.The Yucatan.He nods and smiles in agreement. So we go out that night, a Friday night. And I really do look fantastic. And we park in the very far back of the lot, under a tree where no one can see us. We take your big black truck, for storage of the body purposes.And tonite I wear a red dress. Blood red. Short and sweet, you can see me across the crowded bar.And so al night I am talking to different guys, and you watch from across the room, waiting for me to hook just the right one. And I will say to him lets have a drink together, along, in my truck. And raise my eyebrows and lick my lips or fucking whatever to lure this guy back.I am at the bar for like thirty minutes and I head back to you.Well, did you get one yet? No theyíre all too nice, I need one that's a real ass.I thought this isn't about revenge? I look at you dead cold in the eyes, no emotion just plain truth: Well, maybe it is.You just stare back at me.I smile and break this tension. Babe, letís go back to the truck and have a drink and a cig. I need a break. You grab my hand and we walk out. The night is cold, so we walk fast and you hold me close to your ribby chest. We get into your truck and light a cigarette. I open the large duffel bag and take out a bottle of Jagermeuster and break the seal. I open a little cooler and pour it into a glass with cloudy ice cubes.For you babe.I fix myself one, sans the ice. We sit in silence for a good ten minutes. You sip and talk. ëI really like you. I donít know why I do the things I do to you. I donít talk, I just listen. ëI am really sorry for the way I treat you sometimes, I really donít know why I do it.í Your voice is slurring just a bit. God, I feel drunk, and this is only my second drink. I smile. I just want you to know that I want to be your friend. We can be good friends Yes, I am sure we can. Your head begins to nod.What the fuck, did you put sommmmeeething in here? You swing your head around at me. I smile. No you couldnít haaaaaaave. You broke the seal. Yes, I broke the seal. How thinning? The ice cubes, friend. In the ice, dear sweet good friend.í I smile again. The ruuuufies? Yes, and the cyanide,í I say with a genuine smile this time. The cyyyyyyyanide, there was no cyaaaaaaaaanideí Then you get it but are paralyzed. And you canít hold your head any longer and it lazily flops to the head rest. Friend, lover, I was poison from the beginning.

…”Don’t let go! Keep fighting!” he shouted, but to no avail. Her arm fell limp and she let go. William had started to weep, while his lover, Mary had slipped into a “sleep” of sorts, she had become paralyzed, and she could see the man in black walking towards her, “But it is not yet my time!” She cried, even though nobody could hear her. The man kept walking towards her, “Hello,” he said. “Who are you?” inquired the young lady. “My name is of no importance,” he said in a deep growling voice. “But yours, yours is important” he said menacingly. “My name is Mary White,” she said sadly, “But I do have one last, burning question before we go”. “I shall answer this one question truthfully, but then we leave.” He said solemnly but hesitantly. “Why must you have come so early in my life? I am but the ripe age of 24, why not later?” She asked in a voice full of lament and confusion. “Well, you see, everything happens for a reason. Have you not heard of the ‘red string theory’?” “Why of course, everyone is connected by a red string, so there shall be tugs here and pulls there and every once in a while, a string should happen to get cut.” She said, realizing where his point was heading. “You see your “lover” ,William, was plotting your murder, he was to obtain all your wealth and monies after you two were to be married on the morrow,” he explained. “With all his obtained wealth he was going to raise an army and invade a small ally country to the west,” she looked at William with much sadness in her eyes. William had stopped crying and had started looking around the room. “You see, he did not love you. He wanted you for your money. So to answer your question in short, you are going to leave with me early so that thousands of lives will have been spared” the man in black had spoken. “So shall we be going now?” he asked. “Yes, but what is to become of William?” she queried. “ahh, that is a story for a later time darling, but we really should be off now” he said in a chuckle. Mary got up and felt stronger than ever but when she looked back her body was still on the bed. She started to follow the man in black.

. The moment captured. The shy sun, the lone star, and the crescent moon. I worried about the picture. Best to not take another, I only have four left on the roll. I slipped the device back into my pocket. The wood creaked beneath my feet, but my steps were not the cause. Couldn't be the wind. The waves were weak. Perhaps the chill air setting into the bay. The rails of the bow were cold. Rusted over, a dull coat peeling. I leaned against them and lifted my arms to match the horizon. In an attempt to trigger sensation, a listlessness set it as I reminded myself the boat was anchored. I turned away. Looking around, I spotted a coil of thick rope on the deck. A play thing. I stepped upon the coil and into the center space. I knelt down. My index and thumb followed a single strand as it twisted around the rope's length. A rope of ropes. I dug my nails to pull the it apart, but tension was the victor. Demotivated, I stepped out the coil. Banality set in.

The Tavern owner was uneasy over the uncharacteristic quite of the seven me sitting at the poker table. All of them had the look of men who wanted desperately to forget something they saw. Of the men sitting at the poker table David was the only the Tavern owner new by name. David was the second in command of a posse that had set up a few mile up river of the little no named town. Of all the members of the posse David was the most approachable and slow to anger. A tavern is a place for gossip and stories. David was often asked to share stories of his time in service during the 30 year war. David was one of the few who had managed to live through the entire war and had plenty of stories to make any man give up hope of valor. He was not one to scare easily. But the way he stared at his empty glass spoke of a fear that shook him to his core. As the Tavern owner sent another serving girl to replace empty mugs with ones full of his best brew, foot steps began to sound on the landing that ran along the length of the tavern. As they grew closer he could make out the sound of someone moving quickly but the person seemed to have a bad limp. Then bursting into the tavern Richard, leader of the posse burst through the doors and tried to run to the bar but his wounded leg would not let him. Looking closely at Richards right leg the Tavern owner could see that the meat on it was shredded to pieces, in some places he could see the white of bone. Reaching behind the counter he grabbed a bottle, ripped the cork out and took a long swallow. Turning to look at those who sat gaping and staring openly at his leg he found his men. "Dave", he croaked. "You have to hide me". Limping toward his one time friend he pulled up short when David placed his revolver on the table. Everyone sat in stunned silence for a long moment. The Tavern owner was pulled away from the scene by the sound of heavy foot falls that was already near the tavern door. As the door opened with a slow deliberate creak all eyes turned to the man that entered two steps into the tavern. The man looked from Richard to the seven men sitting at the table then back to Richard. With a deep calm voice he addressed the entire tavern. "Those who want no part of this may leave." He said walking to the bar. The man was of average height and build. His clothes fit him well but were the faded grey of clothes that were once black. Even through his clothing it was clear that this man was well muscled. He moved with the calm confidence that comes from a lifetime of fighting. But something about him was off. the right sleeve of his duster was a long enough to cover his hand. But he was drawn to the bony shape underneath, barely visible through the fabric as he walked. "Water", he said speaking to the Tavern owner. "And oil". The Tavern owner moved to the back room to do as he was bid as the last of the patrons left the tavern. Richard was slumped on the floor back pressed against the wall with nothing but fear in his eyes. Walking back into the main room the Tavern owner barely managed to place the glass of water and can of oil onto the counter. His eyes wide as he stare at what was left of Richards head. Then he doubled over to vomit.

After years of being single, I was finally talking to somebody. Naturally, I was eager for any opportunity to see her. Chatting via Instant Message for a few days, there was finally an opportunity. She was free one night and wanted to hang. Awesome. But before that, there was just one small thing she needed help with. She had a pet frog. Keyword: HAD. Despite my love interest's tender love and care, the amphibian passed away 3 days prior. Poor little guy. But my love interest -- we'll call her Renee -- never got around to emptying the tank. She just didn't have the guts to reach in and throw it out. That being said, I didn't have to grab it out of the tank and give it a proper frog burial (or whatever), but *it would be nice*. Being the "aim to please" person I was, I accepted the challenge. The frog would be extracted from its home, laid to rest, then we'd continue the date from there. Awesome. I groomed myself, brushed and flossed, climbed into the van and sped off. Upon arriving at her apartment, we exchanged pleasantries, hugs, and all the stuff that young nervous people do when they like each other. But the pleasantries could only last so long. It was now time to head to the scene of the incident. She swung open the basement door and descended down the stairs. I followed, listening to lumber boards creak and squeak below as they bore the weight of my being. Uhh, by the way: if you're eating something, I'd either finish it or put it away. This next part is... unappetizing. The basement's carpet was vacuumed just minutes earlier. It was white with dark blue speckles every couple inches. Her computer desk had only a computer on it, her bookshelves held books and housed glass figurines. The bed was made squarely as an envelope. I was surprised by how meticulous and tidy Renee was about her apartment. Pleased by it, in fact. After taking in the tidy apartment's scenery, I turned my attention to the frog tank. The hard water stains at the top of the tank, the algae-green water, and the deceased frog had festered for three days, creating about six gallons of frog stew. Remember what I said about unappetizing? I approached the tank, staring directly into the cold eyes of our deceased friend. Before going in, protection was desperately needed. I asked Renee. Any rubber gloves? She searched mentally for a second... nope. Alright... vinyl gloves? Not at all. Gloves at all? No. Well, darn. It was starting to look like I'd have to plunge my bare hand into this toxic tank -- a thought that truly horrified me. Wait! Renee found a grocery bag! That'll do. I turned it inside-out, stuck my hand inside, and had a makeshift plastic-bag-glove -- like I was picking up dog poop. Now it was time to dispose of the body. Without hesitation, my hand started downward toward the deceased. Within seconds, the feeling of cold, stale water chilled my fingertips through the plastic bag. During this whole ordeal, my head was turned away from the tank. I couldn't see what was going on below. Feeling my submerged hand around the bottom, the tank's contents were becoming familiar to me. Gravel, corral, more gravel, a fish castle, then a stick. Finally, I felt the unmistakable bumpy, slippery texture of a dead frog. Here he is. My bagged hand immediately clasped itself around him. He immediately slipped out. Clearly, my grocery bag wasn't designed around a dead frog. I maneuvered my hand more carefully around him and lifted him out again, making it out of the water this time. But he slipped once more, did a belly-flop into the putrid water, then sunk back down into the gravel. Catching a dead frog was proving harder than catching a live one. Finally, I made an underhanded reach into the tank and extracted the frog once more. This time, he stayed in the palm of my hand. Frogs are usually green. However, when our amphibian friend passed away, he turned a rancid gray. By the way: know how frog legs taste like chicken? Well the dead frog smelled a lot like a rotten chicken. And felt like it, too. Boy, that little guy was slimy. I had a crushing realization: now what? I had planned (kinda) to extract the dead frog from the tank -- but made NO plans for anything after that. I eyed Renee, hoping she had the answer. Nothing. We began to panic. I proposed flushing him. Nope, that would clog the 'loo. Throw him in the kitchen trash? NO!!! The carcass lay in my hand like a hot potato, except cold and it smelled nowhere near as good as a potato. If we didn't act fast, we were both gonna vomit. Then, in a split-second, Renee rushed over to her sliding door and threw it open. I instantly dashed out with the carcass into the back yard. Luckily, there was an extensive woodsy area behind her apartment. With a deep breath, a crank of the arm, and a "HOOAH!", I sent the frog out a hundred yards or so to its final destination. And off in the distance, I heard an unmistakable *SHPLACK!!!* It sounded like throwing out a carton of curdled milk. Except bonier. And meatier. Rest in piece, little guy. Written by AndreaRCarr and submitted to reddit on 2013-DEC-16 Edit: typos. Misspellings.

The Ardalent Strings The bell chimed so everyone grabbed hold of their handled strings and walked out from their apartments. The strings came from brass cavities in the wall and the other ends attached to something unknown to the people. They were meant to pull the strings to taut and they all did this simultaneously at the chiming of the bell. The strings whirred out of each brass fixture activating some guessed at mechanics inside the walls, flywheels and gears and such, clicking and clunking like old clockwork. The strings were too long for the people to simply pull and stand in their rooms, pulled taut the length of these strings would leave the people standing in their hallways. Sometimes, the people would speak to each other. Oliver was told about the unusual custom by Lester on the day he had moved into the old Abbey Apartment building on Flint Street; bell and line. “Who is it that rings the bell?” Oliver was new and knowing no one but directing his question to a sea of old faces in the hall, holding his handle and string. “It is not for us to know, just accept that it is so,” replied old Mrs. Cardicole. “We pull our strings each time it rings. That is the nature of living here, though it may seem vain and queer. Our labor is to taut the strings whenever the bell of Abbey rings.” “Where do the strings go?” Oliver asked, not wanting to give up so easily. “We pull our strings, the brass handled strings and meet here in the hall. That’s all to say. It’s the way of things. There’s nothing more at all!” and Mrs. Cardicole gave a stern face as if to say, *I disapprove of this line*. Everyone else looked on and felt for Oliver. The residents knew the custom was odd but it was truly simply the way of things in the old Abbey Apartments on Flint Street. Then the strings pulled back into their holes by automatic mechanism and everyone returned to whatever they had been doing. Some were watching television, others were reading, others were having dinner. Young Lester and Sable were tending to their newborn son. Life in the apartment building on Flint Street was quiet and most like usual, save for this one quirk of the handled strings and the chiming bell. Sometimes, people would venture to look for the bell. Most obvious was that it would be on top of the building, but Lester once discovered that it was not. He told a very few people about his searching and occasionally, people would help Lester to look for it. Mrs. Cardicole would watch the people searching from her custom one-way porthole. She would take notes on who was looking and what they might be saying. “Always searching for the bell, these transgressions lead to Hell.” Her hair was red and frizzed and she seemed a kind of recluse. Some might say that Mrs. Cardicole was a shut-in, but she had her reasons, and her husband Frank in his urn would not judge her like her neighbors did. The bell rang early the following day and all the neighbors grasped their handles and pulled their strings from the brass fixtures in their apartments. They met out in the hall again and Mrs. Cardicole spied Oliver instantly and judged his efforts as lackluster, slack was his string. He was not doing as well and he could, and his string was not as taut as hers. The neighbor Lester saw the judgement on Mrs. Cardicole’s face and it entertained the dark parts of his mind. The ringing bell had twisted his thoughts and every day, sometimes twice in one, he’d be a slave to it. Mrs. Cardicole’s judgement was something new, Oliver was something new, so Lester looked on in madness and a voice screamed in his mind. He thought of scissors and of string, screaming madness and slicing blades. Lester’s string was taut and the mechanisms to it locked in and he dropped his handle in the hall and went inside his apartment. Lester came back a moment later with a pair of scissors and picked up his handle again, in front of everyone, and cradled the string between the scissor blades. He looked again at Mrs. Cardicole’s silent judgement and relished in it, for now it was directed at him and not Oliver. Lester severed the handle from the string and almost immediately after, the strings pulled back into their holes and the people followed after, continuing their quiet lives in their apartments. Lester’s string vanished beyond the wall, somewhere behind his holed brass fixture. Oliver spent the day considering Lester. How long has the process been driving him mad? Oliver would like to speak to Lester at some point so he decided he would, next time he had the chance. But it was evening when the bell chimed again and everyone pulled their strings out into the hall but there was no Lester. Oliver looked for him to come out at his door, but nobody came. Of course, why would they? There was no string for Lester or Sable to pull. The curious neighbors decided to investigate, at least to see what had become of Lester’s madness. One held another’s handled string while one investigated Lester’s door. It was ajar and pushed open easily but Lester was nowhere to be seen, nor was Sable or the newborn. “Claimed by sin and no line taut, this is what his cutting brought.” Mrs. Cardicole gave a wry smile. Everyone came back to their spots and held their strings, not daring to let go and dismissing all thoughts of stepping out of line, all thoughts of knives and scissors banished; all minds were bent on the taut strings. Even Oliver did not dare to ask Mrs. Cardicole any more questions. For the second time in the day, the strings pulled back into their brass openings and the people retreated back into their apartments, neverminding the strange reality they had all accepted with reluctant grace. Mrs. Cardicole watched them all mindlessly slink through their doors through her porthole then waited a moment for good measure. She quietly left her apartment and descended the stairwell then went into the basement. She had a key, the only key that opened the boiler room and there she came to it again, the caged Ardalent, the demon toddler she kept in her charge, giant and harlequin. Mrs. Cardicole stepped over the bodies of Lester and Sable. The Ardalent had his own string that hung down into his cage, one that chimed the unseen bell, and the neighbors did as they always had upon hearing it. Their strings came to an engine of coiled metal that powered a music box set to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. It was his lullaby. Mrs. Cardicole fed the Ardalent what she could from the bodies of Lester and Sable. She blew a kiss to the demon toddler and left the boiler room, locking the door behind her. She ascended the stairs and went back, unseen, into her apartment to find the child of Lester and Sable, now hers to raise; a brother for her dear Ardalent.

“Father, I don’t want to go”, said the 11-year-old boy. “You have to”, said the father. “You have no choice. We are starving, and this is the only way we are going to survive another night”. “But--” “No. I am sorry. But we simply do not have any other options here.” The boy got up, and looked his father in the eye. “I will try to hurry”, he said, before running out the door. As the father watched his firstborn disappear in the rainy fog, he sighed and went back to his book. But the pains of hunger prevented him from focusing, and he wept for his son’s life, knowing that they could not last long on what limited resources they had left. Then he got up and walked out of the room. * * * It would be several hours later that he would hear a knock on the door of the tiny cottage he called home. When the father opened the door, he did not find his son. Instead, he was greeted by an elderly gentleman. The man was dressed in black, and peered at the cottage through thick lenses. “Good day, sir!”, he greeted cheerfully, forcing the host to list several reasons in his mind as to why it was in fact the opposite. But instead of voicing his problems, he invited the man inside for what little refreshments he could offer. “And by what name do you go by, my good man?”, questioned the elder. “I am Charles”, the father answered, “and who are you?”. The elder looked at him and said, “When I explain my reason for coming here, names will not matter anymore”. Charles looked strangely at the elder. He was starting to get a strange feeling in his stomach. The feeling you get when you know something is going to change and nothing will ever be the same again. His feelings were correct, because after the elder spoke next, Charles collapsed onto the floor and did not awake until a few hours later when his son returned. * * * It would be a long flight to Hollywood, California. But as the father and son reflected on the past 24 hours, they knew that what lied ahead for the young star was going to be indescribable. A flight attendant greeted the two, and offered refreshments. But as she went to pour the coffee, she missed and poured it on Charles’ brand new suit. The normally laid back father was filled with rage at the poor lady. What an inconvenience this is! How are they going to sign the record labels when there is coffee all over his suit? After much apologizing to the attendant, the son managed to calm his father down, but he was shocked at the initial reaction. His father never yelled. Almost a day later, they arrived in Hollywood. As they followed the GPS around the city, in search of the record company’s address, the son stared out the window. It was very confusing, this sudden change in his life. When he left the house yesterday morning, he went to the farmer’s market to do his usual trade of goods for food. But there was no one there, except a man with a flute. He remembered approaching the man and asking him where everyone was. The man replied that it was Saturday, and the farmers were too busy working the fields to sell their goods. The boy was very disappointed in himself, and kicked the wall in anger. They would not have enough to last another week, when the market would reopen. The flutist saw the boy’s obvious disappointment and offered him a few dollars in exchange for a song. It turns out that the flutist was actually a talent scout for a major record company. The boy doubted his ability to sing, but as soon as the lyrics flew out of his mouth, well, everything happened so fast. The “flutist” started jumping up and down very excitedly, and the boy very quickly realised how famous he was about to become. It would be a quick stop at the house to inform his father, and the rest is history. * * * They pulled into the record company and got out of the limo. A doorman greeted the duo but the father ignored him, his course set to wherever they sign labels. There was nothing else on his mind. He wanted his son to have a chance, and he wanted all the money he could get. To never be hungry again. The thought excited him, and he began walking faster to the elevator, in which his son interrupted his train of thought. “Father, don’t you think you were being rather rude to the doorman? He said hello and you ignored him.” “That doesn’t matter anymore, son. The small people like us, we don’t mean anything to society. That’s why we need to be at the top, and we need to surround ourselves with people at the top, or we will not be a part of anything”, his father explained. But it only left the son more confused. Why did his father feel the need to be at the top? Why did he ignore the doorman and yell at the attendant? Suddenly, the whole thing seemed pointless. But as the elevator door opened, the father grabbed his son by the arm and dragged him into an official looking doorway. “So, you are here to sign the record label and start your new life”, said a portly man sitting at the desk. “Well, let me tell you, I have never seen a more qualifying singer for our company. I have a feeling this boy is going to turn a lot of heads and make a lot of money. Now, if you would be so kind as to read these terms and conditions, and then sign your name at the bottom, please”. The young boy stared at the long list of terms. He thought about the money, the fame, the glory. He thought about the incident with the attendant and the doorman. He thought about a lot of things, and when he was urged by his father to hurry, he decided to voice his decision. “No.” * * * The father was livid. He scolded the son for waiting this long to say no, what a waste of a trip, how could you do this, and on and on. But the son replied, “Father, I wanted to do this, but you were overcome with greed. You hurt the people around you just so you could get to the top. You were blinded by your excitement and your desire for money. You’ve changed, father, and I don’t want to be a part of something that takes away a part of the people I love.” The man behind the desk got up and closed the door, making sure that a click was heard in the lock mechanism before sitting down again. “We have ways of making them cooperate.”, he said slowly. The father looked up at the man with interest. “When they begin to be overwhelmed by their moral compasses, we have ways of convincing them otherwise”, the man continued. He got up again and went to a cabinet in the far corner of the room. He reached in and grabbed a small vial. It was filled with a reddish liquid of some sort. “Now”, the man said to the son, “we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way.” He began to twist off the lid of the vial. “You have already showed that you are against the easy way, and that was to sign the paper. So you leave me no choice but to do things the hard way”. The boy looked up in fear. He knew what was coming. Before he could even blink, the man held the vial to his mouth and started pouring the foreign liquid down his throat. The world started spinning, and the room slowly got darker. The boy looked up at his father, but found him looking away, at a painting in the room. Then everything went black. * * * Charles walked up to his son. It had been three years since they signed the record label, and this was one of many concerts that his son had lined up for the next two years. The money was pouring in, and fans came from all over the world to hear him sing. As the pair walked out the concert hall doors, they were met by a photographer on the street. “Mr. Beiber! Can I get a picture of you next to Justin?” “Why yes”, said Charles J. Beiber with a smile. “Yes you can”.

The wind gripped my bones with its icy fingers. A thin jacket is the only thing that kept the chill away. My feet meandered their way through an overgrown path hidden beneath the canopy of golden leaves. Thoughts emulate my feet as they drifted through my head, not grasping any particular thought as they raced by. My mind is a whirlwind of emotions, thoughts, memories, hopes, and dreams. It is ever wandering. Before I know it, I have come to the rusted barb wire fence that marks the end of the path. The fence seems to stare at me, tempting me to continue onwards into the unknown. This walk has always ended at this point, where the weeds and tall grass are held fast by the twisting wires of the fence. Suddenly, my mind is consumed by curiosity. This thought that rarely comes to the surface anymore. My mind has pushed this thought out for so long, it feels foreign. What could lie beyond the twisted and rusted barbs? My eyes glance beyond the fence into a darkened field, which leads to yet another piece of forest. I slowly turn back and look at the path that I have traveled. The long and winding path has lead me to this destination, almost as if I was meant to be here. My body stands still as one of the fence posts as I contemplate the consequences of one small hop. A small smile creeps its way onto my face as my mind grasps a single thought from the melee of my brain. “What life without a little excitement and a bit of mystery?” Without another moment's hesitation, I grab the fence post and vault over. A single barb reaches out to grasp my leg, leaving behind a crimson line. It is as if it wanted me to remember this night. I paid no attention to the pain as I plant my feet in the direction of the forest and continue on into the unknown.

The young is man wearing a pair of iconic red boots, he is carrying a young child on his shoulders. They venture further. They arrive shortly, the man is tired from having carried the child. But it was all worth it, they look down to see their entire village. As the man looks down, there is a short moment of meloncoly on his face. But it quickly turns to a big smile, the type of smile only a father can have. as the child laughs and points at a house in the village. They stand there for a while, enjoying the view before they head down. A few years pass, the man is older now, but still healthy. As is the child. He is again wearing his big red boots, they still look as new. They begin to walk, this time the man walks first making tracks in the snow for the child. As he arrives he turns his head with laughter when he sees the child struggling to keep up in all the snow. They both laugh for a while before turning back. Another few years pass, the man has gotten older, there are a few wrinkles on his face. The child is older as well, almost not a child anymore. When the man is done putting his red boots on, the child starts running with such energy, so full of life. The man is struggling to keep up with the child. As he takes a breather he looks at the child, with such pride. And gives his biggest smile. When they arrive they take in the view of the village again, for just a moment before geading down. Some years pass again, this time two adults are walking along their path.. As they arrive they stay for a while, almost until dusk. Talking.. More years pass, the man is old now, but his red boots are newly polished. They look just like they did 20 years ago, when he was younger and had no difficulity walking in the snow. This time the child makes a path for the old man in the snow. As they arrive they stay and talk abou the past, the old man tells his child about the first time they walked up here together. And how his father used to take him there as a child aswell. Then they go back down.. Just a couple of years pass, the old man is dead, the child weeps but he is not sad just happy for all the good memories. He is ready to say goodbye. In his hands is a red cardboard box. He places it in the old mans hands and say goodbye. Then he walks away, its his mother turn to say her farewells to the old man now... A few years pass before he steps foot back in the forest, he is still a young man. But with a family and a child of his own now. As he and the child prepares to leave, his wife comes to him, with a red cardoard box in her hands. She says to him "your mother left this for me to give you". The young man opens the box to see inside, its his fathers red boots. Still looking like new, he gives out a big smile on hos face an hugs his wive and child, then he starts to walk...

I. I counted the pulses on her wrist while spotting my watch. This was the third time I’d done so in the last ten minutes. It had spiked somewhere around 200 right after she collapsed. I couldn't actually count fast enough to tell. She was under the influence of the dystopian trippy result of two boxes of OTC sleeping pills downed with a pint of vodka that could peel paint off a Soviet tank. The last check put it near 120, but now it had slipped to around 30. Her muscles had wobbled as if composed of jelly, interspersed with spastic and trembling motions of the limbs, right before she fell. She had tried to say something, but was incoherent when her tongue could only produce mumbles and garbled pronouncements. Now, laying on the floor, her lips appeared sculpted in a pale blue pucker. They've likely said their last words. II. She was a tall brunette, unkempt hair and features similar to a horse, with broad shoulders slouched over a saddlebag belly. Not terribly fat, but without the curves of most women her twenty-something age. Although her choice of clothes did nothing to flatter her shape: natty grey t-shirts slung over average unpropped breasts, and baggy pants with enough extra to stash a bag of potatoes. None of it had been replaced in years. I know her as my roommate’s ex-girlfriend. They were together when he and I worked in the same office, punching the same clock, pulling the same paycheck. Small as it was I needed couch space and he was kind enough to oblige with a blanket and a word of warning. Shortly after I’d arrived, she had cheated and gotten kicked out. It was all drama with her, or maybe addiction, or maybe outright emotional ignorance, that led to her flighty and reckless escapades. She had started doing speed with a coffee-shop coworker, then disappeared with him for three days after they were mutuallly terminated. Eventually she'd plied her way back with my friend, promising various sex acts that would make a retired hooker blush. I guess my friend was into that kind of thing and had taken her back. III. When I’d gotten home she asked me for a cigarette in an alert paranoid tone, her eyes glazed and bulging. I figured her for tweaking, so tried to pay her state no mind and didn't give her one. She trotted from the kitchen to bedroom and back again while I mindlessly got stoned to Jeopardy. Hadn't noticed she was downing the pills three or four at a time, washing with big gulp pulls straight off the bottle with every trip. When I stepped onto the balcony on the cell having a smoke I heard her gurgle and told earshot I disagreed with whatever her head was doing. “What the fuck are you on?” My roommate was out on his bed, nauseated by the same ham and mayonnaisse sandwich for the eleventh day in a row. He had no notion he was sleeping through her overdose; the pills were for him in the first place. He probably left out an open pack that she found. Didn't notice when she stole a cigarette of mine, but saw her return holding grocery store coupons, like one off every seven dollars or some horrible delusion like that, as an offer. Apparently the drugs gave her a sense of guilt, and she could still form words and phrases, so had proferred this strange barter. With minimal exasperation I agreed with a hand wave and a nod, then turned away into my cell. She lit the wrong end of the cigarette. IV. Of course, “normal” didn't come easy to this couple to begin with, and there was no normal to return to. The apartment stunk of vitriolic statements that would hang in the air for an hour, like the stench of a wound changing its gauze. After airing out the awkward they'd begin the violent make-up sex, and I would have to recuse myself to the bar with the other couch surfers. At least I knew those nights that by the time I got to it I wouldn't really care that I was sleeping on a couch. She had always talked of depression and nervous breakdowns, and the breakup had provided the perfect opportunity – I didn't understand why she hadn't done it then. After a couple weeks of drunken exile it didn't sound like a bad idea to me either. A suicide fog had formed in the apartment, with the only community we had being one of shared despair. Words would fall as dust to the floor, questions remained unaswered, indifferences solidified, and not enough confidence to sweep it back up again. Not much living in this place. V. And now, I find myself in a world of wonder; the wasteland of what-ifs. The phone is operable, as are several other means of communication, but... “Does anyone need to know, I mean…”. I conjure for a moment - death’s possibilities - and what the experience would be to be front row at a fatality, to see the gripping collapse as the deceased comes into focus, the closure of a lifetime of memory, the end of a single-play tape with no rewind. The third pulse check also reveals an artic core, and I know she's not long. She is thoroughly poisoned now, a gloss developing over her thoughts, and the voyeurs want to watch, the vicarious get a taste, the morbid have satisfaction. She twitches on invisible strings, curled on the floor, eyes rolled, jaw clenched, head tilted, throat taught, mouth foamed, convulsing as the nervous system shuts down. She succeeded in suicide and I am her witness. Edit: Formatting.

One afternoon, I was playing basketball with a few of my friends at the outdoor courts by our old Junior High. It was summer and it was hot, probably in the upper 90s. Not everyone’s ideal weather for some ball, but we loved to play and had nothing better to do.We are all moderately good at the game, some of us better than the others. I wouldn’t consider myself to be the best. Will, my best friend, is on the varsity team for his fourth year in a row, while I only played my first two years in high school for JV. Our other two friends, Jordan and Andres, weren’t necessarily as good as us two, but they knew the game and could play at a moderate level. We usually play two-on-two, but after we get bored of that we go to H-O-R-S-E or Baseketball, a hybrid of basketball and baseball that Jordan said he saw in a movie once. That day, after a few games of two-on-two, Cooper and Andres winning two games, while Jordan and I beat them once, we decided to play a game of H-O-R-S-E. Honestly, I hate the game and all the guys know it. For some reason, my shooting turns to complete crap and I can’t sink a single shot. Andres always tells me that I suck at shooting to begin with, but I know for a fact that I could beat him in a game of one-on-one any day. He knows it too. Anyway, we started our game of H-O-R-S-E by figuring out the order, which was according to the order of who could make a 3-pointer first. Will made the first three, so he went first. His first attempt was a successful baseline jumper. I followed, since I was second in the order, and got lucky. Swish. No “H” for me. Andres went after me and he also made the shot. Last but not least, Jordan went for it. Airball. He missed completely and received his first letter. H. About five rounds later, I found myself in last place. I had H-O-R-S, while Andres and Jordan both had H-O-R, and Will had merely an H. It was my turn. Will just made a simple free throw. Easy. I could make that shot in my sleep any day. But this was in a game of H-O-R-S-E. I took my time, bouncing the ball a couple of times, spinning it in my hands. Finally, I took a deep breath and released the shot. I felt good about it, the ball was headed for the center of the rim, and I knew I put the right amount of arc on it. Everything was smooth sailing right up until it hit the back of the rim. The ball bounced up, as we all stared directly at it, and then took another bounce on the front of the rim. The rim gave the ball a bad bounce and, after what felt like hours, it was obvious that I had missed. I was the first one knocked out. H-O-R-S-E. I let out a dramatic “NOOO!” letting everyone in a fifty mile radius of how upset I was. The other guys yelled obnoxiously also, as if I hadn’t known I missed my shot. I was pissed that I had to just sit there bored-to-death and wait for the guys to finish their game, so I decided to steal Jordan’s basketball and shoot at the next court over. I started with a free throw shot, which I made. Of course. I then began to work on my slam dunks. I’m 6’2, so I can touch the rim easy, but it’s always a struggle to actually dunk with the ball. I tried a couple of times without the ball, just like I said, too easy. So, finally, I gave it a shot with the ball in my hands. I went up for the dunk, and boing! The ball bounced right off the rim as I tried slamming it through. I tried again, but this time I gave myself a longer running start. One step. Dribble. Another. Dribble. Two steps, and then I jumped. Liftoff. I felt good about this one right from the start. I jumped higher. I had a good grip on the ball. Everything felt right. I knew it was going to go in this time. And right I was. It felt so cool to finally dunk the ball. I mean I had before, technically, but on a 9ft hoop. But this time, 10ft baby! The noise the ball made as I forced it down the basket’s throat, making that net swoosh, was like no other. “YAAAA! You guys see that?!” “See what?” Bill asked. “My dunk!” “No joke?” said Jordan. Andres added, “Yeah right, man. We know you ain’t got no skill!” “Whatever! I’ll do it again! Just watch this time.” With all eyes on me, I went through the same motions I made previously. I took my steps and jumped. Everything felt about the same, except I wasn’t as focused. I was all jittery since I knew everyone was watching. Regardless, I did my best to follow through. I attempted to slam the ball into the hoop and grab onto the rim, but rather I slammed it directly against the rim, which made me lose my balance. Instead of being able to hold onto the rim and swing my body, my momentum caused my legs to fly forward as my upper body, including my head began to fly back. And then the world seemed to stop. Black. I woke up and saw all the guys standing around me. They were shouting at each other. I think Will yelled at Jordan to call 9-1-1. I asked them what happened, but they just told me to stay calm. I couldn’t remember much of anything at first, but it all rushed backed to me when Andres said something about how much “damn blood” there was, and I realized I was laying on the ground. I tried to get up, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t feel my legs at all and could barely feel my arms. “Guys, I can’t feel anything!” “Evan, it’s gonna be okay! Just stay on the ground. An ambulance is on it’s way,” Will said, trying to relax me. “There’s so much damn blood, man!” Andres shouted. Will yelled to him, “Shut up, Andres! Gimme your shirt. Here Evan, lift up your head. I’m gonna put his shirt underneath your head as a pillow and to stop the bleeding.” I lifted my head for Will to put the shirt underneath. When I set it back down, I noticed the tingling sensation on the back of my head. I immediately forgot about it because of the burning I felt on my back. It was almost 100 degrees and I was laying on the blacktop, probably with numerous scrapes. The pain I felt made everything extremely uncomfortable but it also gave me some ease. I could feel my back. I knew this might mean my spine wasn’t completely messed up. Regardless, it still hurt. It hurt so bad I just wanted to fall asleep so I didn’t have to deal with it. I closed my eyes. Will shouted at me to wake up. He told me to stay awake. Jordan then asked for my mom’s cell phone number and I recited it to him quite well. I still couldn’t feel my legs though. I heard sirens growing closer. Jordan said my mom didn’t answer but he left her a voicemail telling her what happened. I started to worry. I felt like such an idiot. How could I have let this happen? I honestly thought there was a possibility of me dying that day. “There’s so much damn blood!” An ambulance and a firetruck arrived shortly thereafter and a bunch of the paramedics and firefighters started to surround us. The asked me a ton of questions, like who the president was, what year it was, who am I, where I live, etc. Obama. 2013. Evan Benowitz. 255 Alderglenn Drive. They turned me over to look at the wound on the back of head. I started to get the feeling back in my legs around then. Then they asked more questions about where I felt pain and how bad it was. I told them it was just my head, neck, shoulders, and back. I didn’t say anything about the feeling in my legs. They then loaded me up with a neck brace onto a stretcher and into the back of the ambulance, which was the most uncomfortable ride of my entire life. One of the paramedics road back there with me, talking to me, trying to keep me calm. He gave me my phone to make any calls, but my mom still didn’t answer her phone. Before I put my phone in my pocket, I sent a text to Will saying “I love you guys.” The ambulance arrived at the hospital fifteen minutes later and they rolled me into the emergency room. A nurse cleaned me up and then took me into many a couple different rooms to get X-rays and a CAT scan. After all the various tests, which were very uncomfortable, the nurse took me back into the ER section and left me to find the doctor. I laid there, just looking up at the ceiling. I barely even noticed that I was in a room designed for kids. Dora and Boots were both painted on the walls probably to cheer up young patients. I wasn’t tired. I just thought to myself. I was upset and scared. An hour or so before that, I thought I might be paralyzed or even dead. “Hey, buddy.” It was the paramedic who was in the back of the ambulance. “I hope you get better soon. No more pretending to be like Mike, okay?” “Okay. Thank you for everything.” “No problem. It’s my job.” I could tell he truly cared, which made me feel somewhat better. Right after that, my mom walked into the room. At first she didn’t say anything, and neither did I. She kinda just looked at me with relieved yet sad look on her face. She had been through a lot. Ever since my dad died right before high school, she had been on her own. I was the first one to speak: “I’m sorry, mom.” With those words, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I started crying. She rushed to my side. Then she started crying. “And I know the bills are gonna cost so much money. Money we don’t have with dad gone. Mom, I’m so sorry.” “Evan, forget the money. I’m just glad you’re okay. I never want to lose you.” “I love you, mom.” “I love you too, son.

I walk up the cold steps. My heart beating hard, fast, feeling like it’s about to leap out of my chest. I don’t want to be here, why am I here. I could turn around right now, TURN AROUND NOW! The thought goes through my head. Panic fleeing through every nerve in my body. My senses strain, every sensation increased tenfold. The abstract buildings tower over me as I walk through the crowded, malodorous street full of strangers that I have never seen before; looking me up and down as if I am some sort of awkward monstrosity that isn't supposed to set feet on this universe. My head feels as if it is about to explode with anxiety streaming into my mind. I just feel wrong in this world, I don't belong here. After realising I should be pacingly walking towards nowhere whilst thoughts of depression race through my dark soulless skull, I snap back into realisation and come to notice that I am just standing still. In the middle of a huge crowd. What is wrong with me? Am I too engrossed in my own restless thoughts that I don't even realise what I'm doing in this world? I am such an idiot! I must look like a horrific zombie thats to lazy to do anything. Okay, so I just need to put my head down and start walking again, is it really that hard? I start thinking to myself. So I did exactly that. My face goes red as a cherry which is just about to be picked by a young, tired farmer who I hope hates life as much as I do. I sometimes think to myself: is there anyone else in this ghostly world who hates life as much as I do? Theres not much wrong in my life, it could be much worse. I could be starving in Africa or I could be orphaned at the age of 5. But everything is fine: My parents haven't split up, I'm an only child, school is pretty good apart from the bitchy girls that go around talking maliciously about young, sweet, living-life-to-the-fullest teenagers. I think I just dramatize my life. Even though I have to take about six-thousand different types of medication every meaningless morning to try and make me happy. It never really works. It's four in the afternoon of a chilly winters day; by now I am normally heading my way towards the sweet, cozy, coffee smelling Starbucks resturant but I don't feel like nervously waiting in line with my heart in my mouth whilst my hands tremble just for a delectable bevarege which I normally have on a wreckless week day after a drowsy time at school. So instead, I decide to get on the cranky public bus which I have to walk a few busy streets and then turn left to get to my bus stop. My whole body quivers in nerves whilst I stand up next to the some-what cheerful, to-old-to-drive bus driver.

Ryan was a simple teenager. He went to school, he did his homework, he went out with friends, he got his haircut, he checked reddit and he was happy. Very happy in fact. Ryan was 17 when it happened. Oh, I should stop trying to hook you into 'reading on' and stuff like they teach you at school. Can you believe you spend like 4 months to learn how to 'hook' people into a story? I know right, it's stupid! Anyway, back on track. You can call me uh... The Narrator! Yes, call me that. Now as this is the beginning of the story I should start at the beginning. **You don't say...** Woah what? Crickey this is MY story you prick get out! **I don't think you're getting the reader's attention, Nate.** Hey, I am THE NARRATOR! You're just a Dickens wannabe. **See this is the kinda thing I'm talking about. You are too brief, kiddo, you need ACTUAL EMOTIONAL IMPACT. The story your going to tell is going to be told like; HURR DURR RYAN WUZ 17 N HE DIE IN CAR CRASH HERP DERP, DEN HE GUZ TO HELL AND HE HAS TO GET OOT** WOOOAAAAHHH HOTSHOT! You can't just hijack MY story and insult it. Christ, this is not for you. This is for the lovely people of /r/shortstories! Not for one of your sick mind games! **One, I'm not 'hijacking' your STUPID story, I'm improving it. Seriously, this is a love story about a guy trying to get out of hell so he can see his girlfriend? Nate, how naive do you think these redditors are? You even named this turd 'Don't Look Back in Anger'. THAT'S AN OASIS SONG.** Look, this is MY story and I'm telling it MY way. Now back off and let the story flow. **DERPITY HERP DERP!** That's it, YOU'VE RUINED MY STORY! I HOPE YOUR HAPPY! **Remember, as your running don't look back in anger...

Thousands of years in the future, genetic engineering has advanced to the point where the upper-echelons of society can afford both immortality and perfect genetics. Bionic joints/muscles and steel bones give these super-rich ultra-strength, and even their children are astoundingly muscular and easily 100 times stronger than a child from today's standards. Societies of these bio-engineered humans become increasingly violent and elitist, and eventually leave Earth to inhabit another planet (presumably Mars) after developing an apocalyptic obsession with Greek and Roman culture/mythology. These people truly believe that they are Gods and “chosen ones”. Our story revolves around a young man from this “New Planet” named Heracles. This man’s father (a super-child and 'Chosen One' living on Mars) had fallen in love with a girl named Sadie at a young age. Sadie was a “normal” human and outcast who, through a medical anomaly, was not born with these new freak-genetics and instead is similar to the people of the “Old World”, Earth. She is quite literally the most physically-weak person on the planet, although she is extremely intelligent. After a secret relationship involving Heracles father that lasted many years, Sadie became pregnant with Heracles and eventually gives birth. Heracles resembles his mother, and is the smallest boy to be born on this new planet. Although he lacks physical strength, however, Heracles possesses an intelligence that far surpasses anyone else in the New World. Heracles later finds out that he received this gift of intelligence from his mother. My story will pull many parallels to the story of Hercules, a man born of a God (Zeus) and a mortal (Alcmene). ***Virtus*** *Some have the strength to push a rock,* *but the strongest of men have the strength to pull away* *from someone they have loved for days.* As the sun ascended atop the barren valley, I was awoken by the faint growling of a Jeep in the dusty, unreachable distance. My malnourished body shivered as I stared at the stone ceiling, hanging cold and bleak above my head. It took all of my strength to roll over and view the meager remains of the fire I had constructed the night before in an attempt to give warmth to my make-shift desert shelter. I sat up gingerly and paid thought to the acts Prometheus, a God that was revered and worshiped with an outright obsession in my culture. Most people on the New Planet viewed the gift of fire as an absolute wonder and marvel of unrivaled glory. I, however, viewed the guns and swords of man in bitterness. It seemed to me that these fire-forged weapons were borne into the world with the sole intention to destroy and conquer. My humble residence was devoid of all luxuries save a Colt x87 Plasma Pistol and a weathered diary belonging to my father. Besides daily hunting and foraging, my days were mostly spent divulged in the delicate pages of the old book attempting to piece together the dusty and confusing events that had placed me in my current disposition. I clicked on the flashlight that laid patiently besides my bed and began to make out the fading letters my father had penned so many years ago: **September 23, 2877** Where I come from, everyone is strong. I can starkly remember the frigid air piercing my nostrils as I competed in the annual *Elit Virtus* competition at the tender age of eight years old. What a spectacle it was to witness boys of such youth achieving physical feats of Olympic grandeur. I was a marvel when it came to the Rolling Rock Event, handling a two-ton piece of stone as one would choose a rock to skip across still and patient waters. In the midst of the competition I recalled flipping the pages of my history book merely hours prior, reading of the children of the Old Planet. I felt nothing but pity for my cousins of a lost day; their strongest of my age were mortally brittle and utterly incomparable to the physical wonders my peers. Even the girls were stout, muscular, and offensively vascular in physical appearance. Truly I say every one of us were genetic marvels of *The Great Re-Engineering*. Amidst the cascades of perspiration my concentration was pulverized by a pair of pretty, piercing eyes belonging to a girl named Sadie. She was astoundingly petite in contrast to the other girls, an anomaly that branded her as an outcast in a global village of physical behemoths. The Elders looking down upon Sadie with a shame so venomous that even the most casual of her acquaintances were questioned in confusion and disgust for their intentions to interact with the girl. There was not a soul at the school that would call themselves a friend of Sadie, and for this reason our veiled intimacy was kept all-the-more under wraps. To me, Sadie was different. She was most intelligent girl I had ever met. If I had known at the time the inevitable turmoil that would precipitate from the storm of our love, truly I tell you I would have walked away. Unfortunately, it wasn’t that easy.

Awakening There is this slight beeping noise every few seconds…..beep…….beep, it comes and goes every now and then. The first time I could feel a large quake and at the time it felt like the area around me was being torn apart, but after a few minutes the feeling went away. Noises could be slightly heard all around me, they sounded like voices, but doing what exactly I couldn’t tell. Then my surroundings faded and so did I. …….beep……beep…….beep…….beep….. Again I could sense my environment, but I was not granted sight. What was this place that I was in? I could not tell, it was dark and my thoughts were disoriented, where am I, what am I, what is my purpose (faded away, yet again)? Beep……beep….beep……beeeeeeeeep….. I could feel this pain as if I was dying then there was a noise close, but muffled and then I could see! The first figure I saw was blurred and augmented in a way that its figure wasn’t what it seemed to be. The figure had what seemed to be its face pressed up again whatever I was contained in. There was this faded color of green that blurred my images, but in the distance I could see more blurred figures walking about, they were doing something. There were many of these creatures walking about my surrounding, but I was still lost in this place and didn’t know where or what I was (faded again). The next time awoke there was no beeping noise I just came to, and there the creature was again, over and over every time I slipped away into darkness and saw the light again there was that figure identical to the rest pressed against my space looking at me. What it wanted I could not tell, I tried to ask but couldn’t get my words out, it sounded like I was trapped in a bubble with everyone looking in on me. For time on end I tried to figure out where or what I was without prevail, except one time the creature lifted me up. Confused with the feeling of falling I started to panic and I felt this rush of energy within me, and a new feeling of feeling trapped or about to come to an end of my unidentified existence. The creature moved my container and me to another location within the space around me. I was placed near a large piece of plated glass perhaps a window of sorts and in the distance I could see this bright burning light that hurt my sight even though the veil of green. As I stared into the abyss I could see faded spheres and ovals out the widow just floating around. I began to wonder is this what my existence is to be, just like those spheres to float endlessly in this place for no purpose at all. The creature turned me around and then an appendage appeared and it pointed out into the abyss then it turned me back around. There was this large quake that shook the surrounding and this time it was so massive that I too shook. Then there was the cacophony that took place then I could see a fast moving shiny sphere that shined as the light from the burning sphere reflected off of its surface. The object kept traveling into it came to a stop then a bright light enveloped it and then there was the shaking again. The light began to dull and all the masses in the abyss began to be pulled into the light. All the object were being sucked towards that one position and I watched for what seemed to be a lifetime whatever mine was to be as the masses were sucked in as I faded away again. When I came to, there were no multiple objects floating about, but yet one giant dark mass that seemed to have streaks of bright colors all over it. Again I began to slowly fade as I sat their watching the blurred, but shiny sphere. When I had awoken the sphere was no longer there and I had been moved. There was this bright light shining through my container and the color was clear, it was a peaceful light that filled my container with warmth, and then a sharp pain surged through me. It felt so painful then it stopped, then it came again. As my mind screamed with pain it continued on and off for a few minutes then finally it stopped. I could hear something within me going lub dub, lub dub. I couldn’t understand what it was, but my sight was clear, my green film that shrouded my surrounding was gone and I could see clearly. Rebirth The sights were strange and baffling, the sounds clear, and the feelings that surged through me were exhausting. I was always curious what had happened, and finally I found out. The creature had moved my container to another larger container and I could see the creatures more clearly than before, but their shape was undefined. I spent minutes trying to see what they were, but my attention was drawn to the green blurred reflection in the glass. There was this small blob like creature and within it was a red beating thing. It’s what you call a heart I do believe and the creature in the reflection moved when I did. It was making it hard to see outside the container and I moved trying to avoid it and it followed me all over the container. Finally I started yelling and trying to bash it to get it to move, even though I couldn’t be heard the creature in the container with me did everything I did. When I rushed towards it I hit the container wall, the creature made a flinching motion as if it took a blow, but so did I. Ramming the creature was doing nothing for me, I began to hurt and started to feel exhausted, but the other creature seemed to be feeling it too. After a few hours had passed of trying to remove it from my view I began to ponder as the beings began to crowd around my container and watch. As I moved to the left so did the other creature, when I moved to the right it followed in suit. I began to think “hmm when I move it does too, when I’m tired it looks tired too, but what is it?” After a few minutes of pondering on it I began to think to myself perhaps it’s just ….. A large wall began to lower from the top of the container making everything dark and the other creature was gone. The lights in the container turned and began to fill it with some sort of goop. It was a light blue goop and the feeling was splendid. Then there was that pain again as it surged through my container sometimes striking at me, and that had continued for hours. It was torture and it hurt so badly. I finally passed out and when I awoke it seemed as if I was asleep for a really long time. There was this cold that remained in the glass container and there were these crystal stars formed on the inside of my container and I couldn’t move. I sat frozen still in that container for a really long time as my mind wandered into a place where the warmth of the light filled me up and kept me from becoming still like the crystals. I began to imagine that large bright shiny sphere just floating amongst the eternal blackness.

I sat there watching the birds eat the crusty old bread the elders were throwing out in the middle of the park. I thought about how easy it would be if I could just become a bird and fly away from all of the troubles God has given me. The elders would laugh as they saw the crows fight each other for the largest piece of bread and trample each other as they saw more being thrown onto the cement. The birds wanted the bread and the old women were generous enough to give it away. The treats were just being handed to them and the women didn’t mind the violence they were causing to each other. Why is it that I can’t be given back what was taken to me? Oh yeah. Because it wasn’t taken from me, it walked away. I let it slip through my fingers and I didn’t think twice about trying to catch it again. If only I was a bird. I held onto the charm on the silver chain hanging around my neck.

She's a lot like you, you know. I really think you'd like her. I know, I know. You always tell me that it's opposites that attract, but I really think you two would hit it off. And I'm not just saying that this time. Well... maybe I am. Maybe I'm just telling myself you'd be friends. Easier that way, don't you know. For instance sometimes, when she's lying on your side of the bed, I forget for a moment that it's her and not you, and it feels... well it feels. I woke up one morning and groggily called her your name, but I don't think she heard me. Well I don't think she really heard what I said. She rolled over to face me, and I realized that it wasn't you only a split-second before I saw her face pinstriped in the morning sunlight through the blinds. I smiled at her, but she just kept her eyes closed and sort of nuzzled into my chest away from the light. You hated that. You'd always just squint and roll over again, doing that thing with your shoulder blades. You were always so cold in the morning. I miss that. She smells different than you. Well what I mean is she smells... she smells like wild orchids. Or maybe it's lilies. I mean you know I don't know anything about flowers. Maybe it's the Caribbean. A vacation, I think that's it... she smells exotic. Like that hotel we stayed at in Port-au-Prince. Except I'm not in Port-au-Prince here. I'm at home, and I get up and go to work, and here she is smelling like Port-au-Prince. You always just smelled like home. Hah, it's like even though she smells like exotic Port-au-Prince orchid lilies, it's not even foreign, is it? Because it's still our vacation. I wonder if I'll wake up one day and she'll smell like you. Like home. I really miss that. She has no idea who you are. I started putting your portrait into the dresser drawer the last few weeks, because it seemed weird. You know what I mean. At first it sorta felt like you were watching me. Well, us. But after a while I just did it because it seemed respectful. Like in the movies when people do it out of shame, or guilt. I never quite figured out which. But I didn't feel either, really. I realized I was just doing it because they do it in the movies. Anyway so I began putting you away. And then the other day I came home to her tidying up the apartment, and I found you back up on the night table. Heh, you were even facing the bedroom door, as if you had watched her walk away after putting you back, and were then waiting for me to walk in. I put you back in the dresser, of course. But mostly because I wasn't really sure if she HAD moved you, or if I had just forgotten to put you away. I really don't think she knows who you are, so I really can't be sure. She doesn't seem like the jealous type. I've let your name slip a couple of times, absently. But she didn't seem too interested in who you were, really. I mean Christ, remember how you flew off the handle every time I mentioned somebody new from work, or you saw Christine's number on the call display? I... I kinda miss that. We fight ALL the time. I mean not like we used to fight. We haven't like, yelled at each other. I mean they're usually pretty petty little fights. Arguments? She thinks they're cute, actually. Maybe we don't fight. You never thought we were cute, ever. ESPECIALLY when we fought. I mean she gets upset sometimes over them. Frustrated? She doesn't ever seem too concerned about it, really. Frustrations? Alright, so yeah we definitely don't fight. We frustrate. Each other. Have frustrations? Fuck I hate this. She hates using conventional words, like fighting. Like it's too broad of a definition. Or too severe. So we don't fight. We have frustrations. They last a lot longer than our fights used to, that's for sure. I tried apologizing once or twice, you know, with a sneaky hug from behind, or a massage when she was making dinner. But she just sorta hung there looking at me like I were a creepy uncle or something. I don't think she understood. Remember when we'd fight, and then after you'd screamed at me and I stormed away, we'd usually calm down while preparing dinner together, or driving into work? Well I don't miss the fighting. It was always totally fucked. But I miss the speedy recoveries. I thought of telling her about you today. We were eating breakfast, and it was quiet (we were frustrated again). I started to say something, but as soon as she looked at me I just took a sip of orange juice and pretended to crack my jaw a little, like it was sore. I dunno. Jaws could get sore. Anyway I didn't tell her. We finished breakfast in virtual silence and I drove her to work. I'll tell her about you tonight. I left your portrait out on the night table this morning. I'm sorry I haven't come around much lately. I sent flowers earlier in the week, but I don't know if you got them. The orchids? I should've just brought them with me I guess, but I'm pretty sure the superintendant already thinks I leave too much around here for you. He says he always has to pick everything up because it blows all over the yard after a few hours. I keep forgetting that I'm not the only person who leaves stuff for you here. I talked to your mother yesterday for the first time since the funeral, and she said she's been leaving flowers every three days or so. That's a lotta flowers! I haven't spoken to your dad since the accident really, other than the morning of the funeral, briefly, on the phone. Has he been by? I know you two were having problems. I'll see if he wants to talk when I call your mother again. She says he's not drinking nearly as much as we were worried that he would be. Maybe you were right, maybe he really is just a seasonal drunk after all. It's warm again after all, all doom and gloom a full year away again. In fact if it keeps up I might not have to bring any flowers for a while, the plot looks like it's starting to grow in just like the super said it would. Anyway, the super. I'll ask him if the flowers came. There's a lot I never got around to telling you. I mean I say never got around as if I was ever intending to, but why kid myself, right? We woulda had some beautiful kids together, hon. Two girls, just like you wanted. I'm sorry. We tried so hard... SO hard... but I knew I'd never be able to have children, hon. I need to tell you that I've never loved anyone as much as I loved you. LOVE you. The way you'd talk about those kids... like you could see them. Feel them already growing inside you. I couldn't... well, I just couldn't. You understand? I need you to understand that, even if you don't believe anything else I've told you. As hard as it was watching you go into the bathroom each time to check... and then to have to watch you come out, KNOWING the result... KNOWING how dejected you were about to be... baby, trying with you was the best thing that ever happened between us. I hated seeing you cry ever damned time... but you don't know what it felt like being inside of you those nights when you tried to swallow me whole, oblivious to my tears through the sheen of sweat. I don't know what I'm sorry for, hon. But I am sorry. So fucking sorry. Look. I didn't come here to apologize today. I know you have all the time in the world now, or maybe none at all... but just let me lie here with you for a little while. I called in to work after I dropped her off, and all I really want to do right now is lie here with you. With your back to me. God I miss you. I have my whole life to miss you, hon. For now just let me lie here with you. Let me just bury my head in your back. You still smell like home.

The night was dark but the black man standing outside my window was darker. He stared in with much anticipation as he caressed his porcelain horse. I didn't know what to think, all I could make out was that he was wearing his work uniform, his name was Steve. I couldn't imagine ever meeting a black man named Steve but through great perseverance I knew that one day my time would come. Whispers, the sounds of a lost and wondering soul fell through the crack in my window. I listened hard but I didn't understand. Was I hearing tinky? I mustn't have been why Steve would be saying something like this. I went closer to my window, our eyes now meeting at a staring gaze, the anticipation in his and the confusion in mine. Still these whispers peered through as if they were right next to me now. Tinky, tinky, YOU MUST BE MY TINKY! Yelling at me now, I ducked and hid behind my large unicorn rocking horse. What was that I wondered? I know Steve well enough to not scare me like this. I need to know if he's still there. I glanced up quickly out of fear to see the shadow I had grown so close to has now disappeared leaving only his porcelain horse behind. The whispering has now ceased however I still shiver with fear as the horse is scarier than my friend through the window. Tinky. It's back, I feared for this, I run to my wardrobe and lock myself inside. Creeping of footsteps sounds as though they are outside the door. I don't want to look, I'm too frightened. I look through the gap in the door and see nothing, I can't quite see the window or the horse from where I am but I know that they must still be there. I build up my courage and step out of my protective chamber. I look over at the window to now see the horse is not on the other side but is now in my room. It's dripping wet and the whispers have stopped. I walk over to it to see how it found its way inside. I pick it up, my hands now saturated with some sort of slime, I couldn't begin to explain. Tinky, I hear it again, Tinky! It’s getting louder, TINKY! It's behind me, I turn around, Steve is there, staring at me now smiling, he says to me, tinky and begins to lurk close.

I took one short, quick breath. I let my eyes go, adrift over the landscape. Short breathe after short, serene breath. "Let go," it whispers in my ear. The flowers, the tress, the leaves, the clouds. They speak in short exhales of deep vibration. I am knocked aback by a feeling of freedom. It has rested in my mind, dormant for years, stubborn. The vibrations rattle my fragile being. Shaken to the core and stripped of my comfort, I am naked. I am naked to the universe as it sees me. It it finally my turn to see it. The mysterious entity of beauty and dominance. Mathematical accuracy may explain certain things but certainty may never be reached. My eyes catch things, time to time. I piece together my perception. Here I stand. A wall of soft air runs over my body. It whispers and sings simultaneous chords of distinct happiness. "You have always been, you have always been without." Doubtlessness fills my mind. Not certainty, but doubtlessness. It is one being. It rains a kind of chaotically ordered mist. It veils my mind. It unveils my mind. I regrant my eyes control of my perceptions. It shows me what can be, what is, what will be, what has been, what isn't. A linear progression through indescribable imagination. Only indescribable in the English language. Alas, our limitations are set. "Let them go, let them reform to a stairway," it delicately instructs me. I obey. The weight is lifted from the displacement of molecules in which I stand. I float to the outermost atmosphere of the planet. I gaze downward, I feel the chokehold begin to give way. I cannot be held back. I smell the old, stale, familiar air. I hear the mundane rustle of nothing in particular. My eyelids retract and I see the white walls. What was once a mystical land of the impossible yet so possible, is once again my room. The small building I inhabit was, just yesternight, an infinite opening to the land of the homeless, the open, the last and first frontier. It is still that, it can still be. It still eyes. "Okay," I sheepishly mutter to myself as I stretch out across my sheets, "This day will be better." Change is upon me. My bones ache, my eyes water. My nose runs, my body begs to be cleansed. My mind is above, searching, wandering. I let it. Change is upon me. Change is here. Dear change, here is your chance. Make it count. Welcome.

Green light ahead in the middle of basically nowhere; he keeps going, accelerating just a bit. The Man gears up while going through the intersection, but the gear doesn’t fully catch. He calmly releases the clutch while revving up. The engine bursts out in a loud moan waking the Man up from his relaxed state of mind. Frustrated and slightly startled he steps on the clutch while quietly asking himself what happened. The second attempt of revving up is a success and he respires. The Man realizes the funky music playing on the radio in combination with the dim evening light directed him out of focus. As he stretches out with his arm to shut the music off the right sleeve of the shirt goes up visualizing the scar just above his wrist. It is a small, round, blotchy scar. The Man gets reminded of the worst moment of his life: It lasted for under a minute, just a few seconds. The Man’s eyes catch the road in front of the car again. It is a long, curvy and empty road which he has been following for a long time now. The trees passing by on the passenger side are tall and dark; feels like they are haunted. Maybe they are, either way he does not care at all. To him he would be glad if the roots were pulled up out of the moist ground and started walking towards him just like in a fantasy-story. The Man turns left, not minding to blink, leaving the main road. He follows a narrow gravelled road up on a plump hill. The car stops after a couple of minutes and the engine falls silent. The Man lets go of the steering wheel and puts his hands in his lap. The head falls down just like his eyelids. Inhale – exhale. The Man steps out of the too old and rusty estate car and feels the low temperature outside biting his chin. He pulls his black skin jacket out of the backseat and puts it on. The Man gazes the dark, cold and round landscape this cloudy evening. The wind is going east whirling by him and continuing back towards the main road and the forest behind it. The eyes are now closed; the mind is trying to escape all trouble. The Man stands still focusing on the sound of the wind. NOTE: English isn't my native language. Grammar, spelling etc might not be correct. “I Love you, Redd.” – The Man turns around quickly and investigates the darkness. He recognises the voice well, too well. “I love you as well.” he says silently. He shuts his eyes close and his mouth is thin. The Man is frustrated. “Hallucinations…” he tells himself, “three years have passed; Why can I still hear you?” Inhale – exhale. The Man draws his hand through the hair and watches the clouds above. “I guess that you are still around after all, aren’t you..

I remember when we kissed the world goodbye, toes over the edge of a crumbling skyscraper, watching buildings that once parted the sky slowly crashing into one another and fall. I watched the sun go out in your eyes, buried behind the burning horizon, promising to never shine again. The streets cracked and swayed; chasms split the earth and swallowed mountains of broken concrete and twisted metal. You took my hand and smiled, the world hushed itself briefly, and you softly whispered “maybe forever doesn't last.” We stepped off that concrete ledge and slowly sank into the end. We fell for hours in each other's embrace, past collapsing buildings and showers of broken glass, passing through the sparks and flames of civilization slowly dying. Every second ticked away like a lifetime, every passing moment more serene than the last. I'd never seen anything so beautiful, I never wanted to stop falling. I remembered the times we spent together in the warm light of the sun, listening to the song of a thousand birds and the wind whispering through the trees. All our nights dancing around fires like lunatics, throwing whiskey from our bottles as we cursed humanity and shouted angrily at whatever gods created those that so arrogantly tried to decide our lives. We were free until our last days, we decided our own fates, we welcomed humanity's death with open arms and tears of joy. I looked down and saw the top of the tower growing farther and farther away, felt the wind brush through my hair, and felt your breath against my neck. I could hear music all the way down, a crescendo of cellos swelling with every fragment of debris blasting toward us, growing more intense as we fell further and wrapped our arms tighter around each other. The world was literally falling to pieces around us in a grand ballet of violence, but I was too caught in the serenity of your embrace to see it as anything but pure bliss. Our gaze locked for the last time, and I closed my eyes as we kissed. Every cell in my body sang with joy as I felt the ground below us part my hair, and with my last breath, heard our private orchestra climax and fade away as we were swallowed by darkness.

The shuttle up is the worst. It’s boring and there is a long time to think about what you are doing, but this is all you want to do. Its what you came all the way to Gedern, Germany for. The tourism bus you are traveling in is silent, but your mind is buzzing. Buzzing with regret, second thoughts, but most of all adrenaline. It soars through your body even though you still have thirty minutes of travel to go. Your finger tips are tingling and you start to sweat. How can all these people be quiet when you are about to risk your life for something as a simple thrill? The regret spills over. Should I have brought more protection? Pads? Bubble wrap? Its too late now. Either go through with it, or wait two hours and take the shuttle back down. You look down at the board on the ground, and it takes you four years back. The eighth grade. It’s a Monday and you are walking home from school. You grab the trash can at the end on the driveway and you drag it begrudgingly up to the porch. Your brother was supposed to get it, but he was inside. He was in highschool, so he got there forty-five minutes before you. You stack the cans and walk up the steps to the door. There is a long package set up against it. Again, neglected by your older brother. Shouting as you walk in the door, “Why didn’t you let in the postman?!” His feet hit the ground hard as he sprints down the hallway barreling towards you. “Is my package here?” You try to toss it to him, but it was heavier than you expected. The package made a loud thud on the ground as it slipped out of your hand. He scoops it up unphased and runs to the kitchen to grab a knife. With a quick flick of the wrist the package is open and he slides out a deep brown longboard. “It’s a Landyachtz Evo” he says. “Do you want my old one?” your eyes light up and you shake your head yes. Of course you do. Its the only thing of his he won’t let you touch. His coveted old used longboard is finally yours, and yours alone, unbeknownst to you of the places it will take you, the people you will meet, and the thrill of eminent danger just a medium sized rock away. You get off the shuttle and you walk towards the top of the hill that you just spent an hour traveling via bus up. It’s only an eight mile hill, but it kept stopping for people to take photographs, and at least two bathroom breaks. You edge near the hill with your board in your arms. It is a steep drop off with smooth, flat pavement for miles out. The excitement and terror start building together in equal proportions. Articles of deaths from accidents flick through your mind at break-neck speeds. Peter Cernansky, age 18, died from a traumatic brain injury from a fall going fifteen miles an hour with a helmet. He was only going half the speed you will be, and had a few more years experience behind him. Your main concern is speed wobbles. Once they start, they are hard to pull out of, especially at 25-30 miles an hour. Speed wobbles, official name self-exciting oscillation, are S-waves that feed off of energy from your forward momentum. Energy stored in your tail gets expelled to the side. Too intense and you can lose control and be thrown off your board, which is exactly what happened to Peter. You start on the flat of the road in front of you, right before the drop. Heart racing, deep breathing, anxious. One foot on the back of your pintail. You kick it back and forth for a minute or two. Make sure it isn’t going to fall apart on you mid-ride. Extremely unlikely, but the nerves are getting to you. You click your nails together in habit. Well, what is left of your nails. You bit those off on the ride up. You consider for the last time, picking up your board and leaving. Forgetting the summers worked to save up. Forgetting your dreams of having the wind whip around your face as you reach 30 miles an hour. forgetting the 4,600 miles you traveled. It would be so easy to board that bus and leave, but you don’t. Foot back down, headphones in, weight shift over. You take the first kick off, and drop down onto the hill. “Faster and faster, until the thrill of speed, overcomes the fear of death” -Hunter S.

It was five days before Christmas, and the day my grandmother was arriving from New Jersey. A fresh coat of snow covered the old, and made the world seem brighter than it had been the days before. It was the third day of my winter break, so I enjoyed rising late in the day with the sun. My mother asked me to do a couple of chores to prepare for the imminent arrival of our Holiday guests. I was under a sort of sleepy spell that seems to come pre-packaged with short days and cold weather; I wanted to sit by the fire under a blanket forever. All the same I moved out to the car with a short grocery list in hand, armored by my jacket, hat, and mittens. It didn’t take me long to get back home. I waited in the car for a moment to get my possessions straight. I needed to carry the groceries, while also being able to lock the car, which meant I would have to take a mitten off and carry that as well. Once I stepped out of the car, I saw a boy, about my age, carrying a shovel. This boy was one of several who were being paid to shovel driveways and sidewalks in the neighborhood. I walked past him as he began shoveling the steps up to my house. I rang the doorbell hopefully, but when no one came to answer, I set down the groceries and opened the door. I walked into the house, and put the groceries in their places. My mother called up to me from the basement, where she was wrapping Christmas presents. “Will, there’s a list of some places I want you to shovel on the kitchen counter.” I looked down at the list with reluctance, but it felt good once I started shoveling. I was working on the back steps when the boy came back and started shoveling the driveway. I thought about saying something to him, but the cold air and sound of moving snow muffled me. One of the places I was told to shovel was the home-made ice rink in our backyard. My dad used to do it, setting up the tarp and wooden boards, but now we hire some men to come and set it up for us. I shoveled the rink systematically, completing the job as efficiently as possible. I have always enjoyed shoveling snow off of ice. It’s something about the way the ice is slowly revealed, like a grand mystery, which leaves me satisfied. I walked back into the house and my mom told me we should be going to pick up grandma soon. We were getting ready to walk out the door when she pointed to a prank cockroach on a bench in the mudroom. “Would you go and hide that up in grandma’s room? It’s the one closest to the bathroom on the third floor.” Up I went. This was a game we had played when I was younger. My grandma and I would take turns hiding the cockroach somewhere where the other would be frightened by it. But now, for some reason, it was just a chore.

Last night, I assigned myself a number and attempted to write a short story in that number of tweets. I just finished tweeting the story and you can read it all on my twitter: I've read some great stuff on /r/shortstories and I'd really enjoy some feedback. I've posted the first few parts to give everyone a sense of the plot and tone. (1/66)His mother practically begged him not to. "Two years is nothing. You know how long your father waited to propose? Eight years. Eight!" (2/66)But that was a different era. What he had with Sana felt as real as rain. She wanted what he wanted. She wanted marriage. Didn't she? (3/66)The relationship was mainly long-distance the first 17 months, but then they took a big step for a couple; she moved in with him. (4/66)Living together in his "cozy" fourth-floor studio since May had really forced them to get to know each other on a whole new level. (5/66)Supporting them both on his freelance photography pay, they learned to compromise on almost everything ie. showering every third day. (6/66)You don’t truly know someone until you’ve inhabited the same space as them, in your raw states, w/o clean laundry for 23 days. Again, the complete story can be read at .

New York. December, 1946. The Swing Era. America was awash with good tidings-not all due to the holiday season. The war had been won, celebrations had, and the jukebox jive strains of the Chordettes and Django Reinhardt floated from coast to coast. Even in New York, the freshly fallen snow radiated the golden glow from shop windows onto the hopeful faces of children and parents alike. But Frank Campbell didn't see any of it. He was stuck in a soggy cardboard box, in a miserably cold alley just off of Times Square. All he could do was try to keep warm and beg as much as he could off of random passers-by. God, he hated the begging-it made him feel about as equal as a stray. But that's all he really was now, a "no-good," down-on-his luck stray without a home, forgotten out alone in the cold. Footsteps. Footsteps and crunching snow- someone was coming. He scrambled to a sitting position and did his best to make himself presentable- straightening his coat, adjusting his collar, attempting a hopeful smile. Franky looked up at the stranger as he passed. Up into eyes that were less than human. A laugh, a smile, and the sound of metal gliding through air were the last things Frank Campbell saw before black. His blood splashed a deep scarlet against the harsh, stark white of the snow. Poor Franky. Never knew what hit him.

Before we begin the story, let me first explain the title. To be quite honest, I have no idea where it came from. It seems like I have always had "The Knight of Ill Omen" in the back of my mind. I asked a few of my family members about it and none on them had ever heard anything about it. After 'Googling' it, I saw nothing. At the moment, anything you could find on google about it is my work. Here is the story. The Knight of Ill Omen Vladar Hroarsson was born true king of Dyrtrottir. The previous King, Vladar’s father, died a few weeks before Vladar was born. He had a good mother. She cared for him and she always loved him. When Vladar was in his sixteenth year, he took command over his kingdom. His grandfather, Rognvald Hroarsson, had built a well-fortified castle atop the highest mountain peak in all of the land. The castle had only one entrance, which was always protected. Because he had built the castle with brick, the neighboring kingdoms feared and respected the his kingdom. ​Vladar was born in a time of great peace. He was tasked only with maintaining the great wealth and size of the kingdom, and he ruled with a kind and just heart. Even though it was not custom for powerful rulers, Vladar helped the poor. He cared for them and gave the able bodied men work and bread and cured meat to the women and children. Everyone in the kingdom was glad to work and help because the king was good and he loved them. There was joy in Vladar’s heart and the kingdom prospered and flourished. ​Vladar met a beautiful woman when he was in his twentieth year. She had no reason not to love him. He had given her father cures to his illness when he was bedridden and he had helped them when their crop failed. After they were married, they had a daughter. Vladar and his wife loved her very much. Vladar was saddened when she turned blue and was buried. His wife was grief stricken, but Vladar helped her through and they had another daughter as well as a son. ​After a few years, when Vladar’s children were old enough to speak, a new metal was discovered in the mountain north of the castle. The metal was dark grey and difficult to melt. It was very heavy and extremely strong. After building new forges, the blacksmith’s were able to forge the metal into the finest weapons. A sharp sword crafted from this new metal could cut clean through the cuprum swords wielded before. ​Many months passed and the ore began to yield only slag. It had run dry and scarce, so the miners dug deeper. After much digging and mining, there was found to be only one vein of ore left. The vein was deep and not easily accessible, so an elite team of miners and an architect were sent down to retrieve it. They descended with four days provisions, but a week passed and they had not yet surfaced. A few guardsmen were sent in after them, but they too failed to reach the sunlight again. ​Vladar heard about the miners and gathered up his new sword and a few of the elite soldiers from the kingdom’s small military. They descended down under the mountain. It was dark and cold, the walls were expertly carved and the floor was made of oak wood. They marched quickly for over an hour, winding their way down the damp, dark passage. After much effort, they finally reached the bottom where the last ore vein was located. There wasn’t any evidence the first group had even been there. Vladar was worrisome and ordered the soldiers to go back, but as they headed for the exit tunnel, they found it sealed. The team searched and searched but could not find any other exit. Since they hadn’t planned on staying long, they only had enough food and water to last two days. Vladar and his men sat down and began to converse with one another. None of the soldiers knew one from another. Vladar chose the most diverse team he could, drafting soldiers from all aspects of their military. There was a medic, a swordsman, a general and a scout. ​After a while, they found there was no immediate danger about. The swordsman began to sharpen his blade. The task wasn’t easy due to the dim torch light, but he was skilled and the quality was to standard. After he finished, the general requested that he would sharpen his blade also. He mended the medic’s tools and Vladar’s fine sword. The swordsman called out to the scout, asking if he should sharpen his dagger. There was no reply. The team began to search for him but couldn’t find him. After searching for quite some time, the group came together in the corner of the dark cave. The three of them looked around and found the general now missing. Vladar put his hands on his face and cried out in sadness. He assumed their disappearance to be his fault alone. After composing himself, Vladar looked up to find the rest of his team absent. Vladar was frightened, but he had courage. He knew that where ever his team had gone away to, he could also find; so Vladar waited. ​Vladar still waited. He rationed the remainder of his food to last him longer. Vladar waited alone for a week. Afterwards, he found enough water to last him another week, as long as he didn’t exert any energy. Alone, Vladar waited another week. He was still alive, but he was shriveled and pale. After two more days of waiting, just as he was about to lose his sanity entirely, Vladar heard drums. ​The drums kept a steady beat, growing louder and louder until they suddenly stopped. Hearing a shallow panting across the cavern, Vladar sat up for the first time in days. He heard the breath coming closer. Vladar backed up against a wall. He scrambled around and found one unlit torch. Using his flint, Vladar lit the torch. He then saw what was making the shallow breathing sound. It was a humanoid like creature with its head down and bent crooked. Its skin was pale white and its rib cage and back bone were clearly visible. The thing looked up at Vladar and smiled, with its head still awkwardly crooked. Just then, the thing leaped onto Vladar gnashing its teeth and screeching and clawing. Vladar instinctively reacted and thrust his sword into the creature’s heart. As he did so, the drums began to play again. Vladar moved the creature off of his body. He saw the creature’s face and noticed it did not match the shape of its head. Vladar looked closer and saw a seam running down the side of the creatures face. Vladar noticed that its face had been grafted on. Now looking it eye to eye, he recognized the face to be that of the scout. ​Vladar stumbled away from it and noticed that a brilliant white light was pouring in from a newly opened doorway. He began to crawl toward it, but with every inch, moving became harder. He was slowing down. He felt pain surge throughout his body as he got nearer. The pain was completely overwhelming now. Just as Vladar put his hand in the illuminated doorway, he began to thrash and convulse violently. Vladar felt his bones cracking and splintering, and he felt his body become cold and hollow. Vladar called out in pain, but he was alone and no soul was about to hear him. He cried, but still there was pain. Then, the drums stopped, and Vladar felt peace. He stood up and found that he was all the way inside of the doorway. He looked at his hands. They had become the same metal as his sword was made from. They had sharp clean edges and they were strong. Vladar looked and saw his arms and legs made from the same metal. He did not know what to think. ​Vladar wandered around until he found a large room. He entered and noticed statues of men made from the same metal as he was now made from. There were seven of them all standing around in a circle, atop black pedestals. He looked at their face. It was the same shape as a skull, but again, made from the dark metal. He looked at their eyes, but saw only dark pits with no end. They were all wearing robes and had swords made of the finest craftsmanship. Vladar saw that there was an eighth pedestal with no statue, but still a robe and sword. Vladar looked around again and picked up the eighth sword. As he did, all seven statues came to life and drew their swords. Vladar saw the nearest statue. It didn’t seem to want to hurt Vladar. It was smiling, and it was happy, but something about it mad Vladar uneasy. He grasped his sword and smote off the head of the smiling statue. He ended any happiness in the room, and he forgot it as well. He saw another statue; he immediately stabbed it and forgot love. Killing the other statues he forgot pain, sadness, compassion and joy. He looked at the last Statue. It was cowering on the ground, but Vladar had forgotten compassion, so he killed this statue, forgetting fear. He saw a metal rope hanging from a hole in the ceiling, Vladar grasped it and climbed. ​Vladar’s new plate metal arms and legs made climbing easy. He reached the top and opened a small trapdoor. He climbed through and found himself by the harbor. Looking around, Vladar saw his castle. He knew he had to go there, but he didn’t know why. Vladar was full of energy. Not the energy of joy or happiness; it was only the energy that would drive him to kill. He saw a small fishing boat pulling into the dock. An old fisherman and his grandson walked off the boat, and began to unload their catch. Vladar silently climbed to the top of a wooden post. The boy went back into the boat. While the old man’s back was turned, Vladar dropped down behind the boy. When the old man grew impatient he went into the boat to see what was keeping the boy so long. He didn’t find anyone. As he was leaving, he saw his grandson lying blue and cold. ​Vladar went over to the castle. There were two guardsmen protecting the only entrance. He recognized their faces, and headed over to the housing area of Dyrtrottir. ​The guardsmen were keeping watch when they were struck on the head by something falling from above. They drew their swords and looked up, but found nobody. They looked back at what they had been hit by and found it was their wives. Their bodies were blue and bleeding. The guardsmen, overcome with grief, wished for death. ​Vladar made his way into the castle and into his old bedroom. He climbed up to a corner of the ceiling and waited, clinging to the rafters. At nightfall, Vladar’s wife entered in the room and settled into bed. She began to cry, fearing Vladar was dead, which in a way, he was. Vladar clung very still and watched her. In the midst of the night, Vladar’s very scared son entered the room. Vladar’s wife kissed his hand and told him everything would be ok. She left a lip mark on her son’s hand. In the morning, Vladar’s wife awoke feeling coldness on her cheek. She moved over and saw a blue dismembered arm. She screamed, not as much because of the arm, but more so because of the lipstick mark on the back of its hand. ​Vladar heard the scream. He didn’t know why he did what he did, or why he became what he is. Vladar only knew that he loved it.

You think you lost your keys again - front door is locked. Check the backdoor and it's open. No one's been in, thank god. Search for your keys but don't find them, "I'll look again in the morning". Wake up and remember to look - no luck and you're late. Leaving the backdoor unlocked is going to eat at you but there's no choice. Rush home after work to check and find your girlfriend on the couch. She brought some stuff over. Maybe she can help. She looks with you through the house and her stuff for a little but she has the night shift and takes off. Stay up until 4 checking. Tomorrow at 8:40, no time to look now. You come back during lunch to make sure no one came in and maybe check a bit. There's mail and some more of her stuff. You look but it's not with those things. You buy a big dog to keep watch when you're not there. His name is Quatro because dogs can have names in Spanish. Buying lunch pay $6.01 one two three four to check if the amount totals, one two three four to check if twenty four is four six times, one two three four to check if four is four one time. Two halves of the sandwich is the whole sandwich two bites is four sips is four bites is two sips is one slip in the conversation, but you just couldn't remember if you had seen Billy Madison as a kid. Work is close to home and you can check four times today: 11:40, 1:03, 2:20 and 3:11. Twice in each cupboard, twice under your bed, four times behind the TV. House seems to be getting messier but you're sure you were keeping up. There's a memory of your dad telling you that locksmiths are unreliable. "Where are they?" The question doesn't really go away, except maybe once when you woke up at 3 to pee. You've retraced your steps two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two times today, sixty-four, one hundred twenty-eight, two hundred fifty-six times today, five hundred twelve times today, one thousand twenty-four, two thousand forty-eight, four thousand ninety-six times today, you think maybe that wasn't enough maybe if you start checking again the keys will turn up check twice, check four times, check four more times, check twice. Exhausted, you try to sleep. Check twice more twice. At a Basketball game with your girlfriend and brothers. Section 137, row S, seats 2, 3, 4 and 5. Little brother led the way and you sit next. Four quarters: one, fifteen minutes of sixty. Shot clock at twenty-four, twenty, sixteen, twelve, eight, four, 3 pointer and a foul! There's change on the ground and you try making a dollar. Saw some quarters and a penny - there's no point searching tonight. You've been late to work a lot and you think your boss might have called you in to talk but your keys are so close - staying home sixteen minutes couldn't hurt, especially since you didn't check last night. You can't remember why you didn't and check twice more. You remember checking last night so you check again. Promise yourself you'll find the keys after work. The new job as a bartender gives you an excuse not to check for your keys much. Walls lined with 80 proof liquor and 12 ounce bottles. Three glasses of sour mash at the bar so you pour yourself one. Stay around after to drink. At 2:07 walk home and go in the front door.

I just took a hydrocodone, so I'll be out soon. I just wanted to say that love can make you do some pretty radical things. It makes you question your whole existence. It comes without warning; it can also make or break you. It did both to me. I can't say I'm angry for letting him in one last time. Even though we were never together I will never forget the time we had. I don't know if I could ever feel that way for someone again. It was nice to lay on his chest for the first and last time. I wanted to be in that moment forever. My heart was full, filled with deep mixed emotions and I knew that this would hurt me in the morning. But I didn't care. He was all I wanted, all I needed. I lost myself in him. It was beautiful but I knew after him I would never be the same. I'm okay with us not being together. It would have been a fucked up situation anyway. We are too much alike. I'm just going to have to learn to live without him and try to be happy. I know it is over I've excepted it. Tears are rolling down my cheeks as I'm typing this. I never expected to have my heart torn through like this. This is pain I've never experienced in my life. It rips through me as I lay down at night. I've cried so hard at times yelling at God asking him to remove the pain, but he doesn't. He just makes me stronger everyday but I still feel the pain. I'm grateful for it though, because it let's me know that what I felt was real. I don't ever question my feelings for him I know that I loved him like I never loved anyone else. It doesn't even matter that we can't be together because hell always be mine. I love him. I used to be afraid of that word but I'm not anymore. Its gonna be hard to be with anyone else I don't want a fake ass relationship I want something that is real.

It was just before two in the morning and Wu was leaving for work. As he tied his last shoelace he heard the footsteps, very soft at first then a louder slow movement like feet were being shuffled lazily. The feeling of panic, long forgotten and strange, now came surging back. It had been over twenty years since he and his family had received asylum in New Zealand, in all that time so many horrible memories of his native home had faded and been replaced with loving memories or his young family in a new land. Thoughts of escape, "my family" he thought "out the back door, down the steps and over the back fence then up the neighbors property". His hasty escape plan was consolidated in seconds. The plan subsided almost as fast. Looking up he could see a tall figure shuffling past his fence, it was smoking a cigarette and with the next drag the figure turned and moved down his driveway towards him. Wu's eyes were fixed on the figure, not flinching for an instant, just waiting to see what will happen. The figure walked towards his letterbox and turned towards the fence, the cigarette now hanging from its lips. The figure then began to pee against his fence. Shuffling away just the same as it came, the figure left his driveway and rounded the corner. The panic Wu had felt once again after all this time left him, he remembered where he was. He was safe here. Dan put his smoke out on the steps and went back inside, as he sat back down in his room he could hear his neighbor Wu leaving for work. "Must be stressful leaving for work so early in the morning" he thought.

Skin shred, body bled, brain dead, left turn ahead. Driving always seemed timeless. I wasn’t too sure about where I was. I just did what I did and drove away into the night. Not a care in the world. Midnight drives were always the best, they only let you keep track of one thing, where you’re going. But at that time it wasn’t midnight. It was a whole new hour. These hours were spent in a car, driving through one, never ending road. But not that night. That night was different. The night where I spotted the most fascinating of all birds. One of my favorite mix tapes were playing when I saw a man standing on the side of the road. His hands were flailing around and his clothes were covered in dirt. Like a good person I pulled over and rolled down my window. “Nice night isn’t it?” I said. “Look amigo, I’ve been out here working and my truck just ran out of fuel. If you wouldn’t mind taking me to the nearest gas station that would be great. I could even pay you if you prefer that.” “No need,” I responded “Climb aboard.” The Hispanic man sat down in the passenger seat and we were on our way. But not to the gas station. There was something about him. Something strange. I wasn’t sure if it was the way he talked or his shifty behavior. “Got a name?” I asked. “Harry Johnson” “Is that your real name?” I asked, thinking of my own. “Well, I was named after my father, and life was rough for me back in Venezuela. I chose a new name to put it all behind me. “That’s strange, why would anyone be ashamed of their original name? I said. Harry started tapping on the dashboard and looking around as if he had somewhere to be. There was an exchange of silence in the car. I put on music to make a drive at 2:30 in the morning with a complete stranger less awkward. What a mess I was in. I had no idea where I was or where I came from yet I had to chauffeur a Venezuelan man to a gas station. “What’s your name?” Harry asked. I stopped the music. Of all the times I could have been disoriented it had to be now. How could I have forgotten my own name? And why couldn’t I remember anything from earlier that night? “Um, I’m... Nick Mundy.” I responded reluctantly. “Well, Mr. Mundy, you just passed the gas station.” Said Harry in a sarcastic voice. It’s funny how things can change within a second. I turned the music back on. “We’re not going to the gas station.” Harry turned off the music. “Yes we are.” I turned the music back on and locked the car door. “Okay then.” Said Harry. The rest of the drive was completely silent. “How ‘bout we stop for something to eat?” I asked. Harry sat in the passenger seat silent. I took his bashful behavior as a yes. I pulled over. “How ‘bout this place?” I asked, pointing to a small diner on the side of the road. There was still a strong silence emitting from Harry. “You know I only want to help you, you seem troubled." We walked in and sat at a table together, arms crossed Harry stared at me menacingly. I was surprised that he didn't try to run away. “Would you like a coffee?” I humbly asked. “I don’t know what your deal is man. If you want money ill give it to you. If you want my house, my car, just take it and leave me alone, please.” “Look Harry,” I said, “I’m only trying to help you.” "No you're not!" He exclaimed, "You're being a creep and I will call the police If I have to!" We stared at each other. He gave me the look of threat, and I gave him the look of sympathy. "Tell me what's on your mind." I said. Harry said that he was thinking of his father. “I’ve always loved my dad,” I chimed in with no hesitation, “He is the most amazing person I know and he is always there for me. I can’t really remember when I last visited him though.” “Really?” Said Harry. “I hate my dad. I don’t even want to call him my dad. He would come home everyday, drunk, and he would hit my mom, me, and all of my siblings. He would steal from us, say hurtful things. Thank god we moved to a new place before it became worse than it already was.” Things got better as we kept talking. Harry, spilling his entire life story, and me, Mr. Mundy, creating a lie before the only person I trusted. No matter what I remembered, no matter what I made up, or who I was, I always enjoyed bonding. Harry was becoming one of the friends I would never forget. And I was becoming one of the friends he would never forget. “You’re a good guy Nick. You may be a little loco in the coco but you’re pretty cool.” It was nearly 6 AM and Harry was ready to go back to work. I agreed to drive him to the gas station for real. But I didn't. Because that’s what friends do. “Dammit Nick! You passed the gas station again! Turn around or I’m going to be late!” I was angry. Not at Harry. Just angry. Harry was my friend and I wasn't going to give him up. Not yet. I drove the car off the road and crashed. At that point, Harry and I had got some much needed sleep. \*** A good person would bring a bleeding man, most likely with a concussion, to the hospital. But I’m not a good person, I’m a friend. There was a nice motel near the crash site, I dragged Harry’s unconscious body to the motel. The car wasn't important, I wouldn't need anymore midnight drives. I paid for a room and explained how Harry had a little too much too drink. I brought him into the room. Harry laid there on the bed. The man with a rough past, but a great future, with a great friend. Harry woke up with a sudden gasp. “What the hell happened?” He said. “We got into a little fender bender,” I explained, “You took a little hit to the head.” Harry rubbed his thick fingers against his head. “Wait. No. NO! You crashed the car and almost killed both of us!” I tried to convince him that I was on his side, but he wouldn’t listen to reason. “You think I can’t get rid of scum like you!” Shouted Harry. “I trusted you Nick! Sure you’re a little crazy but I trusted you! I killed my father and I buried his body! I did it seconds before you met me! And I will deal with you if that’s what It takes! Now leave me alone!” Harry started to storm out the door. But that was when I finally remembered my name. I grabbed Harry and punched him in the face. He fell into the bed. I grabbed the free pen off the desk and I killed him. I stabbed him over and over and over until it was peaceful. Just like the night. Skin shred, body bled, brain dead, on the bed. Time flies when you’re having fun. I’m a killer. But I erase the guilt and blood from my mind so I can do what I do best. Kill. But I no longer have to do that. Because I have a friend now. A friend who has barely anything in common with me, a friend who I knew for only a couple of hours. But he shares something with me. Blood on the hands, on both our hands. Harry was a feeble little bird. But he was unveiled upon me in the night. He was an owl. A night owl. My name doesn’t matter, who I am doesn’t even matter. What matter’s are the people that make you matter. I was disappointed that I never got to say a proper goodbye to Harry, to my Friend. Not a simple farewell, not even a wave. “Adios, amigo.” # **ROADKILL** Driving was the most time consuming of all things. Whether I was in a rush or not, time always tended to move slowly in my old truck. It was a Thursday afternoon when I was to meet a brother I hadn’t seen in years. He lived in Nebraska, to where I was headed. Things were going good for me back then. I had got a new job, a new house, and a new name. It was like starting all over again, flipping a switch. I was just about ready to get a new car. But there was always one thing that bothered me. My father Hector. My name is Harry but all I could hear was Hector. My mother was long gone, and Pablo, my brother was all the family I had left. I needed him to move on with my life. I told him I was visiting and Pablo told me to meet him at Eddie’s Cafe. I pulled up to the building and walked inside only to see that he was the only one there. “Hola Pablo,” I said. “Oh,” said Pablo sarcastically, “Hello Hector.” “Actually I go by Harry now.” I corrected. Pablo stared at me with disgust. “So do you know where he is?” I asked while taking a seat. “Yeah.” We both stared at each other. “Well are you going to tell me? I asked. “Hector,” he said with care. “I only want what’s best for you. But you can’t go through with this.” “How do you know what I’m going to do?” I asked. “That’s the thing,” He explained. “I don’t. I don’t know what you’re going to do. I have a couple of ideas but it involves me not being able to live with myself because I helped you to do it. So, yes. I do know where he is, and no, I will not tell you.” “Pablo, all I want to do is talk to him, I want to confront him and move on.” I explained. “Are you serious? No way man. I’m not going to fall for your crap again.” “My “crap” helped save your life before it got worse!” I yelled. “Look hermano, I” “Don’t call me that,” Pablo interrupted. “You’re American now so you should only speak English.” I couldn’t believe Pablo, my own brother, refusing to help me. “Forget it,” I said. “I’ll find him myself.” “Wait!” said Pablo. I turned around. “Promise me you won’t do anything rash?” I nodded. “He goes to this bar sometimes.” Pablo took a napkin out of his pocket and handed it to me. The napkin had the emblem on it. “Thanks.” I said. I walked out the door and went into my car. I wasn’t fond of waiting for him until he showed up at the bar, but I needed to do this. I needed talk to him and ask him why. At least, I thought I was going to talk to him. I waited in the bar for a couple of hours, and just my luck, he turned up. He may have looked older, but he was exactly the same. I kept an eye on him at a distance until I finally walked up to him. "Can I buy you a drink?" I said. He stared at me for a long time. "Oh my God," he said, "Hector, it's you." He immediately put down his drink and stormed out the door. He wouldn't get away this time. I grabbed him and threw him over the bar counter. Broke a couple of glasses, got a few stares, but it was worth it. I don't know why but I felt so angry and so happy at the same time. Just beating him over and over. I broke bottles over his head, threw him across the building, stomped on his face, and grabbed the sharpest piece of glass and stabbed that piece of shit until he bled to death. If only it were that simple. He didn't actually storm out the door. He just turned around, ignored me and continued to sip his drink. This made me even more mad. Once he was done I followed him out back to his car. He turned around. “What do you want?” “I just want to talk.” I asked. “I have nothing to say to you.” he replied This was getting really annoying. Apparently my father couldn’t listen to reason. So I didn’t leave him alone. I just stood there, staring at him, and he just stood there, staring at me. “Jesus Christ!” he yelled. “I’m sorry!” I couldn’t believe this. “Why’d you do it?” I asked. “I don’t know!” he yelled. “I was drunk most of the time!” At that point I didn’t care what Pablo said. I didn’t care about whether it was right or wrong. That was pitiful excuse. I was just so angry and confused. The way I’ve felt up until my whole life. I punched him in the face for real this time. He got up and tried a swing at me but it didn’t work. I was preparing for this moment my whole life. I grabbed a shovel out of the back of his truck and I smacked him in the face with it. By that time he was unconscious. Head bashed, face smashed, cheeks gashed, lights flashed. I loved driving my truck. There was a reason why I didn’t get a new one. My favorite station was on, I was driving on one of the quiet roads, and everything felt peaceful. I’ve always loved the night. But when I had my dad’s body in the trunk, I felt like I could fly. I felt like I could close my eyes and everything that ever was would fade away. Most people still have problems no matter what they do. Most people can never have a moment of peace, or a moment of dark. But then I felt like I could finally breathe. As if all my life I was trapped underwater, but then, and only then, when I did what I had to do, I could finally stop. I could finally stop waiting to exhale. I loved being Harry Johnson. I pulled over to the perfect spot. Out on the side of the road, in the forest, at night. “Wake up!” I yelled while throwing my dad to the ground. He woke up with a gasp. Coughing insanely loudly. “What do you want, Hector?” He begged. “I have money I have” “Shut up!” I screamed while kicking him in the stomach. This was it, this was the moment. What did I use? My own two hands. I strangled him just like he strangled Pablo. I kicked him in the stomach just like he did to me. And I sliced his throat my with own nails just like he did to my mother. Head bashed, face smashed, cheeks gashed, stomach thrashed. I bludgeoned him a couple of extra times with the shovel just for good measure. And that was it. That was the moment I killed Hector and Hector, the two people from my past holding me back all this time. I buried the body in the perfect spot. A place where no one will look twice, a place where people will walk over, where trash will be thrown on, where animals will defecate, a place that he deserves. Many would say that by killing him I would be no better than him, and its true. It felt good at first but afterwards it felt terrible. I don’t know what connections I was trying to make but it wasn’t working, nothing was. I was still the same empty shell of a human that I had been before. I pulled out my phone. “Hey Pablo.” I said with guilt. “Hey man, how’s it going?” Asked Pablo. I took a deep breath. “Actually, It’s going pretty good.” I said. “Did you talk to him?” “Actually, I didn’t.” I said. “Good. I’m proud of you. Stay safe.” My brother hung up. Things were going to get better. My car had run out of gas at the perfect time. But that was alright. I had nowhere to be and nothing to worry about. I stood there on the side of the road, waiting for an opportunity, a new start, a hello to me, to Harry. A nice guy picked me up and offered to take me to a gas station. I got in as a human being, and as a new person. As for me, for Hector, the little boy clutching his mother’s hands scared out of his life, the man filled with vengeance, the man who had held his breath the longest, it was time to move on. It was time to escape into the night. “Fly away little birdy, fly away.

"Davis Richard Shannon!" Davis' mother, Sheryl, yelled once again, "Get over here right now!" Davis got out of bed and threw his pen across the room where it stuck right in the wall. "I'm coming!" He yelled, trying to keep his voice sounding a bit less enraged than he feels. Davis walked down the stairs for the sixth, seventh, maybe eighth time in the past hour. He wished he could stay up in his room all day. He wished to live alone someday, and just write and write upstairs in his office. It was his favorite thing to do. He could write about whatever he desired and he would be able to get away from his life for a while and be in the world of what he writes. "What, Mom?" He asked. Sheryl threw an orange bucket at him, which rubbed against his forehead, causing blood to trickle out. "Go fill this bucket with water and soap, and wash my car!" She scolded. "You better clean it damn well or you'll get a beating boy! Now get out of my sight!" Davis wiped the blood off his forehead, which wasn't much, but it was enough to get a good drop on his finger, and he rubbed it against the countertop on the way out the door. He knew his mom didn't see it. However, he knows she will. As Davis walks out the door, Sheryl notices the blood on the counter. "Oh, the boy wants to test me? Wether the car is clean or not, he's gonna get it." 20 minutes later, Sheryl goes outside to see how Davis is doing, knowledgable of the fact that he probably wouldn't be done. However, when she stepped outside the garage door, she noticed he had almost finished and he did better than she could do. But she was still mad at him. "Look, Mom. I'm almost done. The car is looking pretty good." Davis said, trying to wipe off a bit of bug guts from the left tail light. Sheryl kept walking towards him violently. "Mom whats wrong?" She kept walking. "Mom?" Sheryl grabbed Davis by his arm, tugging him back into the house. "Do you think you're smart, boy? Huh? Do you think you're smart?" Davis stayed silent, knowing this is about the blood on the counter. But how? Why would she do this over a little bit of blood on the table? She pushed him against the counter. "Move boy, and this'll hurt even more!" She took a giant wooden two-by-four and smashed it against his chest. He fell to the ground, clutching his chest, and yelling in agony on the floor. Davis wondered if he had a rib or two broken, but he wasn't worried about that. He gathered up clothes and a toothbrush and a pencil and a journal. He packed it together in his little sister's Dora luggage bag that she got for Christmas last year. He was planning to run away from home, and never come back.

I gripped the blistering cold railing as I hauled myself up the 5 steps. I assume it is cold, snow had already covered the neighborhood, and I was fortunately wearing my gloves. I stepped up to the door and jammed my key into the lock. "Stupid knob!" I exclaimed quietly to myself, wiggling the key a little bit. The keyhole had been like this for as long as I can remember. There is always a small sweet-spot you have to hit in order for the key to actually turn. *Click!* It finally allows me to rotate the key, unlocking the door. I sigh and open the door, feeling the dry heat as I take a step inside. I close the door and turn the locking knob - but it doesn't work. I shake the door back and forth until I can get it to work, and it finally locks. "Dad?" I call out, noticing the odd silence. "I'm home!" The heat that I felt earlier stepping inside was only a small temperature change from the cold that was outside. I walk towards the fireplace and look at the ashes that lie inside, the remains of the previous log of firewood that was placed and burned. *Lets see if I remember how to do this...* I think. I grabbed a couple of small logs and did my best to organize them in the same way I'd seen Dad do so many times. The organization lets the fire breath and burn from the bottom of the second log, letting it burn longer and better. I took hold of the lighter and I grabbed the fire-starting coal in the other hand, being cautious with my strategic placement of it so that it could succeed in lighting the wood on fire. I place it just under the second log in the cleverly organized wood. *Click!* A small flame appears at the tip of the lighter, and I near it to the coal. It starts to burn, and begins to heat the wood. I place down the lighter, grinning at my success as I hear the wooden logs crackle and pop. Huh, I wonder if that's where Rice Crispies got their idea... *Ok, forget the Rice Crispies, I need to figure out what's going on...* // Please let me know what you think! I will gladly write more into this post. This is something that came off the top of my head, just because I had the urge to write a short story.

First Pet (An unfinished short story by ChillistickCat) We All Have Choices We are under a bush at the foot of a ten foot high hill behind a large concrete sign. Mother cat is talking to her kittens, who have just recently discovered their abilities to walk and explore, about the dangers of "street life" and "pet life". She discusses all of the positive and negative tropes of both lives and tells her kittens they have a choice of which one they wish to live. Unanimously all the kittens agree that street life, the life mother lived, is the one they want, accept Marko, who remains silent. They all become quiet, including mother, in a silent stare at Marko. Marko's Unplanned Rebellion After the litter of kittens disperses to a shady section at the bottom of the hill, Marko makes his way, for the first time, to the top of the hill to a spot where mother cat said never to go as it is precisely the spot where a human can see them and take them. Not heading his mothers words, he makes his way all the way up to see a vast grid of human houses. He is in awe of the magnificence of the sight and gazes upon it, wondering what it would be like to be a pet. He imagines all of the new things he would experience and what a human would be like. He has seen humans before but never interacted with one. Until he spots a little human girl in the house closest to the hill. Just as Mother Warned She makes direct eye contact with him then immediately points to him, to which two other humans, much larger than she, come into view. The largest human begins to walk towards Marko. He does not run away. He sits and waits for them to come to him. Marko is in awe of how big the human gets as it gets closer and closer to him. He notices things he has never noticed before, like noses and eyeglasses. Then, just before he can turn around to look back at his family and mother, large hands embrace his whole body and he is lifted higher then he has ever been. The motion winds him as he tries to scream for help, but no sound comes out. Only the sound of the human saying, "Dont worry little guy, I wont hurt you". The words mean nothing to him and he cries once more, this time letting out the loudest shriek he has ever made. As soon as he gets his bearings inside the large human hands, he looks back to see if his mother heard him. To his surprise, he sees a vacant hill, and with that he closes his eyes and cries out some more as the large hands place him into a dark box. The Rise of A Pet When he opens his eyes, Marko finds himself in an unfamiliar world. He is still inside the box which is now on the floor of a bathroom that is brightly lit by florescent lights. All he can see is the crack at the bottom of the white door and shadows that move about from the other side. He exits the box and looks up to find an open window with a long white curtain draping to the floor. He immediately runs to it and begins to frantically climb until he reaches the window sill. From this vantage point he can see the hill where he was taken, then he looks down to see a 30 foot drop onto a concrete floor. He sees a pool and other strange objects laid out about the patio. He looks back to the hill and now sees his mother atop the hill timidly sniffing the air. He lets out a loud screech, and his mothers ears perk up in his direction, but her eyes do not follow suit. He continues screaming to no avail. She then quickly jumps down the hill out of his sight. Marko tuns around to see the bathroom door has opened and standing in the doorway is the little girl. She screams, " Mommy, Mommy, Kitty is trying to escape!" . The child's mother then comes running into the bathroom, grabbing Marko, winding him again, and shuts the window closed.

It’s the seventh of May and a young woman is here to pick up photos of her outing at a campsite somewhere in Maryland. She’s got on a lovely navy blue sundress with white anchors printed on it. The same sundress, as it goes, that she’ll be wearing on the eighth of July when her late model Chevrolet hits a wet patch on the pavement of a back road in New Hampshire and she’s killed on impact. She won’t have time to feel any pain, and Porter is glad of this because she is a very nice girl. Following her is a very rude middle-aged man who is angry about the price of eight by twelve inch prints. He hits the counter with his fists (five times, Porter counted) before swearing loudly and marching for the door. “You just lost a customer. This is the last you’ll be seeing of me!” Of course this is incorrect, because he’s due for a fatal heart attack in two weeks. While Porter isn’t really glad of this, he cannot say he’s sorry either. The last in line is a man whose photos are of his granddaughter’s ninth birthday party. He has five years to go, with treatment. He has no idea of the tumor that’s taken up residence in the frontal lobe of his brain. His granddaughter, (Gabi, based on the name frosted in purple on her cake) will be around for a good long while. She’ll be a retired surgeon and ninety-five when she dies in her sleep. After the man with the tumor leaves, it’s time for the one-hour photo to close and for Porter to go to bed upstairs. He makes sure the still-unclaimed photographs are safely locked up for tomorrow, when the other lives and deaths will pick them up. Porter’s name is not actually Porter. It’s the name on the little card that allows him to drive, and the name on the lease to the small apartment above the one-hour-photo. It makes little difference to him what he’s called, though, because he hasn’t heard his name in a very, very long time. You would say he was around thirty upon looking at him, but he’s older than anything. He’s very tall and he favors dark clothing, so he supposes this is where the stereotype of the big creature with the scythe comes from. He doesn’t have a scythe actually; he’d like to clear that up. He lives alone, with the exception of a goldfish that will die peacefully in a year. The girl with the sundress is back the next day, the store’s first customer. Of course, today she’s wearing something else: black jeans and a white t-shirt. Porter asks how he can help her and she smiles apologetically, digs through her bag and lays a Polaroid down on the counter. “It’s not mine,” she explains, “It must have gotten in there by mistake.” Porter frowns slightly. She’s correct; he can’t quite remember who this one belonged to, but it wasn’t taken in Maryland. Porter’s never made a mistake like this before. “I’m sorry.” He murmurs. The girl gives a small laugh and brushes loose brown hair back from her eye. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just that one of the pictures I took is missing, and I was thinking that maybe it hadn’t been developed, and it was the best one out of the lot. Here, I have the negatives, it’s this one…” She motions for him to come closer and holds the strip to the light. The square she’s pointing at is a picture of a deer drinking from a lake. “I can have it to you by Wednesday.” Porter says after studying it. “Thanks, you’re a lifesaver,” The girl cheers. “Hey, there’s a really good sandwich place just down the street. I was gonna run down there anyway; you should come with me, my treat.” Her name is Margot. She’s twenty-nine and besides amateur photography, she works in an office and likes black coffee and turkey on rye bread. She’s from Portland but she’s lived here since she came for college and “fell in love with the place.” Never married, no children. Porter’s glad. She won’t leave anyone alone when she goes, except for the dog she’s mentioned a few times now. “I’ve been working on a project lately with nature photography. That’s why I went to Maryland; I heard it was beautiful this time of year.” “And was it?” He asks, stirring his coffee. She nods. “Even better than I’d imagined.” He’s been there a few times himself, and doesn’t understand what she sees in the place. Still, the way her eyes light up when she mentions it is very endearing. “Where are you from?” She asks him suddenly. He glances up, startled. “Here.” He says, catching her eyes. That’s the trick, he’s found, to making someone believe him. “Growing up here must have been awesome. It’s really a great town.” She smiles. He smiles back. “Yes, it really is.” The same back-and-forth continues until Margot glances at her cell phone and realizes that Porter should have re-opened the shop thirty minutes ago. She apologizes profusely, unnecessarily, as Porter assures her. It’s honestly the longest conversation he’s had in months, and he’s glad of that. He tells her so, and this seems to placate her a bit. When they reach the front door of the shop, she asks for his arm and digs a pen out of the front pocket of her purse, then writes seven digits and a happy face on his wrist. “Call me sometime, okay?” She says, more telling than asking. He nods wordlessly and smiles at her. She grins, kisses her hand and waves. “See you!” she says as she walks away. He does see her again, a few days after lunch at the sandwich shop. She comes into the store a half hour before closing time, wearing a blue skirt over black tights. “Hey.” She calls. He looks up from the computer screen, eyebrows raised. “Your picture.” He says, rising from his chair. He turns his back to rummage through a file cabinet. “Here it is.” She steps up to the counter to take it from his hand. “Thanks so much.” He nods. “Still have my number?” She asks, smiling wryly. Another nod. He’d written it on the back of a Chinese menu and taped it to his refrigerator. “Good.” She collects her photo and walks away. He does call her, finally, at nine-thirty that night. He hopes she won’t mind, since he’s found it to be inappropriate to make phone calls after nine o’clock. She doesn’t seem upset, though; if anything she sounds pleased. He asks if she’d like to come over on Saturday for dinner and movies. She says she’ll see what she has planned, but the laughter in her voice tells him she’s teasing him. He sets the phone down and wonders what to make. Saturday night comes early and she’s there at the door, holding a handful of DVDs and a plate of cookies. “Sorry I didn’t bring more,” she says, thrusting the plate into his hands and eyeing the pot of spaghetti on the stove. “I’m crap at cooking anything that doesn’t come pre-packaged.” She tilts her head at the plate and smiles apologetically. “It’s all right.” Porter says, laying the plate down on the kitchen table. “Thank you for bringing these. I didn’t think of dessert.” The movies are pleasant enough; old comedies he doesn’t quite understand but he knows they make her laugh and that’s the important thing. Her laugh is high and clear and genuine and he often finds himself laughing with her although he fails to see the humor in seeing a Lung Cancer victim hit a Stroke victim in the head with a block of wood. At around eleven Margot holds out her hand and he takes it. At a quarter past she tries to kiss him and he lets her even though she isn’t laughing anymore. The rest of May and June continue in much the same way; sometimes at his apartment, sometimes at hers. One evening she brings him to her bed with its striped quilt and tells him that she loves him afterwards, and he truthfully tells her the same. It is the Fourth of July and loud pops and crackles light up the sky and flash bright colors on her white ceiling. She tells him of her upcoming camping trip to New Hampshire and asks if he’d like to join her. He smiles and says he’d love to, but he has to watch the one-hour photo. He can’t be there. She seems disappointed, but shrugs it off quickly and offers to make coffee. Margot visits the one-hour photo for the last time on the seventh. She’s wearing a dress again, although it’s not the one with the anchors. Porter is disappointed. He’d like to see her in it again before the eighth, since by then it will be stained and torn and not at all the way he’d like to remember it. Or her, for that matter. “I’m leaving tomorrow, bright and early,” she says. “I’m planning on getting some amazing shots, are you sure you can’t come?” Porter smiles at her and shrugs. “Maybe I’ll just have to follow you tomorrow. Not bright and early, mind you, but just maybe I will.” This makes her laugh again, and he’s glad of that. She grins, kisses her hand, and waves. “See you!” she says as she walks away.

My eyes opened suddenly, my heart raced in my ears, a panic brought from the depths of a dream ending. Something was watching me, I felt it in that subhuman part of my brain that we all have, that animal instinct that told us of danger unseen. Something was watching from those dark recesses of my room, those corners that held shadow just so perfectly to invite the imagination to cast horrors unknowable. And so my heart races as my eyes scanned the room that I knew so well, the room that held me safe against all things. Eyes do not see entirely correctly when they are suddenly forced out of REM sleep and back into reality. Things are distorted, a haze that shrouds things for the briefest moments of time. They bring with them the fragments of dreams and force them into reality, but they aren’t quite there, so as I peered into the darkness that blanketed my room, I saw things that weren’t there. Yet something lay there, watching with eyes unseen. My heart raced still, drumming endlessly in my ears. What intention did it have, whatever it might be? My left over animal side knew of danger, but my human brain questioned. Did it want to watch me in my most vulnerable of moments, knowing that it could end me without a fight? Or did it want something worse? And then my eyes beheld something I wanted to believe came from the remainder of my dream, but I knew it was not. A grim visage indeed, the outline of a man that wasn’t a man, some dark mockery of our form cast in that forbidding gloom and I knew it was staring at me. The head was too pale, I saw as my eyes slowly began to adjust, and utterly without features except for two eyes and a mouth, though they weren’t quite right. They eyes were pits, swirling pools of void that drew in the darkness around it. The mouth opened, splitting decayed lips and revealing the same void that were its eyes. My ears were assaulted with the sound of rushing air and groaning metal, the sound of screams from every thing that ever existed, all pleading out for mercy that they would never receive from a master that didn’t know the concept. And then silence… All sound stopped, every background sound that our ears adjust to over the years of living in a time of constant noise, including the drumming of our own hearts and the rush of our blood, stopped. The true silence fell on my ears and threatened my mind with madness, maybe even more so than the sight of the thing before me. The darkness around the horror warped, distorted to conform to its shape, shimmering yet completely still at the same time like a ripple moving through the surface of calm water. The head moved in a way unnatural, like the still frames of a strobe light, one moment leaning left and the next right. Arms as pale as the head reached out toward me, and my fear grew a hundredfold, as razor wire, corroded by time and blood, seethed from the curve of the elbow and began crawling to cover them. They snake around those too pale arms and squeezed, bleeding that void made liquid from every inch, yet the blood refused to fall. Around the throat and across the torso it went, cutting deep to reveal not the fragility of a human form, but nothing. I pleaded with my mind to wake me, that this must be some dream. Nothing like this could exist in truth, for this was a creature born of horror and shadow. Yet as that thing stared at me, and as the silence pressed on me, I knew it was no dream, that this was real. Somehow, at that moment, I knew this thing was ancient, that it had existed all along the course of our short time on the planet. That this was the real reason we feared darkness, and begged for the light. The devil we fought against in every religion, the boogeyman we warned our children about, thinking it was some tradition that we all jokingly passed down. It was Hell, or The Abyss or the Inferno or Perdition, made real. I realized I had lain back down, having jumped with a start to my elbows when I’d awoken. How long had I been lying down again? It hovered above me; razor ripped false skin not dripping on me. A leg on each side of my torso, or was it floating above me? The head twitched back and forth and those eyes cast upon mine, and I knew death in that moment. I felt the loneliness of Ninth Circle of Hell, the cold of the void, and the agony of a wrathful god. It leaned down, ever closer, and I could smell it. The was the smell of the rotting flesh of one’s most beloved person, sulfur and frost, burning flesh and bile, rust and blood. My heart raced faster, and it pained me, a burning that spread too rapidly through my body, an agony that made me scream, but I found myself unable to open my mouth. Every inch of me begged to scream, and let my pain be known, but I found myself silent. I don’t know how long I have been like this, screaming in silent agony, freezing and burning and weeping no tears, begging for the end of this nightmare that could not be. A hundred thousand years passed, each second passing just a little too slow, and I felt every moment of it, and yet no time past. And I know that this will be my everything, forever. I’ve forgotten the warmth of another person’s touch, the embrace of a loved one, the feel of passionate lips on mine. The tastes of my favorite foods, the sound of my favorite band are all gone now. So too the feeling of a cool breeze at dusk on a hot day, even the simple joy of lying under a blanket in the depths of winter to read a book. My thoughts now are all the same, Let me die… A million billion years of suffering every second, and every second too slow every minute never becoming two. Let me die… Please…let me die… …end this. But it never does quite end…it is always going on and on, all of time spread before me each moment a suffering. I sometimes wonder, now, what the man I used to be was like. I can no longer remember if that man, so long ago, was a happy man with a good life, or if I was reviled by those around me. Was I a funny man, cracking jokes all the time and able to get a room of people laughing? Was I sad with the things that brought to bed that night, whenever that last night in my bed was? That horrible silence is always my answer, a harsh truth that makes my questions meaningless. Only those pits of swirling blackness matter, that soul destroying gaze. It knew me, far more than I knew myself, and every moment it chipped away at me, an endless march toward nonexistence, but the pain makes it seem preferable. I would join that nothingness in time, but not before every ounce of suffering could be pulled from me, and it was. …let me die. A plead that lingered unnoticed forever, an endless begging ignored. My eyes opened suddenly, my heart raced in my ears, a panic brought from the depths of a dream ending. I did not know what woke me, be it my brain ejecting me from a dream it was finished with, or simply being rested. I scanned the room; parting the veil of sleep to discover my room empty, save for the darkness and myself. Outside I heard a car door close, no doubt my neighbor getting home from a midnight shift at the convenience store down the road. Rolling over I reached out and found my phone, which I took and pressed the button on time to engage the too bright, too sudden light from the screen. The clock read five in the morning, but one would hardly know it. The sun hadn’t yet breached the horizon, nor did it show any signs of attempting it today. That dream, that hell of an existence, remained in fragments, the entirety destroyed like the surface of a mirror. Hours and coffee would see it gone for good, as the rest of the day would greet me to bring me back to my life, a normal life of working a job I neither enjoyed nor detested. I rolled from my bed, placing feet to warm fuzzy rug, and yawned. I found myself in the shower; warm beads of water beat down on my tensed muscles. I didn’t remember the act of getting in the shower, but I was thankful for the warmth. The news had said it would be another cold day, at best being as high as forty degrees Fahrenheit. My heater was broken in my car, and I still hadn’t gotten around to fixing it. The rush of cold air as I stepped outside brought the remembrance of that horrible dream in portion. I remember the feeling of floating through a cold too terrible to be real. I shook my head, trying to dispel it, it was only a dream. My jacket pulled tighter around my chest, I made my way to my car. My neighbor greeted me from his lawn as he retrieved his trash can from the curb, a gesture made and returned every day. Nothing was special about this day, only the remnants of that dream. I felt a smile cross my face, knowing that everything was okay. The sun shined down on my cold face, warming it for a moment, a perfectly normal yet sincere second of time that could exist only for those alive. The dead know not the feeling of warm sunshine, only cold dirt, and that was worth remembering. My eyes opened suddenly, my heart raced in my ears, a panic brought from the depths of a dream ending. The silence contained the world in perfect stillness, and my tormentor’s unforgiving eyes greeted my suffering again. I thought I saw a gleam of sadistic pleasure in there, somewhere, buried deep beneath the existing nothingness. A moment of sincere joy, the simple feeling of warmth from the sun, was given to me as hope. And it was taken from me, reminding me of my true fate. …let me die. I begged through silent eyes, for no scream could pass my lips. …let this be the end, I’ve suffered enough. …Finish this, please. Somehow I knew it would never end.

I awoke on the outskirts of town, Kamyshovo was the name of the little port side town, I had been suckered into traveling the 'Scenic' route to my younger brothers wedding by my roommate James. James told me "We'll take a tour of Russia and the other eastern countries, we can see Pripyat and the forests of the east!" I was reluctant at first but I was twenty seven, soon to be a father and I hadn't done anything useful with my life.. so why the hell not. It was a mistake. When we arrived in Kamyshovo everything was fine, the boat was set to leave in four days and I was ready to see how the people lived. James had a friend who was renting out his parent's old family home just outside of town. The first night we drank, tried our best to break the language barrier and found ourselves lost just about every few moments. It went on like that until the last night when James left to see some castle he had heard about, that night I decided to just... stay in and read some, I had brought a book to read on the boat and when we drove from Moscow to Kyiv. It was **On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection** by **Charles Darwin** There was a knock at the door and originally I had believed it to be James, so I called back "Open the damn door you drunk," and that was the mistake of a lifetime, I heard the door crack open and someone barking in russian from the lobby. "кто называет меня чертовски пьян в моем собственном чертов дом!" That's when I knew I had something to really worry about, I sprang to my feet and made my way to the foyer, there stood a large russian man who smelt of cheep liquor and bar snacks. He began to should more at me "кто ты, кто ты" over and over, and I couldn't calm him with anything I said, I tried and tried to inform the man that he was in the wrong home, but after a few moments of waving my hands in front of the man he became infuriated and laid one good punch to my skull. That was all I remembered, when I awoke, it was mid day, the house seemed almost picked clean by what I only guessed were thugs, and all of my belongings save my clothing was gone. Too much like a dream, everything was gone, when I went back to my room it was the same story, everything gone, luckily no one wanted my book. 'Uneducated Communists.' Why was this book not good enough for them? It was a perfectly good book! My thought process was quickly derailed as I heard a set of loud gun shots just outside the house followed by thuds of what I could only guess were bodies hitting the pavement. So I ducked down low and held the book in my arms, like a child I sat there closing my eyes tight as footsteps marched steadily into the front room of the house. 'I'm dead, this is where I die,' my eyes began to water as I tried to keep them shut. It was my day of reckoning I knew it, but like an angel come to save a swaddling babe a voice beckoned the footsteps away. "This one's been picked clean, just look at the door you morons!" The foot steps replied in Russian and slowly grew quieter away from my position. That moment, I looked down at my tear stained hardcover of the definitive work on evolution and made the stunning realization that... if this were a baser world... I would not survive. I dwelt on those words for an hour or so before I remembered that James had never come back to the house. I knew for a fact that the Castle was some where up the road from the house and though it would be a trek through the forest it didn't feel safe to stay holed up in the bare home any longer. So with my book in my hand and nothing in my pockets I crept out the front door and looked to where I had heard the gun shots, and just as I thought there lay four or so bloodied and desecrated masses of once living being on the side of the road. The sight of the gore made my stomach heave and I took flight like a terrified sheep up the road and away from Kamyshovo. I hoped that I'd never have to see the sight of that port town again. I carried on up the hillside for about twenty minutes until I saw the tower of the castle, that was when I knew I had a chance at finding James. When I finally made it into the castle however there was only a note on the ground outside of the main tower. It read: 'Jack, Sorry I got you into this man, but I don't have anytime to explain the military is rounding everyone up and pushing north. Find my Msta. Your friend, James' At the end of the page was a small and badly drawn map of the area and where to go. Msta, was just north of here. Fuck, I thought to myself, what in the hell did all of that mean? It was all an enigma to me and as I began to walk out the castle grounds I saw for the first time. What it was the note meant. On the ground just where the roads met each other north of the castle was a blond haired woman collapsed on the ground, and in my 'Gallantry' I ran to save her. As i neared she began to move and when i was just a few yards from her she reared her face towards me. Her skin was peeling and bleeding, her eyes were devoid of life and what looked to be flesh was hanging from her teeth. She crawled after me and I stood there completely paralyzed. What in the hell was this thing? I remember asking myself over and over and over again, but the answer was there. It was there from the moment I woke up, I knew what this was... I just didn't want to accept something as foul as this as reality. Seconds passed as I just stood and stared as the beast tried to find its way to her feet. She kept coming even as she struggled to stay balanced and as she grabbed hold of me and her mouth opened wide I realized something. This is where I would die, if I would not rise to the challenge of evolution. If I was so hell bent on civility and weakness that I could not survive. Like that I had regained control over myself and reached forth for the woman's neck. I pushed her to the ground, easily over powering the *thing* due to its injured ankle. When we fell forward I held my face in a disgusted grimace as I lifted her head from the stone and smacked it down again and again. Four smacks later and the body stopped fighting back... and my own body as well. I fell to the side choking on puke as I couldn't fathom the things I had just done to another human being. Vomit sprayed against the grass and stone when I flipped to the side. It was a horrible sight. Having eaten or drank nothing in the past several hours my waste looked more like a sludge than human waste. When i regained my barrings I picked my book from the ground, dusted it off and began to run north towards Msta. I was not going to let what ever that thing was take me, nor was I going to lose my humanity in doing so. I ran and ran for atleast half an hour, my stomach growling and my mouth so dry that I couldn't even breath through it without bringing myself to pain. When I came to Msta, it was just like the castle, completely empty, but there seemed to be more of those undead creatures in the grasslands and forest just south east of the town. Three of them saw me and began to run towards me, these ones were much more intimidating than the last, they were all jacketed men by the looks of it and ran at a jog. I sprinted for the houses, dipping into the first one and laying low for a few moments. As the grumbling and moaning subsided I quickly surveyed the room to find a can of baked beans, a can of spaghetti, multivitamins and some strange Russian cola. The cola was gone in seconds as i downed the hole thing, it hurt my chest to drink so fast but it slightly helped my thirst and subdued the gut wrenching feeling in my stomach. I had nothing to open the cans with however. So I placed them on the table and went into what seemed to be the room of the children that once lived in the house. There was a large green backpack. This was great i thought to myself before hurrying to the kitchen, storing the food and vitamins in the bag along with my book. I left the house and spotted through the fences a water spigot, 'finally I am catching a break!' I thought happily as I took off through the back of the house and booked it for the spigot. Forgetting about the creatures that were just outside of the house I jumped the fence before I heard them, "Dammit!" I exclaimed under my breath, cutting into a shed trying to find something to defend myself, Foolish! As my back was turned one of them got me with its nails into my back. I could feel blood dripping from my right arm. Knowing I'd be a feast for these things if I didn't get out of the area I took off east, desperately trying to break away from the beasts. It took about five minutes, but finally I had lost them in the forests and returned to the water pipe. I removed my shirt as soon as I could and began to tear at it until I had long strips of cloth that I could wrap around my upper arm and stop the bleeding. With that finished I splashed some water on my face after washing my hands and finally drank until I had no thirst. There was no sign of James and from what I could see it didn't look safe enough to carry on north west, so I followed the rode to the east. I passed a farm house and so much more until I finally cut through the forest and finding myself in a quarry. Finally in the quarry I found a nice black hoodie i could throw over my undershirt and before long I was in what looked to be another port town. For safety I ducked into a small home and after securing the rest of the house to insure there was none of those... zombies I secured a knife and feasted on Baked beans until I felt comfortable enough to lay in the master bed and read my book.

Good morning beautiful, what a wonderful day outside its been. Oh how the trees sway and the children play. To feel the wind upon my face, instead of this warm embrace. Life is so wonderful here with you, to show its true, I keep staring deep into those eyes I get lost in the mask you see. If it wasn't such an imposition maybe we could host an intervention for this hour glass is slipping... "No one ever tells you that forever looks like home inside your head" The paintings on the walls are nice, they hide the fist shape holes inside. I erect a statue, a Picasso of sorts to express all that I am. Even Hellen Keller could tell its not quite right but you love it anyway the same way you do when the kids bring a drawing home for the fridge. So we put on the mantle next to the urn, proudly for all to witness. Such a life so great as this only comes once in awhile. Our song fills this place, the echoing grows louder throughout this house even from the floorboards. As the breeze starts to grow and the house goes the way of Jericho. The green grass rolls on for miles wind in my face now longing for her embrace.

*I KNOW YOU'RE EXCITED, BUT YOU REALLY NEED TO WATCH THE GRAMMAR, SIR. REGARDLESS, I THINK THIS IS THE ONE. GREAT SPEECH, SIR, AND GOD BLESS YOU" From the Desk of the President of the United States of America: People of this sovereign nation, I must first apologize to the children pulled out of their daily studies, and to the adults pulled out of their work for this day of celebration. I'm sure you were very busy, but now you must prepare yourselves for grand and wonderful news. Today, will be a day marked in history. In the future, those that come after will look upon today as a day of gratitude. The honor of the first thanks that we must give, belongs to none other than our military. We have employed the bravest men and women to uphold the peace of this nation and those that were too weak to defend themselves, and with the blessings of all of our branches of government, the clergy, and the other world leaders, we can declare their mission accomplished. Perhaps for our ancestors, war was a necessity, who's to say? We, however, are a new people in a new age, and the discoveries that we are making have given us ample tools to end the need for war altogether. We have too much to look forward to that we must prepare for, and can not distract ourselves with such useless practices. No more will we create armed drones, or nuclear weapons. Consider our drones in retirement, used only for mapping undiscovered regions of our planet, and making deliveries. Consider our nuclear weapons as warnings that we will leave to our children, and decommissioned. Those who have died in the travesty of war have not died in vain, for they have shown us the horrors that man is capable of that we must rise above within ourselves, as it is the destiny of man to elevate himself beyond the confines of what even nature imposes on him. There will still be those that feel hatred, and greed, but we, the leaders of the world, agree that at this time the earth is also blessed to have enough people that can elevate themselves, and live life the positive way. Those that are left behind from the rest of us due to their ways are welcomed to join this global fraternity at any time. We are a patient people, and have much busy work to do. Please don't take too long, however, we'd very much like your participation in these wonderful plans. It is at this moment, we offer thanks to the countless victims of hatred in a time when it was uncontrolled, and request a moment of silence. Now, we will use more than 3/4 of the annual military budget in the peaceful exploration of our oceans and outer space. On this historic day, with the blessed alliance with other sovereign leaders, the United States of America has formed the Brotherhood for the Exploration, and the Advancement of Mankind. Kinda long winded, isn't it? BEAM is comprised of only the best leaders in these stunning fields, the best scientists, the bravest men, the most daring engineers who refuse any limits imposed on them based on what others believe is "possible." When I was a boy, I wanted to be an astronaut, but didn't have the maths. Now, no child will have to be turned away from this dream due to a letter on a report card. BEAM will open schools for the most dedicated pupils, and any may be accepted, provided they pass the public tests that the instructors agree upon. Keep in mind, however, that admission to these schools is free. The ocean harbors many secrets from us, and the time has come to learn from the wonders it has to offer us. For all that we know, every answer that we could seek is enwrapped within it's cozy waters. Fairly recently, our wonderful scientists have discovered enough freshwater aquifers beneath the ocean to hold off, if not prevent, a global water crisis. Who's to say that the cure for cancer isn't down there as well? Or a previously unheard of clean energy that will help aid us in this new era of peace? Who's to say that the answer to man's oldest enemy: time, will not be discovered in it's inky depths? We have given billions to fund new schools for underwater exploration, which will select only the best and bravest explorers to undertake this grand journey. Have at it, boys. You have our full trust, and monetary backing any time you require it. Now that marijuana is legal, unprecedented numbers of you have looked to the stars and wondered. Well, we have listened. We have all felt the stars beckoning, and we will answer their call. Our droogs from the motherland have been the ushers into the wonderful age of space exploration, and have offered us many insights into this sublime development. One of such was provided by one of the greatest men to have ever lived, Konstantin Tsiolkovsky, who had this to say: "The Earth is the cradle of humanity, but mankind cannot stay in the cradle forever." We have listened, Konstantin, rest well friend. It has been fulfilled, man has finally outgrown our cradle, and upon completion of the proper blueprints, we will begin construction on the first interstellar vessel in man's long history. We will use the latest advances in technology, including 3d printing to begin constructing this ship, and with the advances of modern medicine available to all the citizens of the world, many of us will live to see it's completion, and perhaps even become the pioneers which will lead our kind to new worlds. We will take the fittest and brightest men and start training to begin the making of this vessel. We will need many, and if you are dedicated enough, then we ask for little else. In this new age, you will not be compensated much in money (which will soon become obsolete), but fear not. You shall be remembered as heroes for all of time. We will build new societies, inhabited by the most tranquil and loving that our world has to offer. Let us now extend our gratitude to God, for making perseverance and thirst for adventure such core concepts of the human spirit. To those that doubt our new conquest, allow me to point to the Outer Space Treaty, which, since it's inception in 1967, has banned the use of weapons in space. We have been able to uphold it thus far, and the time for the ban of weapons on earth has finally been initiated. The time has come to rise together as one people. Everything that our fathers, and our father's fathers have lived through has led to this. Countless individual experiences has led to the day when mankind comes together, and claims his ultimate destiny. Today, let us give thanks that greed selfishness has been abolished for the greater good of all our brothers, that there will be no more policing of world matters, as the world is now an open platform that any man, woman or child, can change with the proper ideas, that there will be no more secrets held from the people of the world by their governments now, or ever, only surprises that will make them feel ten times the gratitude that we of the world feel today. Go forth, and celebrate the beginning of the day that will lead to adventures that are impossible to imagine. Let me extend my personal gratitude to all of you, my brothers, this is the start of when we live as such for always and eternity. Tomorrow we begin, but today...we shall celebrate! Prepare well, friends. Our destiny is at hand. God Bless.

"Well, here goes," Scott chuckled nervously as he pinched a toothpick in front of Ashley so it could be examined. "Scott Daring's End of the World Special," he said with a sardonic theatricality. Ashley kept the same courteous smile she had frozen on her face since she arrived, just like Scott had the same jittery laughs and smirks. It is all they could muster in their personal exercise of futility, agreeing to meet and share something that they had never done. Kindergarten show and tell between friends. Scott, Scott Jones, had always loved magic tricks and always told himself he would spend the time to learn slight of hand and make a true hobby out of it. Now, he was showing his friend what a quick google search and three meager hours of practice can do. "Now, with the power of magic, I am going to make this toothpick disappear" Scott gave his best impression of a magician's flourish as he swept his hand around the toothpick to reveal it still standing up in his pinched fingers. "Ummmm" was the sound of Ashley's skepticism, as the trick had obviously failed in her eyes, considering she could still see her friend holding the toothpick, "it's still there." "No it's not," he countered "see that is just part of the magic, to make one toothpick disappear I have to make a new one appear. Look I will mark it." Scott had thought awhile how to make such a novice trick his own, if he was going to be appeasing a lifetime of procrastination, the least he could do in that bargain was make the trick his. He took out his black marker and marked the toothpick where he remembered. Most of his practice was getting the toothpick marking down to a ritual. He held up his hand with the toothpick once more with theatrical gesticulations, and again seemed to be holding up that same toothpick. "Scoooot," Ashley whined, "you are just holding up the same thing I thought you were going to show me something. You are just trying to be funny." "Well, tell me why there are two toothpicks," asked Scott as he split the two identically marked toothpicks in his fingers. Ashley's eyes lit up and she clapped excitedly for her friend, making sure to telegraph her appreciation of the trick. She followed her acts of appreciation with a puzzled look "but you said you were going to make the toothpick disappear, looks to me like you just made another toothpick appear." "It is the end of the world special, Ash, everyone seems to know what they are going to do when the world begins to collapse. Sleep with their crush, flip off their boss, live like they were going to die, but look at us, the end of the world is here! We all know it, and what are we doing? Living like we always have, grieving in silence, afraid of acknowledging that the end isn't tomorrow it is now.” He sighed heavily and looked over at Ashley, briefly their eyes met before she bowed her head away. With an air of resignation, Scott Daring continued, “We are all gonna blow up into a million pieces and the only revelation I can find is that trusting what a people say will lead you to being surprised when exactly the opposite happens,” and with a regretful, final, self mocking jab he croaked out, "tadaaaaaa.

This is a short story I wrote. I love reading and writing but I have never once taken any sort of class for writing (not counting highschool creative writing because I ditched that class like crazy) so forgive me if there are errors grammatical or otherwise. Even at night the shadows seemed sharper in the winter. The snow made a satisfying muffled crunch sound with each step he took and those shadows came pitching and moved quietly with each boot he tread, ringing his hands while tip-top houses and bright fluorescent street lights passed him. He exhaled. A plume of oxygen that quickly disappeared. His steps adjusted to the unpaved trail entrance and he peered back with frigid eyes on the street. Parked cars with white blankets of snow half covering them. White roofs. A few chimneys smoking even though the moon was so high up. Short into the trail he stopped and leaned with his legs crossed like he did against the stone wall linked to the park in addition to the house on the corner of the street. A truck hissed down the main road and he waited till it passed completely to light a cigarette he took out. Standing there, looking, and ringing his hands. "Likely won't see 'er tonight", drawing the lighter from his jacket pocket. He struck the flint wheel and lit it. The air was still and when he blew the smoke lingered under a park light dancing and giving way slowly in the dark. He finished and kept on the trail. Moonlight beamed through the branches hanging over head like that of a boarded up shed or church window. The houses adjacent to the path rose and stood uniform next to each other - soldier like in their rows - with seasonal lights hanging off of them like overgrow. Their trees were black and scratching the sky leafless and naked as bone. Once he reached the park and entered the clearing he slowed and looked up like he did. The moon wasn't full, but he thought it was, it was so bright and close. It clung there like a tumor and looked as though it could be drained and drawn dry. He strolled more and saw her sitting there on the bench with one hand in her lap and the other puling a cigarette away from her mouth. His stomach turned quickly from the uncertain sight and he briefly felt like throwing up. She sat her cigarette in hand beside her on the bench and raised the other to gesture. There were times when he wouldn't see her for weeks until she turned up somewhere along a walk somehow by chance. "How ya been?" "Fair, I guess" setting next to her on the bench "Better'n last time" "Yeah?" "Yeah. How long you been out here?" "Bout two whole hours now. Moon's almost full, I reckon. It's pretty tonight" "It is" He sat there and waited patiently while she finished her cigarette so when the air thinned he could smell her. "Got any pot?" "Not on me. Smoked a bit 'fore I came here" "You stoned?" tilting her head almost annoyed. "A little bit" A flood lamp atop a garage door across the park lit up with no clear sight of what triggered the mechanism. They peered toward it and back quickly. "I don't mind. Don't mind that you're stoned" He looked at her. "I'm glad" "Hows your ma?" "Drunk" "Lord, now?" "No, no, she's asleep now" he said. "She was though. Meaner than ever she can be. I set out earlier when she was first getting' to drinkin' and come back. Thought she'd be asleep but she wasn't" "What'd she say to you?" "Nothin' particularly cruel. I'd been gone not twenty five minute and she got to hollerin' about fixin' the drawbar on the mower and we just got to fightin'" "About fixin' a mower?" lowering her face to peer out above her spectacles. "Well, sort of. You could hazard a notion that the fight started because I haven't fixed the drawbar on the mower. Or because she was drunk. I think she's disappointed that her first boy is a Navy man and her youngest.." he stopped while the thoughts ricocheted in his head "well, I guess I don't really know what mama thinks of me. Especially when she's drunk" "It don't matter none" she said quietly. He gripped his pant leg tightly on the side she couldn't see and fought back trembling. He still couldn't smell her. She was blanketed in blackness like a mountain or deep well. The only skin he saw was her soft white countenance and her hand when she took her glove off to pluck a cigarette from the pack. It gave little away in the darkness. To him she looked like a monolith set beside him by ancients. An early race of forerunner inventors who choose to cast the obelisk unto one for a lifetime of dissonance. When she spoke her words cut through the cold air stirring in his thoughts and lingered there as he watched her change shapes. He tried best to pay attention but all he thought about was when he would see her again and if he would see her again. "I reckon she just don't know how to deal with your illness. Or she cain't accept it" "I don't blame her" raising his head to look away. "You don't mean that" "Don't I?" A grin appeared on his face. "No, you don't" she exacted. "I know I'd be madder'n hell at my ma for getting' on me while she was boozin'; we're same enough that you'd feel the very same. I know you love your ma sure as snows white but if she's a fightin' you just to fight it ain't even worth the breath. You blame her. She's your mother and.. well, she's gotta treat you better. What with your sickness an all. She don't need to be runnin' you off late at night into the cold just because she's boozin'" she spoke in a confident voice and it jarred him a little. He was smiling now. "What pray tell are you smilin' about farm boy?" "You been callin' it a sickness or an illness. I just think it's funny" "Well, innit?" she questioned. "In a way, I 'spose" he shrugged. They sat there in silence for a moment. "Anyways, what ran you out this night? You said your ma was asleep so what're you doin' out here in the snow" "Just felt like walkin' I reckon. It's a nice night, like you said" "'Tis" The sun was peeking up now behind the mountains and the fog rolled through thick and pink in the morning light. They'd sat there until night fell and hadn't realized it. When they departed she never looked twice for any sort of physical farewells, not even a handshake. Only a goodbye. When he arrived home he treaded quietly inside as to not wake his mom or get the dog excited. He noted the time, 6:47 in the A.M. He peeled off his layers and placed his boots on the deck out back. When he reentered the sound of nails on hardwood cued and his dog came trudging down the hall excitedly towards him. "Easy girl, easy" he said petting her "don't wake ma up now or you'll catch us both a beatin'" In his room he draped his final coat on the back of the chair at the desk and looked about his room like he did. Small and intimate but he didn't have much anyway. Cheap record player. His guitar and his upright. When he sat on his bed he did just that: sat there. He sat there a while, peering at the shadows and the light leaking in slowly as the sun still climbed. He never did pick up her scent. Finally getting up he went to his bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet and took out a bottle labeled Clozapine - 20mg and downed one with some sink water. Sometimes he forgot to take it intentionally just so he could see her but it never felt like enough. She'd never actually be there but he knew if he watched the shadows enough she would materialize. And as long as he walked there was always a chance.

My whole life, I've been told to "play it safe." You know, go to college, get a "practical" job, to get a nice car and white picket fence. At least thats what's expected of me, to get all of these things. We are so materialistic these days, and it really is a shame. Turning on the TV and hearing that people are so concerned about things, that they actually lost all regard for other human life and trampled another person to death is quite depressing. I guess at this point materialism is just ingrained in our society. Anyways, some people are bold enough to overcome this normalcy. To climb over the obstacle that our society cemented into place, that which is "rationality." My mom always told me to play it safe… and I did. I'm in college majoring in business…woohoo. And she's on her deathbed, trapped in some white box of a room with one window with a shitty view. She has stage four cancer. It's been hard, she was and still is an amazing woman. But you know what? Once we acknowledge death, only then can we appreciate the magnificence of life. And I'll tell you what, I've acknowledged death, now more than every. It's a shame that it took this long, and it took this event to make me realize it. Every second we live, we are one second closer to death. Our time is limited. Our time is short. When you are on your deathbed, are you going to have a bucket list so long it might as well be a book? Are you going to think "Man, I should have done this" or "I should have said that?" At the end of your life are you going to think about all of the THINGS you had? Or are you going to think about all of the amazing people and experiences you have encountered? Because those people and experiences are what really matter. This is the story of my realization, and the events that followed.

I never would have guessed he had it in him. Just an average looking guy with nerdy glasses. Came walking out the store with this cute little girl, holding her hand. Next thing some random bro walks up and socks her square in the face. Vicious. Dropped like a rock. Guy snapped then. You could see it in his eyes. Bro had taken off runnin already so guy took off after him. He was matchin him but he wasn’t gaining so I didn’t think he was gonna get him. Bro made it to the stairs headed for the door and that’s when it happened. Guy’s almost to the stairs and he lets out this scream, I ain’t never heard anything like it, like guttural but high pitched at the same time, purely savage. I knew then that bro was gonna die if guy got a hold of him. And sure enough. Guy makes it to the stairs a good 10 or 15 steps behind but he doesn’t stop he just jumps the whole thing. Catches bro square in the back with both feet, sends him down headfirst, then at the bottom somehow he picks him up by the head, swings him fully around over-top and breaks bro’s back right across the handrail. And that was it. Bro was dead before the ambulance got there. Guy disappeared with his girl. Once the police heard the whole story and saw the video I guess they just looked the other way. It was like the full force of karma come down on this one dude for every knockout game ever played. I dunno if it was right or not but it’s hard to say bro didn’t deserve it.

After a long hard fought trek, the oasis was merely a ghost. Once I realized I was about to die, I dropped to my knees. My right knee landing on an unfortunately placed rock, opening my wound. Pain shot like lightning through my leg. I fell over, my body now melting into the sand. My head was cocked to the right so I could see the growing puddle of dirtied blood oozing out of my knee. As I stared, my vision began to shake and my body began to freeze up, locked in place. The all to familiar darkness crept onto everything in my sight. I blinked furiously until I could no longer, as I always do, to try to stop the process of being overtaken. I felt the warm, comforting pulse of energy over my body. I hated it. Only because of what happens next. “Heh heh heh, I’m actually shocked you fell so quickly blightborn.”, said Fayren, in his usual smug way. “Well with your hellish ways at the helm, it tends to be a bit more interesting than anticipated.” “Hey don’t get mad at me for having a little fun! Ha ha heh he ha! Now get up blightborn, you’re not finished yet.”, he said sinisterly. The darkness rose from my eyes like a veil of night being lifted. Blood once again ran through my veins and I could move again. The pulsing energy over my body had once again done its job. “Why cant I just die?” I thought, as I stood up, renewed. My knee only soaked in blood but with no sign of cause. I dusted off the sand from my tattered clothes and then began to walk. All’s I knew was that south was that way.

A lungful of dirt pulled him into the present, face bowed to the earth he awoke from an aching fantasy and into an aching reality. The situation eerily similar, death had spat him out for a second time. However long he had been laying there, it had been a while. Night had fallen, and the lack of civilisation put the shining celestial lights into eerie focus. The blanket was no longer comforting, or curious as it had once been to mankind. It stretched on further than the eye could see; pulsing with energy and dancing far above the Earth's outreached hands. The expanse suffocating in its entirety, with no building or growth to block it from view. Humanity had destroyed an entire eco-system, 1,000 year old trees were hollow black silhouettes of their former selves, the dirt beneath ashy and dead. Yet the universe continued without them, continued to age, solar systems pitching forward into a headlong sprint toward an impending end. ...Tempus... Edax... Rerum.

From up on high, the star walker sighed, the pebble-muncher cried and the ladybug died. After the fact, per se, there was no trace, not a shred of tangible evidence. No snippets, no whippets, no crickets, no documents, no monuments, no power plants, no sour ants, no bar fights, no car lights, no head lamps, no street tramps, no beat vans, no light bans, no sport fans, no frying pans, no lying dames, no crying shame and least of all… There was no darkness. Not a droplet in the stillness. An echo of an intelligent species. Intelligent. This Maker chuckled heartily at the thought, for this maker had found the time. But not the thyme, as this rhyme grows with the limes on the stone baked crust of the blue pebbles lust. Yes, sighed the maker, it was a lusty place. A musty, fusty faucet of leaking prosperity and mindless calamity. Ha! Another laugh rippled from the Makers velvet laughing-box. It was not as if he had not thought long and hard about his decision, there was many-a-millennium spent pondering the ponderous, reaching into the gaping chasm of thought to purge the answers from his Wisdomus Tooth . He was unlucky to only have one Wisdom Tooth and this was a maker who needed answers fast. One Tooth would not cut it, he needed more. Fast. Faster than one can say fasterousnessing. Speaking of thinking, this was something the sentients of the Blue Pebble always fell short of doing and was one of the reasons for their Un-Making. It was strange, to the maker, when he thought about it, thinking didn’t seem to be a very hard thing to do. See! However, considering the creatures had installed a very large, specific muscle that was positively perfect for the job. Not to mention its many other wonderful functions. Including, but not limited to; Thermoregulatory balance, balancing, fantasising, speaking, pain, emotion, devotion, muscle motion, brussel sprout poaching, skin packet roaching, tassle twisting, hassle causing, music making, language breaking, barrier bursting, astral dreaming and last but not least… Consciousness expanding. It was an elaborate experiment to say the least; the maker did not dream the species would flourish into something so robust and intricate. But alas, the experiment was doomed to fail. To fall out of the broken sky, crashing into the flame scorched darkness of waywardness and heavy-handed brutishness. Was this The Makers fault? Possibly. Maybe. Unscrupulously. Or was there something else at play here? Was there, by any chance another reason for this catastrophe? Certainly. But it was a truth hidden deep within the depths of the cognitive cogs of one particular humanoid. Yes, the muscle named their species ‘humans’, Silly, I know. Now, let me take you on a journey to the blue pebble. My creation, my craft, my spherical raft adrift in the swallowing blackness. Let us first walk 1,391,000… I think the humans called them kilometres (and yes, you could just as easily walk 4 Yoctoargons if you happen to hail from the reaches of the Thumpingbumpingtechnotown in sector C of the Rinneganitis area of Deep Space) around what they now call ‘The Sun.

This is one of a few short stories I've written that focus on the war that is fought by true patriots against an oppressive and abusive government. Enjoy! The Patriot. He laid against the cherry tree. The orchard was just blossoming. The white petals of the trees fluttered to the ground slowly and softly with the gentle breeze. With that breeze came the smell of the blossoms. He loved that smell. He knew she would have too. He heaved a ragged and sharp breath at the thought of her. He held a hand to his side. The sniper was long gone, fled when the shot to the patriot’s stomach did not drop him. His other hand was occupied by a photograph of her. A smear of blood across his smile on the picture. The photo was of him and her together a few months after they had met. Her beautiful smile made him feel alive everytime he saw it. His rifle sat at his side. He would never fire it again. He was done fighting. He was a peace in this beautiful place. He reached up and caught a petal. The blood on his hands stained the soft white of the petal red. He knew he was close now. His breathing was slowing down. He was ready to go. He wanted to see her again. It had been too long since he had. He held her in his arms in that intersection of that small town, the name of which he had long forgotten. The American flag that covered her neck was a crimson red with her blood. It slowly dribbled down her cheek. She was dying. She looked up at him “Do you love me?” she asked. “Yes” he said “And do you love me?” “Always” “Thats great” he whispered back with a weak smile, as tears rolled from his eyess “That’s amazing” She smiled back. Her teeth were bloody. She was still so beautiful. He buried her outside of that town that night. He looked up. The sun shown through the branches and blossoms of the tree. She had loved the smell of the forests and the flowers. The sound of the wind in the fields and the songs of the birds. That is why she had fought, and died in that war, to preserve what she loved. He missed her so much. She had been taken from him too soon. The fighting had moved miles from where he was laying. His company would be wondering where he was. They might find him at some point. He hoped that they didn’t No need to. He had stopped fighting alongside his company after her death. He had avoided them as much he could. His time was spent hunting deer for his company, eliminating snipers, disabling traps, clearing mine fields. His job suited him well. A pool of blood had formed around him in the grass. He had seen so much blood in past years, it didn’t bother him to see so much of his own. He looked around him, cherry trees stretched for miles around, untouched by the fighting, and unaided by human intervention. they grew tall and strong. He couldn’t feel any pain, he felt only peace. Soon now. They would be together again. He reached up and pulled the American flag from around his neck. It was her’s. Hefolded it into a triangle. He placed her photo on top, then set his rifle on the picture, so it would stay in place. All things around him were in their place, the rifle, the photo, the flag, the trees, the blossoms, him. All where they needed to be in that perfect moment. He closed his eyes. He would see his love soon.

It had been thought that nothing intangible could ever take the place of actually feeling and experiencing events in life. Video games were great for an escape, but couldn't beat experiencing something important to a person. Sure people had dreamed of the concept of a virtual reality for well over a century. The idea was first made popular to the masses by a movie 150 years ago called The Matrix, where all that one experienced was essentially a program made to appear real. And so it went until 2130 when man finally made a respectable attempt at merging themselves with technology. The body we learned could truly be but a vessel delivering the mind to a place falling between reality and dreams. All thanks to one company - OmniLife - which made the first virtual reality chamber, called a Cocoon. When the amount of money at stake made evident by the consumers money couldn't be raised fast enough from entrepreneurs looking to cash in on the next craze. This huge financial backing led to the product developing faster then anyone anticipated. The research made another break-through seemingly every month and never really slowed down. Huge companies, GE, IBM, and many others had their own version of the nuclear arms race of the 2100s, except it was much more harmless then that, companies today were racing with cocoon applications. Still the technology was as cutting edge as it could get. There were black market apps made, though no one really knew exactly who made them. The more risque experiences of life were now available. They were relatively harmless at first, and as long as you knew someone to "jailbreak" - excuse the old 2010 phrase - your cocoon for you then these more morally ambiguous experiences could be had. Churches shunned Cocoons as evil, and the faithful resisted for a while. But when cocoon apps began to bring the bible's lessons to the coon-world many churches used them as a tool for teaching. But even for the faithful the other apps were too tempting. Nearly everyone began to incorporate them into their weekends. It was pure pleasure. Most people recognized the dangerous possibilities that arose from these new time consuming machines. Yet everything had been alright so far, so most people didn't bother creating any stir in regards to taking measures to avoid the downsides that co-inside with Cocoons. Society had their fun right in front of them, resisting was too hard, and the companies too large. Next thing you know the majority of Americans spent 50% of their weekends in a cocoon. People stop showing up for jobs. There was software for just about everything - fucking, swimming, shopping, even for sleeping - a random, somewhat nonsensical software played like a dream. The black market developed a much darker side - rape, murders, torture, riots - it could all be done in the virtual world, twisting already twisted minds further and allowing the depraved to get their first taste of blood. When those sick people had their crimes down in the virtual world they wanted to cause real people pain. Thousands began to go missing. Cocoons weren't all bad - quite the contrary most were relatively clean fun. Cave v3.2 was the best selling software of 2142 - the cave went on for years of playing time, it was extraordinary. Clean experiences which were too dangerous, or simply unobtainable, for any ordinary person were there for the taking. Climbing Mt. Everest could be "done" by a 400 pound man with asthma. Sure there wasn't the feeling of accomplishment, but the view was spectacular. As the apps for cocooning became more sophisticated it began to dominate the life of the majority of Americans. The technology developed and while at one time only the basic parts of taste could be had - sweet and sour - now eating food in the virtual world was indistinguishable from real life. Touch became increasingly refined too, silk felt like real silk, and skin felt like real skin. Society spent more and more time in the coon-world. It wasn't good for humanity. Why cut your grass when you can cocoon? Why work? The cocoons were quickly regulated, and no longer was it a private industry, but the government now made the cocoons. Time limits were installed and for a few years things began to return to normal. People were angry with the government though, they had their lives inside the cocoon to get back to. There was an uprising. Suddenly people were being taken from their homes by those sworn to protect us, forced into cocoons which gave the experience of civil unrest, such as riots, but the app ended by giving the user a truly horrific experience so that no one would think a riot would be a good idea. Still the civil uprising won and the regulations were gone. Something had to be done, there were still the people who chose to live a real life. No one had any answers. Cocoon users began attaching feeding tubes to cocoons, as well as other medical tools so that people's bodies didn't degrade into just skin and bone from those who refused to exit their cocoons even for nourishment or medication. It was everything that we all feared, but only few spoke about a decade ago. No one knew what to do. The government had a secret meeting and a decision was made "for the greater good." 91% of the population cocooned with an average of 92% of their time. But the few people who decided to live life in reality began to notice a difference in cocooners even when they weren't cocooning. They seemed to be much more mellow, with a low range of moods, it was like they were on auto-run. No one who cocooned noticed the difference, they were essentially hypnotized. Hospital workers then began to notice a correlation between the disease of Uralomex (a horrific alzheimer's like disease) and cocoon users. Since any evidence of the correlation was stuck in the hospital's government produced software, there was only the word of doctors and nurses - the few who didn't cocoon at all - to explain the worrying new trend. People began to die by the millions. *I wasn't sure where to go from here. Thanks for reading if you got this far. I would love to expand on any advice about on what direction to take. I'll write a more concrete ending tomorrow but for now that is the ending.

The wind howled as he flicked the remainder of he cigarette far from him. Impatient he waited standing tall as the wind flapped the ends of his coat around him. He wasn't a fan of waiting, who was. But there was something about standing in the moonlight watching the pitch black night that calmed him at times like these. The stench of urban living wafted beneath his nose and cold city air filled his lungs as he breathed deep between drags of the nicotine he craved. It was silent out here, just outside the city. But close enough to watch the City lights. To watch in awe as lights flickered on and off in apartments like a sympathy. Shops closed up and cars entered and left the city as days and nights began and ended. By the time two bright headlights peered at him in the dark he'd been waiting for fifteen minutes he guessed. Not that he'd know with his watch breaking before he left his flat. Grabbing the cigarette packet from his pocket he lit another one up for no other reason than he could. Taking a few drags he turned and walked towards the car. Tonight would be a just another ordinary night for those tucked safely away In bed or working. But for him tonight would be when it all finally changed. When they found him once more after five years of searching. There was no doubt to anyone that he was only found because he wanted it. Grabbing the door handle with his empty hand he threw the cigarette into the wind before disappearing into the car and shutting the door behind him. This is where it starts. It ends with him hunched over coughing hard, the taste of iron on his lips as blood is spat on the cement floor beneath him. Silent even now bar the wheezing as he struggles to breath as his lungs fill up with liquid that shouldn't be there. Panic, fear, nausea, sadness, so many emotions overwhelm as he fights a losing battle. Still alive yet he's already lost, he knows this. But that doesn't mean he wants to accept it. Another kick collides with his left ribs. Bones break unable to take any more. His heart continues to beat, its rhythm slowing till it stops, his breathing follows suit. He lays hunched on the floor surrounded by blood and spit till he's found a 6 days later, 6 days and four hours too late.

The following dialogue was originally spoken in Spanish, and was discovered on my voice recorder, which I'd left running on a cafe table in Ecuador. It was translated by my friend Gabe. "Ha! You call that trouble? That's not trouble. Real trouble has all kinds of parts and pieces. Your uncle Victor - he is in real trouble." the voice of a middle aged non-smoking beer drinker. "Why - his shop go under?" the voice of a 14 or 15 year old boy between bites. The older man isn't eating. "No. But that shop - I shouldn't be telling you this but maybe you will learn something. That shop - it's a good shop. It won’t go under. But it was all paid for, the shop, the license, the van, the fish tank, the goddam fish - all paid for with borrowed money. Even the house, probably. See, your uncle's girl, the one you kids call Kitty, her father gives Victor a big, big loan." That was what first caught my ear on the recording. I wanted to know what was "Corona corona". "So he marries her. Now we all like this girl. She's a nice girl. Your uncle likes it in Lima. Business is doing well. Everything is fine, right?" "Okay." "Not okay. See what happens. He moves down there, gets a house. Kitty lets her sister move in. This sister has no job, been out of school for two months and has no job, no boyfriend, no car. She asks for a job at the shop. Your uncle tells her it is a one man business." "She burn down his shop or something?" "Just wait. I'm gonna teach you subtlety. You know what subtlety is?" "Yes." "First day of work, the sister comes in with a friend, orders a coke and a fortune scroll, the friend leaves, she stays. One hour, two hours, all day she's standing at the counter making small talk, commenting on TV stuff, telling customers their kids are cute, things like this. Whatever. “ “Because she didn’t get the job?” “No, because she is stupid and has nothing better to do. Anyway, the opening goes good. Big celebration in the basement. Fine. Now the second day, this sister -" "Donna." "What Donna." "The sister. Her name is Donna." "Okay, Donna." "She's cool." "You think she's cool because she acts your age. But she's not your age. Now the second day she comes in stoned or something and doesn't order anything, not even a coke. She's by herself, standing there, talking your uncle's ears off, and he's laughing and being nice, starting to wonder if this is going to be an everyday thing. So now a friend comes in, a new friend, an important man in Lima, who your uncle likes and respects, and they do business. He places a big order. They have a valuable conversation and shake hands. Now listen good." "I'm listening." "I know you're listening. Listen good. On the way out of the shop, this sister, cool Donna, she asks the man for a cigarette." "...Okay." "Okay? You think that's okay?" "She burn down the shop or something?" "No. He didn't give her a cigarette. See you kids always need impact. A valuable conversation and a handshake doesn't have enough impact. Begging customers for cigarettes has no impact. Well the rest of the day she's following people outside, asking every other person for a fucking cigarette. Coming back and being friendly. Your uncle is friendly back – he doesn't know what to do. Boys come in and try to get a handjob. All day it’s like highschool cafeteria in there. He says something to his wife. To Kitty. And now he's in big trouble. Because Serena, Kitty, she talks to the sister. The sister don't want to hear it. Brings all kinds of old stuff into it. Things your uncle doesn't have anything to with. But his whole life is on loan from this girl's father." "Kitty's dad is some kind of shark huh?" "See. Again with impact. No he is just a business man. Don't you see the subtleties at play here? These two girls go at it all night. The sister is crying, blaming things, saying sorry, talking about killing herself. Talking crazy. And that’s just the two sisters. Who knows what she tells the muchachos about her brother in law. Maybe one day money starts disappearing or windows breaking." "Shit." "Yeah shit. And there's little things. Like, the only bathroom is in the bedroom, so she's in and out of their room all night, apologizing, crying in the bathroom, asking to use the cellphone, yelling into the cellphone. Your uncle gets fed up in the morning over I don't know, some food or something, and now he's the bad guy. That’s only day three. On day four these sisters start talking, and start wondering, you know, because they never fought like this. Super Cool Donna was a good girl, just had some bad luck. Just needs to get on her feet. Now this Victor fellow comes down from Ecuador, won’t help, gets all uppity on her, has the sisters fighting. And your aunt Serena she don't know which way is up." "Uncle Victor's way is up. Where the money is is up" "Their father has the real money. Sometimes I bet Victor feels like his way is down." "So what's the point? He coming back to Quito?" "No. There is no point. But that's the point. “…” "What if I told you this girl Donna felt slighted by her family all her life, maybe that they'd played favorites with your aunt Kitty?" "Well," "Or that the reason they slighted her is some shit she pulled when she was a kid. “I don’t know.” “Or that it turns out she hadn't really pulled any shit that day, but was just covering for your aunt Kitty?" "How do you know?" "I don't know. I made those last three things up, but that's the point. There is no point. Life is a crazy goddam circle. No up or down. No time to talk about these things until they hit you on the fucking head. Its a fucking wheel Jose, all in flux, and we just got to keep it moving. You like stories that end like that?" "Like what?" "With no point except that there is no point." "Not really." "Well. You better start liking stories like that.

There was a pile of snowmen- eight to be exact. Summer was coming- that was a fact. The snowman on the top heard a "Pop!"- it melted straight away. The next snowman flopped to the ground and melted straight away. The snowman after that, well, just melted straight away. The next snowman fussed and fussed about being on top, and at that very moment he melted. Now old Johnny was on top. He was pretty cheerful to melt away, because the person who made him was at an explosives factory. Now old Bonnie was on top, just laying there, waiting to melt. She actually didn't melt until next winter. The other two snowmen were puzzled- "Why didn't she melt in the summer? And why did she melt in the winter?" Those two snowmen built six more snowmen, and laid them right on top.

Enter the Lion I came from a small northern village called Irozka, it suffers a terrible winter eight out of the 12 months. I had been born the fifth son, but by my ninth year only three of us remained. The winter is harsh and claims many lives, but gives birth to the most beautiful creatures of the night. As a child, I watched them dance in the skies filling the world with green and purple light, swirling through the darkness beneath the stars. Sometimes I’d imagine them as wolves chasing one another, or the motherland gracing us. She’d outstretch her arms, holding us in her embrace. I felt so at peace watching the misty night sky, with the lights flitting gently, adorning our banal world with life. My brothers and I looked after one another in the best way we could. Petrov, the oldest had the least-desired responsibility of keeping watch of us. At times when food was scarce, he'd give up his meals to satiate our own hunger. I always felt a surge of regret as I ate in front of his empty plate. I regularly assumed that he held a secret contempt towards me for taking what was rightfully his, but he never voiced it. The people that lived there were as harsh as the land. They took what they wanted and defended what they needed to keep. It wasn’t odd to see death spilled on the white earth every now and then, and in consequence more blood would be splattered as equal payment. But our people never feared death, we welcomed it like an old friend. A rejoiced reunion looked upon as a high honor. My brothers were no exception. I had watched them leave to hunt the migratory reindeer, layered in their past victories they carried spears and arrows in hand. Their figures disappeared into a whirlwind of our achromatic world, sweeping away their traces like it had my other two brothers. Sometimes I would stop to imagine what it would’ve been like to have them here again. But then I think of Petrov and how many more times he would have to starve for his younger brothers. Selfishly, I’d think it would be for the better if things just remained as they were. When they returned through the white veil of winter, I could see crimson enveloping their fur coats. I rushed out to meet them only to find Petrov carrying my second brother, Mikhail on his back. The blood bubbled from the seared bits of fur and flesh. The reindeer they tried to slay had caught Mikhail in the side with its antlers and tore through his abdomen. His raspy breath grew shallower and his crystal blue eyes closed for the last time. That is where Mikhail said his farewell and joined in the glory of our ancestors. Petrov carried Mikhail to our dead grounds, where he’d forever rest. I felt grief and remorse flood over me, but I couldn’t show it. We aren’t allowed to. I looked to Petrov for guidance, but all he had was a blank stare for the empty night sky. The lights abandoned us to this darkened memory. “Liev,” Petrov called out with a stern voice, “Mikhail is with the whole now, do not feel sad but feel strong. We are all but part of one being, the time we spend here is nothing compared to the motherland. Be proud of Mikhail like you will be proud of me or I will be proud of you when the time comes.” He placed his large, pale hand on my head and ruffled up my auburn hair. “We must be strong. It is in our blood.” Petrov Petrov was a very quiet strong boy, wiser than his age and understanding. Like the people of Irozka, he was born of snow and ice. He had a rugged square face with a sharp jaw line, a prominent chin and deep set eyes that radiated an icy-blue of the wilderness. His eyebrows formed a slight permanent scowl that hid beneath his messy ash blonde hair. He possessed a raised, angular nose with a slight upturned tip and flushed cheeks with pink, thick lips. He stood at 6’3” and had a long lean appearance with muscular arms and shoulders from years of archery. It was rare to see him smile or laugh, so it was always difficult to discern whether or not he was happy or constantly angry. But he had a kind heart, which was considered a weakness among his people. They cursed him for staying behind with his brothers, they cursed him for wasting his talents, and they cursed him for harboring the town demon. Petrov’s youngest brother, Liev, had an aberrant appearance with his auburn hair and grey eyes. With difference comes division, and the town had left them secluded. But this wasn’t the only reason. Petrov’s father owed a multitude of debt, and ultimately paid with the price of death. Petrov never cared about his father, he was almost grateful that the butcher took his head. His father constantly targeted him because he was the oldest, and he had to face the punishments for the rest of his brothers. He didn’t care about the beatings, but what he did care about was not being able to fight back. It was unethical to raise a fist towards your origins and all Petrov could do was take the beating and continue in his own life. His mother was very distant from them all, she would at times mutter to herself as if she was speaking to another, but she’d remain in solitude. After she gave birth to Liev, she had completely given up. She no longer ate her meals, got out of bed, and at times, Petrov and his brothers could hear her sobbing echo through their desolate home. Until the day she left to join the motherland through rope in the shape of a noose. But Petrov bore through and by the time he had to provide, he only had two other mouths to feed. He and Mikhail were a year apart, they were good friends but complete opposites. While Mikhail laughed and joked, Petrov would remain introversive. Mikhail never thought an action through while Petrov would’ve seen three scenarios before he decided against them and found a new path. At times this would frustrate Petrov, and at times Petrov would upset Mikhail with his calm demeanor, but they were so different that they worked well with each other. Filling in where the other lacked. However, Petrov and Liev held a very rigid relationship. Liev was nine years younger than him and spent much of his time to himself. He had been called names and cursed at since the day he was born, and Petrov felt sorry for his younger brother. But he was also perturbed by Liev’s unnatural appearance, all those born in Irozka resembled Petrov and Mikhail. They were born of the ice and snow, but what was Liev born from? Mikhail voiced very clearly that they should take Liev out and “lose” him, but Petrov immediately rejected the idea. “He is blood of our blood, we have a duty to raise him.” The Men in White Cloaks I watched the light peek through from behind the curtains, illuminating the hovering specks of dust. Each a separate entity of one great being, like we were. It was still early, the sun had greeted the moon and the night as they drifted away in the distance. As I propped myself onto one arm, still groggy with sleep, I could feel my stiff limbs bend and crack from the cold. Where was Petrov? The spot next to me was empty, and as I looked to my left, an ache surged through my chest. Mikhail was gone, and sometimes I would still feel like he’d be there to laugh and joke. But I had to remind myself that he had joined the whole. “Petrov?” I called out. No reply was given, but the echo of my voice. I slipped on my woolen socks and pulled the blanket over behind me as I sped towards the entrance. A howling wind surged through my home when I pulled back the door, only to see men in white cloaks, and there, kneeling before them, was my brother. “Petrov!” I called out, but he couldn’t hear me through the wailing wind. The snow picked up and began to shroud them. I took a step out to my brother and screamed for him, adrenaline rushed through my veins and I began to run towards him. The snow grasped my legs, held me captive when I tried to see what the men in white cloaks were doing. In a brief moment of clarity, I saw red, trickling through the snow beneath Petrov. He had been hurt! I was in a frenzy, trying to get to him, trying to save him. But the closer I got, the closer I was able to see what they were doing to Petrov. The man he was kneeling before held up a small gun to his forehead, he screamed a foreign language and Petrov remained silent. “Petrov!” I called out again, and this time he heard me. His eyes widened with fear, and the only words I could distinguish from his lips were, “run.” That is when the man pulled the trigger, and bits of my brother’s head exploded behind him. There he fell as a limp body, staining the snow with red. Heat surged through me as I was brimming with rage. I belted out a cry that was almost inhuman and sprinted towards them, with the intent to kill. I tackled the man that shot my brother and we both tumbled into the soft snow. I could feel his hits, but they presented no pain. A flurry of movements passed until I realized I had a solid view of what was visible to me. I sunk my teeth into his ear until I tasted the awful amount of iron, but I didn’t let go. Not until it I felt it squish between my teeth and detach from him. I heard howls of pain from my enemy until a spasm of agony ached through my head, then a cold, cold darkness.

Hello All: I'm looking for general feedback. Are there confusing, boring, or awkward passages? Are the characters compelling? Are there scenes that I should decompact? I haven't written much prose, and all the help would be appreciated and reciprocated. A Lost Week by Andrew Milewski Avery pulled his comforter tight. The comforter, wrapping around his shoulder, hugged his ears with warmth. His naked ankles shook. His toe joints hardened. In his primordial consciousness, Avery bent his knees and pulled into himself. He thought, though not in words. His hands meandered over his knees, up his fat, hairy thighs that had a cover of goose bumps and red-eyed pimples. There was a need to urinate, and Avery’s hands pushed the tips of his fingers against the base of his penis. It swelled. At that moment, the warm light was pushing through the venetian blinds, and a white iphone on the floor was counting its last minutes before it would start up with Vivaldi’s Autumn. Avery crooked his spine to the left. He reached for his phone, and finding it just out of reach, collapsed and gave in to his imagination. He thought of Amelia, the girl in his art history class. She had pale cheeks and a thick-lipped smile. She must also have breasts with deep crimson areolas. The boy tented the bed sheets between his bent knees. The violin began to pull. There was a stinging wetness dripping down from Avery’s fingers. Seventy seconds. The song died down. With winded inhales, he breathed deep and ugly. Only when the strings began again did the boy move towards the sink at the other end of his dorm. “Let there be light,” he said. He turned his cheek so that the void could nod approvingly. Yes, that was a funny reference. He hit the switch; his eyes recoiled from the pain first light brings. Avery washed his hands, and he started the shower in the connecting room. In the shower, each drop of water was a small needle. Amelia came back, and Avery resigned her to an unimportant lust. This unimportance dominated his mind, the way a tragedy dominates its victim. The water continued its assault, and the boy foamed the shampoo in his hand. His mind rambled, and he applied the soapy water to his hair. Avery thought of clever things to say to Amelia. Perhaps, he would put his macbook in front of his head. I’m a surrealist painting, he might say. Water ran down his shaggy Jew fro, over the back of his thighs, kissing his Achilles’ tendon goodbye. Cici n’est pas un joke. “I’m a biology/ psychology, double major,” he might say. “I study the body and the soul.” Avery chuckled as he pulled the three-blade razor across his chin. Then blood, small stinging blood. A patch of shadow missed under the cheek. Avery didn’t invent this witticism about the body and the soul. His thesis advisor, the grey bearded Platonist had squandered the words. Avery didn’t like to think he was stealing the joke, just being ecological. Avery stepped out of the white-tiled bathroom and got ready for the day. This was Monday. On Tuesday, Avery had forgotten to close his blinds, and the sun marched in wearing the grey uniform of a rainy day. Then Vivaldi started. He failed to hear that Avery’s abnormal psychology class was not until two. The dead composer played on, brash and boxy. Seventy seconds. Avery slid his hand under his bed shirt, and stroked the pitiable chest hair that grew in disconnected brambles. In minutes, his round shoulders hunched forward, and Avery twisted his neck and bent it toward the computer. There was a browser with three tabs: “pennsylvania casual encounters cl…”, “Existentialism – Wikipedia,…”, “Facebook”. Center sky now, the sun refracted itself in the apartment windows. Avery spent the next several hours looking at funny images overlaid with text, and listening to thirty-second sound bites, and reading theological internet forums about whether or not there was a god. To get to the bank just down the hill from his dorm, Avery pulled out his red and white bicycle. It was a cheap fixed-gear rider, too small really for Avery’s mountain-like body. There was a crunch to the plane tree leaves no one ever bothered to rake together. Avery’s bicycle ran over their green bodies and smashed them against the broken cement sidewalk. The plane leaves and the way the wind stung his eyes were the only things Avery’s mind could grab. Before he knew it, he was downtown, at the bank, on his bike, and back to the university student center, ordering a Starbuck’s coffee, sitting down at an office desk. The administrative assistant, had reminded him that the work-study check was issued yesterday. “You should cash it before five-thirty,” she said. “I got it yesterday,” He replied. He added, “thanks”. Then, a pot-bellied Jesuit with a grey forked bird and think smoky glasses came out. Avery did not know his name; he was the new vice president of student ministries. The Jesuit laughed. He said Avery’s name as a way to get the boy’s attention. “I need you to make sixty copies of this passage for tonight’s bible study,” he said. “Sure,” Avery said. Between the cacophony of the copier, Avery heard the Jesuit strumming his guitar. When Avery brought the papers into the Jesuit, Avery focused on the inane details of his office: the mounted sea-bass, the byzantine icon, stacks of thick red liturgy books. The Jesuit didn’t have his collar on, and his guitar rested awkward against his thick, hairy arms. He strummed the chords to the Beatles “Come Together”. The Jesuit looked up. He stopped on what would have been the word “monkey-finger”. Avery said, “I’ve been thinking of joining the Jesuits”. It was a stupid thing to say, and, before he had said it, Avery regretted the words. The Jesuit let out a long word, as if a teakettle were letting out steam. “Rea-a-ally-y”. And then a question mark. And then an under breath chuckle. “Well we can talk about it,” the Jesuit said. He leaned his guitar to the side of his desk and opened a meeting book. “How does Thursday work? Eleven a.m.?” “Sure”. “Good”. Avery was not there, and his words were not his own. When on Wednesday Avery woke up and was in the shower before Vivaldi, he was elated. Avery emerged from his shower shaking the moisture from his body and leaving pools of dirty water around his room. He sat undressed at his computer, erased his laptop’s internet history, and deleted a folder on his desktop titled “new folder”, which had been filled with his up-to-then favorite dirty and obscene files. He had not known what he’d been thinking. “I will go to the meeting tomorrow,” he said. He emphasized the word “will”. Then he said, “and I will see if I can get something going with Amelia”. Avery confessed the plan to woo Amelia. Standing in the take-out pizza place, in front of his friends, he had actually used the word “woo”. He got the idea from watching “Much Ado” that morning, as he got ready for the day. It was the version with Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branagh, and though Avery’s friends didn’t know his allusion, they played along. “Oh, yonder virgin needth some courage I think,” said the tall friend with the ginger beard. He laughed afterword, shaking the case of Blue Moon between his arms. “Verily,” said Avery, who handed money to the woman at the counter. A shorter friend then pushed in front of the beer case. “Well, best of luck tomorrow, dude. Is she mildly attractive,” the friend asked. “Oh the mildest,” Avery replied. “But I’ll see if she has a vaguely attractive friend for you”. “Well,” the short friend replied,” that’s tomorrow. Tonight, let’s game. Wanna Lol?” “Sure”, Avery replied, “But I can’t stay up too late. Got a meeting in the a.m.” What preceded Thursday morning could be seen in empty pizza boxes and the scattered Blue Moon bottles. The bottles reflected a brown light into Avery’s eyes. Although Avery was conscious, he waited for the alarm. One minute, maybe five. Maybe twenty. Until he didn’t play. Where was Vivaldi? He was dead. Avery’s white iPhone smiled, a dark black smile. Avery pushed the screen, harder and harder. There was nothing. Moving to the MacBook didn’t help, as that was also dead. After several long undetermined periods of time, the phone was plugged in. It came on and the black screen flashed with light, stating 10:55. No way to get to the Jesuit’s office, and Avery was glad. Avery was not glad that he had to explain his absence. He thought about his excuse, as he scanned through pornographic websites featuring college girls, Asian babes, and naughty shemales. I’ll tell the truth, Avery thought. The truth is the best lie. Skipping my psychology class. Next one is at three. Amelia will be there. I’ve got to do this. Avery wasted his time by lifting a ten-pound weight around and listening to an audiobook, a poor, static filled rendition of Moby Dick. “Hitherto, in descriptively treating of the Sperm Whale, I have chiefly dwelt upon the marvels of his outer aspect; or separately and in detail upon his outer aspect,” the narrator read and continued. The sun was over the hills from just outside Hyland Hall. Avery could feel evening’s coolness in his hardened fingers. He thought about the ways he could fuck up, repeated the words to make sure they were right: “Amelia, a couple of my friends are going to this house tonight.” As he said the words, Avery loosened and retightened the cap on his one-liter bottle of Diet Coke. The elevator was taking forever, and Avery watched as the red 4 became a 3, and a 2. Before it became a 1, Amelia was standing beside him. She had headphones connected to her Android. Avery could hear the bass of her music. She didn’t look at him, and he continued to move his eyes so as not to stay on her. In the elevator, she removed her headphones. “Hey,” Avery began. “Hey back,” Amelia said. “What do you think about the midterms,” Avery asked. “Piece of cake, just re-watch Metropolis and make sure you know the Futurists,” Amelia said, and she went on “But hey! Do you know when the trip to MoMa is?” “Oh, not ‘til next month. I can remind you on Facebook,” Avery said, “Actually, I was think--” “Great! What’s your name?” Amelia asked. She had her Android out and was about to add him. Avery’s loud voice dropped. “Oh…” Avery said, “Don’t worry about it, I’ll add you.” “Great, I’m Amelia Brooks”. “I know,” Avery said. Later that night, Avery did not go out. He texted his friends with: “didn’t work.. didnt even no my name”. The short one responded: “did u ask her out tho”. Avery did not respond, nor did he add Amelia Brooks on Facebook. Rather, he glared at her Facebook and thought that not adding her was a punishment. He knew that it wasn’t, that she wouldn’t even notice, but he liked to think that. Avery had a bottle of Blue Moon in his right hand. He drank hard from it and slammed it down to show himself that he was angry. His email flashed one new message, which read. “Father Kevin Montgomery. S. J. … Missed Our Meeting Today… and delete”, Avery said. Avery opened a new tab to Craigslist, turned to casual encounters, where people go to find anonymous sexual partners. Though Avery never dared reply to someone’s posting, tonight he had the rare mixture of self-pity and intoxication, which was just enough to do something stupid. One user posted “T girl wants someone to play”. Inside the posting were the words “generous men only”, and Avery knew what that meant. Friday afternoon, after class, Avery waited outside the mall parking lot. He leaned coolly against the stair railing and ran clammy hands over the bills. Fifty. One hundred. One fifty. Two. Two fifty. Two fifty for an hour. Avery feared he wouldn’t need nearly that long. Every passer-by could be this transsexual hooker. Although the email had an attachment, her photograph was too dark, probably taken on a cheap camera. “Avery,” the prostitute said, an odd timbre in her voice. They walked along the broken city sidewalks, Avery crushing the weeds that grew in cracks. “I’ve never done this before,” Avery said. “That’s okay”, she said, “You a college student?” “Yeah.” “I finished four years ago,” she smiled, “I couldn’t find a job. The joys of being a philosophy major,” the prostitute said. “Avery smiled back. “I’m a psychology/biology double major. I study the body and the soul.” The couple entered the small hotel room. A brown, out-of-fashion air conditioner droned in the background. This was the Red Carpet Inn, and Avery remembered that a friend Avery had made at church camp called it “the smelly, Indian hotel”. Avery smiled nervously. The hooker smiled back. With a confident gesture, she directed him to a chair on the opposite side of the room. The prostitute turned her back and unbuttoned her striped blouse, which fell to the floor and revealed a black bra. Avery tapped the arms of the chair with the tips of his finger. Walking over to the chair, the prostitute bent down. Avery moved his clumsy hands up and down her waist. He closed his eyes and felt her large hands undo his jeans and move into his boxers. He opened his eyes and saw that her closed eyes. She used her mouth to open his, while first moving her fingers up and down the length of Avery’s penis. Avery choked a little as he began to speak, the prostitute’s bottom lip in between his. “I-- I forgot to give you the money,” he said. “No you didn’t,” she said. “Are you sure,” he said, grabbing her hand to stop the stroking. Too late. The prostitute raised the hand and closed her fingers around the globule of semen. I’m sorry was the only thing Avery knew to say. “Don’t worry,” she said and went to wash it in the bathroom sink. Avery looked at her walk away. Her back was an ugly pale, spotted with freckles. Deep lines of red ran where her bra had clutched too tight. As she washed, her elbows bent her hoary arms into half diamonds. The diamonds covered her back from which inky trees sprung up. They lowered their roots to the base of her waist, and Italian letters rested above the leaves and tattoo branches. The prostitute turned back around and lay on the bed next to Avery. “What’s on your back”,” Avery asked. She said, in perfect Italian, “It says, ‘Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, ché la diritta via era smarrita’.” “What’s it mean,” Avery asked. “It’s from Dante”, she said, “Look it up.” She closed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. Avery sighed. “Uhg! At least it’s Saturday tomorrow,” the prostitute said. “The Jewish Sabbath. A new week,” Avery said. “Are you Jewish,” she asked. “My grandmother is,” Avery replied.

Once upon a time, there lived a girl. She was a mousy looking girl who wore rags of grey and blue. Her peers liked to tease her because of that (and other things, too). She walked home alone, her only company the voices in her head, mocking her. They were loud, an obnoxious din, and certainly unwelcome. The girl could do nothing to make them go away. She didnt like the voices, though they were her only company. People often told her to perk up a little, but the girl couldnt, or maybe she just wouldnt. She couldnt understand why it was important for them to see her ''perk up''. They never noticed her, except sometimes to offer advice on how to be like them - perky and carefree. Sometimes the girl thought about why she felt so different from the society around her. Life for her was like being at a party she wasnt invited to, and she didnt know how she came to be at this party. The more the girl thought about this, the more she got lost amidst her thoughts. The only escape from this maze was to slash and cut her way out. The day she smiled was a special day indeed! In fact, on that particular day, she smiled three times. Once, when she woke up in the morning knowing it was her last. Twice, when nobody was there to barge in, and ruin it for her. Lastly, when they found her.

"I have a girl over that's pretty important to me," he smugly said to his friend over the phone. We had met years before, but it was this night, New Years eve, that I was drunk enough to wiggle into this boys bed. I say boy despite his age for obvious reasons. It wasn't that he kissed like a high school freshman or the fact that he was still in boxers instead of boxer briefs. No, it was that he had no job, called himself a musician and sold weed for a living. To say this was my first one night stand with this particular breed would be a bold faced lie. In fact, this was my third mutt in a month. I was 27, newly single after a series of failed relationships over a span of 2 years. I had thought this urge to jump anything with a penis was left behind with my 25 year old self. Fortunately, it had not. So here I was, in this boys bed as he acted (poorly) to be completely smittened by me. This was clearly an act he used on a regular basis. Even though I had made it very clear I was only trying to buy a ride for the evening, he kept trying to sell me his sweet nothings. I just giggled silently as I repeatedly got myself off on him. As long as I got what I came for, I didn't care what came out of this guys mouth. By morning, I was all set to go home and sleep off the hangover I had definitely earned. "Do you want to watch something?" he asked. The tv was on for a good 5 minutes. It was time for me to make my escape. We went through the obvious motions of the dreaded morning after. He said I could stay. I said I had to go. He asked for my number. He gave me his. And then he kissed me while literally pushing me out the door. By no means was I hurt by this gesture. I was actually amused. As I got in my car, I thought to myself, "I should send him a thank you card." Later that day, I did. It was sent straight from my phone to his. It read so very bluntly, "I kinda have a crush on you." Just a little ego boost for my most recent one hit wonder.

my people*.

Just before 5 PM on Friday, Ray stands alone on the third floor to the company’s nearly empty office building. He’s facing a familiar beeping metal door, his lower lip snug between his teeth. There’s gum in his mouth but he keeps it still, straining to put on what he hopes to be a charming composure. If he can time his exit just right, he’s sure he can run into the gorgeous new girl who had eyed him more than once today. On the second floor, Rachel steps inside the elevator and pushes the button labeled "4". She grips her smartphone and winces as the elevator starts to climb. Whether this feeling is from the elevator or from the thought of meeting the guy who returned almost all her curious glances today, she can’t decide. By the time she reaches the third floor she's smiling and shaking her head, having convinced herself there's little chance of meeting him. Ray notices the digital number flick to “2” and then “3”. Anticipation overrides his clarity of thought and the gum starts bouncing between his teeth without permission. He watches the crack in the door widen to reveal what he’s been hoping to see. She appears behind the door smiling at him, focusing on showing off the large dimples in her cheeks. Ray notices she had been smiling before the door opened. He’s standing there stunned for a second, until he remembers what his face must look like and immediately bites down on the corner of his lip. He grins and joins Rachel inside to stand beside her. He has her all to himself for one floor. He retrieves more of his gum from his pants pocket, gesturing for her to take a piece. Rachel smiles again, “How’d you know” and reaches toward his hand. The moment their hands touch, a static shock causes Ray to drop the gum on the floor between them. “Shit” Ray blurts. They both stand grinning at each other for a second then both look down at the gum on the floor. Unaware of each other for a just a moment they both lean forward to grab the gum. Their heads collide painfully hard, causing them to fall down and land on the floor opposite each other. With one hand each on their heads, they sit staring wide-eyed at each other with mirrored expressions of relief and excitement.

One moment it was not there, and the next moment it was. A hole in the world. It was not particularly remarkable, as holes go. Those well versed in the aesthetics of holes would tell you that, aside from the circumstances of its appearance and seemingly endless depth, it was a terribly boring one. Twenty feet across on all sides, a perfect circle, minding its own business, engulfing the road upon which it had materialized. Now had this hole sprung up in, say, the middle of a forest, it might have gone unnoticed, but Brand-burg Street was well worn, at least in comparison to other lonesome paths woven like spiderwebs across the Berkshire Mountains. Someone was bound to come across the mysterious gap at some point – it was just a stroke of extraordinarily bad luck that it happened to be Mark Witherspoon, a local barkeep who had lingered a bit too long at his workplace, and was now headed home in a half-drunken, half-slumbering stupor. It was around 4 am on March 18th, 1977 that Mark Witherspoon would completely disappear off the face of the planet. Being the bartender at a rather popular local venue, Mark's sudden absence from the community did not go unnoticed. It didn't take long for someone to come across the hole after retracing his steps from the night before. Mark was nowhere to be found, and tire skids adorned the road immediately adjacent to the hole – his fate seemed obvious. Normally in the case of a missing person the community of Whelford would deal with the issue on its own, but this was a rather unorthodox situation. Everyone knew where Mark had gone, but nobody wanted to go after him. Sheriff Christopher Raymond of the Whelford Police Department was not a man to believe in the supernatural. While he had come across his fair share of unexplainable events in his time, he was determined to attempt to keep himself grounded in reality. His job required that he stay sensible in a region where rationale and reason were still at a premium, even in this apparently advanced era of video cassettes and color television. He hadn’t responded to any UFO calls in a while - not like there was anything better to do, but one can only retain their dignity for so long when half of their job is convincing a local heroin addict that the neighbor’s boat is not, in fact, a flying saucer. And yet, here he was, driving yet again to the outskirts of the outskirts, en route to investigate claims of a hole which had apparently swallowed a local bartender on his drive home. Christopher would be lying if he were to say he didn’t feel a bit foolish, but the part of his job that didn't involve ghost hunting had been at least, for the last few months, strictly paperwork. As far as he was concerned, Cunningham Mine was his last real assignment, and that was months ago. It was about time for Christopher to drag himself out of his perpetual state of boredom. After all – this couldn’t really be happening again, could it? When Christopher arrived at the soon to be crime scene, his surprise at the actual existence of a hole was exceeded by the complete lack of human life surrounding it. The population of Whelford was not renowned for its overwhelming sense of community, but he had figured that an event such as this would at the very least provide prey for the gossipy vultures that inhabited the west side of town. He slowly raised himself out of the cruiser, gaze fixated on the impossible truth before him which became realer and realer by the second. The baffled officer walked towards the hole with apprehension. This clearly wasn't an illusion, nor some kind of elaborate hoax. As this realization drilled its way further and further into his head, so did his terror begin to rise. Impossible. He peered into the hole, then jolted away. Not again. A quick flashlight inspection revealed that the pit was seemingly bottomless. Surely its depths contained a terminus, but not a clearly visible one. The walls of the hole were not laden with any Earthen mineral, but were instead held in the clutches of a thick, black ooze, soundlessly bubbling and squirming like a thousand snakes, ensnared in a constantly thrashing net. Though he had initially approached his self-imposed task with a gung-ho attitude, this officer wasn't stupid. It was time to back away and hand this over to the professionals. But where in the world was he going to find an expert in this field? Life was not a Lovecraft novel, where one could find a professor with a doctorate in Cosmic Horror from Beyond Reality conveniently residing just down the street. Christopher's head cleared and his stomach began churning. It couldn't be back, it just couldn't. He summoned a reserve of mental fortitude he thought had been lost on that terrible day almost three months prior. This wasn't the time to lose one's cool. Despite its foreboding and somehow macabre nature, this was still, strictly speaking, a hole. The logistics of the thing were unimportant at the moment. This being a hole, it would make sense that venturing into its depths would reveal its secrets. Sure, it was uncharted territory. Sure, the goo on its walls was not looking any more inviting as time went by. But extreme conditions were not foreign to Christopher. He kept telling himself that Cunningham Mine was in the past, but that was becoming increasingly difficult to believe. Especially when those horrible events seemed to be taking shape in front of him once more. December 25th, 1976. 11:00 PM. Christmas was winding down for most residents of Whelford. For its burgeoning police department however, the night was just beginning. A call had been received reporting flashing lights and loud noises coming from the abandoned coal mine, which lay just inside the border separating Whelford from the neighboring hamlets. The captain at the time, John Ford, had driven out to investigate along with another officer, anticipating nothing more than a group of teenagers out on a dare. Christopher was not included amongst the original dispatch, though he wished he had been. Most of his coworkers would've relished a day off on Christmas, but for the newly recruited officer, what should've been a day of merriment and celebration had, as per usual, turned into an excuse for his family to rag him out for his life choices. “Why would you ever leave Boston for this cow town? Why did you marry that Mexican whore? Why haven't you and the whore given me a grandchild?” They never came to visit of course. It was a matter of principle for the elder statesmen of the Raymond family to avoid the perceived filth of Whelford. The lack of a physical presence from the parents didn't make the obligatory Christmas phone call any less insufferable. The worst part of it was that his family was correct in at least one of their assumptions. Why had he up and left a promising position in a big city organization for a tiny no-name town out west? His wife's status as a Mexican citizen didn't bother him as much, and he was in no hurry to produce an heir to the now “corrupted” Raymond line, but the initial question still gave him pause. So when Christopher's phone rang at 11:20 PM, with a frantic sounding sergeant practically begging him to drive down to the office for briefing, it was less of an unpleasant interruption and more of a godsend. 30 minutes later, Acting Captain Christopher Raymond was on the scene at Cunningham Mine. Everything was shaping up very conveniently for him to play hero. Both members of the original investigative team sent to the mine had completely lost contact with the outside world. The new recruits from Worcester and Boston were not arriving for another few days. And out of all available field agents, he had been summoned to follow up on this case. As he approached the mine, Christopher knew he had to force the uncomfortable sense that this was all too good to be true out of his brain. He was finally getting a chance to prove himself! An opportunity to get his foot in the door in this still foreign environment! Still, “that feeling” remained. The feeling that despite everything falling into alignment, something was off. It was a sort of paranoia that was a key tool in any effective policeman's belt, yet it was especially pronounced for this occasion. “No time to worry now.” The officer's thoughts dug their way through his brain and out his mouth for the first time in a very long while. He was quite correct in his assumption. The gaping maw of the mineshaft awaited him.

His last comrades died twenty years ago; before we became an independent country and long before Ivan’s grandson put mobile phone in his shaking hands, and said "Now you can call me wherever you are." They died years before that same pub banned smoking and the new owner hired girls from town who knew nothing about life. Men began to sit on the stone stairs in front of the closed school, with sports magazines and a bottle of wine in their old hands. From that spot, they could see under the skirts better, but couldn’t watch football. That’s why they sometimes winked to the small ones, who ran to peek through the windows and reported the results. After funeral, Ivan’s mistress, whom he regularly visited at evenings and who always waited him with chocolate pancakes and beer, invited children to her home. It was a little cosy house, full of plants, books and old photographs, filled with unfamiliar sweet smell. “This is the last time I’m making pancakes,” she said, and to make this sure, she did an enormous lot of them. Boys’ eyes were fixed on the pan, girls rubbed hands against their thighs under the table, their mouths open. It was a friendly August and they were wearing their parents’ clothes. Boys put on oversized shirts and shoes so big that they had troubles climbing up the stairs. Girls were examining each others’ long light linen dresses—it made them think about what their mothers where like when they were young; their skin soft and beautiful, their hands not yet affected by dishwashing and rheumatism. Maria, who let her tears fall rhythmically into the pan, set the longest table and blushed shyly as she buttoned up her yellowish blouse, so the hungry looks of excited boys couldn’t watch drops of sweat sliding slowly towards her belly button. She said “Ivan was the biggest tard I’ve ever met,” and tilted the bottle. “The biggest tard,” children repeated together. They stared at her as she took off her shoes and started to sway gently on the terrace that was glowing in bronze color of her curls. Meanwhile, humming under tone and somehow absent, the last of the few mourners returned home to their surprised wives: "Sometimes it just doesn’t feel like having another one.

“AHHHHHHH! Stop you bastards! Jeez dudes, it is so cold. Why?!!!” “Slowly, sir. Take it easy. Do you know where you are?” “Uh, I think I was at a bar in Blomfeld a while ago. I was having a drink with a girl with red hair and alabaster skin. Like milk, or titanium dioxide.” “Alabaster, sir?” “It’s what’s known as contextual understanding, don’t you see? What color is milk?” “White, sir. Unless you’re talking about chocolate milk, of course.” “That’s a fair point. Where’r my pants?” “What’s your name sir?” “Paul. My name is Paul.” “Do you know what day it is?” “Thursday.” “No, sir. It’s Sunday. And you’re in Green Bay.” Then, I saw the lights, pretty blue and flashing reds with a white or two thrown in for good measure. Green Bay. With no pants.

I just started writing this. should I continue? The legend goes like this, a long time ago, there lived a race of people, the Crunials. They looked like us, smelled like us, spoke like us, yet they were nothing like us. No one knew where they came from. Some say they came from beneath, sprung up like vegetables. Others say it was the gods’ wrath. People who believed the latter chose to throw themselves down a cliff for retribution. Stone and sea turned blood red, “cowards” Big daddy called them. “The gods abandoned us long before the crunials appeared. This wasn’t their doing. No, they didn’t care enough to punish us” he said. “Those fucking cowards claimed retribution when all they did was poison our water with their rotting bodies”. No one knows where they came from but everyone knows how to kill them. Drown them in fire. People say we have been fighting this war for thousands of years. They are wrong you see. War ends; this can only be genocide.

So I'm 16 and was assigned a short story assignmentin english to write about a "grotesque character". I was wondering if I could get feedback about anything you notice that could be improved or was overlooked when I edited or even just writing tips... thanks! ~1400 words I apologize for formatting... ** friend.** "*Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art…. It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.*" – C.S. Lewis He trudged through the snow of the harsh Alaskan winter; the snow engulfed the ankles of his black snow boots and went up to his knees. The cold winter chill turned his nose and face red and was beginning to freeze the snow on his hat and gloves. Carrying animal pelts from his recent hunt, 28-year-old Bernard Helmholtz, a fur dealer, heads towards his home to prepare the pelts for sale. As he trudges along through the under the faint moonlit sky in the Alaskan night, he sees one other person in his entire 13-mile trek. The small town of Ketchikan, Alaska is home to several hundred inhabitants who all know Helmholtz as the man who sells pelts in the town. He is a reasonably tall man with shaggy black hair and an unkempt beard that doesn’t connect to his mustache. He has an athletic build with pale, hairy skin and even paler blue eyes. Helmholtz is a timid and quiet man, not only because he is mute, but because he lives alone. He lives in the hills on the outskirts of town and makes little contact with people with the exception of his monthly sales. Living in Ketchikan since birth, Helmholtz is familiar with most members of the town. The people of Ketchikan have little to do with him because no one is able to, or desires to, communicate with him. Helmholtz hasn’t been mute since birth, he stopped speaking in his later adolescent years from intense psychological trauma. Garrity Helmholtz, his father, was an alcoholic and abused Bernard for much of his childhood. Lashing out at Bernard for small offenses, Bernard is often reminded of his childhood by the scars from thick leather belts on his back and arms which he tries to keep hidden. By hiding his scars, he often hides himself. His mother divorced his father and left the family when he was young causing his father to spiral out of control in his own life and into control of Bernard’s life. Bernard never had friends and never received a formal education. The only person he was ever close to was his older half-brother, Winston, who taught him how to read and write as a child. One morning in Bernard’s childhood, his brother was teaching him in the dingy basement of their tiny house when their dad came down to get more whiskey. Garrity was adamantly against having Bernard become literate. Those were the last few minutes Bernard ever saw of his beloved brother. Garrity grabbed him by the collar and dragged him upstairs and all Bernard heard was Winston’s struggles and screams coming from the kitchen. The worst sound Bernard ever heard was the sound of his brother’s murder and watching the viscous blood dribble down the stairs scared him more than anything he would ever witness in his life. Bernard could tolerate his father’s rule with the accompaniment of his brother. When his brother was killed, so was Bernard’s ability to cope. Everyone he loved was gone. When he spoke he was hit. Garrity didn’t want his son to develop a personality so he couldn’t hurt him like his mother had. When he spoke he was punished and when he cried he was beaten. Bernard’s safety stemmed from his silence. The only form of salvation were the small dreams that he wrote down. His writing was how he kept his brother alive. It kept him sane. The dreams he had were the only way for him to escape his miserable existence. But even in his dreams his father was there – beating him. He physically and mentally curled up into a ball and was unable to express his desire for true human connection. What he wanted most in life was for his brother to come back and to forge a meaningful relationship with another human being. Years later, after his father’s death, the mental scarring from his childhood warped his perception of others. Everyone who became close to him either died or couldn’t handle his problems and left. There was no one and Bernard was on his own. As an adult he found a job and stayed in his tiny old home that set him far away from people. He wanted more than anything to be connected with people but the townspeople saw him as a freak. He lived on the outskirts of town and wouldn’t - couldn’t - properly communicate with them. The town doctors assumed he was sick in the head and left him alone. No one knew of his past and no one bothered to find out. Bernard still writes his dreams of being with people down on the little scraps of paper from sale receipts. He looks at them and weeps as he burns them into ashes. As he sits alone in his room he dreams of others. He hears voices. Voices of his mother, the screams of his brother, and the scolding of his father all continue to haunt him. He often looks out the window and sees a person passing only to open to the door to greet them when nothing is there. As he reaches his home in the midst of the night he sets the dead bodies of the animals in his freezer. He pulls one out and sets it on his cold, steel table. He uses the same knife his father used on his brother to gut the animals he hunts. For Bernard it is a release – a release of pent up aggression towards the man who warped his current psychological being. As he carves the animal open and removes the innards he hears a faint knocking at the door. He assumes he is hearing things again and nods his head as he continues to skillfully remove the skin from the animal. He hears a louder rapping at his door. He assumes it must be an animal so he grips his knife harder until his knuckles are white like the ivory handle of the knife. He walks to the door and opens it. Before him stands a girl – a petit young girl with wavy blond hair glistening in the yellow light of his porch lamp. He relaxes his grip and stares as if he is looking into her soul. Wearing his apron splattered with blood and holding a knife, the girl is visibly uncomfortable. She warily asks to use his phone. He nods and steps out of the way of the door and points her in the direction of the phone. She walks over to it and looks visibly distressed from the pungent odor of the animals and taste of fresh blood in the air. With Bernard still staring, she begins to dial the phone. She turns to him after a few minutes and asks if he has another phone because she doesn’t hear any sound. Bernard, awkward and uncomfortable in the presence of another person, shakes his head no from the other room. She asks to stay the night; it’s late and she doesn’t want to go back to town at night by herself. Bernard nods with approval. He puts his apron on the hook and directs her to the couch. He goes upstairs. After several hours pass and the girl is asleep, he puts his apron back on. He walks cautiously through the kitchen and grabs his knife off the table without shifting his eyes away from her. Cupping her mouth, he grabs her and brings her into the kitchen and down the basement stairs. He hurriedly grabs a rope and ties her to a supporting pole in the middle of the dark, chill room. He holds her head steady as he mutes her panicky screams with duct tape. He goes back upstairs and goes to sleep. When he returns the next morning he brings her food. He places the plate of undercooked meat and scrambled eggs in front of her and carefully peels off the tape. The smell of the eggs does little to mask the aroma of dry blood, death, and rust in the basement. She has the same empty look in her eyes that he had after hearing his brother killed.

I went to the strip club and got drunk. Then got sick and puked behind the strip club. The dancers saw me throwing up but they'd seen it all before, but they couldn't hep me, they needed to continue shaking their asses in front of the men smokin' cigarettes. Fascinating... I start waking home and then get sick again. I barf behind a huge tree. Hurling my holy guts away. Swaying in front of the steam rising from my vomit, I realize there is some optimism but it is confused optimism. Singing that sweet song of love and redemption! Oh take me home now! Oh the pain, and the horror of failure! Oh love me when I wake again, sweet life. Suddenly, interrupting my revival, I see it. A cop car sitting there, as a speed trap for law breakers at 2 am. Parked across the street, watching me, easy. "HUH" I thought emphatically, but remained calm. I thought the cop was gonna do me in good this time, and just for barfin' all over the place. I kept walking and kept walking. Hope the cop would remain stationary. The night was closing in on me, and I knew the frost was about to coagulate all the moisture any moment. I rushed the rest of the way home. I enacted scenes of the officer telling me to go to jail with him for throwing up in public. Impossible scenarios that happen sometimes. I make it to my house and then pick up my pipe (her name is Emma) in my hands. I take the green and tear it apart. Then I place it in Emma's bowl. The lighter is flicked and then it happens. I breathe in, and close my eyes once or twice. The flame is pulled over the herb and it roasts then ignites. Pure magic. And now, I sit here typing, not knowing what else to type.

"Why are you here?" She asked wearily. I thought I had come prepared to answer this, I knew I did but when she did actually ask me, I was lost for words. It wasn’t so much the nature of the question or the lack of an answer on my part. It was her. She looked so sad, her eyes void of hope and her voice fatigued. I felt responsible, I had taken this beautiful woman, the love of my life, and broken her piece by piece till she became a shadow of the person I fell in love with. When you fall in love, you never intend to hurt the person you care so much about. You would rather die than see them in any sort of pain. All you want to do is spend every waking second with them. I wanted to be her everything and she was everything I wanted. I never wanted to imagine a world without her. Slowly, but surely the magic wears off. Words and expressions become routine. You become comfortable and begin to take her for granted. The playful quarrels become hour-long screaming matches. Sometimes my actions became louder than my words. You can only take so much and I should’ve done better. I thought I was better than that. I resented who I had become and what I had done, but I always had hope. I just wanted her to forgive me, I wanted us to be us again. I wanted to make her happy and carry on like nothing had come in between us. She prompted me again, “Why are you here?” I saw her eyes tear up, every terrible decision I made or thing I said to her exploded through my head. That’s when I asked myself, what was I doing here? The hardest part of knowing that it was over between us was that no matter what I did, I could never make her feel like she did before. I was only causing her pain and this was a hard truth for me to swallow. I turned around to leave knowing that I would never see her again. I mustered the only three words I saw fit, “I am sorry.” Her face expressed more than her words ever would.

The sound of a door creaking open tore through the calm summer air as a tall man strode stiffly out of the house on the corner of Stallion Drive. Stiff grass crunched under his feet and as he reached the car parked underneath the streetlight at the end of the drive his face was thrown into relief. The man’s beard was overgrown and his hair fell messily in his pale face. He wore a dirty flannel shirt under a military jacket and his slim fit jeans were tucked into his scuffed leather boots. This man was rather dull looking other than his eyes, which flashed deep blue from beneath his thick-framed glasses, and although his eyes were definitely his most defining feature his underfed and pallid appearance were a close second. The man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the key to his beat up red convertible. He unlocked and opened the passenger side and reached for a pill bottle that rested on the seats torn upholstery. Suddenly the man dropped the pill bottle and jumped as though he had heard something and quickly turned around. “Who’s there?” He murmured quietly into the darkness, but there was no answer. The man turned back to his car and began searching for the bottle he had dropped. Just as he located the bottle, which had fallen underneath the glove box, he heard a soft voice come from directly behind him. Startled the man sat bolt upright, hitting his head on the glove box as he came up. “Hi Jamie.” The voice, which belonged to a beautiful young woman, whispered. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders highlighting her thin pretty face and her prominent collarbones. She wore a flowing white dress with a black polka dot print and boots similar to that of the man she was addressing. “Hello Lana” he muttered venomously “don’t call me that.” “Then what do you want me to call you?” Lana said impatiently. “James, my name is James Lana.” James tucked the pill bottle he had clutched in his hand into the pocket of his jacket. “Why are you here” he asked as he slammed the passenger door closed, although it was clear that he didn’t care to know the answer. “Jamie… James, I’m so sorry for everything.” Lana’s voice trembled as she spoke and her knees shook in unison. James said nothing to this apology. “I never meant to hurt you” she continued awkwardly “I really did love you.” “Bullshit” James spat. “You never loved me” his voice was raising in volume now “you’re a heartless bitch, and you’re not sorry.” Lana stood shaking a single tear fell from the corner of her eye unnoticed by James. “Now,” James said with a regained composure, “why are you here?” “I… I’m worried about you Jamie…” she whispered sadly. “Don’t. Fucking. Call me that!” James roared at her, and Lana flinched. James scratched at his beard and rubbed his eyes wearily. When he finally looked back up at Lana his blue eyes were even more vivid as they stood out against bloodshot red. “Everyone’s been worried about you James… Dallon and Tyler said that they haven’t seen you in weeks, they’re worried about you and…” Lana paused as though she was worried about what she needed to say next. “They said you’ve been abusing your prescriptions.” As she said this she walked closer to James’ car as if she was trying to peek inside, but James held out his arm to stop her. “I’m not abusing the pills Lana.” James said firmly. “I need these, if I didn’t take them then I wouldn’t be able to functi-” “What about the alcohol?” Lana interjected hysterically. “You’re mixing the pills with alcohol…” Lana’s eyes were now flooded with tears. “From the smell of it, I can only assume that you’re drinking a lot!” “I drink what I need to feel good, and I can’t give up the medicine unless I want to be in unbearable pain.” James muttered remorsefully. “Don’t worry about me Lana.” James’ voice was now steady and any hint of remorse was now gone. “I’ll be absolutely fine.” Without another word James walked around to the other side of his car, got into the drivers seat, started up the engine and sped away. Lana stood silently shaking in James’ front lawn and just as James turned the corner she let out a furious scream. “I HATE YOU!” Lana yelled through her uncontrollable sobbing. Lana collapsed onto the lawn sobbing even harder than before. She lay there for almost half an hour before she finally got up and walked slowly back to her house. Her white dress was covered in dust from the dry ground and her makeup was smeared across her still beautiful face, her hair was tangled in the back and as she walked she would succumb to violent shaking fits. Back at her home Lana collapsed on the couch sobbing quietly into a pillow as the television flickered before her. A clock began to ring and Lana looked over to the mantle to see that it was 2 o’clock, it had been one hour since James had driven away and Lana still shook with unease. Before she knew it Lana was sitting bolt upright on the couch a phone on the table next to her was blaring next to her ear, she glanced at the clock and saw that it was 4 AM. Lana quickly grabbed the phone off the hook. “James?” she said urgently. “Hello, am I speaking to a miss… Lana Studebaker?” the voice on the other side of the phone was cold and uncaring. “Yes, who is this?” A sinking feeling was setting into the pit of Lana’s stomach. “This is the Eastburn County Police department,” tears began to stream down Lana’s face “We’re calling to inform you about a fatal car crash that occurred this morning at 2:45 Am.” “Yes?” Lana whispered as tears slowly rolled down her cheek.

December 25th, 1976. 11:00 PM. Christmas was winding down for most residents of Whelford. For its burgeoning police department however, the night was just beginning. A call had been received reporting flashing lights and loud noises coming from the abandoned coal mine, which lay just inside the border separating Whelford from the neighboring hamlets. The captain at the time, John Ford, had driven out to investigate along with another officer, anticipating nothing more than a group of teenagers out on a dare. Christopher Raymond was not included amongst the original dispatch, though he wished he had been. Most of his coworkers would've relished a day off on Christmas, but for the newly recruited officer, what should have been a day of merriment and celebration had, as per usual, turned into an excuse for his family to rag him out for his life choices. “Why would you ever leave Boston for this cow town? Why did you marry that Mexican whore? Why haven't you and the whore given me a grandchild?” They never came to visit of course. It was a matter of principle for the elder statesmen of the Raymond family to avoid the perceived filth of Whelford. The lack of a physical presence from the parents didn't make the obligatory Christmas phone call any less insufferable. The worst part of it was that his family was correct in at least one of their assumptions. Why had he up and left a promising position in a big city organization for a tiny no-name town out west? His wife's status as a Mexican citizen didn't bother him as much, and he was in no hurry to produce an heir to the now “corrupted” Raymond line, but the initial question still gave him pause. So when Christopher's phone rang at 11:20 PM, with a frantic sounding sergeant practically begging him to drive down to the office for briefing, it was less of an unpleasant interruption and more of a godsend. 30 minutes later, Acting Captain Christopher Raymond was on the scene at Cunningham Mine. Everything was shaping up very conveniently for him to play hero. Both members of the original investigative team sent to the mine had completely lost contact with the outside world. The new recruits from Worcester and Boston were not arriving for another few days. And out of all available field agents, he had been summoned to follow up on this case. As he approached the mine, Christopher knew he had to force the uncomfortable sense that this was all too good to be true out of his brain. He was finally getting a chance to prove himself! An opportunity to get his foot in the door in this still foreign environment! Still, “that feeling” remained. The feeling that despite everything falling into alignment, something was off. It was a sort of paranoia that was a key tool in any effective policeman's belt, yet it was especially pronounced for this occasion. “No time to worry now.” The officer's thoughts dug their way through his brain and out his mouth for the first time in a very long while. He was quite correct in his assumption. The gaping maw of the mineshaft awaited him. The scene that lay before the new captain as he entered the mine would not have been out of place in a geological freak show. The mineshaft was constantly shifting, wide to narrow, tall to compact. Every now and again a faint rumbling could be heard from somewhere deep below his current position, but this was the only thing he had noticed thus far that was even close to a clue. The more he wandered, the further he threw himself into the guts of the Earth, the more Christopher wanted to return to the surface. He was normally unfazed by the darker places of the world, but Cunningham Mine had a certain bleakness about it which chilled him to the core. Still, there was a job to be done, and he was not going to leave until his compatriots had been found. Taking a left at a rotting support pillar, Christopher called out, “Officer Ford! Officer Shepard!” His request for the missing officers' presence yielded no reply. Right turn. The once-blinding cone of vision provided by the flashlight was now beginning to dim. Onwards, onwards, onwards, down into the endless, twisting halls of the mine. Faster now. “Officer Ford!” A rumble from below. “Officer Shepard!” A scraping noise from behind. Another right. And another scrape. Something was here. Down a slope. Faster. He could hear a squelching sound, closer than before. It was closing in. Christopher whipped around, gun in hand and...nothing. He turned forwards and began to run, then stopped himself. Had to stay calm. He began to explore once again, more prudently this time. Diligence and patience were key in these situations. Left. “Officer Ford!” Still nothing. Christopher rounded a bend and found himself facing a long hallway, a faint light at the end. Finally, a breakthrough. Once again, he began to run. As the light closed in, it became clear that this was the entrance to a room. A safe haven. And if luck was on his side, some answers. The light drew closer and closer, until finally - “Jesus Christ!” Officer Raymond skidded to a stop at the entrance of the room. Something was not quite right.

It was a bizarre sight indeed. Before him lay an abyss, the likes of which he had never seen before. It couldn't have been a dynamite blast from long ago, gone badly wrong – the gap in the ground was almost ethereal in nature. The stone which made up these walls was different than the pale granite that comprised the rest of the mine. This made the smears of bright red strewn across them all the more striking. Pentagrams, pentacles, and far more ancient insignias from a dark, lost age adorned the sides of the artificial cavern. A doorway across the pit led deeper into the mine, but this chasm was clearly an impassable obstacle; a detour would need to be found. As Christopher cautiously wheeled around, taking care not to lose his footing, a muffled cry came from above. He shifted his gaze to the ceiling, and suddenly, the mission was complete. The missing officers had been found. Dangling from the top of the room was a sea of sickly-green pods, each containing the body of an individual who had found himself unlucky enough to venture into this primordial chamber. Hundreds of the pods, mashed together, swayed back and forth in the nonexistent breeze. Christopher could do nothing but stare, paralyzed by consternation, as the abominable container closest to him was ripped open slowly, the material comprising it stretching and straining against itself like a revolting sheet of plastic film. From inside of the shell emerged former Whelford Police Captain John Ford. Initially bewildered by his surroundings, Ford quickly remembered the purpose of his escape. “Raymond! Get the hell out of here! They're-” The ex-captain was cut off by a droning, guttural groan stemming from the hole which he swung perilously over. “Just go! It's too late for us!” As if to prove Ford wrong, dozens of other pods began to open. Unbelievably, the bodies of the miners who had initially stumbled upon this unfortunate room had been perfectly preserved. Their wails echoed through the room and down the hallway - “Help! Help!” “For the love of God, get me out!” “Save us!” Their rapid movements only worsened their situation- one by one the pods dropped like icicles into the abyss. With each falling pod, the hideous noises from the pit became louder, and began to shake the room with increasing measures of violence. Yet still, Christopher was rooted to his spot. An unnatural gust blew in from the hallway behind him, and he was momentarily engulfed in a blinding cloud of smoke. Just as suddenly, the smoke cleared, the cavern was still and silent once more, and from the apex of the room, a booming voice both angelic and demonic, divine and unholy, rang out to address Christopher with three simple words - “Don't look down.” This was enough to snap him out of his reverie. The pods were falling at a faster rate; the whole mine seemed to be collapsing. Ford was right. It was time to leave. Christopher bolted back down the hallway, feverishly working up an escape plan. Left turn. Right turn. Another left. The violence of the quaking seemed to increase tenfold with each passing second. Everything was slowing down. The hallways were spinning. Well aware that he was losing consciousness, Christopher attempted to stumble just a bit further, but to no avail. He fell to his knees, desperately grasping for a last moment of life. His vision blurred. His mind emptied. A shadowy figure skulked forward from the end of the hall. The blackness seeped in. And the mine was no more. How Christopher had managed to end up in his bed by 7 the next morning was a mystery only to him. According to his fellow officers, he had never left it. There was no “John Ford” or “Haley Shepard”, nor had there ever been at the Whelford Police Department. The mine had been caved in for decades now, and Christopher had never gone there to investigate anything. He hadn’t come into work in the past few days in fact, and it was a relief to find out that he was okay. This, at least, was the story he got. The town had a certain stillness to it that it had lacked before. The rowdy were docile, the children had calmed, and by the time he returned from grocery shopping that afternoon, Christopher knew that something was wrong. He had to have been to the mine. All of the memories were so vivid. This merited further investigation. Upon arriving at the mine for (supposedly) the first time however, the story perpetuated by those down at the station seemed true. A heap of rubble and wood blocked the entrance to the mine completely. He strolled up to the ruined doorway. Maybe he was just going crazy. But he had to be certain. His ear pressed up against the cool stone. And in a flash, his suspicions were confirmed. In that instant, Christopher Raymond ran from Cunningham Mine and never looked back. It may have been a trick of the mind, or perhaps just the wind. But from that point on, he would never deny that he heard something when he placed his ear up to the entrance of that accursed mine – the piercing screams of those still trapped in the recesses of a place that something beyond time, or space, or human comprehension called home.

"What is it like?” he whispered, trying to calm himself. She sighed. “It is exactly what you think it would be like.” He was not sure if she would continue, given her extremely annoyed expression. He had no choice but to wait, nearly forgetting to breathe as he counted the seconds in his head. “I have often thought of how I would explain it to a human if one ever asked me. I have had millions of make-believe conversations in my head with frightened, scared, little know-it-alls such as yourself. When they realize its all true… the look on their face.. Its beautiful.” Her words were so fluid. She half smiled and her eyes filled with a sinister resentment for him. She again paused an awkward length of time before inhaling sharply and resuming her thought. “In those mock conversations, I always try to explain the difference between living one life...with one family, one schooling experience, one professional experience, and one death… and living hundreds. I have been every profession imaginable and I have been nearly every type of person as well.” She spoke slowly, with purpose, as if reading a script. She paced in front of him as she continued, “There were decades where I was kind and had a family. Decades were I was alone and dreamed of a better life. Decades were I was an explorer and traveled everywhere…” her voice had changed to a sweeter tone. He could tell she was remembering something, or someone. She was thinking about something other than him and he felt a second of relief. “I have quiet literally done it all and now, unfortunately for you, you humans tend to bore the shit out of me.” Her voice had reverted back to the harshness that first accompanied it. Upon hearing her last thought he quickly knew his stalling tactic was failing and scrambled his brain for a challenging question, an interesting thought...anything! She inched closer to him and her eyes were no longer looking into his. They turned a empty, midnight black; displayed his scared reflection. He shook his head in terror and cried every plea he could make until he suddenly blurted out, “What about love?!” She paused at his inquiry and smiled large and warmly. “Oh. You’re doing that cute thing that frightened humans do. You want to know me? You want to find out my secrets? You want me to share things with you, things that will make you important? Well, guess what.” Her eyes faded back to a radiant blue and her skin flushed with color. She looked… beautiful. And caring. She looked at him the way his grandmother would when he was younger. She looked so familiar he unintentionally relaxed. Even stopped crying. “You’re not.” His blood was drained from him faster than the warm feeling from her smile.

The Chronicles Of Mr Brunnick Bunnick was a sad little Erkel. He had recently attended several job inteviews and at the end of each interview was politely informed that Erkels had no place in their organisation. This morning Bunnick had felt particularly miserable so he went to the toilet to have a poo in the hope it might cheer him up a little. However once he had squeezed out a couple of brown butt beans a most unusual thing began to occur. He felt a breeze at his rear end and then felt suction as the toilet began to suck him in folding him in half like a five pound note. A few agonizingly painful seconds later Bunnick had a brief sensation of falling before he hit the ground hard. Dazed and mildly famished Bunnick decided to look up and to the left and saw in great big letters the word YangDangDingoBallonTree 4 miles this way. He was no longer in a toilet or even in a cubicle or even a porta loo or any other toilet based object. He slowly tried to take in his new surroundings. The sky was red green and speckled with green hotdogs that shone like giant nebulas of pure love. Brunick screamed “fudge!” So loudly the sky cracked open to reveal nothing more than his own reflection minus his lower torso which had dissolved into a spitting cloud of red jello. At this point Brunnick realy did start to wonder how going for a poo had turned into this giant angry mess. Slowly as he got too used to his new reflection in the hotdog nebula sky Brunnick got a sudden nostril PANG as the caustic smell of a freshly born Dandapod filled the air and watched as it slowly crawled past. “Dandopod” he said in his cavernous mind? How do I know its name? An unexpected voice answered him, made all the stranger by the fact it bypassed his ears and entered his mind via telepathy. "You know the name Dandopod because you have spent the last 8 months in this realm as a prisoner of our top scientist. He has been running a series of complex tests on you to ascertain whether you are a suitable candidate for species realignment. You have no memory of this as we have wiped your short term memory." Shortly after the voiced died down and the heavy silence creeped over is ears Boney M began to play loudly as if being projected in a direct line from last Wednesday. This seemed to make the Nebula hotdogs grow dimmer in colour and the love faded to and was replaced by a mild tension headache. Two Ibruprofen later Bunnick realy wished he had had a drink to take them with as they had had got stuck in his throat and began to grow faster than a fat child in a ice cream parlour. Why they grew he could not say for sure but grow they did making his neck look like a lumpy gold course. Sadness filled his heart. Could his realignment of failed or was this normal protocol in the land he found himself? He didn’t care for an answer and decided instead to walk briskly to YangDangDingoBallonTree like a wee swollen Rugby player to a toilet. Time went slowly on his walk so slowly he seemed as if he was in a barrel of treacle trying his hardest to swim. Then the black outs came and the wind flashed through his chilled skin and his ankles began to sag like dripping candles. After many what could be called miles but here were called Flacktards he saw bright spinning gold lights atop of giant what he thought were homes or houses but on closer inspection were just enormous bejewelled beings emitting smoke and noises so frightful his right arm refused to go any further. It removed itself entirely from his shaking body and flew directly up like an over powered helicopter twisting and twirling till it was nowt but a spec in the hotdog nebula sky. The pain didnt come and instead of what his mind had thought was coming he laughed so hard his jaw cracked and tears came streaming down from the hills he hadn’t noticed before that now were so very real he wished they would stop. That second the hills began to burn like red fire so hot his skin charrred. He wished to go home and be safe, this was getting to much he wished Mr Plumpus was hear he always knew what to do, but his mother told him long ago to forget about Mr Plumpus as imaginary friends were far to childish espeicaly for a son of a soon to be King. Still he wished Mr Plumpus was here now and talking his kind soft words and making his tummy feel like fizzy strawberry aide. Suddenly the sound of thunder cracked over Mr Bunnicks head as he now decided to call himself and from above to his great surprise thousands of Mr Plumpus's began falling like rain shooting from the centres of the myriad hotdog nebulas. My Bunnick swore to himself as he was not dressed for rain especially rain made from imaginary childhood friends. As the Plumpuses hit the ground they popped like taught spots on a clean mirror. Blue blood fired in all seven directions covering the hot earth like thousands of flat wet Smurfs. The ground became extremely slippery Mr Bunnick fell onto his fanny and began skating so fast down a hill the hair on his head was pulled back fast and hard he looked like he had a bad face lift. Not what he was hoping for today or all days. He built up speed faster and faster as he flew till the Smurf sodden ground began to steam and hiss as the Plumpus molecules began to rip from there bindings and scatter in the wind. As he was rushing through this new world that he really hoped would not become home for him or anybody else for that matter thoughts arose in his mind like delicate butterflies ridding on the thermals of his consciousness. Thoughts like can "are parents real" and "what if I curled up in a ball and evacuated my bowels in Tescos". All of a quickness he slapped into what he thought was a big purple wall, he hit it so hard one of his eye balls popped out and Mr Brunnick had the strange perception of looking at a plump red eye ball hanging from tendonous strands whilst also looking back at himself and the newly empty eye socket. This made him mightily queasy. He vommed instantly like a giant geyser but with more gusto and painted this most hindering of purple walls a dull grey sludge. The wall seemed to take offence at this new paint job and began to move much to the surprise of Mr Brunnick now himself a bright green shade of queasy green. Then the wall began to speak. This again did not bode well for what was already a rather crap day. "Create a door with your eyes and I will free u from your plight" the wall boomed. Rather like a miked up Brian Blessed in a wind tunnel. Mr Brunnicks ears rang like village church bells. "but what do you mean?" exclaimed Bunnick as he picked an errant clingon from his hairy bum crack. "look and you will find the way, all shall begin to make sense like a towel with tusks." Replied the purple blessed superstructure and with that slowly faded away leaving nothing but the sound of a light orchestra and a faint smell of burning plague victims. Mr Bunnick promptly had a funny turn and fell to the ground like a rabbit in a wet sack. He lay motionless on the floor like a dead skunk for what seemed to be an eon. "Oh John kiss me you fool" Said Audrey to herself standing in her newly painted consecratory. The same one she had kissed John in that same cold night in Whitley. When he came to My Brunnick thought to himself "why have i got this scene playing in my mind over and over again?" where has it come from? As he did not recall ever watching such a play. Things were starting worry Mr Bunnick. “What is happening to me?” He said to no one in particular. “And why when I look down at my hands do I feel like Terry Wogan?” As the Antlers began to grow from the newly formed buds on top of his head Mr Bunnick had finaly decided it was now "oh shit o'clock" and started to feel a panic rise from his feet to his crown like a fiery angry rainbow. His ears steamed bright plumes of gold dust and aches and pains fired and cracked through his now pounding chest. For no reason at all he began to run like Carl lewis on meth. His legs we like steam engines pounding the ground like energy rockets. He built speed like a particularly gifted Cheetah and the world around him became a blur. His remaining good eye was starting to water as the now dry wind tried to sand his retina off. For a man who had never run before he was surprisingly good at it. But still none the wiser why or where he was running too. This was another worry to add to Mr Brunnicks fastly growing collection. As he became slightly more accustomed to the blind fear now coursing through his bulging veins Mr Brunick realised he was no longer touching foot to earth and was now it seemed, soaring like a very strange eagle with antlers and one eye. As he gained altitude and the view in front of him grew ever bigger the fear began to recede like a sad mans hairline. Mr Brunnick began to take in the view and sighed in relief, death it seemed had been averted. That’s when a giant Zeppelin appeared directly in front of him shaped like a giant pink swastika. That in its self made Mr Brunnick promptly evacuate his bowls like cutting the corner off a bag of frozen mince. Then as fast as you can say "fuck me it’s a giant pink Zeppelin shaped like a swastika" Mr Brunnick noticed the crew of this foul craft were also a shitstorm away from making him not immediately having an instant massive panic attack. They were all totally bald squirrels roughly 12 and a half feet taller than he would of wished for. If he wondered he had any say in this sodding new nightmare he'd now found himself the main star of. Mr Brunnick began to slowly sob like a lost 3 year old girl. The squirrels on the other hand seemed to not be having the same problems as Mr Brunnick and began to sing in unison like a scary rodent welsh choir the lyrics to “I think we're alone now” by Tiffany a 90s female pop star. But with a strange new take on melody and rhythmic timing. This weird rodent Dadaist cacophony made the whole scene in front of MR Brunnick strike more fear into one man so quickly it was definite proof praying may now be the only sensible thing left to do. With that Mr Brunnick began to say these words out loud to any deity who may have some suction round these frightfully strange parts. "Please help me God you utter shit! Much to Mr Brunnicks surprise god appeared in front of him. But he was not sure which threw him more the fact that god had the face of Tina Turner or that Gods legs seemed to have been promptly stolen from a angry Gorilla with what can only be described as frighteningly large crown jewels.

A million million stars sat whispering one night; it was last night’s tomorrow night and yesterday’s tonight, the only night in the endless dark. Their murmured words were light, and space, and traveled for a million million lifetimes, until their owners were forgotten and their recipients reborn, sent away into long ago. Their echo struck each passing form, radiating down to the smallest of things, and up to the mightiest gods, and all shivered at its touch. They told the history of all worlds, and all things within them, in sonnets and essays and forms yet unknown; speaking volumes upon libraries for every blade of grass. This epic had no purpose, of course, as there was nothing higher, or lower, or first. It is all there was and ever would be, and those who strained but to hear one word went mad with love. This deafening sigh, too soft ever to make a sound, transcended time, and space, and all life. At the edge of infinity, however, one night, last night’s tomorrow and yesterday’s tonight, a secret was told. It was so great and so small that it had never before been heard, nor ever would it be. The secret was silence. As quickly as it never was, so came it to be, and it multiplied a million million times, spreading through eternity and nothing, preaching itself to the stars and, for the first time that was and was not, the whispers stopped. At that moment, we wept, and did not know why.

It's a cold, gray morning in Hobokin New Jersey. Officer J. Wallflower and Officer M. Tendency are patrollinng the streets towards the end of their shift. The streets are empty and silent. ...Enjoy! Officer Wallflower: "It sure is cold this morning" Officer Tendency: "Yeah, it is." OW: "You know, Whenever it's cold like this out i like to play a drinking game with a girl who works around here." OT: "Oh yeah? What's that" (Uninterested) OW: "It's called 'inaqeduate answers' " OT: "And how does it go?" OW: "Well, I pick her up from work and take her to a bar. When we get to the bar i start buying her drinks, but every drink i buy her is cheaper than the previous one" OT: ..... (No longer able to hide his disinterest) OW: "So say beers are 3 dollars each that night , the first one i'll pay the full 3 dollars, the next i might pay 2.75 and she'll pay the rest, then 2.50 and so on and so fourth. As the drinks get cheaper, so do her inhibitions" OT: (a little annoyed) "You call that a drinking game? That's more like a Pro league team beating a Pee Wee team by triple digits" OW: "No chief, this girl really likes me, she texts me all the time, and i almost got lucky with her once." OT: "..." OW: "..." OT: "Do me a favor, Wallflower." OW: "What's that chief?" OT: "Quit letting this chick take advantage of you." OW: "She's not gonna take advantage of me" OT: ".... And do me another favor, Wallflower" OW: "What's that?" OT: "Quit drinking on the job.

Typing is the easiest way I know to scream at the dark. Because you know it's out there, circling you. Never had much of a singing voice and there's always so many ears. Listening. Makes your own voice sound painful and ridiculous. Makes you sound small. So very small. But words. Type written words. Ink on page. It's like you're invincible. Once they're written down, they have been written. Something that can't just be taken away, something real, something that happened. An actual. Actually. And you huddle around them, these words, for warmth. Like a tiny fire lighting a tiny light in the middle of the deepest darkest woods. Maybe staring at the fire makes the shadows harder to see. Maybe if I stare long enough, I'll forget her. You'll forget her. It's why you do this you know. Reading and writing and listening to music and watching your shows, that's fucking why right there: Her. Desperately searching for some anecdote, some scene, some paragraph that will make you feel like you did the first time you noticed her. Really noticed her. Something that'll make your insides bubble up and take all those cold bitter years you thought you had and make you feel like some dumb school boy in love again, that's fucking why. And it's the damn truth and you know it. No amount of somebody else's words or even your own written hastily on some coffee house napkin about how cute you think she is in 4 lines or less, rhyming preferred because you want to be clever, with an ending that makes you seem mysterious, is going to change that. The fact that right now you're here reading this and not with HER, or whoever. That the truth is there are just these words. These words and the darkness.

A Short Story I wrote bad grammar and all. Vault 69 It's July the 21st year 2077 the world is gripped in chaos, most of the worlds oil resources are gone, the once busy free ways are at a stand still, with little resources left fuel became more expensive than gold. The bustling and busy streets of the big city's have become war zones with looting and destruction, With the police force already stretched thin there was little to do to stop the ongoing violence. The US government with the Vault-tec corporation built vaults to house people from the threat of nuclear war, The lucky who could afford to buy a bed in the vaults look forward to a safe future. People who could not afford this were put on a list of applicants and if you were lucky enough you would be chosen to live in the underground vaults. My Name is Carlos Armat but my friends called me Wooz and I am one of the lucky ones. I received my pass for Vault 69 and my copy of the Vault Dweller's Survival Guide. Vault-Tec have instructed me to wait outside with one suitcase of possessions I wish to take and they will send a escort convoy to pick me up from my address today at 13:00 hours. The Vault-Tec bus finally arrives with a convoy of armoured hummers with men armed with machine guns and gas masks. The convoy stops in front of my house and man jumps out of the hummer and ask "Carlos Armat! can you please present your pass and identification." I hand my pass over and ID he checks them over and hands them back to me. "Please proceed to the bus." I get on the bus and walk up the back to the spare seat that I can see, As I look around at everyone on the bus I realise that I seem to be the only male, I don't think anything else about it and we drive on. After two hours on the bus we finally arrive at Adirondack Mountains where the Vault 69 is built into the mountain it self. We drive through several heavily armed blockades and enter a tunnel into the mountain. We pull up into a huge loading area which seems to have large amount crates which are scattered all over the place. We all get off the bus and are walked up into the complex past the huge Vault door which will be soon closed behind us. We get into the elevator and are taken down to the 5th level. The elevator doors open and we step out into the hallway an we are walked down the corridors. We pass several rooms filled with computers system with women monitoring them. We arrive at the overseers office and told to wait outside until we a called in, one by one we are each called into the room. I finally hear my name called and enter the overseers office. I enter the office and see a middle aged women sitting at her desk. Her hair is strawberry blond and her face looks weathered but still has this beauty about it. "Welcome Carlos to Vault 69 my name is Anna but please call me overseer. I hope the trip here was not to rough, we have had a few convoys attacked in the past couple of weeks." "The trip was long but we didn't run into any trouble" I said. "Good to hear, now down to business. My job here today is to review your application and assign you to a job. I have checked you application and you have been assigned to maintenance. Tomorrow at 6:00 please proceed down to the 7th level and report to Skenvoy, the living quarters are located on level 3 you have been assigned room 203 pass code 2045." I ask "What do I do till then?" "Please feel free to move about the vault meet some people. We also have an entertainment room on level 2. At this stage you may be happy to know that you are the only male stationed here at this time. We still are waiting on our male applicants." She smiles at me and gestures for me to leave. I make my way to the elevator to my quarters. OCTOBER 23RD Months had past and over time I became good friends with Skenvoy. She was a slightly large build lady with an attitude like a man, I guess I get along with her most as she is the closest I have to a guy friend since no other males have arrived yet. "Wooz you day dreaming again" she says "Yeah a little, I just wonder how all my friends are doing in the outside world, things were getting worse before I left." " I am sure they will be fine Wooz. Maybe you should man the fuck up" she then laughs at me. "I know I am sure they got passes and are safe like me." "Come on cheer up. Lets knock off early today and have ourselves a drink." "Ok Sounds like a plan." We head out of the workshop and head up to the entertainment level. We walk into the bar and order a nice drink from Mr Handy the Vault robot. We sit sipping on our drinks when we hear the sirens start. "Attention Vault Dwellers, Please remain calm we have just had reports of launch detection, The vault doors have now been sealed. Lets us pray that we are wrong." A wave of terror flows through me! it was not the thought of all the people on the outside being vaporised. My friends, my family all gone, no it was the thought of being the only male in a vault with over 1000 females. Most men would be cheering with joy right now but not me. I made one lie on my application. I said my sexual orientation is straight.....I am Gay.

4am alarm. Same as always for the day shift. There are only two of us left working this job, but we are identical – we are one. 415am, alarm number two. Snooze. Can’t. Have to get up to shower and start the day. If you ask the night shift worker, he’ll tell you how easy this job is. Visiting people in the night, they are usually more understanding, older, more eager, ready. Working the day shift, as I have done for a number of years I can’t even count anymore, it’s like throwing a surprise party. Always an adventure, never a day off. A 24/7 job built for two, but only fit for one. We are identical. I’ll never know why I was given the day shift, or what working the night shift is truly like. Perhaps it is a ‘grass is always greener’ situation, but I can’t help but wonder. Having the same arguments with my clients every day of my life – it becomes dull. This job is a thankless one. Over time, they understand – but in the moment, when it’s happening, rarely is my service welcomed. With the day shift, it’s more often than not a surprise. Out of nowhere. We don’t even know when or how it’s going to happen, we just know the feeling of being brought to the scene – a travel not even he could explain. That’s what throws people for a loop the most. “Have you known all along it would be like this?” Asks the client. “Of course not. I am only here when I am summoned.” Is the response we are taught to give. Though I imagine the night shift conversations being quite different, exciting, less mundane. If you ask me why, I can’t tell you. If you ask me if you deserved it, I cannot say. I only know the feeling of being brought to the scene, and what I need to do when I get there. A touch as powerful as need be. Cold, but reassuring and necessary. This job is always thankless at first. Always. It is very rarely met with acceptance, and when it is, it’s always the saddest. Can you ever be ready? I pray every day I don’t meet those people. While they make the job easier, it’s so much harder to understand, and it takes a larger toll on me. On my way to the first scene, I will pass the night shift worker. Like looking in a mirror, we walk passed each other with no expression, no malice, appreciation, nor affection. It’s a cold walk when we are together, it’s a cold walk when we are alone. As I approach the first scene, with the night-shift worker nowhere in sight but the mirror ahead of me, it begins to take shape. “Have you known all along it would be like this?” I let out a cold sigh, and welcome a new day.

For my English class, we had to write short stories about characters with "grotesques", like in Winesburg, Ohio, by Sherwood Anderson. I just submitted this. Hope you like it! Pursued In a public Philadelphia library, 10:50 at night, ten minutes before closing, wandered Damon Cross. He was strolling through the aisles solemnly, while the librarians were placing some last books back on the shelves. Some local teenagers wearing leather jackets were sitting at computers quietly giggling at pictures they saw online. An older man was finishing up finding his books for the week, most were about military history. During that slow end to another long day, Damon was just strolling through the library, skimming through the titles of random books. He selected two books, one on the extremities of American intelligence and spying programs in history, and a novel about a man stranded next to a remote lake in the Canadian wilderness. Damon’s father, Marcus, was a victim of intense interrogation and daily monitoring by the US government due to false suspicions. Damon has been cynical and suspicious of these agencies since. His mother’s name was Claire. She was a published novelist. Damon enjoyed reading novels similar to the few that she wrote. Damon should have been very tired, but he seemed fine. He wore a dull yellow half zip sweater over khaki pants. When picking clothes he preferred to have certain colors, and colors that are precise in shade to what he wanted. He also liked having a free neck. He liked wearing v-neck shirts, and loose fitting sweaters. Damon enjoyed browsing books. He often went to the library, just to read the back covers of dozens of books. Damon was doing so that day until closing and he appeared tranquil, especially for someone who was fleeing from death earlier that day. Earlier, Damon was happy like everyone around him. It was a warm sunny day with Thanksgiving just around the corner. After lunch, he took his daughter, Eileen, to the supermarket. They planned to make a cake for Eileen’s mother, to whom Damon was happily married, for her birthday. As Damon drove through a busy urban street in his eight year old but clean station wagon, he saw a large blue pickup truck turn a corner and drive behind him. Although the truck acted no different that any other vehicle in traffic, Damon felt pursued and watched. His happiness during the sunny day turned into pure fear and anxiety. A few minutes later he turned onto a ramp for the highway. He glanced at this mirror and saw the blue truck turn with him, and his heart dropped lower. He accelerated onto the highway. As he merged onto a lane, he looked at his mirror and saw that the truck was catching up with great speed. In seconds, he pushed his station wagon up twenty miles per hour to a dangerous speed and saw that the truck was speeding up with him. His heart raced, while his daughter was screaming, “What are you doing Daddy!” in the back. He glanced back once more at the height of his climax and saw that the truck had disappeared. After he calmed down slightly, he began to slow down. With his speed his tension eased. He looked back and told his daughter, “Nothing sweetie, I just want to get to the market before it closes”. When Damon was nine years old, a strange man wearing a dark blue trench coat followed him and his parents as they walked home from church. After a mile and several turns, Damon’s father got suspicious and confronted the man. The strange man pulled out a silver pistol and shot both his parents in the head. Damon ran into an alley and got away. Even after running hour an hour with no sign of the man, who never had any interest in pursuing Damon or even hurting him, he still felt that the man is after him. He went into several tight alleys between the tall apartment buildings of Philadelphia. Some were clean and well maintained, while others were littered with garbage and looked abandoned. In one of those alleyways, Damon tripped on the cord of a broken television. He fell backwards and landed on a broken glass beer bottle. Leaving a deep gash in his back. He still visualized the man following him, so he leaped up to continue running. As he continued running, miles past exhaustion, a police officer forcibly stopped him. In the back of the police car, Damon sat looking out the rear window. While sitting at the police station, trying to calm himself down, Damon learned that the police caught the strange man and that he would probably live the rest of his life in a secure prison. Damon feigned relief, but his true pursuer couldn’t be incarcerated. By the time he arrived at the foster home in which he would spent the next few years, Damon had calmed down and stopped looking over his shoulder after every other step. His foster caregiver was Mrs. Harvell. She was a considerate lady, but she was strict and didn’t put up with funny business. Damon quickly made friends with the three other kids there: Nenay, Jeremy, and DeShawn. They were all orphaned as infants. Knowing what happened to Damon, they treated him differently. One day they went out deep in the woods to go bird watching. Nenay spotted a spotted sparrow. While everyone was watching the rare bird, Damon heard a few leafs crumpling behind him. He looked back and saw a silent masked man with a machete. He ran screaming, “Don’t kill me! Leave me alone! Someone please!”. He glanced back occasionally while running and saw the man chasing him. Mrs. Harvell then grabbed Damon’s hand. The man disappeared. Mrs. Harvell yelled, “What do you think you’re doing? Five days here and you’re already fooling around!” Damon was trying as hard as he could to free himself and run. Mrs. Harvell responded by slapping him as hard as she could. When Damon fell on the hard ground, he also fell to reality. “What is wrong with you? What are you doing? What are you afraid of?” “Nothing. I thought the bird might be dangerous.” These occurrences and abuses by Mrs. Harvell continued to occur in increasing frequency and severity. He was transferred between five different foster homes before he left when he was 18. No one wanted to deal with him. When asked what was wrong during an episode, Damon always tries to obscure his problem by making it look like a joke. A week before speeding on a highway to get away from a blue truck that eventually disappears, Damon’s best friend, Charlie, began to see through Damon’s cover. He knew something wrong was going on with him whenever he freaked out. One day, Damon wore a shirt that was slightly transparent in the back. Charlie saw the huge scar that Damon got from running away. He knew that he was hiding something that was more than a scar. The next day, when walking on the sidewalk, Damon suddenly started running and screaming. While running he looked back with terror, as if a deadly monster was after him. Charlie didn’t see him until the next day. “Damon, what was wrong yesterday? Are you all right?” “Yeah sorry about that, I saw a guy peek out of an alley and he looked dangerous,” Damon said trying to write off the incident. “You can tell me what’s going on. If you have a problem, I can help you. Also, I know about the scar on your back” “It’s just…” Damon just stopped talking and started to walk away with his head down. Five days later, after aggressively speeding up twenty miles per hour over the limit, Damon got pulled over. As the police officer walked toward his window, Damon saw the strange man with a dark blue trench coat stand on the back of his car. Damon got out of the car, which was situated on a bridge over a river. The officer pulled out her gun, as Damon ran to the side of the road and dived off the bridge into the cold water. He fell on a rock in the water and turned unconscious. Damon awoke in a hospital. He looked around and saw a police badge next to him. His door was locked. He tightened the robe he was wearing to cover his back better and reached to a side table for a few papers. The first one was from Charlie, “Hey Damon, I knew something was wrong. You need to let someone know. You nearly died. I know you didn’t jump to get away from the cop. The sooner you tell someone the better it will be for you”. Damon sat up and thought about what Charlie said. He really wanted to let everything out and tell him everything he has been hiding, but he couldn’t. With teary eyes, he put down the letter, and looked at the next one. It was a police warrant which basically said, “Damon Cross: wanted for fleeing the police, jumping off a public bridge, the murder of Marcus Cross and Claire Cross, and discharge of a firearm in public. The next paper was a brochure, written on the top was, “Rising Sun Psychiatric Hospital”. He put the papers down, and after looking over his shoulder, he fell back asleep.

I write this to share with you a very peculiar discovery. It was a steamy April morning. The ground was still wet from last night’s rainstorm and I had set out along the local nature trail to do some hiking, maybe even do some bird watching if the weather allowed. I was out a good bit into the woods when I chanced upon a wide clearing with an excellent view of rolling green hills dotted with budding dogwoods. I had dug my camera out of my bag when I noticed a tall, curious shape standing dark and still upon the soft grassy hill. From where I stood, it looked very much like an old church tower that you’d see in the moors of old Ireland. It was a weekend and I had time to kill so I decided I might as well investigate, if nothing else it would provide good material for my blog. As I climbed up the deceptively steep hill, I had noticed a nearby shack, long abandoned and rotted to pieces, farther up was the tower, a gray, two-story building with the stones laid in such an odd way that I couldn’t quite figure where one stone ended and the one below it began. The front of the tower was marked by a plain cast-iron door that had suffered several decades’ worth of rust and was lying open. I stood there for a bit, trying to see anything in the murky dark behind the old door. The tower interior was as base as the rest of it, with gray stone walls and a hard floor. Further into the room was an incline that steadily drew down into pitch black. I didn’t venture very far down, that was something for braver souls than I, but at the head of the incline was a very dusty old book. I picked it up off the cold stone floor and stepped back outside to get a good look at it in the light of day. It was a worn, filthy thing, but underneath the dust I could tell that it used to be a very nice book. Moleskin binding with a brass clasp on the front, copper inlay on the spine… It would have been quite lovely if it was in better shape. I shoved the thing into my bag and headed back home; I’d had enough adventure for one day. At home, I opened up the journal to find a name on the first page: **HENRY BOLING** Never heard of him. Flipping through the pages, I discovered that Mr. Boling had managed to fill roughly one-fourth of the pages with his writing before abandoning it at that dismal old tower. In the interest of posterity, I’m going to transcribe the journal here as best as I can manage. The years and the weather hasn't done any favors for the book, and a lot of the pages are either smudged and illegible or outright destroyed. Sunday: May 15th, 1976 Mick and I have scouted a good place for our next expedition. There’s an old tower out in the countryside near Oxhead Trail. He says it’s an old church tower but it doesn’t look much like one to me. We drove out there in his van this evening. Things were peaceful. The only sound in those hills were the crickets and us, the sky was clear and black. We could see just about every star out there. The tower interior was bigger than its outside suggested, the one room was wide and empty with the only thing of note being a doorway that leads down into a set of tunnels. Things were much too dark for us to explore at that time but Mick and I drew a map of the area and we made plans to come back this coming Saturday with our equipment and see where it leads. Saturday: May 21st, 1976 We packed up and set out this morning. It was very early, the sun hadn’t risen yet. Things were very quiet on that hill, so quiet that the whole area felt empty, dead. The overcast sky was pale and gray like sleet on a driveway. Mick had a feeling it was going to rain on us so he and I ducked into the tower to set everything up. We got out our lamps; we tied ropes around our waists and tethered the other end to iron tent-pegs we pounded into the ground to serve as anchors. If anything goes wrong, we can just follow the rope out of here. In case that should fail us, I’ve brought flares and some white chalk. We checked our gear and double-checked, and then we headed down into the tunnels. Our lamp light fell on a stone ramp that led down, down into blackness. The ramp leads down some ten feet into a great stone antechamber, wide and round, with doorways leading into other tunnels aligned in a circle like the spokes of a wheel. Shining our lights on the ceiling revealed very old metal pipes running along the ceiling, caked in rust and cobwebs. Mick turned to me and said. “This isn’t a cave. Somebody built this.” I scanned the chamber and glanced over at him and asked “Which way do we go next?” At random, I pointed at a chamber on the far left. Ten paces into that tunnel, we came across a dead end. The passage went on, but it had abruptly narrowed down into a slit far too thin for me or Mick to fit through. We turned and headed out of that tunnel and I marked the opening in chalk. The passage to the right of it was better. It was a straight hallway that terminated in another round chamber; this one had nothing but a stone altar. Mick waved for me to come closer and get a good look at it. Our lamp light revealed the altar to be covered in these weird symbols. They weren’t part of any language we had seen, the top of the altar had a dark stain on it that we couldn’t identify even with the help of our light. “Reckon it’s some kind of Native American thing?” Mick said; his eyes were wide open and reflecting the lamp glow like a deer in headlights. “Nah.” I said. “They couldn’t build something like this…” I glance up at the ceiling and I see brown, Leather brown. I dismissed it as a trick of the eyes, even with our lanterns, it was still quite dark. The flicker of the lamplight made the shadows of the chamber dance and shift and it set us both on edge. I heard a click and saw a flash of light as Mick snapped a photo of the strange glyphs on the gunmetal altar. The other tunnels weren’t much more interesting, save for one. The hall snaked on through cold rock and opened up in another wide open chamber. This one was covered in markings and symbols. They were blocky, angular, kind of like Mayan or Aztec carvings. They were carved deep in the stone and very precisely etched, all of them uniform in shape and size. As I ran my fingers over the glyphs, I could only imagine the time and the skill it took to make this. Mick was especially impressed, he was snapping picture after picture. He ran up to me, eyes wide like a kid in Disneyland. “Do you know what this is?” I told him I didn’t. “This is a bona fide ruin! This is huge! Can you imagine how famous we’ll be if we tell people about this?” I didn’t say anything... “We’ll be friggin’ celebrities! An ancient ruin out in the middle of nowhere and we’re the first to discover it!” We took more pictures. Many more. Until Mick’s camera ran out of film. We sat in the cave by the light of our lamps discussing what to do next. Mick suggested we map out the entire cavern and call the Society for American Archaeology; they’d surely want to check this place for relics. We made our plans and we went home. Mick was going to call the SAA, and I was going to get some sleep. May 27th, 1976 Things had started out very well for us. A man from the SAA met us outside the tower. He was a twiggy little man with thinning salt-and-pepper hair and thick-rimmed bifocals resting on his hook nose. He introduced himself as Mr. Dumont and shook my hand with a surprisingly firm grip. “So what sort of thing are we looking at here?” He questioned us, adjusting his glasses with his thumb. We told him about the altar, the glyphs, he stood and listened intently, with a look in his eyes like that of a hungry cat watching a beached fish. Mike handed him the photos of the cave he spent days developing and his eyes lit up. He was very enthusiastic when we went down into the caves. He very nearly went in without us, in fact. He was beside himself when we took into the chamber. As our lamps lit up the walls, he traced the glyphs with his finger, gleefully muttering something under his breath as the light from the lamps flashed off his glasses like the headlights of a car. “This is unlike any of the glyphs I’ve ever seen” He turned to us. “This may be the remains of a lost language. It’s organized, there’s definitely a structure in the carvings that implies a sort of written language…” His voice trailed off as he began copying the marks down in a notepad, we could hear him mumbling. He was musing on the possible grammatical structure of this ancient mystery language. Neither Mick nor I got much out of it. We headed back out the tunnel; Mick was telling Dumont all about the altar as we walked. The three of us fell deadly silent when we stopped and looked up and realized that the hallway had led us right back into the room we came from. Mick let out a nervous chuckle and took us down a side tunnel. This one also led us back. We’ll have to take a look at our map. Will write more later, when we get ourselves out of this godforsaken loop. The good news is that we’re out of the loop. The bad news is that we took a nasty spill down a shaft. None of us saw it coming. Mick should have, being that he was in front. We all stepped forward and a part of the floor gave way to this step incline and then a sharp, straight drop down into another wide-open chamber. Mick and I were alright, shaken, but unharmed. Mr. Dumont bruised his ankle and spent the rest of the day out of commission. Curiously, the floor of the chamber is soft, leathery… None of us are thinking about the SAA or fame anymore. If we do not find a way out of here, we are going to die. All is not lost. Mick says he sees another shaft leading up, with light beaming down from a translucent sheet. Luckily, we thought to bring alone knives and climbing equipment. The three of us worked out a good plan. Climb up, cut that sheet blocking the light, and work our way out. And the sooner we’re gone, the better. Running along the length of the ceiling of this chamber is a long, fleshy tube-like structure with deep folds and creases on its surface. It pulses and contracts as if alive. Perhaps tricks of the light; or maybe our minds are playing a trick on us. The air down here is terrible. It’s stuffy and hot and I am sweating at the moment. Making matters worse, there is this awful smell coming down from the shaft we fell down. It’s sour and bacterial. Dear God, let us get out of here. May 28th,1976 Things are looking up. After a few hours after my last entry, Dumont’s ankle was well enough to stand on and Mick had gotten his climbing hook latched on a good hold on the chamber wall. He was the first one up, climbing hand over hand, slowly but surely. He dangled there as I passed my Bowie knife up to him and he stuck it in the translucent, pinkish sheet that kept the light from us. It made a disgusting wet ripping sound as he slashed it open, and then bright yellow light swept into the chamber. I went up after him, with Dumont not far behind. We found ourselves in a wide room. This one is bright enough that we don’t need to use the lamps. Perhaps we are close to an exit. Curiously, the walls are a faint pinkish hue, and they yield easily to us pushing on them with our hands. The smell is less overpowering, but still very much present. We decided to camp out here for the night. Sleep was short and dreamless. We awoke to find the chamber still bright and wide, but different. The walls were damp with a warm mist condensed on it. None of us paid any heed to this. We just wanted out of this hole. We headed north through an open hallway, past pale yellow stalagmites set bunched together in cramped rows. There was this deep, hollow thumping, pulsing, as if some unseen drum was beating along to an unheard tune. It grew steadily louder as we trudged on. The ground made it hard for us. It had become soft, slippery; like walking across a sheet of wet rubber. We were in high spirits for a while, until we had been walking in the same direction for so long that it was clear that we were going nowhere. May 1976. I don’t know what day it is anymore. We have been lost for so long. Going in circles. The walls are getting warmer, wetter, closer together. We were caught off guard when the floor gave way. It didn’t break or cave in, it just sort of moved. It twisted itself into a steep funnel and we slid down; very far down. It is dark and only Mick is with me. He doesn't’t know where Dumont went. We hear the beating again. The smell is ungodly awful. Air in here is thick and hard to breath. We called for Dumont, but we received no reply. Nevertheless, Mick is adamant that we push on. I look up with my lamp and I see veins on the ceiling. Where the hell are we? May 1976. Everything is flesh down here. We found Dumont. He was in a side tunnel roughly a few dozen paces due North. He was barely conscious, shaken, but alive. He was bound to this column of smooth pinkish flesh and pearly cartilage. He was so wrapped up in it that we could only see his head and neck peering out of the blanket of meat and sinew. I turn to look at Mick’s face, he is teary-eyed withgrief and shaking like a dog in the rain. "Cut him loose. He'll die." He whimpers at me. I took out my knife and set to work, but no matter how much I carve at Dumont's fleshy bindings, each layer gives way to only more sheets of pink flesh and ropes of tendon. I take a close look at his neck poking out, and I see veins coming from the pillar and sinking into him. It wasn't just binding Dumont to the pillar, it was making him part of it. We couldn’t save him. Mick and I agreed to tell his wife and the SAA what happened, if they would believe us. We got rid of the map, the caverns shift and change shape too much for it to be any use. We feel it moving under us. M 1976. Mick is hysterical. We are running low on water. No end in sight. Dear God help us. I feel little fleshy stalks brush my pant legs. The walls of this place are alive, shifting. It’s like the story of Jonah and the Whale. Except I don’t think we’re getting out of this alive. We have to keep pressing on. It is imperative. If we stay put, it will consume us. But how long can we keep moving? Hopeless. Mick's legs gave out on him and he passed out soon afterward. The cave responded by drawing its mass over his body like a burial shroud. His body is lying motionless under the carpet of red tissue. No heartbeat. I must have really lost it. I don't remember exactly what happened after that. I just remember taking my knife and stabbing and stabbing the walls, only to see the wounds pull themselves shut. Now I am alone in the belly of this terrible place. God help me. -76 tunnels are growing narrow. ceiling is drawing down. can(illegible)ly stand. legs were caught. had to cut them loose. tired,no water left. pulsing. spreading And that is all the text I could save.

This will be the 3rd time in as many nights she's tried to suffocate me. Almost time to start looking for a new girlfriend. It always turns all dark and troublesome once they find out. 5 minutes. In all seriousness, she's probably tried it more then 3 times. I just started waking somewhere in her last three attempts. Being suffocated isn't so bad, it's the headaches in the morning that are the worst. I'll never understand why women can't just break up with someone. They always have to bring murder into the whole thing and I suppose if I was anybody else I'd be a little mad about it. I've been murdered way to many times to take it personally, although it's almost always disappointing. Regardless of how or when or where I expire I always wake back up, roughly 5 minutes later, usually with a little neck pain. I have yet as to explain the neck pain. I can only imagine what psychopath caused that lingering malady. But seriously, I just wake the fuck back up. Wrap your head around that real tight and think about it. One second you saw me take a 10 story drop onto blistering hot saturday afternoon pavement and five minutes later I just pop back up and dust myself off. I've been shot, stabbed, poisoned, electrocuted, drowned, burnt, crushed, blowed up in all manner of spectacular fashions and suffocated. One time, I woke up with a wooden stake in my heart. Shit you not. Crazy bitch thought I was a vampire. I had to move to another city. I had to move to another city and change my name. They still found me. Every so often I get jumped by some weird cultist thinks I'm the antichrist and I either wake up pulling some kind of artifact out of my chest cavity or standing naked on a pile of ashes loosely chained to a burnt ember in the middle of some god awful field somewhere full of mosquitos. No shit, one time I woke up. I guess the fire went out a little early and well, I woke up and they where all still there. Fucking. In costumes. That was a shit your pants moment for everyone involved. Ha! You like my stories? Good. Then listen my friend. I need a job. For the very reasons above I can't give you my real name, I can't tell you where I'm from, and I can't fill out a tax form. I can clean, plumb, cook, mop, serve, sweep and install a computer. Whatever you need help with, I can probably do. I can't be a bouncer though. Which is sad because I was an amazing bouncer, but it's to obvious now. Huh? Those stories? Ha! Yes of course. Maybe tomorrow, I'll tell you after work, yes? I'm serious sir. I desperately need a job.

I've always loved the silence of the night. It's almost comforting after a long days work. No one to bother you, to invade your space, eating at your patience. Just a dark room. Just you. The serenity of the room allows for your thoughts to flow freely, uncontested with the rest of the world. You close your eyes and become lost in a deep thought of your inner emotions. Emotions exploding from your brain like splashing random colors onto a canvas, analyzing the days past. Memories of laughter, love, and smiles charm your mind into a heavenly trance. As you recall all the good, bad, and everything in between for the day you can't help but smile. "Today was a good day," you think to yourself. Slipping closer to an inevitable slumber. As your eyes close you keep flashing them open, in hopes to delay your sleep. You don't want to lose these thoughts, not just yet. Let them live on a little longer. "Today was a really good day," you slowly murmur under your breathe. As quickly as your thoughts came, they vanish. As your mind comes to ease your body goes numb with pleasure. You slip into your slumber, content with the world for today.

This is crosspost from . Checkout is nice place. Anyways here The earth is irradiated with radioactive waves from another planet. This leads to irritation of the local-to-earth machinery. Or, to be more precise, it leads to *fatal* irritation. John Snow is a garbage man. That means, he heats his home with garbage and he dines garbage fondue. His wife recently died from a severe John-Snow-Beating-and-Rapery so he talked a little bit less during the day. In any case, suddenly the motorknife cut John in his Johnny. One could say he has a vagina now. Agonized with the pain he smashed the device with an mc hammer. "What on earth? I do not understand why oh why, I must save Betsy" he talked. Betsy was a guest of a baseball game. The grass was unsurprisingly green and it smelled of cow dung. The crowd cheered as the ball fell into the visage of Betsy and misformed her beatufil face into a Gargamle front. From now on she even was called Gargamle by everyone and played Gargamel in the new rendition of the Smurfs which is about Papa Smurf being Joseph Fritzel and Gargamel being a hardcore American Cop, kinda like Bruce Willis in Die Hard, who wants to have a nice christmas but ends up becoming the gimp of Joseph Fritzel. Will he get medieval on his ass? Find out in the new movie "Papa Smurf and his Incest Basement". Finally Jane Snow arrived at the baseball game and the children of one team have won the game! Overbeared with joy Jane & Betsy gave hugs to each other. "Betsy I was so afraid" "Why" "I'm bleeding so much please help me" In this moment Jane kneeded on the plane, looked to the old man in the sky and cried "What are these waves!" The whole crowd went silent and cried with him loudly "Radioactive waves what are you doing" But this displeases the other planet he *increses* the amount of radioactivity. On the other side of the planet Shingshangshung was eating dogs and cats and bugs - how gross - and his iPhone rang "Hello this is Mr.Chan" "I would like to inform you soifsdfj" The speaker of the phones where so loud that it broke the hearing sense of Shingy. He concluded to fly to our friends Janey & Betsy in their house it is safe he thought. No. Turns out Janey & Betsy were the children and grandchildren of Joseph Fritzle and the house was in fact the house of Joseph Friztel. The plot fattens and the ties go together! To hide his rapings from the police Joseph had 1 mile thick lead walls. He even put croutons of kryptonite inside the walls in case superman wanted to stop him. Unbelievable, but he also even invented an anti-radioactivity shield in case law enforcement would try to kill him with ultra strong gamma rays. "This is the key" shouted Shingyman badly. He readjusted the shield to reflect the radioactive rays solely onto Africa - who cares about niggas anyway he thought. Jane & Betsy agreed. As a token of gratitude Joseph was released from Prison and made minister of family affairs.

Felt like walking into traffic yesterday. I want to feel something. But I’ve gone numb. **15 January 2012 Sunday.** I feel like a failure slightly. I feel silly about everything and unmotivated. I want to vomit. When did this start? I’ve asked myself that question a lot. When did I start feeling like this, and why did it happen? Did it start in the fifth grade when I was wearing my favorite dress from Goodwill which betrayed me when it became see through against my pink underwear? Did it start the first time someone called me a name? Or shoved a gummy bear into my hair? Can I give it back? I don’t want it. I don’t need it. Why was I depressed? Does there need to be a reason? In the 7th grade I was depressed because I couldn’t fit into a bathing suit, is that a real reason? **June 19, 2006 Monday** All of these people I see in magazines are perfect. I know its not healthy to to say that they are, because they make themselves puke - but I can’t stand it. I want to be like them. SMALL. I AM GOING TO SHRINK. I AM NOT BEAUTIFUL. Well, not my body. I like my face. As humorous as this is, I lived with that very mindset for years. I let the idea consume me, and ultimately I let it destroy me. When I was 18 years old I was staring at the ceiling of my apartment, I hadn’t moved from the bed in nearly a week. I hadn’t eaten, rather I thought about if it would be easier to just off myself on all the pills in the medicine cabinet. “Listen, you’re not going to really do anything with your life, you’re fat. You’re disgusting. No one could ever love something like you. So do the world a service, and end it. It will be better for everyone, and yourself.” I sat like that for awhile, letting the thought sit in my head, wondering what the other side would be like. An endless black hole? When I finally turned over on my side to get up, and stuff my face with food I didn’t need, I noticed something sitting in front of me. It became the only source of light in my bedroom. It was a pair of tennis shoes. Why did that pair of tennis shoes stick out to me at that moment? I mean They’ve been sitting there for ages, with the lost hopes of actually losing weight. It went on like that for days, I’d wake up, go for breakfast and find myself staring at them. Its when I realized, that my inner monologue was no longer saying “end it,” it was screaming, “run. Be free.” That’s exactly what I did. It was December. It was snowing. I wasn’t wearing the proper clothing, and I hadn’t truly ever run since my attempt in high school. I was nervous, I was overweight, I was depressed. I had nothing to lose, well except for a few pesky pounds. It was almost like a child walking for the first time, one step, another, a little faster, a littler faster. Suddenly, the cold bitter air was rushing into my lungs, my heart was pumping. I was alive, I was alive! I AM ALIVE. I AM DYING. Maybe not thirty seconds later, two minutes tops I felt my lungs on fire, I felt myself sputtering for air, and sweat already pouring from ever crevice on my body. That was horrible. But I kind of loved it, and before I knew it I was laughing. This is life, I thought to myself. One of the truest statements that I’ve ever heard about depression is that it doesn’t just disappear. No no no, that would be too easy. Depression is the cancer of mental illness, it can be deadly, and it can come unexpectedly at any moment. You may be surrounded by other people, but you’re really just trapped in a bullet proof glass box, being berated by your own brain. Those who don’t understand depression, may try to help, but you’d rather pull your nails off than have to seek their advice. If you’re suffering from depression right now, let the advice through, listen, and talk to them. Answer questions, ask questions, seek help. Those who want to help a loved one with depression, listen, talk, ask questions, answer questions, be respectful. Did it come back? Without a doubt it came back. What did I need to do? What did I want to do? I asked myself one day. I bought a plane ticket to France, and a train ticket to Germany. Three weeks later I was standing on a platform in Munich, searching for a train to Sonthofen. I was going to see my best friend. This wasn’t an all expenses paid, luxury, Eat, Pray, Love trip. I was 19. I was paid minimum wage, and I saved up $700 to pay for a plane ticket. I was limited when it came to luxury, but not when it came to life. I realized on that platform, that I missed my train, and I was completely, and utterly lost. I ran into some German students who were traveling home for a holiday of some sort, and asked almost in tears - “where do I go? How do I get there?” One girl turned to me, her eyes deep brown, and hair a curly mess of auburn, and said “stick with us, we will get you to your destination.” Three hours, and two cabin switches later I found myself on the platform in Sonthofen, watching several teenage boys pissing on the tracks. “Beautiful.” I said to myself, turning to the cab driver, and pointing to an address. “Take me here.” In the dark of the night, I made my way to the hotel and into the company of my best friend Caitlin. In the morning, I woke and saw the Swiss Alps in the distance, I saw fields of green grass, and locals walking through the small town to a cafe at the top of a hill. Best pancakes ever. Best cheese too. My last night in Germany, I stayed in a random stranger’s house in Munich. He wore a white turtleneck when he greeted me, was 23 years old, and was an aspiring musician. I felt for the first time that this man was attracted to me. It was odd, having hated the way I looked for years, and still struggling with my self image, for someone to be so obviously attracted to you. We had breakfast in the morning, (for clarification, this man so graciously let me stay in his apartment when I posted a message on couch surfers for a last minute room) said our goodbyes, and parted at the gate of him home. I thought he was going to kiss me, but he told me to come back to Germany. Then it happened. Here I was. A dream that I’d hoped for, for so many years. I took French classes in high school, memorized French movies, and listened to French music. I was in France. Next stop: A girl named Lea’s home. Lea dyed her hair red, she was going to university to study French literature. She enjoyed French wines, traveling, cigarettes, and French musicians who looked at the world through distorted windows - they sang about human suffering, about their suffering. Lea was extraordinary, she was proud of her country, but yet she realized that there was room for improvement, and she wanted to be the ignition that sparked the fire of change. It pissed her off that some men of her country were selling out their precious wine vineyards to “young American pricks who don’t know how to make wine.” “No offense,” she said. We were walking to the oldest bakery in the center of Paris Universities. A tiny hole in the wall, but completely gorgeous. Lea didn’t walk, she ran, and spoke fast. “No offense,” she said again, “but you’re American boys don’t make love to wine. Wine is an elegant woman, not some cheap whore.” When did the world become so colorful? Has it always looked like this? Around me, jazz bands were playing in the streets. Street art, street performers . . . And for some reason, a lot of dog shit. New and old mixed together, celebrating life, love, wine, and cheese. I tried to take it all in. **16 November 2012 Friday** What I have been exposed to is beautiful, and when I get home, I will share this beauty with others. After Lea, I stayed with a Polish girl for three days, Klaudia. She was gorgeous, she was polish, and she loved the word fuck. “When you cuss it sounds so passionate, you know?” I would have probably fallen in love with her if I stayed any longer. She wanted to be a stage actress, so she ran away from home, learned French, and began to work at an Australian bar in the middle of Paris. “But you can meet some rich fuckers, and they will pay for everything for you. You’re a beautiful girl! You should come!” She was always lost. Klaudia took me to another side of France. She and I jumped from club to club, drinking, getting food from her favorite cafes. We talked about pressure from our family to lose weight, I told her about losing 70 lbs, I told her about depression. She told me about how her mother was crazy, and an alcoholic, and how she loved her father so dearly, but she wished he just wasn’t such a fucking asshole. My favorite was her story about a guy she fell in love with. “I’ve never been in love.” “What? Really? It’s great. Sex is great.” “I’ve never had sex.” “What? Actually, I’m not surprised, you don’t strike me as someone who can have sex with someone without love.” “I thought you loved this guy.” “I do love him. He was beautiful, he was really like, cool you know? Fuck. I miss him. He’s somewhere in London right now.” At one point in her life, she lived as a squatter. Staying in abandoned homes, and factories with other kids her age, who’d run away from life. It was my last night. We’d done everything, so what was left? Red wine, pepsi, and, “I think I have to show you something.” “What is it?” “Honey Boo-Boo.” “What the fuck Honey who?” My last night in France was spent watching Honey Boo Boo completely drunk on Red Wine and Pepsi. When I returned home, I was happy to be home. I just wanted to keep talking, and talking. I wanted to share, I didn’t want to lose that magic, I didn’t want to lose that color. I didn’t want to go back. I couldn’t. It felt so odd to me, all the sudden I was no longer trapped inside that glass box. I was in remission. I could still see it in the back of my head, like a storm brewing in the sea, but I chose to ignore it. **15 April 2013 Monday.** It is Marathon Day. A perfect day for a marathon. The weather was so nice. I was going to go. Thank god I slept in . . . Until 1. 10 days later, one of the best days of my life. **25 April 2013 Thursday** I met someone interesting. His name is Han. He has a fantastic personality. He likes classical music, has 1 sister, and he is an engineer major. So far from me in terms of career paths. But he has made me laugh, and he seems interesting. Han made a much bigger impact than I could have hoped for, in the best way. **26 August 2013 Monday** How do I describe the last 48 hours? I am at the hospital, looking at my dad’s unconscious body. **27 August 2013 Tuesday** “Here’s the thing, besides the Epilepsy, he doesn’t have any other health problems, and he was healthy. So this just might be the case where we just don’t know. There is a five to fifteen percent chance that people with Epilepsy can have a seizure that will take his life. We just don’t know.” The doctors says. **28 August 28, 2013 Wednesday** **6:31PM** I love you dad. You were the most amazing, and most simple man that I have met. I feel like I won’t get over it. But I made a promise to be okay, and I think, I know - I will. You were proud of me, and I want you to be proud of every decision, even if it slightly questionable. It was so hard. Fuck, god. It was so hard. I’d lost someone so stable, so bizarre, but completely wonderful. He was a happy man, and I knew he wanted me to be happy. So I worked. I worked off the pain, I fought the urge to cry when I saw girls with their fathers, I sang his favorite songs, I mourned him without falling back into bed and staring up at the ceiling. But there were relapses. **7 October 2013 Monday** I feel disgusting all the time. All the time. At one point I asked myself again - what did I need to do? What did I want to do? See my boyfriend. Be in love. God, I wanted to just be in love, I was so fucking lonely even with everyone around me, and finally someone pried their hands into my brain and told me it was okay to love myself. It is okay to be in love. So I bought myself a plane ticket to Seoul. On the 28th of November I was standing in customs at Incheon airport, and there he was. Love is interesting, because you feel it all over your body. I held his hand, I played with his hair, I kissed him a thousand times. I didn’t want to leave. Here standing in front of me was a man who proved to me that I could love, and be loved. I also fell in love with Seoul, as weeks became days, and days turned into the very last hour I knew that I was going to be leaving a second home. A place that became my place of refuge. I was actually surprised by this fact, as I wandered the streets alone one day. Han took me to places he went as a child, we sang maple story for days, “that video is a legend here!” He ate quesadillas for a week after I made him one, one night. “Will you marry me?” He asked after he bit into it. I laughed, “let me think about it.” On my final day I cried. He held me tight, and kissed me goodbye. “See you soon.” I was asked by another redditor to talk about my struggle with depression, and my decision to kick it in the face, and face my own fears. There will be a moment in your life, when it seems like the only way out is by locking yourself away, don't. Confront yourself, ask yourself - what do I need to do? What do I want to do? And challenge yourself. Life wasn't meant to be easy, for anyone. But if I had to describe it - **28 July 2011 Thursday** I jumped 30ft into the air, all the way down into a pool nearly 60ft deep. I looked down at the faces, the body of water, and nothing passed through my head at that moment except the thought, "this is what it is like to fly." I heard music, and when I landed, the silence engulfed me, and I accepted it. I accepted the silence, I understood it. Heard its beauty, and for a moment, I knew how to fly. How to be free.

Tunnel By: Jacob W. Brown This tunnel, it seems to never end. The journey has seemed to us to be an eternity. No matter the amount of strides taken, the end is believed to not grow any closer. This tunnel, as the wise ones say, have evils living within it. These evils can be random, harsh and are always present, even if hidden in the darkness around the light being shown from our hands. The evils like to hide; they feed off of it. When hidden, they only build up. They have no structured form; rather, they take multiple forms. It is believed that each individual on this journey perceives the evils differently through their own distinct mind. All of our minds take in these evils in a different manner apart from the one next to us. In the words of the optimists, there are goods that remain in the tunnel as well. The ones who gracefully believe that they are there can only see these goods. These goods are said to be stronger than the evils; the evils cower away when the goods are present. With every good, the light that seems so distant only gets that much closer. Like the evils, the goods take the most different of forms for each of us. Consequently, it depends on how the one views the outside. Sometimes, if the goods are not present, the evils become fully present. The fear among us gives the evils the utmost strength they need. We are told to never fear, but the fear is hard to shove away at times. These evils, they can be at their strongest when us all are at our weakest mentally. When the weakness shows, the goods fade away. When the goods fade away, the end grows distance. When the end grows distance, the light grows dimmer. When the light grows dimmer, the darkness takes over. When the darkness takes over, we all become lost and the destination is pushed out of sight.

Nora stepped out of the warmth of her home and onto her doorstep. She shivered as the cold brisk air slithered up her back. With arms tightly wrapped around her torso, she quickly walked to her truck. She was about to open the door when she stopped. She stood and listened. Noooora. With every plop of the dropping snow the cold called her name. She shivered and exhaled an excited giggle. Her eyes widened. With every inhale, every subsequent hot breath that entered the frigid air, Nora’s vision cleared. Noooora. She scanned her yard; nearly every detail without color. Slivers of brown, like the dark eyes of nocturnal beasts in a vast darkness, were the only distinction to be seen. The ubiquitous white filled her with with a profound sense of awe, a feeling intensified by the simplicity of it’s source. Her smile widened and she entered her truck. Nora stumbled clumsily through the summer as if wandering through a thick, hot fog; her thoughts muddled from the daze. But as summer began to wane and crawl its way into winter, a nascent curiosity awoke. She began to see the world as if for the very first time. Air filled her lungs with a welcome sting, sounds had substance, and food - oh God the food! - tasted like manna from heaven. The cold was like the forgotten touch of a torrid lover. She felt truly and finally awake, and unlike the summer, her mind was a spear made of ice; clear and sharp. She drove slowly on the freshly plowed road, not out of concern for her safety, but simply because she enjoyed the sight. The pine trees above her car stood proud and tall, like sentinels clad in white armor. They occasionally regarded her with a small plop of snow. The sky directly above her was clear and calm; resting peacefully from the previous few days. The calm landscape after a violent snowstorm always made her feel pleasantly alone. She often found herself, on days such as this, walking along the very same road she now drove, listening to the sound of her feet as they rhythmically crunched in the snow, enjoying the crisp unity of mind and nature. If not for the dark and baleful clouds that loomed to the east, she would be listening to her footfalls rather than the growl of the engine. But Nora knew that the storm was only resting, and that soon the sky would open up. For three days the storm had raged outside, and for three days Nora's pantry was further diminished, but where her pantry was left empty, her spirits had never been more full. She had spent the past days by the warmth of the fireplace, sometimes lost in the world of a book, other times mesmerized by the dancing flames as she listened to the wind violently thrash around her. The outside world of work, of pain, and of boredom didn’t exist. She took naps when she felt cozy and warm, sang aloud with a fervor when she was glad, and drank directly from the bottle when she felt like it. But now she was in another world, one familiar, but primarily of effect. The white sea around her, and the empty pantry at home, all effect. So more than just a jovial car ride, she found her self on the road in need of supplies. She needed food and she needed wood. Both brought her strength, warmth, and enjoyment. Plus it just wouldn't have been right to go without a fire. Nora glanced down at her gas gauge. The needle lay directly on the empty line. She barely had enough gas to make it to the store, let alone enough to make it back. She cursed, smiling. This revelation didn’t worry her. It had no power to worry. Her mood soared at a steady and high altitude, the current it rode on only getting stronger. There wasn’t much God could dish out that Nora wasn’t ready to devour. She drove for another twenty minutes looking at the landscape around her. She passed no cars on the way to the store, which was good, because this was her road, and her little world, and she expected it to stay that way. She pulled into the small parking lot of the towns only general store and gas station. She knew the larger grocery chain would be closed at a time like this, so she only had the little guys to rely on, and she enjoyed relying on the little guys, for they rarely let her down. She was taking the key out of the ignition when the general store’s small wooden door opened. An older man in a big puffy jacket exited and quickly turned back towards the door. Out of his pocket he pulled a set of keys and pushed one of them into the door. When Nora saw this she quickly and clumsily stumbled out of the truck with her hand outstretched in an act of halt. "Wait!" The old man whirled around and looked at her with a comical kind of surprise. He looked like he had just found out that instead of locking the door, he was about to set the store on fire. "Jesus Nora! You damn near gave me a heart attack...” He chuckled nervously and brought his hand to his chest. Nora walked to him and hugged him tightly. She broke the embrace, leaving her hands on his shoulders and smiled warmly. "Oh Pat, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to scare ya. It's just I really need some supplies, and when I saw you locking the door I thought I was too late." Pat nodded. "Well, you're damn lucky you got here when you did, because you almost were too late." He brought the key back to the door and unlocked it. “Do you need me to grab you some wood too?” She nodded. "Alright, now hurry on inside and get what you need.” He looked up at the sky. “You can pay me later, I don't want to bother with that right now with the sky lookin so mean." Nora kissed him on the cheek. She and ran into the store and grabbed only the bare essentials: bread, peanut butter, milk, cereal, a 24 pack of beer, and a bottle of jack. When she left the store Pat was shutting the door to the backseat of her car. He looked up at her earnestly, as if explaining something extremely important. "Now, you've got four bundles of wood there in your backseat, it should last you the next couple of days. You have matches?" He lit a cigarette and offered her the lighter. "I'm all good now, Pat, thanks to you. I have no idea what I'd have done. After this storm I owe you a nice big dinner." He patted her hand. "I’ll take you up on that, but more than anything you just get your self home safely." She smiled. "You too Pat." He looked at her for a few more seconds before he turned and walked to his truck. She smiled in his direction and yelled. "Thanks again Pat! You're a life saver!" He lifted his hand and waved back at her as he walked to his car. "Hurry home now! The storm's getting restless." Pat took a drag of his cigarette and coughed, expelling a circling cloud of smoke. It hung in the air around him for a split second before a powerful gust of wind brought it up into the dark sky, where it disappeared under the strength of the malevolent clouds that were just beginning to awake. Nora hadn’t even left the parking lot before it started snowing. It fell softly at first, like a musician using a peaceful set of notes, notes that would slowly crescendo into a boundless force of emotion. But the snow that fell softly to the ground around Nora was no song, but more like the soft belly of a strong and capable behemoth, one that when seen at it’s true apex, would be revealed as the dangerous monster that it actually was. Ignoring the muzzled voice of danger that spoke deep in the back of her consciousness, she focused only on the voice of her excitement. A smile that was all but fleeting (one that can often be seen on the face of a child lost in their own alluring world) controlled her countenance. A gust would occasionally swirl the snow through the air around her truck. It was beautiful. For Nora, this moment was one that could scarcely be described. There was suddenly a glossy shine to Nora’s sovereign blue eyes. If only her frail human form could endure the cold, she would stand at the top of the highest mountain, becoming it’s highest point, and revel in the storm’s fury as it incased her in ice like a frozen monument. A loud and hollow bang roused Nora from her dreams. Her gas gauge was well past the empty line. With the confusion at the store she had completely forgotten that she needed to get gas, and now she was less than halfway home and about to run out. The truck fumbled down the road an eighth of a mile, lurching her violently forward with each backfire, before it rolled to a stop. "God dammit!", she screamed. She brought her fists down on the steering wheel causing the horn to honk loudly; the last dying scream of the lifeless truck. She sat in the drivers seat watching the snow flakes float to the ground. It was so beautiful, but at this moment much to her detriment. The phrase "kiss of death" entered her mind, but she shook the thought off with unease. Continuing on that train of thought would bring her mind to dark places, places that wouldn't be productive. Panic was never constructive in situations such as this. She traversed through her options carefully, analyzing each one with the concern necessary for an important decision; one that could easily become perilous with one mistake. Staying in the car was out of the question; she had food, but no water, and very little in the way of warmth. The wood was pretty useless here in her car, and the jacket she was wearing was not designed to protect her from the cold indefinitely. For all she knew, this storm could last days, and she would never last that long. She had no choice but to walk. She would move quickly to the first house she came across and hope they would either let her take shelter, or give her a ride before the storm made the road impassable. The thought that she might not actually find a house never crossed her mind. Nora began to walk down the white deserted road. The snow was falling faster now, but the air had an eerie calm to it, and for a while, she didn’t even notice the cold. She stopped for a moment and turned back to her truck. It was still close, and for a brief moment she contemplated returning to it while the storm was still in its infancy. But instead she turned around and continued walking in search of salvation. If she was trapped in the truck for the entire storm she would freeze, of that she was certain. The farther and farther she walked from the car, the colder and colder it became. Already, with her jacket fastened tightly around her skinny body, and the hood pulled completely around her head, she could feel her warmth diminishing. This town ain't big enough for the both of us, the storm whispered as her warm body passed through it's white domain. The trees shook as if brushed by an invisible hand, exposing slivers of brown as clumps of snow fell to the ground. With a shrill whisper, a strong gust of wind hit the soft powder and erupted it into the air like a frothy surf crashing onto a shore of brilliant white sand. Twilight slowly slithered from the shadows as the dismal clouds became absolute, and the fragile snowflakes that had fallen only seconds before became a wild flurry. In the air Nora could hear a buzz of energy, and occasionally she thought she heard something whisper her name. The monster was opening it’s eyes. Nora stopped for the last time to look behind her, but her truck was nowhere to be seen. The blizzard had matured since she had stopped the first time, and it was hard to see much of anything now. In between the flurry Nora could only make out bits of trees, and anything that wasn’t already covered was quickly disappearing. Everything she saw, save for the road she walked on, belonged to the forest. She saw no sign of driveways veering from the main road and into the forest. No remnants of tire tracks, no signs that cars even existed in this world; nothing. Her surroundings were barren of anything man made. A strange thought entered her head, I wish I would have asked for a cigarette. She only craved a cigarette when she was nervous, and as she walked, shivering in the cold, she couldn’t help but think that she had made a mistake. But to say that she was nervous would have been an understatement. To be more precise, Nora was on the verge of fright. But even more of a misrepresentation of her situation was that she had made a mistake. Mistakes are things to be learned and never repeated, Nora had made a fatal error in judgment, and could only be lucky to be allowed to learn from it. She had been walking for a half an hour, shielding herself from the intrusive flurry, when there was suddenly a strange lapse in the storm. The snow continued to fall, but it was more like the beginning; peaceful and wholesome. Hurry, you may actually find something, whispered the wind. Maybe this storm didn’t regard her in malice after all. She hurried her pace. With an expectant smile she turned her head from side to side. The fears that had been building alongside the strength of the storm began to wane. She felt foolish for ever thinking that her situation was one of the dire persuasion. She would be fine... Hell!, this little piggy might even just walk all the way home! To hell with all the supplies, she’d make do. She was practically skipping when a blip of color materialized in the distance. It was such a deviation from the world of white she had become used to, that the bright red almost appeared to be glowing. It was all she could see, like a red dot on a white piece of paper. It stuck out of an embankment about 500 ft ahead. As she jogged closer she ran through the possibilities. What could it possibly be? Maybe it was a sign of some sort, or a pole? Maybe something indicating a nearby structure? Whatever it was, it created a hump in the snow that was about a foot higher than the rest of the embankment, and the bright red object in question stuck a few inches above that. When she was about forty feet away, the object began to take shape. It was a small plastic flag, and for Nora, it seemed to be sticking triumphantly out of the embankment. She squealed in joy as she realized what this discovery could mean. She might actually be done with this little adventure, and that was good, because she was ready to quit fighting the storm and start enjoying it. She stood in front of the little flag and cleared the snow away. She looked down off of the main road in search of the house that the mailbox belonged to. The storm began to pick up again while she was searching. She couldn’t see a house, but she knew it had to be there somewhere. She grabbed the mail and walked off the road and in the direction that the mailbox seemed to indicate. She had faith that there was some truth to the fabled axiom of a friendly neighbor. She entered an area thick with trees, an area that could easily get her lost. In the back of her mind she hoped that this wouldn't be another mistake to tally on the board.

I read a short story five plus years ago that was extremely good but all i can remember about it is the plot. It would be awesome if someone can give me the title for it. Thanks in advance. It starts with a kid in high school who is smart extremely smart but also not so easy on the eyes. He meets a blind girl who is also gifted and they fall in love. He is a neurological doctor and scientist that does some questionable things in the lab to get results. He eventually tells his wife that he can do surgery to give her sight back. Well he lies to her and instead makes her incredibly intelligent, so intelligent that she does not even care that he lied. He eventually has the same surgery done to himself, but the surgery always cost the person their sight. That is about all i can remember. Thanks again.

Being the consummate show attender and nightlife junkie I showed up a scant 30 minutes late to Stuntman Rendezvous and Girthy Appendages performance at Bills Burger Shed. This was a big double perk show for me because not only was it free, but I was also very interested in one of the performers that evening and this would be the first real chance to speak to her in about a year. So of course I'm going to be 30 minutes late. Cursed with terrible vision and a total lack of physical direction sense I meandered around the seediest, dirtiest, darkest little puddle in the big stink that is northern Nashville. Every city has some collection of blocks where all the trash seems to settle and this little burger joint was planted smack in the middle of it. It reminded me of Detroit but there was to many white people. Wrap your head around that the next time you plan on cutting education budgets and standards city council people. I was in God's country. God was the only hope these people had of ever escaping here. But I digress, I'm trying to avoid social commentary and stick to the story. Always the story. Here's some background about this girl that had me driving to this cozy shed planted smack in the middle of a city scape that would give Stephen King the shivers. We met passively a long time ago. Possibly even in a galaxy far, far away if you're into that sort of thing. I had noticed her on many occasion but she was always with someone. Her brother maybe? Boyfriend? I don't know. Time passes and we actually get a moment or three hanging out. She's erratic and complicated, but just sitting next to her makes me feel. She makes me want. She makes me feel and want. I was so totally fucked. I had already strapped in for the ride so no point in harassing the attendant now. Do you get it yet? That kind of feel. I mean, I knew some of her friends. Seriously. She had all these friends and people who knew her. She always seemed so perfectly adorable socially. I suppose if I wasn't so blitheringly inept at introducing myself to new people I wouldn't be driving into this black hole to get a glimpse of what a sun looks like after a lifetime of darkness. I may have worded that last sentence a little strongly, but I'm telling the story so I'm going to use the words I want to. Other words you should prepare for: Fuck, Shit, Fuck shit, cunt, asshole, spontaneous, and double fuck. Double fuck is my favorite. Proper context is: Double Fuck that spontaneous bullshit. Double fuck that and triple fuck you, you fucking fuck. So, where was I? Something about some burger joint and a free show. Also: Girl. Yes, that's where. So, I pull into a mostly empty parking lot to this burger joint squatting between a trailer park and, seriously, a closed 15 minute hotel. 15 minute hotels where a thing I thought only existed in movies until I was about 17 or 18 and drove cross country to Los Angeles. I thought they where a "Big City" thing. Obviously, I rarely ventured north of the river. An open 15 minute hotel is pretty scary. A closed 15 minute hotel is nightmare fuel. Don't believe me? Turn around in that parking lot. Anyway, oh yes, this burger joint. Seriously. How in the fuck do the slickest looking, coziest little hovels of a place like this always exist in a garbage dump of some city? It's beyond me. It's like once people start earning an income that allows them to afford a house the first thing they do is neglect every mom and pop eatery and then have the nerve to bitch about where all the cool "Local" places went. I'll tell you where they went you dumbfucks, they're all working at McDonalds for half what they made at the burger joint because you sold the burger joints up the river at the behest of your selfish, spoiled little shit kids. And everyday you stare them condescendingly in the face, like it was their fault the best burgers you've ever had closed down, and assert your responsible parenting authority over their unfortunate life position. But that's what you wanted, so choke your plastic down you miserable fucks. Remember when you knew that guys name? You'd show up at the burger joint and they'd smile, possibly even address you by name. They provided this thing called service, something you desperately long for but won't take 5 minutes out of your day to find a cozy little place to call your own. Now you spend all day trying to find some nuance of material significance to impress your friends and neighbors. They're your friends, goddamnt! If you have to impress them to keep them around, they are not your friends you fucking idiot! And your neighbors? These people only care about you for two reasons: 1: Are you lowering their property value, and 2: Does your yard look better then theirs? So what are you really doing? Running around like a chicken with your head cut off wearing clothes you only bought because they where the "expensive" brand and you have to assert your affluence, and eating at chain restaurants that all taste the goddamn same cause it's all from Sysco and everyone who works there from the dishwasher to the general manager has no confidence in their employer and all dream of working somewhere better. Somewhere where being good at your job was equally important to being on time. Somewhere where maybe, if you suggested something, maybe, it would actually get done. Somewhere where they treat you like a person and not a lab subject or robotic personless entity meant to reflect all the wonderful aspects of their copy-written, brand label logo that's about as blank as a fart and as empty as early colonial promises to Natives about what was going to happen to their land. I suppose a long time ago people maybe did some pretty amazing things and made great names for themselves. Nowadays it feels like if your not born into the money you don't deserve it, regardless of whatever great things you have done or how studiously you educated yourself. At best all the college science and chemistry and engineering is getting pandered for pennies on the dollar to trust fund children with bought degree's from places that still try to pretend to be credible when they're little more then elitist wealthy social clubs. People who've never hurt for anything or ever known someone who's hurt for anything. People who say stupid shit like,"Pull up your bootstraps" and "put your nose to the grindstone". People who put value on a long heritage of last names or places of birth. Seriously, people you and I have probably never met and never will because just to stand in the same room as them might cost you in the upwards of a month to a years salary you get working for them. You're the working class. You're the peasants. To come to see you would belittle their stature amongst their peers, or worse: cause a scandal. Holy shit. I went off the rails again. Seriously though, what fun would the ride be if you stayed on the rails the whole time? This story would probably already be over, and what's the fun in that? Guess it takes all sorts. So yeah, I pull into this empty parking lot at this burger joint in the middle of what my city is trying to forget and through the windows I can see she's got her band already on stage. Shit. You know. Shit. But I'm 30 minutes late and as any good show attendee knows, at best I missed the first 30 seconds of the 1st song. Also, there is all of no one in the place. I mean empty. I mean, there's a dude with some girls in the corner but they have all the feel of the next band what's about to play so they don't count really. And then the big kicker. No one. Not one of her friends, not one acquaintance, not even like a creepy ex-boyfriend was there. And there she was, on stage, singing horribly into a microphone while her band mate limply kept time on the drums. The music was horrible and I couldn't understand a word she said the whole time she was singing mostly, that's par for the course for me, but there she was belting out these verses to a ghost town. Naturally, I totally fell in love all over again. Idiot. I know, I'm a total idiot, but my idiocy allows room for some just magnificent stories and without it I would be such a horrible bore. Seriously. I have to go make my own stupid, it doesn't always come find me on it's own. So now it's time to man up or shut-up. I put my cigarette out on the pavement and stroll through the doors like I own the place and find a table facing the stage with the back to the door. Once inside it felt even emptier, which I didn't think was possible. The staff was mostly quiet and unobtrusive and the back patio did have a few folks lounging and smoking outside since everybody bowed out like a little bitch and allowed the fucking government to dictate what adults are and are not allowed to do in a room socially. I already have parents. Two are enough. I ambled up to the bar and ordered a soda. That's right you fuckers, a soda. Cause I'm a lightweight pussy bitch when it comes to drinking and can't stand beer, which is all this place had. I mean, I did have to work later that night but a drink or two would do nothing to abate that miserable experience I was looking forward to so surely no one would notice a difference if I had been sloshed. One of the benefits of 3rd shift work I guess, it's like they expect it. Two older men at the bar silently sipped beer from a bottle. Their own individual bottles, not the same bottle. We where in the ghetto, but I guess some folks still had their dignity. I tipped my soda to the bartendress and waded back to my seat. Good god the music was awful. I've heard her sing and play instruments before, and I would describe her as capable, but this... what I was experiencing here... was a unique kind of bad. Maybe it was me, I was wanting so much for her to be good at what I was about to see maybe I over expected some things. I wanted to leave crying in a puddle of emotional sap at the billowing devastation of her magnificent voice, my body riddled with the wounds of a thousand magnificent chords and progressions. Instead I was slapped in the face with ugly. It couldn't have been more perfect. And then it got really interesting. After a song, her drummer pipes up into a microphone and says some shit about how,"He'd better get the fuck out of here or I'm going to break his fucking face." There where three "He's" in this room. Me, the drummer, and the guy from the other band. Obviously he's addressing me but it's from so far out in left field I'm left in a moment of shock. Her boyfriend maybe? They looked about the same age, and it's possible, I mean we did hang out and we were adults and she did mention maybe she had a boyfriend. I find laying in someone's bed and making out a little on the," Maybe you really don't have a boyfriend" side, but you haven't had my experiences with women so you can suck it. Also, this was like a year ago. Do you know how long a year is in hot girl time? That's married with kids and a career, that's how long that is. So, yes, I was mildly surprised that she even recognized me when I walked in, much less even looked a little excited to see me. That's probably just my mind playing tricks on me most likely though. I could be so lucky. Did I just mention someone said they were going to break my face? Oh yes, of course, back to that. So this guy threatens to break my face. There's an awkward silence, everybody in the room becomes a little difficult to read, but everyone's basically ignoring him and not saying shit. So I do the same. They play the next song, which was just as horrible as the first song they played. Afterwards he adds the brilliant commentary," I'm serious motherfucker, if you don't get up and leave right now I'm going to beat the shit out of you.

The sound of glass breaking was the last noise I can remember hearing before I woke. Silence, like I’ve never felt before. Disoriented, momentarily stunned, and a tad bit aloof, I stumbled from my folds, reaching for the light; lost in the absence of. Faltering to the source of the crash in my ominous stupor, as I quickly perceived the reality of the situation, my head was filled with quipped puns; my clock was broken. It appears that someone had a smashing time. Everything existed as it always had, the front door remained untouched, all of the windows swinging in place. I had no reason to be concerned, accidents happen. I strode humbly too the bathroom, pondering the events that created the scenes of my early morning. The air in my abode had a frigid taste to it. More upset by the demise of my favorite clock, rather than the cause, I slowly climbed into the shower. Steam has always soothed my conscious in times of unrest. I remembered when I bought that clock. It wasn’t too long ago; I was outside walking on a particularly frail fall afternoon. Noted for it’s rich historical architecture, I was too admonished by the building’s too notice the seemingly sedentary older lady selling off the treasures stowed away in her basement. I strewed inside, if not for perusing a souls life times’ collection, then for the pleasurable conversation. I entered the room, and almost as if placed perfectly in my line of sight, a clock with a pair of painted eyes, with a rusty glass panel, stared at me from across the room. I walked up to it, admiring the creators’ attention for detail. There was something familiar about those eyes. I offered her five dollars for it, and to my surprise, she nonchalantly agreed. Hearing that the house was foreclosed upon a few months after my visit, I found myself contemplating the waste of cultural architecture. I let out a jolt remembering that, and knocked over the shampoo in my haste. I forgot I was in the shower. After fumbling into my clothes, and distastefully coordinating colors, I eventually made my way too the coffee. I took a smell of pleasant seditions, only too have the most distasteful feeling of déjà vu I’ve had in years. Staring at the wall where my clock once hung, I can’t help but feel like I’ve done this before. I started sweeping up the glass. The eyes on the clock stare at me, almost tauntingly it seems. Like the way an autumn day passes by without a lover’s hand to hold. My mind can’t help but take me back to that day I bought the clock. Ruminating on that basement, and the quiet old lady who sold it to me. Curiosity ripped through me like an electrical current, I let my thoughts flow freely in the moment. What transpired next was a moment I was only too willing to create. Lacking something important to do that day, I took a walk for the sake of nostalgia. I should have been looking for a new clock. Air rigid, with frost gently laden over the landscape, the old ladies house reflected a much more disingenuous aura in the heart of December. The windows had long ago been boarded up. Weeds had grown out of control and the grass had died, I couldn’t help but wonder what lye inside still. I knew better. Trespassing wasn’t what I intended to do that day; I was just enjoying the scenery. Before my mind could tell my hands no, I was climbing into the house through a cellar window someone forgot to close. Dampness, I thought too myself, what the fuck am I doing down here. The smell of mold was unbecoming, the small portion of refracting light displayed a tragic story of it’s own. Time had claimed the basements history. Possessions scattered and torn, mildew stained books, and blankets lofting over long forgotten memories of a life once lived. The old lady, I thought. Why would someone move and leave all of their possessions behind? As I leafed through a stack of old newspapers, my phone lit up, revealing an obituaries page stuck too the wall. I scanned the names and photographs on the list, until I came across a familiar face. There she was! The older lady who sold me the clock. It was her picture in black and white, staring up at me from the old newspaper. Like my fate was predetermined, I started reading her obituary. She had died on a fall day, a few months ago. I turned the page, only to see my own face. I died the same day. Before I could read my obituary, I awoke to the sound of breaking glass.

It's a little slow in the very very beginning. Just...you'll see. Also, some paragraphs are off, for some reason. "Billy, eat your breakfast or you're going to fail out of Elementary school. There have been studies, you know!" I told my son as he sat at the dinner table, a plate of steaming, fluffy yellow eggs sitting in front of him, waiting to be eaten. Our kitchen was considerably small, so the fragrance of his breakfast was causing me to salivate, for I myself had not eaten yet. "Come on dad, I don't want to eat. I never eat breakfast and I'm doing good in school," he replied to me in a high pitched squeak, a hint of annoyance in his voice as he stared idly at the eggs, contempt prevalent in his beady brown eyes. His hair obscured them significantly, for he wore it long, much to my wife's displeasure. "Fine son, I'll eat them for you. But this is the last time, and don't tell your mother or I'll get in trouble!" I said as I made my way to the table, nudging Billy so that I could sit down and give into the temptation to devour the meal I made for him. "You eat my breakfast everyday dad. Like it's going to be the last time," Billy laughed, happily hopping off of the chair that was much too big for his slender body. I scooped spoonful after spoonful of eggs into my mouth, guzzling them down greedily. When I finished, I picked up the plate and placed it carefully into the dishwasher as I did every other day of my life since my son was old enough to attend elementary school. After this was completed, I unfastened the powder white apron that read "Best Mom Ever" inside a frilly pink heart, surrounded by polka-dots. Under this I wore a deep purple suit accompanied by a black tie and dress pants; my regular working attire. "Billy, want to come give your dad a hug before he goes to work?" I asked in a playful voice, speaking in the third person like I did for the most part when I talked to him. "Bye dad!" came his cheerful squeak as he bounded towards me and buried his face in my necktie. I bend toward him slightly to put my arms around him. He smiled at me, and it was the most beautiful thing I saw all morning. His face glowed with an essence of childhood and a carefree attitude; he was quite amazing. In that moment I felt a connection that only a father could feel, something that I know is special to fathers alone. "I'll see you after work, six o'clock sharp!" "I'll be here!" I got into my car and smoothed out my tie with my fingers nervously, the same routine as ever. I could never depart from home happily, because I was essentially taking my protectiveness and leaving. How can I know what will happen to my son while I am at work? Anything is possible. There could be a fire at his school, a break in, some lunatic with a gun. His bus could get into a crash, or swerve off the road into a lake, cracking the windows and slowly filling with water-- Needless to say, I was paranoid. However, as I did everyday, I resisted the urge to get out of my vehicle and run back inside, telling him that I would be there for him forever. It simply wasn't possible, so I pulled out of the driveway and took off. There wasn't a moving car on the road for me to pass, something that did not strike me as odd in the least, for it was the norm. The last time I had been on the road and seen another car drive past me... I can't even remember. It must have been a while. I passed a few cars parked on the side of the road every now and then, but that was it. Screech. My car whistled in pain as I stamped my foot onto the brake pedal to yield to a group of stupid kids as they ran across the street without looking first. My car thudded to a halt as the last girl ran across, a blonde one with pigtails, looking no more than 6 or 7 in age. I wondered why they weren't going to school. "Crazy people," I whispered to myself under my breath. Once the path was clear, I began my journey once more, turning my head to see the children running through somebody's backyard, and when I blinked they had gone, just like that, disappearing from my vision. They must be fast runners. When I got to the light, it was yellow, so I decided to wait for the next green cycle; I wasn't in the mood to risk getting pulled over, although I had not seen a police car in ages. As always, the intersection was completely devoid of cars. It was only my lone Chevrolet, brake lights illuminating the ground behind me, idling at the roadway. I looked around me to the stores. The grocery store, to my right, was coruscating into the dim morning air, it's bright halo of light adding an angelic touch to it's friendly atmosphere. I was friends with most of the cashiers, for I stopped there every day after work. To my right, the liquor store was still dark, dormant always until 10 AM. The light switched to green, and I sped along the deserted roadways, humming to myself as I went. When I arrived at my office, I was greeted by my assistant, a short young man with red hair and an even redder face. "Hello sir! Can I get you anything? Coffee, water, iced tea? I already wiped down your desk, and emptied your trash, and vacuumed your office floor. Do you want me to take your coat? I can dry clean it if you want. Can I get you anything to eat? I can get take-out. Do you want to pass along any messages to anyone else? Do you need anything copied, filed, organized? I can--" "Thank you Henry, but I'm quite alright! Except, I suppose you could take my coat," I replied to his rant, all spoken in a matter of .07 seconds. I took off my jacket and dropped it into his opened arms. It slumped straight to the floor. "Whoa, that's expensive Henry, be careful," I said to him, picking it up off of the floor as he stammered a nervous response. "I'll take it up myself, Henry. It's okay. I'll take some water though, thank you." He stumbled off down the hallway in the direction of the water cooler to obtain the water I knew would never come. Every morning I asked him for waterm, and every morning he walked down that hallway, and every morning he never returned after that. The water never arrived, and the next time I saw Henry would be the next day. Thinking nothing of it, I proceeded towards my office room. "Morning, Elizabeth!" I called to our secretary, and she waved. "Hi, Rob!" I called to our sales manager, and he nodded dismally. It was common knowledge at our office that Rob hated his job, but we tried to maintain a healthy attitude around him so that maybe we could change his opinion. "Weather's looking nice today, eh Rob?" He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes twitching ever so slightly, and then looked back down at his papers. "Alright then!" I attempted to keep the cheeriness in my voice as I unlocked my office door and stepped inside. It smelled faintly of lemons, for Henry's cleaning supplies were all lemon scented. I was impressed with his work; nothing looked disturbed, everything was untouched. The same mahogany desk sat in the middle, a window behind it and a vase with a fern in it on either side, swaying slightly in the breeze from the heater vent. It was a cozy little space, blanketed with a gray carpet and a ceiling light that was just a little too bright. I put my bag down and slowly descended into my 2013 AX 500 desk chair model 98-B with swivel control, calibrated to comfort me and at the same time support my spine. A quick glance at my in-box showed that I had a light workday, at least to start out with. "Sir, the water cooler was out!" The voice of my assistant pierced through the air, reverberating in my eardrums, it's eager yet professional tone sickening me. "Why are you here." I tried to ask it in the calmest voice possible, but I found it difficult to repress my newfound anger. I didn't even know why I was angry that my assistant was here, I just was. Never had he come back from the water cooler, never. He was silent. For once in his life, at the least convenient time, he did not open his mouth or speak a word. He simply stood there, staring, teetering back and forth on his heels. "I'm going to ask you again. The in God's name are you in my office right now, Henry?" This time, my voice was raised quite a bit higher, my anger was building up, bubbling inside of me like searing hot water. Again, he was silent. "Henry, if you don't say why you're here, I am going to KILL YOU!" I said the last two words with force and at only a few decibels below a scream, so that everyone in the office could hear me. I glanced out the window, and nobody so much as looked up from their work. Rob scratched his head. "Okay, I need a day off," I said to myself, mimicking Rob and rubbing my own scalp and getting up, grabbing my still unopened bag. "But sir, don't you want your water?" Henry asked. As I walked across the floor towards the door, I could hear him following me. "No, Henry, I don't want any water, now please stop talking to me," I said to him. He grew silent and the footsteps behind me stopped. "Elizabeth, I'm going home, I'll be in tomorrow," I told her quickly as I rushed out the door. Why had Henry returned? Never in 2 years had he returned once he went off to the water cooler, and that was how I liked it. It gave me a sense of order, this daily routine. Eating my son's breakfast, Henry's greeting, working for 8 hours, stopping at the grocery store, then going home to my wife and Billy. It had been disrupted and I was not in my normal mental state, so it was with no surprise that I sped right past the grocery store on my way home. "God," I breathed, making an illegal U-turn and pulling into the grocery store parking lot, into the same front spot that I always occupied. "Morning John, I didn't expect to see you here this early!" called the cashier Linda, waving at me as she stood at her empty register. "Hi there, I took the day off from work," I said back as I walked through the front doors, proceeding in the direction of the cracker aisle. The only thing that I needed today was a box of saltines to complete our evening meal. "This all today John?" she asked as I placed it on the register for her to ring up. "Yep, that'll be it!" I said, pulling out my wallet. I handed her the money, but it fell onto the register. "Oops, sorry Linda!" I picked up the money and pushed it closer to her. "I'll just let you take care of that for me." I grabbed my saltines and left the store, still humming the song that was playing over the intercom, an old piano piece from some long forgotten decade. When I got home, the house was deserted. My son had already left for school and my wife was at work. It was eerily quiet, but the silence was oddly comforting to me. It was like an old friend wrapping it's arms around me, embracing me with love. Curiously, the document that always hung on the refrigerator had already changed. Every day when I got home from work, a new piece of paper was to be found stuck to the fridge door among other magnets and a paper bearing "Great Job!" from Billy's class. It was typed in black ink, and looked very professional. My wife always told me not to read it, so I never did, all I knew about it was that it was never the same two days in a row, I could tell by the line breaks. Feeling mischievous, however, and with nobody home to stop me, I tentatively approached the paper and scanned it over. Jonathan Henry Cinder: Subject 1: Isolation Week 309, Isolation Experiment ***Subject is still observed talking to himself on multiple occasions; appears to believe he is not alone. Sanity in question. Emotional outbursts have begun as expected. Mental stability may be degrading: has broken daily schedule. No further reports*** I read it several times, then, when after the fifth time I still could not understand what the paper meant, I turned away and headed towards my bedroom, still humming the song from the grocery store.

Nineteen million dollars, Harry! Can you believe it? M-I-L-I-U-N. We’re rich! And you said I’d never pull it off. You always were such a worrywart about these kinds of – what? Wrong spelling? Oh Harry, I think I’d know my letters. Why do you always have to ruin the mood? Think of all the things we could do with this money! We could buy a brand new TV, or go on vacation in the Rakibbean! I’m so excited I can hardly – oh hush, Harry, you’re just jealous that I beat you in that slingshot competition back in 8th grade. Well, it wasn’t my fault; you should have known to bring protective eyewear. Stop trying to change the subject. Yes, I was careful. Of course I wasn’t followed! What do you think I am, stupid? Oh, hush, Harry. Even if someone did come, I know how to use a gun… What do you mean I was supposed to throw the gun away? You know, it’s your paranoia that’ll ruin us. What if they see you in the street, looking all guilty? Then they’ll know, and they’ll find me and take me to one of their warehouses, and Harry I couldn’t stand it there, you know me! They’d break me in seconds! Oh god, what if they just kill me instead? I’m too young to die Harry, I’m twenty-nine years old! Don’t tell me to stop talking! What? Where did you hear that? Why would I lock the—oh hold on Harry, I’m gonna have to call you back; there’s somebody knocking at the door.

The house was old, two stories with yellow paint flakeing off it's walls, my friend Tyler had brought me here for a party. I don't know who lived there or if anyone even did, the cars in the yard and lining the street told us we were at the right place. Making our way around the fence and up the stairs to the porch I noticed an inflated pool filled with what looked like Mountain Dew in the front yard. Not much mattered to Tyler's friends but three things, music, drugs, and parties, and they mattered a whole lot. There was no guest list, nobody had been invited, but like vultures over roadkill, people just showed up. Tyler stepped into the room throwing his hands up and the room exploded, for some reason he was a legend to these people, I edged in behind him, taking the room in, the smell of various narcotics wafting into my nose. Moving farther into the house, I passed a couch spotted with cigarette burns and a beer pong table made out of saw horses and what I assume had been the front door. A guy with a striped tank top tucked into cut off jeans was holding the cups, approaching him I started fishing in my pocket for a dollar, "You come with Tyler? You don't pay." he said holding out a plastic cup with a hand that had a rose tattooed on the back. "Thanks." I mumbled, trying to make eye contact but only seeing my reflection in his gold rimmed sunglasses. The guy manning the keg had spiked blonde hair with sunglasses resting in it, I reached for the hose to fill the cup, he started moving the pump up and down with a hand that had 'GOLD' tattooed across the knuckles. I fill the cup while carefully manuevering it to dodge the ash falling off a Marlboro hanging from his mouth. I put the hose back into the ice and turned towards the room, too many tank tops and t-shirts, not a single button in the room. ... "You ready?" Tyler had yelled from his bedroom to mine earlier in the day, after we had done the apporiate amount of pre-gaming, which happens to be six beers, and two shots. Appearing at my door pulling on a green knit jacket with no shirt and only zipping it half way, he said "After what that bitch Meghan did, you need a night to forget about it." Meghan had been my girlfriend for two years, and she hadn't done anything to me, that was the problem. Last week, she decided I didn't exist anymore, wouldn't answer my calls or texts. I don't know what I did to bring this about, or maybe that's the problem, I didn't do anything. I saw her once after I'd fallen off the face of her Earth, walking across the mall parking lot, I was leaning against my car, waiting for Tyler to finish his haircut. She walked right infront of me, her ill fitting sandals slapping obnoxiously off the ground, a thread trailing from her unbottuned cardigan, she didn't even look at me, the only reason Tyler was getting his haircut at a mall was because I had gone to return the engagement ring. "Yea man, let's go." I stood up but Tyler didn't move, he was still standing in the door, playing with his zipper. More to the cracked concrete floor than to me he asked, "Have you anymore of those... those things?" He had trouble finding the words for what he was trying to say because there were no words for it. Since Meghan had decided I was as good to her as a second head I had begun having... these things, episodes I guess. I would just black out, if I was talking to someone I would continue talking no problem, I still function completely, it's just not me doing the functioning, or at least not conciously. There was no way for other people to tell that it was happening to me and Tyler only knew because he was there for the first one, when I completely lost my shit after coming back. Coming back is such a weird way to say it, it makes it seem as if I had gone somewhere, but I don't know where I go, I'm just not there. They're pretty regular, these episodes, like one a day, but now when it happens I can just play it off and hope whoever I'm talking do didn't just finish a sentence and is waiting for my response. "No, just the first one man, I think I was just tired." I lied, I didn't want to worry him, or make myself come off as some sort of psycho, who wants to be roommates with a person when they don't even know if they're talking to that person? ... Making my way around the party three people call me Steve, two Richards, and one Eric, I think Tyler tells all his friends my name is something different everytime I'm around, which makes meeting new people very difficult since I'm never the same person when I'm introduced. Tyler sees me holding a wall up and waves me over for a game of beer pong, our opponets, two girls, one I had known from school last year, how had I not seen her when I came in? Her name was Jule and she looked as out of place as she felt, the other, one of Tyler's regulars, Alice was killing a cup before the game started. I'm not much of a player, but Tyler makes up for what I lack and the game quickly ends, us being victorous. The girls move towards to the back porch and relinquishing my table rights to a shirtless mohawk sporting an eagle tattoo across his chest, I follow, taking two cups from the table, hoping to strike up a conversation, I wonder what she's doing here. Taking a long drink off of my cup, I elbow my way through the kitchen which appears to be the dance floor and out to the backyard, they were sitting on cheap white plastic chairs and talking about a cat they had just seen scramble across the backyard. Holding the cup out, I said "Hey, weren't you in my Economics class last year?" Jule slowly looked up from her shoes, which had different color laces, one red, the other gold, noticing the cup first and taking it out of my hand, she continued to move her glance upwards, she looked over my shirt, which I had made sure to check twice in the mirror to make sure I hadn't missed any buttons, my sleeves rolled three times. "Maybe," She said with a smile, "Thanks." holding up the cup with a hand that only had three nails painted. "I think we were, Mr. Macklebe, we worked together on that essay about Greek finance." I take another drink, making sure to hold the cup from the top so I don't have to turn my hand as much and possibly spill it. She took an exploritory sip from the cup and when she was satisfied that it wasn't ruffied she took a larger drink. "Wait, I remember now! We had to get up infront of class and read it! What did we get on that?" I smiled, "Must have been an A." knowing full well it was a solid D, she flattened the wrinkles out of the light pink cordoroy jacket she was wearing. "You knew a lot about Greece." she said as her friend rolled her eyes. I looked back through the door and saw Tyler standing on a table, I turned back so as not to loose her attention. "Yea, but I had to write the next paper all by myself, did you drop out?" "Oh I transfered," She stopped to drain the cup, using her hand to clear the foam mustache from her top lip, then wiping in on the giraffe print skirt she was wearing, it had a rip near the bottom, where I would guess she had stepped on it, "Yea, my parents moved across town so I'm in a different district now." I stuck my free hand into my pocket and then quickly removed it remembering that when you put your hands in your pockets it causes you to slump your shoulders and look shorter, I used it instead to pull a chair over and sit down. "That's cool, my parents did the same thing, except not across town, they moved to England, do you like it there, across town that is, I don't suspose you been to England." I said, crossing my legs, left foot on my right knee, looking to see if my shoelaces had come untied. My parents had moved because they didn't agree with American politics anymore, luckily they hadn't drug me to the land of fog and tea also, and I moved in with Tyler, I don't know if he ever had parents. She let out a slight giggle, "Yea, I mean, it's alright, kind of shitty leaving senior year, but I made new friends so no big deal, this is Alice, by the way." She motioned to the other girl who had been at the beer pong table. "Yea, I think you know my roommate Tyler?" Alice who wasn't really paying attention and appeared bored beyond belief gave me a slow nod. I take a carefully timed drink from my cup and look her over she was wearing tight black demin pants and a silver tank top, a tattoo of an anchor on her right shoulder, "I will not sink." in a scroll underneath it. I lower my drink and say "Cool tattoo." Alice glances down at her shoulder as if to remember what was there, "Thanks" she responds, over the ring of a cell phone in her pocket, she steps away and answers it. "So, how much has school changed?" Jule said, placing her empty cup on the ground. "Oh, it's crazy, we have weekly candle light vigils over losing you." I get all of that out and then notice that the left hem of my pants has begun to fray, I think these might be Tyler's pants. "You're funny, but really, how is it? I would much rather have just finished out my high school career there." "It's the same as when you left, football team is still losing, Mr. Holmvic is still yelling and the cafeteria is still that lovely shade of beige." "I never understood that, weren't our colors orange and gold? How do you get beige from that?" "Mix them together, you want another beer?" She starts laughing and nodding at the same time while, looking down at her empty cup, I smile and stand up, "Here, take this so you don't have to pay for another one." The bracelets on her wrist retreated to her elbow as she held the cup up. I took it and hurried inside to find 'GOLD'. He's in the same place he was before and I had him my cup so I can work the hose and hold Jules', he grabs the pump this time with his other hand 'STAY' across the knuckles.

(What I learned in WA) I can remember being fifteen, oh god, I can remember it like it was yesterday. Sophomore year, full of teenage pedantic, shallow fears, life was confusing. I had a girlfriend, I had friends; didn’t have anything going for me other than that. My friends weren’t, and were, the best associates for a growing young man to have at that age. Encouraging me to explore facets of life that were less than reputable, I couldn’t say I was well surrounded, and at the same time, I was very well surrounded. My life was interesting, or so to say, it was definitely far from average. Growing up without a significant positive role model always made for a struggling reality. Well, fuck, I never knew which end was up. But somehow, I always managed to find people pointing me in the right direction. Anthony was this erratic Asian friend of mine (I think he goes by Cassady Feral now). Since this is the internet, and I can whole heartedly assume no one from my personal life is reading this, I’ll tell you the whole story without fearing any judgment; we used to smoke a lot of cigarettes together. I met Anthony when I was twelve; he was one of my sister’s friends at first. After we got to know each other, we figured out we had a lot in common, our passion for Starcraft, women, cigarettes, and a bohemian hedonistic lifestyle, where we would pretend like we were contemporaries of Ginsberg and Kerouac. Anthony was always a few years older than me, so a stretch ahead of the curve. I remember one night particularly, Anthony was taking some classes at the local community college, so he invited me to this history professor’s lecture about, well, I don’t actually remember the specifics, I do remember Anthony was going for extra credit though, and invited me because he thought I’d enjoy going. I also remember, this history professor was lecturing about his trip to the Middle East and how he had contributed to the local society by making it possible for a few girls to come back to the states to receive an education. Which my fifteen-year-old mind thought was pretty damn cool. But really, more importantly, what stuck with me that night was a passion for history. As a kid, who was used to sitting through droll and boring high school classes, (and not retaining a thing, and hating anything having to do with anything besides Blizzard games) getting to hang out in an auditorium listening to a college professor talk about his trips to the middle east was probably the coolest educational experience that had happened to me up to that point (circa. 2009/2010ish). It was like tinder waiting for a spark; history was everything the present amounted to. I can remember sitting there at first, like what am I doing here, learning in my free time, I must of smoked to many cigarettes, nicotine’s ruining my brain. And this guy started talking, sharing his passion, and talking about who he is and where he’s been, and I thought, well, maybe there is something to history, maybe there’s something to education. Maybe I should look into this whole school thing. For the first time in my life I sat and listened to someone talk with the full capacity of my mind. Which more notably, was an experience I haven’t forgotten to this day, because I forget way more than I remember. Inspiration set in and I was on the roll. From that night on, I couldn’t get enough of learning. As much as I had learned that night, I couldn’t wait to try and pass into the running start program, my thoughts revolved around going to college half the time (the other half of my thoughts were occupied by women, naturally, and that bohemian hedonistic lifestyle). Fast-forward about seven months, winter quarter of 2011, history was still the focal point of my mind. This subject stuck with me for one particular reason. It was the first subject in school that I had ever taken an interest in; I’d never really been interested in learning until I sat through that lecture with Anthony. My first quarter at the local college, I knew exactly what classes I wanted to take. History and philosophy, the two classes that appealed to me most from my prior experiences, and I threw in an online nutrition class for good measure. I had never been more enthralled with learning in my life. I remember the first day of classes; being sixteen, sitting through my first period intro philosophy lectures with two of my best friends. I took the class because I loved philosophy, like heroin addicts loved heroin. But also because my two good friends since grade school reluctantly agreed to take the class with me. I always sat in the back, and played with my beanie half the time, and took notes on my computer the other half the time, unbeknown to me, probably offending the professor to a certain degree. After philosophy, I’d spend my hour break strolling around campus, laying around in the park, sitting on benches and smoking cigarettes (because everyone assumed I was old enough, which as a sixteen year old, was awesome). I remember my first history class with the professor that inspired my passion for knowledge in general. I sat down in a computer lab based classroom, waiting to hear the lecture, hell I was so jazzed on the subject I even bought the book for the class. The quarter passed by all to fast. The class was a 1945 to present based history class, so we were studying subjects that had occurred in the between time. I remember my projects exactly as they were (I still have all the papers and power point slides if anyone’s interested in seeing them) the first one, we were required to interview a senior citizen, the second, I studied two-wheeled transportation and how it had changed American life style over the past sixty years. And the last one, ahahaha, I studied Marijuana and hemp, and the legalization of illegal drugs. Mind you this was 2010, before marijuana had any legalization promises. I wrote my last topic on the legalization of marijuana, and how I predicted it would become legal over the course of the next four years (score for me). I think I remember Zontek laughing at me, and asking a question or two out of curiosity for my convincing prose. I was sixteen at the time, a naïve, hopeful, youthful mind, unbeknown to us all at the time, marijuana would actually become a legal recreational drug by the time I took another one of his classes in person. Really, I’m not sure if I’m off the main subject by this time or not, but the point of this writing spree is to tell you about how I fell in love with learning and life. Anyways, fast forward to spring quarter of 2011. I don’t remember any classes I took that quarter, besides one, Bio 109. This class was interesting, inherently, for a lost of reason’s besides one. I sat next to this really intricate kid named Evan, stereotypical nerdy guy named Evan. Him and I tried to retain every bit of information we learned in that class, drawing analogies to Starwars, and other shows, just to comprehend the material we were being taught. I remember one day imparticualrly, I don’t even actually remember how the lecture started. But Buegge starts going off about how this neuroscientist pulled a prank on a bunch of other scientists by convincing them of this thing that had never really happened, to prove a point, about how if something comes from an accredited source no one will view it from a skeptical standpoint and question the actuality of it. Which, from my perspective, I had found incredibly interesting. The rest of the lecture is history at this point. Honestly, I feel really bad, because that was his favorite lecture in the entire class series to give, and by creating the reality of it, I’m sure he probably doesn’t give that lecture anymore. But we both know it had to happen eventually (six million to one if I recall sir?). Anyways, sixteen year old me is listening to Buegge lecture about this awesome radical idea of a prank, and my minds liking the idea. I remember saying, “wait, I’m a genius, I could do this” like shit you not, I said this out loud, and he looked at me like, “alright, whatever kid, go smoke some more and live in your fantasy land” (muahahah). I honestly never had any intentions of pulling the idea off. I remember sitting there thinking to myself, like hey man, that’s a freaking amazing idea, but I wouldn’t ever contemplating trying anything that self destructive unless I broke up with my girlfriend at the time. Because that’s the only time I would ever be self destructive enough to do something that blatantly idiotic. Fast forward to 2013 spring quarter. Spring quarter of 2013, I’m finally back in school after my burn outs, after realizing I had actually been suffering from ADD/ADHD, and that’s’ why I’ve never actually been a competent student. And that’s why I’ve always had a host of relationship, friendship, and scholarly problems, and a whole load of other shit. And everyone knows how the story goes from here, maybe I’ll write it later. But it’s 5:19 A.M. at this point, and I’m really tired, and I’ll write the rest of the story, from my perspective, for you guys at some point in the future. When the rest is settled, and we can all enjoy the perspective. But I guess, at the end of it all, all I want to say is this: thank you for showing me the path to falling in love with knowledge. I had never given a second though to being a scholar until that night I’d heard that lecture. That was the catalyst to the great journey that began my quest for understanding the world around me, and ever since then, it’s been full of people who have acted as catalysts in their own since to inspire that journey in their own right. And all I have to say is thank you, and I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any burdens or problems since then. I know I’ve been a blip on your radar, in the past, but you’ve been a significant portion on mine. And here’s’ that paper I’ve never submitted: (P.S. I never edited the above statements, so they may be tangent filled, or full of misspellings.) *The Metaphysical Nature of Transcending Myself* Long ago, in my optimistic and hopeful youth, I had a vision of my future. A dream, of what my life could be, and where it would take me. There is no dream like that of a child’s. Their minds are shielded from the harsh nature of life; they’ve not known the rigorous trials of humanity. They’re free to dream to their heart’s fullest desires. As I learned in due time, a child’s life can yield a reality that’s caustic to their own viability. At the callow age of sixteen, I entered into the running start program at YVCC. This, in and of it’s self, appeared to be some sort of divine intervention in my life; I was on the brink of sabotaging my high school career. By this point, I had lost most of my confidence in the present and future. My soul, and spirit alike, had been abashed by the veiled tragedies of life. The sorrow, in spending the greater portion of my existence abandoned by my father, was untold. In many aspects of my identity, this had left me misdirected and diffident. It was to be an internal battle that would stir inside myself for years to come. With great fortune in chance, I was blessed with a remarkably tenacious and altruistic mother. She always made sure I had everything I needed to flourish; never once did she put herself first. But by the time of my fourteenth birthday, Mother had succumbed to past calamities. In her steadfast plight to provide for our family, she gave way to a form of functioning alcoholism. Those were a few harrowing years. I was as lost and disillusioned as ever, and I had no guidance left in life. Those we’re the hurdles of an invisible youth. In my academia at YVCC, I found solace in existence; a breath of new revive I had not known before. In Philosophy, I was taught to think critically and view the world with an objective and multifaceted perspective. My passion for the discipline dawned a new confidence and motivation I had never dreamed of having. In Biology, I learned that life is composed of far more than the burden’s we carry in our hearts. That all organisms face trials to survive, and it is simply part of the natural order of life; this helped me come to terms with my past and reality. In History, I learned of men and women who had faced far greater adversaries and tribulations than I, and walked out of the devastation as heroes. The lessons in humanities past reinstated in me a great hope for my future. But more crucially, in my Professors at YVCC, I found mentors offering guidance. Often times, indirectly pointing me down the right path. Whether it was with an interesting anecdote shared during class, or a simple compliment on a job well done. During my studies at YVCC, I became a new person. In this, my dreams and ambitions transcended my childhood self.

Drip, drip, drip. The droplets fell into the pool. Blurp, blurp, blurp. Bubbles arose in the pool. "Hello, hello, hello?" One bubble spoke to the rest. Float, float, float, Said the other bubbles. "Am I the only one?" Said the bubble. Lap, lap, lap. A cat drank from the pool. "Can you hear me?" Cried the bubble. The cat stared, but continued its lapping. Grow, grow, grow. The bubble expanded. It enveloped the other bubbles, appropriating their precious air for its own use. Blink, blink, blink. The cat looked at the ever-growing bubble as it quickly became a large, low balloon on the water. Buzz, buzz, buzz. The bubble buzzed with its surface tension as it made its ascension known, offering a "Look!" and a "Do you hear me now?" to the cat. Reach, reach, reach. The cat extended a furry paw, cautiously as its nature would allow, toward the transparent mass. "No, no, no!" Cried the bubble as it receded back toward the middle of the puddle. Wide, wide, wide, drew the cat's eyes. Pop, pop, pop.

Hey, /r/shortstories, I'm the author of a blog called . Perhaps you've heard of it, but probably not. It's a collection of my short fiction that gets updated periodically. It's almost entirely flash fiction (no more than one or two pages per story) and mostly for laughs, but I have a lot of fun with it and I would love to expand my readership a little. I am by no means a serious or professional author, doing this mainly in my spare time for kicks, but I do love writing and am completely open to criticism. If you like it, show me some love. If you hate it, I really can't blame you. Downvote this crap to oblivion. Having already posted a link to the blog proper, I'll also include my first story, , my personal favorite story, , and an unfinished, 15-part, text-adventure-style experiment that ran completely away from me, . I don't want to be obnoxious and I don't plan on posting each new story I write to this subreddit, so if you do have some fun reading through all the junk I've written, upvote this s#!* and let me know in the comments. Share it with your friends. Spam it all over the other subreddits. Tell me what you liked and what you hated. Critique everything I wrote. Above all, I love to get feedback. Sweet, sweet feedback. That's all. I hope you like it.

I have never had such a vivid dream, and it still frightens me. This is what i remember, in full detail. At one point during this dream, for what I do not recall, I was brought to a place that felt cold, and lifeless. I could feel myself becoming older very quickly. A strange feeling, as if my aging was accelerating and i could feel every change to my body and mind. Every joint becoming stiff and unforgiving, my memories fading. It was in this place of darkness, it happened. I was brought in front of a crowd, all starring completely motionless, and I waited. Waited for anything, yet nothing happened. Not a whisper, not a blink, complete and utter emptiness lay in front of me in the form of faces, cold, hollow faces. Then something changed. As I looked into the crowed, there I was. Old and horribly and disfigured, my body completely ravaged by old age, yet one thing stood utterly untouched, the eyes. As ours met, he came forward through the sea of unknown faces, and slowly drew a pistol to my forehead. With our eyes locked, he did not fire, he did not flinch. This standstill lasted for what seemed a lifetime, feeling myself become him through accelerated age, as if the pistol was drawing my youth faster and faster. When suddenly, his hands began to tremble, his blank, heartless stare faded. He began to cry. No words we uttered from his wrinkled lips, only the face of remorse. This, above all the confusion, drove me to a unbearable fury. " JUST FUCKING DO IT, KILL ME !", over and over and over. Screaming at the top of my lungs... demanding death. Looking directly at my older self, crying, screaming, over and over and over, " JUST FUCKING KILL ME !". Till suddenly, he pulls the gun back , hand trembling, and puts it to his mouth. I became silent as I watched his crying eyes suddenly shut. Then slowly, armed with the same blank, dead stare I had seen before, he turned the pistol once again towards me, and without a word, fired.

I like being barefoot in the cold. People always stare at me awkwardly, when I start peeling off my shoes and socks to walk across a frost-laden pitch of grass, but they wouldn’t if they just tried it. Society only tells you it’s not okay to go outside with shoes on. It’s actually an entirely novel concept, really; I’d rather focus on my feet freezing, than sit back idly as my night travels in reverse. I don’t think I sleep well anymore. I always feel tired; like the coffee I had last night, doesn’t want me to drink the coffee I’ll drink in the morning. And I’ll roll over in my bed, and that sting of the familiar pain in my side shakes me so hard I can’t go back to sleep. And the feeling of my heart, almost burning, with every few beats, scares me enough to get out of bed and drink some water. I’ll go outside, instead of having coffee, in an attempt to offset the ritual that lead to my dismay. Walking barefoot into the yard while I’m smoking, just to let my mind travel somewhere else for a while. And then I stepped on that fucking dart. The serenity of chills is met with the sound of anguish, and my scream pierces the early morning, and I’m left wondering why I ever threw that dart out the window. I hung a map on my wall, and I blindfolded myself; just to throw a dart, and see where it’d land, well, it landed in the yard. I threw the dart to see where it wanted me to go, and through the bitter irony, it ended up being what stopped me from going anywhere. Because now there’s a dart sized whole in my foot. I don’t think I think anymore. If I had been thinking at all, I wouldn't of went into the back yard barefoot; there’s so much dog shit out there. I think, through out the course of the last hundred years, all anyone ever wanted was to be listened to. To know that their sorrow was heard. I wake up, and my side hurts every day; I’m too exhausted to run, because I don’t sleep well anymore. After drinking coffee all day, going to bed, is comparable to sleeping on something incredibly hot and itchy. Yeah, you can manage it, but you have to stand up every forty-five minutes to scratch your balls and cool off. My heart hurts after drinking so much coffee. Sometimes, enough that I contemplate going to the hospital, but then I remember that I don’t like hospitals anymore; that if I walk in there, complaining of heart pain, I’d probably be locked in a room for four hours until I stroked out all together. Yeah, I don’t like hospitals. This is my pain. And I carry it with me every day, along with seven cup’s of coffee and two red bulls. I feel like I’m slowly killing myself everyday, and I’m screaming in torment at the wall; no one hears me, and I don’t feel heard. I feel muffled. The pain in my chest and coffee cup in my hand tells me I’m not being dramatic, but reality taught me a long time ago, that help doesn’t usually ever come. And I don’t know what to do, because this life leaves me feeling empty and void, and in a significant amount of pain. I just don’t want to drink any more coffee. My side hurts.

John pulled off at the next exit, and drove to a gas station. He needed a fill-up, a pee, and some sunflower seeds. The seeds would stop him from smoking and also get the tobacco smell off his fingers. No one likes tobacco smelling fingers, John thought. He sure didn’t. John was looking to become more awesome, starting with the scent of his fingers. Always looking to better his self, he told himself. Number one quest for purification and heaven on earth. Gotta start small. “Why? Why try and better myself?” John asked himself this as he grabbed the bathroom key from the attendant. “Why do I look at people and estimate my self worth based off of them?” He left the store and walked to the bathroom around on the side of the building. “Why do I seem to think that everyone knows something I don’t?” John kept thinking. “Doesn’t that make me resent them? And when I find out that they don’t know anymore than I think they do, why do I feel better than them for it? It’s like, ‘haha, sweet, there isn’t some big secret you’re holding over my head. You’re not as smart as I thought you were. You’re not better than me!’ And that’s anytime they slip up, or say something self-depreciating and funny. I dunno what I’m talking about. I just want to be perfect so no one will laugh.” John realized suddenly that he was staring at himself in the mirror. He shook his head, checked his hair, went to a urinal and peed, flushed, and walked back into the gas station mart. The person behind the counter kept looking at him with strange combination of alertness and boredom. John wondered if he suspected him of anything. Maybe he does that to every customer. “Maybe it’s the way I walk”, John thought. He had always thought that body language speaks just as loud as verbal language, and that was intimidating to John because he doesn’t know what his body is saying half as well as he knew what his mouth is saying. And most of the time he doesn’t even know what his mouth’s saying either. And so, John stood in front of the candy aisle, pondering what his body language was saying at that time. What it was saying was “I’m standing looking at candy”. He grabbed a snickers and a soda from the fridge, and walked up to the register. The guy grabbed his stuff and asked how it’s going. John told him it’s going alright. Alright probably came from the combination of the words “all” and “right”, which is interesting, because that’s not what alright means. John decided to make this guy’s day a little out of the ordinary. He vocalized that thought. The attendant looked at him like one might look at a child, and said “Ha, yeah that’s interesting. Total’s $2.80.” John laughed, thanked him and left. Getting back into his truck, John pondered this interaction. This guy might’ve thought he was hitting on him, or maybe that he was crazy. Maybe he really did think it was interesting, and is now pondering the development of language. Maybe he was an English major with dreams of becoming a famous writer/ critic, and John just blew on the embers of his soul, which is now well on it’s way to becoming a bonfire that engulfs his entire being. Maybe he’ll quit his job, after finally giving his boss a piece of his mind, and hit the road with a pen and paper. Soon he’ll be on the cover of all the major literary magazines. He’ll be hailed as the most innovative literary philosopher since Calvino. All because of a bit of brain musing John decided to grace upon him. He just helped this guy become the new Shakespeare. He lit a cigarette. The ground was moving fast under his truck, or at least it looked like it was. But it wasn’t, it was just sitting there like it is now, and he was driving on it. “The universe doesn’t happen to me, I happen to the universe.” John thought. He put out the cigarette after just a few drags, and got off at the next exit, not really knowing why, then realized he forgot to purchase sunflower seeds at the last gas station. Why did he take the exit, then realize he hadn’t purchased seeds? The effect came before the cause, the answer before the question. He felt something, some sort of frenzy awareness take control of his body. He knew, before he knew. He pulled into the nearest gas station and walked inside. He picked out some sunflower seeds, and made his way to the register. It was pretty crowded, this time there was a rather long line, and people filed in behind him as he waited. When it came time for John to purchase his seeds, he didn’t right away. The registrar held out her hand, but John looked her in the eyes and said: “These sunflower seeds would’ve grown to become a beautiful sunflower. Instead they were roasted, salted, and put into a non-bio-degradable bag. I’d like to purchase these, but not purely because I want to eat them. I want to purchase them to make a statement: I understand the game they’re playing, and my way of winning is by pretending I don’t understand it.” She just frowned and kept her hand held out. John gave her the bag, she rang it up, and he left without another word from either of them. John had forgotten why he was feeling so energetic, but still rode the feeling nonetheless. This time though, getting into his truck, it was harder to convince himself that her life was just positively impacted from his depth of thought and character. “Oh well, fuck her, that’s her fault,” John thought. He lit up, and drove on. About twenty minutes later, he got to feeling really sick, like there was a creature in his gut wriggling around. Too many cigarettes and chocolate and sitting. He tried to ignore it, but he could feel the creature creeping it’s way up his esophagus, trying to escape through John’s mouth. He swallow repeatedly, trying to tame the beast back into his gut, but it was relentless. Quickly, John pulled over, right there on the freeway. He opened the door, and released the beast. John imagined the beast must have had acid blood, because he felt a burning in his throat and erosion on his teeth. He sat there for a while, his sponge-head pounding. Puke was on the door. He never turned his truck off, just kept his foot on the brake. Not wanting to look at the puke on the ground anymore, he slowly released some pressure on the pedal and crept forward. That’s nice… No more puke. He continued on, following the straight edge of the side of the road, not bothering to look up. He knew he had room, there was no guard rail in sight as far as he could remember. “People must think this scene marvelously goofy”, John thought, “a moving truck on the edge of the road with no driver in sight”. John kept his head down. It was fun. “It’s not every day you see something like this”, John thought, “and I owe it to myself to experience a break from the humdrum buzz of everyday life. I owe it to myself. And if I owe anything to myself, I owe it to other people. We’re all human after all, aren’t we? Everyone, deep down, wants the same thing. They want to believe there’s more out there, and I’m showing them there is. It’s me, I’m the embodiment of that feeling, that sensation of desperate hope. I know before I know. Just like those gas station attendants, I’m changing the course of individuals, and therefore the aura that shapes our culture. We’re all just a point on a triangle, all of our evolutionary development has lead to this exact moment in time, physically, technically, spiritually, any kind of “ally” you can think of. Here it is! Here I am, breaking the mold, advancing mankind through the innovation and destruction of social norms!” Slowly, John released his foot from the brake. He started moving forward. His left foot dangled from the open car door, and his right foot moved toward the gas pedal. “I’m doing this for the people driving by”, John told himself. “The people honking their horn, desperate with anticipation and fear, I’m doing this was for them.” He pressed down on the gas a little. “I’m making them feel human, showing them that they too, can care for the well being of someone besides themselves.” He pressed a little harder. “I’m reminding them that the best feeling comes from caring for someone who needs care. It makes them feel a healthy sense of control.” The only thing separating his shoe from the floor of the truck now was just that thin, metal rectangle gas pedal. “I’m giving them that control. If just for that one moment of pure feeling, of pure humanity.” John smiled, and his truck flipped over a guard rail traveling at 74 miles per hour. It landed on it’s top and crumpled, like a soda can, and John crumpled with it.

I exist in an era of uncertainty, and I’m not quite sure what to make of it. This feels dark. Reflections feel amiss, and I question what constitutes a reality yielding experience. I plan to live for another eighty years or so, optimistically speaking. So naturally, I contemplate the best way to spend those year’s. This incorporates pondering the vastness of our world; this amount of time doesn’t seem long enough. Have you ever felt like you were living in this story, that just refuses to transcend it’s own stagnancy? Like you’re stuck wading for gold, while waste deep in shit? Imagine standing there, trying not to puke, you can feel the gold brushing against your feet, but in order to get to it, you have to dive man. Okay, I’m painting a grotesque picture. But now you’ll never forget my point; even if you get the gold, you’re still wading through life’s piles of shit. You still feel like your life is too chaotic and discordant to smelt anything with it. And even if you do manage to make it to a furnace, whose going to buy gold from someone who smells like shit? No, but seriously, even if you can rack up a small series of victories, what are they worth if you can’t do anything productive with them in the long run? Where does life fall into place, when you’re busy struggling to keep it from crumbling apart? I wasn’t made to stretch like this. Life, my stories pages don’t have room for all this extra writing, please, let me have the pen back. I would write the story differently. I wouldn’t doodle on corners of the pages, or write so badly, I can’t even read what I wrote. I’d probably not forget about chapters all together. While reflecting on life’s current composition, I’m not positive that I know exactly what I’m looking at. What I do know is this: in each of us exists a vacuum of experiences; trials; perceptions; and realities. I like to call it the void. Others call it a soul, and some petition that the notion is fallacious or illegitimate. But what transpires after reaching into it, is an experience you don’t easily forget.

I believe it was early spring of last year, late March, when the most extraordinary event I have ever experienced occurred. It was uncharacteristically warm for a Frisco spring morning, near sixty-five, and an opaque mist lingered in suspension on the pale quiet sky. I trudged down 19th Avenue towards the park, hoping I could clear my head. My job at the Safeway market down Taraval Street had just been abruptly terminated in the wake of sweeping layoffs throughout the company. I was already short on the rent and in the process of adapting to the pedestrian life after one too many parking citation merited the impounding of my Dodge a month prior. Crossing Judah St., I was nearly hit by a painter’s truck, almost mockingly reminding of my recent losses. The drilling mementos of physical and social mortality. Without my car I had stopped making it over the bridge as often to visit my old Berkley friends, of whom included Sophia Liu. We had spent most of schooling life together from elementary through Bachelor’s, and I especially missed her. We often got into small nonsensical adventures, fueled by imagination and giggles. I hoped, and sometimes even suspected, that we may have a deeper connection than the rest. Now she was working on a Ph.D. thesis in applied engineering. I had moved to the city to take a break and earn some money before grad school. We spent less time together after my car incident. She couldn’t come to the city much, given the doctoral workload, and I took the BART over whenever I could scrounge the extra change. It didn’t seem like enough. As I approached Lincoln the noise of the crowd became overwhelming. Fifteen distinct conversations began battling my internal monologue for mental control. Snippets of pop-culture drivel collided on dramatic reenactments of weekend festivities. Whispered taboo confessions and hollow encouragement drew me askew as invisible groping hands pulled at my mind. The light turned, and the little green savior vanquished the red hand of stand-and-make-noise, freeing us to cross. I quickly walked ahead of the clamor, into the park, and veered to my right, into the solitude of towering trees. As the excitement of escape wore off, I grew listless, dragging my feet over clumps of wet and muddy grass. The trees drooped down along my chosen path placing their branches and leaves inconveniently under my feet and occasionally across my face. With a rising angst, I decided to look for a quiet spot near Stow Lake, speculating that it may cool my tempers. I couldn’t understand why these feelings kept burning in my head. Things wouldn’t work the way I wanted them to, like an unseen force, not aggressive, but binding. So many goals and aspirations were reevaluated then. The exuberant idealism of my youth, slowly giving way to the ever-prudent cynical prick thoughts my father once spat at me. It felt like the city had been slowly sucking me dry, prepared for me. It had experienced millions of me before, and it was well trained. Inviting me in with the promises of Babylon, then caging me, another rat on a wheel, powering the Behemoth with an army of scurrying confused rodents. I reached the lake walking past MLK Drive and began my first lap at a slow pace. It was finally quiet. I glanced at the water to let my mind wander in the ripples, but the surface was still as glass. Some gaping black hole in the middle of the biggest city on the west coast, rejecting even the sky’s image for lack of trendiness. A light breeze picked up, dragging leaves along pavement and breaking the unbearable surface tension of the motionless pool. I sat on a bench and stretched my legs out in front of me; I’d been walking a lot in recent times. Slumping forward, I grasped a cool smooth stone and tossed it in the water. The ripple crashed along the small waves pulled by the soft breeze. As the two met, they made new edges and more complicated waves. The simple patterns caught my attention long enough to conjure a smirk out of my unconscious grimace. I cherished the second of distraction from life before a portly middle-aged woman came into earshot with her screeching child. She was one of those exercise moms; wearing yoga pants to power walk her bawling toddler through the people’s park. The pants seemed a bit too tight and the insatiable piercing scream of the infant began to swiftly drill through my eardrum. I immediately stood up and began to walk in the opposite direction of the two, wondering how anyone could ever justify pushing a baby on wheels through such a horrifying city. As the pitch began to fade I took a deep breath. Why did these things keep happening, I racked my brain trying to understand why misery seemed to follow me. I walked with a somewhat raised pace this time, flustered and confused by my own doubt. Bombarded by questions of self-worth and accusations of failure, I struggled to answer the voices that beleaguered me. I walked faster. The voices grew louder. I looked at the ground, hiding my face from the judgments pouring forth. Hiding my disgrace from nature, nobody and nothing deserved the misfortune of witnessing my existence. I felt hot tears began to seep from my violently squinted eyes. I had to get off the path before inspiring disgust or horror in any poor soul that happened across my path. Stumbling around a thicket of bushes, and past an enormous tree, I collapsed to the ground sobbing. I have never known a lower or more pathetic moment in my life, though now I understand it more clearly. In that moment, I felt all the hate I’ve ever felt all at once, and it was all directed at me. Every failure. Every inadequacy. Every missed opportunity. It was like watching a movie of my life’s greatest missteps, defeat in HD. I knew there was nothing for me. I knew my dreams were over. I knew I couldn’t grow any more. I knew all I could ever do was fight to stay numb, function through autopilot, and hope for an untimely death. As these thoughts washed over my mind, destroying my images of life’s meaning and my supposed purposes, I became uneasily aware of another presence. I opened my eyes slowly, and began to raise my head in terror. Had somebody seen me here, now, in my lowest low? I couldn’t bare the thought, it tortured and toyed with my fragile psyche as I forced my gaze to check. The first thing I saw were bare brown legs with relatively coarse black hairs, crossed over each other with feet on the opposite thighs. They appeared to be thickly layered in very old strange copper hues of soil and dust. I looked up, curious, completely forgetting about the horrible circumstances that had brought me to this small clearing in the brush. It was an Indian man with eyes closed appearing to be in his late sixties. He was wearing only beige and saffron patterned shorts made of a fabric I’d never seen before and have never seen since. He was fairly gaunt, and his entire body appeared to be covered in the same copper dust as his legs. His face was smeared with a silvery white paint over the cheeks, chin, nose, and forehead with a bright red dot in the center of the forehead. His hair was draped behind his shoulders, reaching the ground in heavy twisted silvery grey knots, several shades darker than his face paint and braided into complex foreign geometries. His beard was braided the same, and stretched well past his chest. He seemed to have hundreds of beaded necklaces in endless different jeweled colors and types of wood. I stared in awe observing this man for what felt to be quite a while before realizing how strange it would appear for him to open his eyes and catch my quizzical glare. At that very moment, the man opened his vast luminescent grey eyes and said “Ohm” I was immediately rushed by a barrage of energy, blowing the entire world around me away and throwing me into a ripping vortex spinning through space. At once I felt as though my skin caught fire, but the entire contents therein froze to solid ice. I felt the flesh searing away, thawing my frozen insides. And then just as suddenly all of my muscles and organs and bones were molten plasma trapped by the frigid ice walls of my skin. Temperature stasis returned and the spinning slowed. Suddenly, I felt my skin simply melt off, followed by my hair, teeth and nails, then went my muscles, my nerves, my veins, my bones, my marrow, until I was a brain floating in an amber cloud vaguely resembling what I once called a body. Then that too went, and only the amber cloud remained. The process began happening to the amber cloud, stripping away strange multi-colored layers of some ornate body-like entity that I could only assume, possibly, once, belonged to me. But then, how was I seeing it happen. I speculated on the implications of these occurrences, attempting to view the events in as logical a manner as possible. It soon became apparent that there was nothing logical about any of this at all. I expected the waves of distress to come careening in, however there were none. In fact I grew quite delighted at the notion. I was overwhelmed with a relief and joy, and an impetus to laugh. So I began laughing. At first a chuckle. Then a full breath. And suddenly I was hysterical. Laughing so hard I felt as though I were pulling my body closer and closer in towards itself, gradually until it bent in on itself. Where I expected it to stop, it continued. My body continued sucking into itself pulled by the radical spasms of my laughing abdominal muscles, this I found even funnier. The continued laughing pulled until all of my buddy reached the innermost point of my self and continued looping out in every direction and back in toward the center. The overwhelming blissful feelings created a background radiation of that laughter as this rotating circular field of my happiness spun in on itself faster and faster. The field spun so fast that that the resulting bending of light began creating rapidly shifting patterns of Euclidean geometry settling in to a golden star tetrahedron. The star faded as it became surrounded with many similar stars, and then many different stars. Soon, an entire field of stars was in my visual range. A canvas of a night sky spreading wider than my notions of the Universe ever had. I could see it all at once, and it was as though I could see every star and it’s planets close up and individually as well. I could look in on all the life in these Cosmos, and smile with burning reassurance, vindicating every life form’s suspicions of loneliness. Reassuring all consciousness through only my own warmth. This map of the sky was slowly moved away from me as I realized it was merely a map on the beautifully carved wooden drawing table of an old man with a running white waterfall of a beard falling over his encompassing tunic made of the same pattern as the map on his desk. As I gaped in awe, he smiled, knowing, and disappeared. Violet and Indigo curves in waves rushed past my head as I realized they were connecting into geometries behind my head. Interconnected circles, floating around each other, stretching infinite lengths in infinite directions. They began twisting into shapes through multiple dimensions, and I recognized a familiar pattern overlaid in the third. It was the double helix. Was I witnessing the creation of life, the birth of consciousness? The helixes hatched into a matrix of an egg shimmering in millions of points of diamonds. The egg began to hatch and blinding light poured out filling all of space and existence as I knew it. I heard a soft feminine voice ring the syllables “Kun Da Li Ni”, my skull vibrated with the sound of this word. I was suddenly overcome by the sensation of two snakes twisting around my spine, squeezing with golden etheric warmth. Each time they crossed paths, I felt rising centers of my body beaming with what felt like the energy of the colors of the spectrum. As they reached the top of my head, they stretched out past, pulling my brain into a string that became a white beam of light shooting upwards. I began shedding tears of happiness, and every drip floated off into space forming bubbles containing separate Universes carried out and onto an endless ocean. I could feel the ocean and the bubbles as crisply as I could feel my own body, and then I realized I had no body. I was struck by the sudden realization that the entire Universe was my body. All the little parts making up my collective moving body as I interacted with no one but my self, because my self was all. Limitless satisfaction and unending beauty filled all of the bounds of my endless body, and all that could describe it is; bliss. I opened my eyes to find myself standing in the clearing by Stow Lake, alone. Understanding that I was back in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco on Earth, I immediately ran back to the path around the lake. How much time had passed? It seemed like several eternities, but longer. I had seen the beginning of the Universe, the beginning of life, the beginning of consciousness, and all of their ends many times over. I had seen other Universes created and destroyed and resituated through waves of infinite dimensions. I didn’t believe I would ever make it home. I had to see my family, my friends, my neighbors, anyone. Somebody had to know what had happened. I reached the path and looked for someone, anyone who could tell me how long I had been gone. I whipped my head back and forth searching and then noticed something peculiar. The portly woman I had seen earlier was just coming around the circular path, and from the look of her, it was still the same lap. I settled into a confusion as she approached, and I noticed how striking her features were. Her jaw was long and firm and carried an expression showing both her strength and adversities while also hinting a mellow contentment. Her hair was long and blonde, reflecting the sunlight in many bright golden dots. She had deep crystalline blue eyes that gazed into the warm sky while still piercing into her child’s soul below. The child wasn’t crying now, he was cooing along to a flock of birds that had begun flying around the lake. The birds themselves seemed to have a melody to their songs. I could almost set a beat as the inspiration of the tune brought my mind to a commitment to practice the piano that I hadn’t played in months.